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0 - the Fool

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KEYS (10k)

   2 Huang Po
   2 Benjamin Disraeli
   1 Udanavarga
   1 Swami Ramdas
   1 Saint Padre Pio of Pietrelcina
   1 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   1 Nigerian Proverb
   1 Mme Jeanne Roland
   1 Hindu Saying
   1 Anonymous
   1 Sri Ramakrishna
   1 Saint Thomas Aquinas
   1 Saadi
   1 Epictetus

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   25 Anonymous
   18 William Shakespeare
   17 Robin Hobb
   17 Gautama Buddha
   16 Mehmet Murat ildan
   8 Charles Bukowski
   7 Seneca
   6 John Green
   5 William Blake
   5 Terry Pratchett
   5 Mark Twain
   5 George Herbert
   5 Friedrich Nietzsche
   5 Ambrose Bierce
   4 Swami Vivekananda
   4 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   4 Paulo Coelho
   4 Nicol s G mez D vila
   4 Nassim Nicholas Taleb
   4 Martin Luther

1:The fool wonders, the wise man asks." ~ Benjamin Disraeli,

2:The fool wonders, the wise man asks.    ~ Benjamin Disraeli,

3:Every man is a divinity in disguise, a god playing the fool. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

4:The FOOL Has Said In His Heart:There is No God!" ~ Anonymous, The Bible, Psalms, 14:1, [T5],

5:Empty for the fool are all the points of Space. ~ Hindu Saying, the Eternal Wisdom

6:The fool who burns by day a camphor-light Will soon not have an oil-lamp for the night. ~ Saadi, Gulistan,

7:The man of merit and ability is always humble and meek, but the fool is always puffed up with vanity. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,

8:If someone were to not believe God exists, he would be stupid: "The fool said in his heart: There is no God" ~ Saint Thomas Aquinas, (Ps 13:1).,

9:Regard incessantly this body as the bespangled chariot of a king; it gladdens the simpleton but not the wise, dazzles the fool but not the sage. ~ Udanavarga, the Eternal Wisdom

10:Mind is only a cloud that hides the sun of Truth. Man is, in fact, God playing the fool. When He chooses, He liberates himself." ~ Swami Ramdas, (188 -1963), an Indian saint, philosopher, philanthropist, pilgrim, Wikipedia. See:,

11:The fruit of coveting and desire ripens in sorrow; pleasant at first it soon burns, as a torch burns the hand of the fool who has not in time cast it from him. ~ Sutra in 42 articles, the Eternal Wisdom

12:He, who wishes to meditate on the Lord after all his problems are solved, is like the fool, who wishes to bathe in the sea after the waves have subsided". That moment will never come. The sea will always have waves. ~ Swami Saradananda,

13:May the sacred page be a book for you, so that you may hear, may the globe of the earth be a book for you so that you may see; in these books only those who know letters read these things; in the whole world, even the fool can read. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo, On the Psalms 45.7,

14:Mother-Earth Who but the fool and improvident, who but the dreamer and madman Leaves for the far and ungrasped earth's close and provident labour? Children of earth, our mother gives tokens, she lays down her signposts, Step by step to advance on her bosom, to g ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Ilion,

15:In Hindustan, as in England, there are doctrines for the learned, and dogmas for the unlearned; strong meat for men & milk for babes; facts for the few, & fictions for the many, realities for the wise, and romances for the simple; esoteric truth for the philosopher, & exoteric fable for the fool. ~ Hurrychund Chintamon, quoted by H. P. Blavatsky, in New York (20 Jan. 1877)

16:Evil Hasten towards the good, leave behind all evil thoughts, for to do good without enthusiasm is to have a mind which delights in evil. If one does an evil action, he should not persist in it, he should not delight in it. For full of suffering is the accumulation of evil. If one does a good action, he should persist in it and take delight in it. Full of happiness is the accumulation of good. As long as his evil action has not yet ripened, an evildoer may experience contentment. But when it ripens, the wrong-doer knows unhappiness. As long as his good action has not yet ripened, one who does good may experience unhappiness. But when it ripens, the good man knows happiness. Do not treat evil lightly, saying, "That will not touch me." A jar is filled drop by drop; even so the fool fills himself little by little with wickedness. Do not treat good lightly, saying, "That will not touch me." A jar is filled drop by drop; even so the sage fills himself little by little with goodness. The merchant who is carrying many precious goods and who has but few companions, avoids dangerous roads; and a man who loves his life is wary of poison. Even so should one act regarding evil. A hand that has no wound can carry poison with impunity; act likewise, for evil cannot touch the righteous man. If you offend one who is pure, innocent and defenceless, the insult will fall back on you, as if you threw dust against the wind. Some are reborn here on earth, evil-doers go to the worlds of Niraya,1 the just go to the heavenly worlds, but those who have freed themselves from all desire attain Nirvana. Neither in the skies, nor in the depths of the ocean, nor in the rocky caves, nowhere upon earth does there exist a place where a man can find refuge from his evil actions. Neither in the skies, nor in the depths of the ocean, nor in the rocky caves, nowhere upon earth does there exist a place where a man can hide from death. People have the habit of dealing lightly with thoughts that come. And the atmosphere is full of thoughts of all kinds which do not in fact belong to anybody in particular, which move perpetually from one person to another, very freely, much too freely, because there are very few people who can keep their thoughts under control. When you take up the Buddhist discipline to learn how to control your thoughts, you make very interesting discoveries. You try to observe your thoughts. Instead of letting them pass freely, sometimes even letting them enter your head and establish themselves in a quite inopportune way, you look at them, observe them and you realise with stupefaction that in the space of a few seconds there passes through the head a series of absolutely improbable thoughts that are altogether harmful. ...? Conversion of the aim of life from the ego to the Divine: instead of seeking one's own satisfaction, to have the service of the Divine as the aim of life. * What you must know is exactly the thing you want to do in life. The time needed to learn it does not matter at all. For those who wish to live according to Truth, there is always something to learn and some progress to make. 2 October 1969 ~ The Mother, Questions And Answers 1929-1931,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:The warrior acts, the fool reacts. ~ dan-millman, @wisdomtrove

2:Showing off is the fool's idea of glory. ~ bruce-lee, @wisdomtrove

3:Incredulity is the wisdom of the fool. ~ josh-billings, @wisdomtrove

4:The fool wonders, the wise man asks. ~ benjamin-disraeli, @wisdomtrove

5:None are so busy as the fool and the knave. ~ john-dryden, @wisdomtrove

6:Kings play the fool, and the people suffer for it. ~ horace, @wisdomtrove

7:In the abundance of water - the fool is thirsty ~ bob-marley, @wisdomtrove

8:The wise needn't ask, the fool asks in vain. ~ ursula-k-le-guin, @wisdomtrove

9:God created the flirt as soon as he made the fool. ~ victor-hugo, @wisdomtrove

10:To the fool, he who speaks wisdom will sound foolish. ~ euripedes, @wisdomtrove

11:The fool will upset the whole science of astronomy. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove

12:Listen to the fool's reproach! It is a kingly title! ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

13:The fool who persists in his folly will become wise. ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

14:Love is the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise. ~ samuel-johnson, @wisdomtrove

15:To the wise, life is a problem; to the fool, a solution. ~ marcus-aurelius, @wisdomtrove

16:If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise. ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

17:The Fool shall not enter into Heaven let him be ever so Holy. ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

18:My soul hates the fool whose only passion is to live by rule. ~ george-santayana, @wisdomtrove

19:The misfortune of the wise is better than the prosperity of the fool. ~ epicurus, @wisdomtrove

20:As the bee collecteth honey with great zest, so the fool collecteth wealth. ~ kabir, @wisdomtrove

21:The fool,fixed in his folly,may think He can turn the wheel on which he turns. ~ t-s-eliot, @wisdomtrove

22:The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes And gaping mouth, that testified surprise. ~ john-dryden, @wisdomtrove

23:The fool, with all his other faults, has this also, he is always getting ready to live. ~ epicurus, @wisdomtrove

24:Love works a different way in different minds, the fool it enlightens and the wise it blinds. ~ john-dryden, @wisdomtrove

25:Only the fool wants to go into battle to beat someone for the satisfaction of beating someone. ~ frederick-lenz, @wisdomtrove

26:The fool’s life is empty of gratitude and full of fears; its course lies wholly toward the future. ~ epicurus, @wisdomtrove

27:The fool has one great advantage over a man of sense; he is always satisfied with himself. ~ napoleon-bonaparte, @wisdomtrove

28:A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove

29:A traveler of taste will notice that the wise are polite all over the world, but the fool only at home. ~ oliver-goldsmith, @wisdomtrove

30:The wise are wise only because they love. The fool are fools only because they think they can understand love. ~ paulo-coelho, @wisdomtrove

31:The most difficult character in comedy is that of the fool, and he must be no simpleton that plays that part. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove

32:Profanity is the parlance of the fool. Why curse when there is such a magnificent language with which to discourse? ~ theodore-roosevelt, @wisdomtrove

33:The fool is not the man who merely does foolish things. The fool is the man who does not know enough to cash in on his foolishness. ~ elbert-hubbard, @wisdomtrove

34:The most perceptive character in a play is the fool, because the man who wishes to seem simple cannot possibly be a simpleton. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove

35:The person who constantly studies without doing spiritual practice is like the fool who attempts to live in the blueprint of a house. ~ mata-amritanandamayi, @wisdomtrove

36:O human creature, you are the investigator without knowledge, the magistrate without jurisdiction, and all in all, the fool of the farce. ~ michel-de-montaigne, @wisdomtrove

37:It will do you no harm to find yourself ridiculous. Resign yourself to be the fool you are... ... We must always take risks. That is our destiny... ~ t-s-eliot, @wisdomtrove

38:I've learned to feel good when I feel good. it's better to be driven around in a red porsche than to own one. the luck of the fool is inviolate. ~ charles-bukowski, @wisdomtrove

39:&

40:The fool will upset the whole science of astronomy, but as the Holy Scripture shows, it was the sun and not the earth which Joshua ordered to stand still. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove

41:The salvation of the world depends on the men who will not take evil good-humouredly, and whose laughter destroys the fool instead of encouraging him. ~ george-bernard-shaw, @wisdomtrove

42:The essence of Taoism is really expressed by these few words. Taoism is the way of the child, the way of the fool, the way of someone who doesn't need to be noticed. ~ frederick-lenz, @wisdomtrove

43:Like most trends, at the beginning it's driven by fundamentals, at some point speculation takes over. What the wise man does in the beginning, the fool does in the end. ~ warren-buffet, @wisdomtrove

44:The fool who has not sense to discriminate between what is good and what is bad is well nigh as dangerous as the man who does discriminate and yet chooses the bad. ~ theodore-roosevelt, @wisdomtrove

45:The fool who repeats again and again: "I am bound, I am bound," remains in bondage. He who repeats day and night: "I am a sinner, I am a sinner," becomes a sinner indeed. ~ sri-ramakrishna, @wisdomtrove

46:When a wise man does not understand, he says: "I do not understand." The fool and the uncultured are ashamed of their ignorance. They remain silent when a question could bring them wisdom. ~ frank-herbert, @wisdomtrove

47:All pictures that's painted with sense and with thought / Are painted by madmen as sure as a groat; / For the greater the fool in the pencil more blest, / And when they are drunk they always paint best. ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

48:It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. ~ john-stuart-mill, @wisdomtrove

49:The fool thinks, "I am the body"; the intelligent man thinks, "I am an individual soul united with the body." But the wise man, in the greatness of his knowledge and spiritual discrimination, sees the Self as the only reality and thinks, "I am Brahman. ~ adi-shankara, @wisdomtrove

50:The fools standpoint is that all social institutions are games. He sees the whole world as game playing. That's why, when people take their games seriously and take on stern and pious expressions, the fool gets the giggles because he knows that it is all a game. ~ alan-watts, @wisdomtrove

51:Science is the art of creating suitable illusions which the fool believes or argues against, but the wise man enjoys for their beauty or their ingenuity, without being blind to the fact that they are human veils and curtains concealing the abysmal darkness of the unknowable. ~ carl-jung, @wisdomtrove

52:The notion that the careless sinner is the smart fellow and the serious-minded Christian, though well-intentioned, is a stupid dolt altogether out of touch with life will not stand up under scrutiny. Sin is basically an act of moral folly, and the greater the folly the greater the fool. ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove

53:A whetstone is no carving instrument, And yet it maketh sharp the carving tool; And if you see my efforts wrongly spent, Eschew that course and learn out of my school; For thus the wise may profit by the fool, And edge his wit, and grow more keen and wary, For wisdom shines opposed to its contrary. ~ geoffrey-chaucer, @wisdomtrove

54:When you have a lemon, make a lemonade.' That is what a great educator does. But the fool does the exact opposite. If he finds that life has handed him a lemon, he gives up and says, &

55:If you want to be a yogi, you must be free, and place yourself in circumstances where you are alone and free from all anxiety. One who desires a comfortable and nice life and at the same time wants to realize the Self is like the fool who, wanting to cross the river, caught hold of a crocodile, mistaking it for a log of wood. ~ swami-vivekananda, @wisdomtrove

56:No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. ~ t-s-eliot, @wisdomtrove

57:Now, blessings light on him that first invented sleep!Ê It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot.Ê It is the current coin that purchases all the pleasures of the world cheap, and the balance that sets the king and the shepherd, the fool and the wise man, even. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove

58:The errors of a wise man are literally more instructive than the truths of a fool. The wise man travels in lofty, far-seeing regions; the fool in low-lying, high-fenced lanes; retracing the footsteps of the former, to discover where he diviated, whole provinces of the universe are laid open to us; in the path of the latter, granting even that he has not deviated at all, little is laid open to us but two wheel-ruts and two hedges. ~ thomas-carlyle, @wisdomtrove

59:Few human creatures would consent to be changed into any of the lower animals for a promise of the fullest allowance of a beast's pleasures; no intelligent human being would consent to be a fool, no instructed person would be an ignoramus, no person of feeling and conscience would be selfish and base, even though they should be persuaded that the fool, the dunce, or the rascal is better satisfied with his lot than they are with theirs. ~ john-stuart-mill, @wisdomtrove

60:If we rail and kick against it and grow bitter, we won't change the inevitable; but we will change ourselves. I know. I have tried it. I once refused to accept an inevitable situation with which I was confronted. I played the fool and railed against it, and rebelled. I turned my nights into hells of insomnia. I brought upon myself everything I didn't want. Finally, after a year of self-torture, I had to accept what I knew from the outset I couldn't possible alter. ~ dale-carnegie, @wisdomtrove

61:There are two sides to every issue: one side is right and the other is wrong, but the middle is always evil. The man who is wrong still retains some respect for truth, if only by accepting the responsibility of choice. But the man in the middle is the knave who blanks out the truth in order to pretend that no choice or values exist, who is willing to sit out the course of any battle, willing to cash in on the blood of the innocent or to crawl on his belly to the guilty, who dispenses justice by condemning both the robber and the robbed to jail, who solves conflicts by ordering the thinker and the fool to meet each other halfway. In any compromise between food and poison, it is only death that can win. In any compromise between good and evil, it is only evil that can profit. In that transfusion of blood which drains the good to feed the evil, the compromise is the transmitting rubber tube. ~ ayn-rand, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:The fool learns by suffering. ~ Hesiod,

2:Faith is the fool's excuse. ~ James Frey,

3:The fool knows after he has suffered. ~ Hesiod,

4:no God at all, says the fool, ~ Alfred Tennyson,

5:Chance is the fool's name for Fate ~ Fred Astaire,

6:Reckless adventure is the fool's hazard. ~ Tacitus,

7:The fool supply was controlled... ~ John Steinbeck,

8:It's April Fools, and the fool is me ~ Stephen King,

9:To-morrow I will live, the fool does say; ~ Martial,

10:Showing off is the fool's idea of glory. ~ Bruce Lee,

11:The fool wanders, a wise man travels. ~ Thomas Fuller,

12:I am comfortable playing the fool, I think. ~ Ben Barnes,

13:The fool is happy that he knows no more ~ Alexander Pope,

14:The fool wonders, the wise man asks. ~ Benjamin Disraeli,

15:To initiate something is to play the fool. ~ Chris Kraus,

16:To the fool-king belongs the world. ~ Friedrich Schiller,

17:None are so busy as the fool and the knave. ~ John Dryden,

18:Kings play the fool, and the people suffer for it. ~ Horace,

19:The fool says in his heart "There is no God". ~ Psalms 53:1,

20:The fool wonders, the wise man asks.    ~ Benjamin Disraeli,

21:In the abundance of water - the fool is thirsty ~ Bob Marley,

22:Empty for the fool are all the points of Space. ~ Hindu Saying,

23:The fool is often oblivious of his own gaucherie. ~ Gore Vidal,

24:The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. ~ Psalms 14:1,

25:The wise needn't ask, the fool asks in vain. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

26:God created the flirt as soon as he made the fool. ~ Victor Hugo,

27:To the fool, he who speaks wisdom will sound foolish. ~ Euripides,

28:If wisdom's silence then it's time to play the fool. ~ Chris Kraus,

29:The wise does at once what the fool does at last. ~ John C Maxwell,

30:This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; ~ William Shakespeare,

31:1 The fool has said in his heart,     “There is no God. ~ Anonymous,

32:The fool will upset the whole science of astronomy. ~ Martin Luther,

33:I am Tersa the Weaver, Tersa the Liar, Tersa the Fool. ~ Anne Bishop,

34:I’m the fool who doesn’t know the limits of stupidity. ~ Osamu Dazai,

35:Listen to the fool's reproach! It is a kingly title! ~ William Blake,

36:The fool who persists in his folly will become wise. ~ William Blake,

37:The wise does at once what the fool does at last. ~ Baltasar Gracian,

38:Wealth is the slave of the wise man and master of the fool. ~ Seneca,

39:pity the fool who has the good fortune to fall for you, ~ Marie Force,

40:The fool too late, his substance eaten up, reckons the cost. ~ Plautus,

41:The wise man molds himself—the fool lives only to die. ~ Frank Herbert,

42:Sorry is the fool who ever underestimates my mother. ~ Kathryn Stockett,

43:The fool shouts loudly, thinking to impress the world. ~ Marie de France,

44:To Fitz and the Fool, my best friends for over twenty years ~ Robin Hobb,

45:Tragedy is very different for the warrior and for the fool. ~ Dan Millman,

46:For the wise man regards wealth as a slave, the fool as a master. ~ Seneca,

47:I pity the fool who messes with my plywood shutters, ~ Sarah Lyons Fleming,

48:Love is the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise. ~ Samuel Johnson,

49:the fool had been branded for the slaughter by the gods. ~ Herman Melville,

50:To the wise, life is a problem; to the fool, a solution. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

51:If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise ~ William Blake,

52:The wise man does at once what the fool does finally. ~ Niccolo Machiavelli,

53:Crying with the wise is better than laughing with the fool. ~ Gautama Buddha,

54:The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. ~ William Shakespeare,

55:To Fitz and the Fool. My best friends for over twenty years. ~ Robin Hobb,

56:Without economic concerns the fool dies from boredom. ~ Nicol s G mez D vila,

57:The Fool shall not enter into Heaven let him be ever so Holy. ~ William Blake,

58:Who's the more foolish; the fool, or the fool who follows him? ~ George Lucas,

59:The fool who traveled is better off than the wise man who stayed home. ~ Rashi,

60:Is it worth the name of freedom to be at liberty to play the fool? ~ John Locke,

61:I’ve been the fool. If he does it with you, he’ll do it to you. ~ Paula Hawkins,

62:They don't tell you this in school, Everybody plays the fool. ~ Smokey Robinson,

63:He hoped, foolishly perhaps, but he’d always loved the Fool. Amos ~ Erika Swyler,

64:My soul hates the fool whose only passion is to live by rule. ~ George Santayana,

65:The fool tells me his reason; the wise man persuades me with my own. ~ Aristotle,

66:The misfortune of the wise is better than the prosperity of the fool. ~ Epicurus,

67:Is that a riddle? Or a serious question?’ ‘Yes.’ The Fool was grave. ~ Robin Hobb,

68:What the wise man does in the beginning, the fool does in the end. ~ Howard Marks,

69:Every man is a divinity in disguise, a god playing the fool. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

70:What the wise man does in the beginning, the fool does in the end ~ Warren Buffett,

71:Always look for the fool in the deal. If you don't find one, it's you. ~ Mark Cuban,

72:As the bee collecteth honey with great zest, so the fool collecteth wealth. ~ Kabir,

73:Every man is a divinity in disguise, a god playing the fool. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

74:No worse bargain was ever made than the fool who traded friends for gold. ~ Shae Ford,

75:The fool tries to adjust the truth so he does not have to adjust to it. ~ Henry Cloud,

76:There is in human nature generally more of the fool than of the wise. ~ Francis Bacon,

77:Wine turns the wise man into a fool and the fool into a wise man. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,

78:Wine turns the wise man into a fool and the fool into a wise man. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zafon,

79:wise person is hungry for knowledge,     while the fool feeds on atrash.+ ~ Anonymous,

80:The fool is like those people who think themselves rich with little. ~ Luc de Clapiers,

81:The wise man knows when to keep silent. Only the fool tells all he knows. ~ Neil Gaiman,

82:I am the fool in this story, and no rebel shall hurl me from my throne. ~ G K Chesterton,

83:The fool who loves giving advice on our garden never tends his own plants ~ Paulo Coelho,

84:The wise person finds enemies more useful than the fool does friends . ~ Baltasar Gracian,

85:certainty is the fool’s dream and, thus, the charlatan’s selling point. ~ Brendon Burchard,

86:The fool,fixed in his folly,may think He can turn the wheel on which he turns. ~ T S Eliot,

87:The FOOL Has Said In His Heart:There is No God!" ~ Anonymous, The Bible, Psalm 14:1, [T5],

88:Hasty action is the domain of the fool; especially in the area of vengeance. ~ Robert J Crane,

89:Tis Better to Sit there and LOOK the fool, than to open your mouth and prove it. ~ Mark Twain,

90:A fool flatters himself, a wise man flatters the fool. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton 1st Baron Lytton,

91:I am the fool in this story, and no rebel shall hurl me from my throne. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

92:A wise man feareth, and departeth from evil: but the fool rageth, and is confident. ~ Anonymous,

93:better to remain mute and thought the fool than to speak and confirm it. Again. ~ W E B Griffin,

94:The fool strikes. The wise man smiles, and watches, and learns. Then strikes. ~ Joe Abercrombie,

95:any player unaware of the fool in the market probably is the fool in the market. ~ Michael Lewis,

96:Cartoonist Henri Arnold said, “The wise man questions himself, the fool others. ~ John C Maxwell,

97:the fool doth think he is wise, but the wiseman knows himself to be a fool ~ William Shakespeare,

98:The fool sees his own foolishness reflected in the wisdom of the teacher.’” This ~ Robert Kroese,

99:The fool, with all his other faults, has this also, he is always getting ready to live. ~ Seneca,

100:Regrets are useless, " the Fool replied. "All you can do is start from where you are. ~ Robin Hobb,

101:The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. ~ William Shakespeare,

102:The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes And gaping mouth, that testified surprise. ~ John Dryden,

103:The fool, with all his other faults, has this also, he is always getting ready to live. ~ Epicurus,

104:I know you think me foolish, but then, I am the Fool. You know then I must be Foolish. ~ Robin Hobb,

105:The learned is happy, nature to explore; The fool is happy, that he knows no more. ~ Alexander Pope,

106:At times discretion should be thrown aside, and with the foolish we should play the fool. ~ Menander,

107:Censure no more shall brand my humble name The child of passion and the fool of fame ~ Lord Byron,

108:The wise man draws more advantage from his enemies than the fool from his friends ~ Benjamin Franklin,

109:The wise man draws more advantage from his enemies than the fool from his friends. ~ Benjamin Franklin,

110:When enemies, the intellect and the heart only see one another as the hater and the fool. ~ Criss Jami,

111:You've got to learn to accept the fool in you as well as the part that's got it goin' on. ~ Tyra Banks,

112:The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool." The ~ William Shakespeare,

113:The fool is not the one who asks questions, but the one who thinks they know all the answers. ~ Unknown,

114:Each and every part of the world is a snare for the fool and a means of deliverance for the wise. ~ Rumi,

115:Recording wasn't as important to me as actually being to get on stage and act the fool. ~ Bootsy Collins,

116:It is the nature of every person to error, but only the fool perseveres in error. ~ Marcus Tullius Cicero,

117:But I had to dream. I had to hope. Even if it made me the fool of this particular tale. ~ C Robert Cargill,

118:The fool's life is empty of gratitude and full of fears; its course lies wholly toward the future ~ Seneca,

119:The same sages also wrote that violence is the habit of the weak, the impotent and the fool. ~ Janny Wurts,

120:Love works a different way in different minds, the fool it enlightens and the wise it blinds. ~ John Dryden,

121:The fool's life is empty of gratitude and full of fears; its course lies wholly toward the future. ~ Seneca,

122:Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool no where but in's own house. ~ William Shakespeare,

123:A wise man once said that a fool in love makes no sense to anyone but the fool,” Elmer said. “I ~ Marie Force,

124:Education makes the wise slightly wiser, but it makes the fool vastly more dangerous. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,

125:The disturbing thing about Cardan is how well he plays the fool to disguise his own cleverness. ~ Holly Black,

126:The fool is his own enemy. Seeking wealth, he destroys himself. Seek rather the other shore. ~ Gautama Buddha,

127:The fool’s life is empty of gratitude and full of fears; its course lies wholly toward the future. ~ Epicurus,

128:The fool, with all his other faults, has this also, he is always getting ready to live."[3] Reflect, ~ Seneca,

129:The future cannot take from us the days we have left…unless we let it. p. 46 The Fool to Fitz ~ Robin Hobb,

130:The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach. ~ William Shakespeare,

131:Life is a dream for the wise,a game for the fool,a comedy for the rich,a tragedy for the poor ~ Sholom Aleichem,

132:Only the fool wants to go into battle to beat someone for the satisfaction of beating someone. ~ Frederick Lenz,

133:The fool has one great advantage over a man of sense; he is always satisfied with himself. ~ Napoleon Bonaparte,

134:The wise learn from the mistakes of others, it's the fool that wants to make their own mistakes. ~ Tony Gaskins,

135:It is the fool who is haunted by fears, dread of dangers, oppression of mind, not the wise man. ~ Gautama Buddha,

136:The fool has one great advantage over a man of sense — he is always satisfied with himself. ~ Napol on Bonaparte,

137:The fool who thinks he is wise is just a fool. The fool who knows he is a fool is wise indeed. ~ Gautama Buddha,

138:It is sometimes necessary to play the fool to avoid being deceived by cunning men. ~ Francois de La Rochefoucauld,

139:This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit. ~ William Shakespeare,

140:New York City gritty committee pity the fool that act shitty in the midst of the calm, the witty. ~ Pharoahe Monch,

141:Where all are selfish, the sage is no better than the fool, and only rather more dangerous. ~ James Anthony Froude,

142:Every man plays the fool once in his live, but to marry is playing the fool all one's life long. ~ William Congreve,

143:Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich, a tragedy for the poor. ~ Sholom Aleichem,

144:Thus says the fool: "Association with men spoils the character, especially when one has none. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

145:Who was the fool, who the wise man, beggar or king? Whether poor or rich, all's the same in death. ~ Jacoby Shaddix,

146:Even a wise man knows doubt from time to time, it is the fool who allows it to rule his judgement. ~ Jennifer Melzer,

147:His lessons cautioned me that great events often hinged on small ones. (Bee talking about the Fool) ~ Robin Hobb,

148:Thus we play the fool with the time and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. ~ William Shakespeare,

149:A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

150:The boor covers himself, the rich man or the fool adorns himself, and the elegant man gets dressed. ~ Honore de Balzac,

151:This knowledge, so inaccessible, so formidable, the Fool, in his innocent idiocy, already possesses. ~ Michel Foucault,

152:Who’s more foolish, the fool? Or the fool who follows him? —SAYINGS OF OBI-WAN KENOBI, STAR WARS THE ~ Vishen Lakhiani,

153:an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

154:As the pot slowly fills up with water, drop by drop, so does the fool, little by little, become evil. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh,

155:If you argue with a fool, someone passing by will not be able to tell who is the fool and who is not. ~ Wilma Mankiller,

156:It`s acceptable for men to act the fool. When women try, they`re considered aggressive and opinionated. ~ Madeline Kahn,

157:I too can play the madman, the fool, the hero; in short, any or everything to rescue her I love. ~ James Fenimore Cooper,

158:The fact that the fool is often stubborn must not mislead us into thinking that he is independent. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

159:We all remember the fool who, almost alone, was true to Lear, but, then, of course, he was a fool. ~ William Shakespeare,

160:Any good strategy involves risk. If you think your strategy is foolproof, the fool may well be you. ~ Philip M Rosenzweig,

161:A traveler of taste will notice that the wise are polite all over the world, but the fool only at home. ~ Oliver Goldsmith,

162:Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich, a tradegy for the poor. ~ Sholom Aleichem,

163:Sorry is the fool who trades his soul for a corvette Thinks he'll get the girl he'll only get the mechanic. ~ Eddie Vedder,

164:God loves to play the fool in season; man does it in season & out of season. It is the only difference. ~ Sri Aurobindo,

165:But that's how life really is. Sometimes you're the fool who believes everything will be fine in the morning. ~ Sarina Bowen,

166:The greatest misfortune of the wise man and the greatest unhappiness of the fool are based upon convention. ~ Franz Schubert,

167:A Warrior also knows that the fool who gives advice about someone else's garden is not tending his own plants. ~ Paulo Coelho,

168:I do not hope somebody breaks in. However, if they did, I pity them. I pity the fool that breaks into my house. ~ Amber Heard,

169:The fool's crime is the crime that is found out and the wise man's crime is the crime that is not found out. ~ Wilkie Collins,

170:The wise are wise only because they love. The fool are fools only because they think they can understand love. ~ Paulo Coelho,

171:Think about the fool who by his virtue can be found in a most unusual situation playing jester to the clown. ~ Gordon Lightfoot,

172:Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;  The fool or knave that wears a title lies. ~ Edward Young, Love of Fame (1725-1728),

173:To discover the fool there is no better reagent than the word “medieval.” He immediately sees red. ~ Nicol s G mez D vila,

174:He'd serve himself, waiting and watching until he could take advantage. He wouldn't play the fool anymore. ~ Cinda Williams Chima,

175:Being able to talk to ravens is a sensible magic. Moreso than most of the fool stuff you see flying about. Aurrk!”  ~ T Kingfisher,

176:The fool interrupts — The writer of this book is no misanthrope; today one pays too dearly for hatred of man. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

177:The most difficult character in comedy is that of the fool, and he must be no simpleton that plays that part. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

178:The circus a place where horses, ponies and elephants are permitted to see men, women and children acting the fool. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

179:The fool doth think he is wise, yet it is the wise man that knows himself to be the fool As You Like It, Act 5, Scene 1 ~ Stephen Fry,

180:The wise man understands his weakness and seeks to find a lesson from it. The fool lets it control and destroy him. ~ Christie Golden,

181:CHORUS: And so, while the fool slept the sleep of the dead, the beautiful Jewess snipped off the tip of his willy. ~ Christopher Moore,

182:Warren Buffett is fond of saying that any player unaware of the fool in the market probably is the fool in the market. ~ Michael Lewis,

183:When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say. ~ Pablo Neruda,

184:If I gave Bee to Riddle and Nettle, I could undertake the Fool’s vengeance. That traitorous thought made me want to vomit. ~ Robin Hobb,

185:The intelligent man has a need to flaunt his intelligence to others, but the smart man is content to smile and play the fool. ~ Unknown,

186:You're the fool," Jesper snarled. "He's smarter than most of us put together, and he deserves a better father than you. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

187:Insisting on maintaining dignity at all costs is paralyzing. Mistakes are informative, and so is playing the fool ~ Patrick Califia Rice,

188:Profanity is the parlance of the fool. Why curse when there is such a magnificent language with which to discourse? ~ Theodore Roosevelt,

189:What the fool cannot learn he laughs at, thinking that by his laughter he shows superiority instead of latent idiocy. ~ Claude M Bristol,

190:Be a clown , be a clown, All the world loves a clown. Act the fool , play the calf, And you'll always have the last laugh . ~ Cole Porter,

191:The fool generalizes the particular; the nerd particularizes the general; some do both; and the wise does neither ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,

192:There is a war between the living and the dead, and the Irish stories keep harping upon it. ("The Queen And The Fool") ~ W B Yeats,

193:He would pull out his dad’s tongue that had told so many lies and eat it so that the fool could tell him no more falsehoods. ~ Shaun Meeks,

194:I have play'd the fool, the gross fool, to believe The bosom of a friend will hold a secret Mine own could not contain. ~ Philip Massinger,

195:The fool generalizes the particular; the nerd particularizes the general; some do both; and the wise does neither. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,

196:Wakefulness is the way to life. The fool sleeps As if he were already dead, But the master is awake And he lives forever. ~ Gautama Buddha,

197:He's far from a fool, nowhere near. I'm quite near. I can feel the fool that's so far away from him breathing down my neck. ~ Carrie Fisher,

198:He’s far from a fool, nowhere near. I’m quite near. I can feel the fool that’s so far away from him breathing down my neck. ~ Carrie Fisher,

199:It is Nature that causes all movement. Deluded by the ego, the fool harbors the perception that says "I did it". ~ Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa,

200:The fool who recognizes his foolishness, is a wise man. But the fool who believes himself a wise man, he really is a fool. ~ Gautama Buddha,

201:For he was the Fool now, all of Lord Chance and Lady Amber and Lord Golden scraped away by sorrow. He was no one's Beloved now. ~ Robin Hobb,

202:The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” ― William Shakespeare, As You Like It ~ William Shakespeare,

203:Well I am glad I have something of the fool in my disposition--foolishness being the only quality that makes wisdom possible. ~ Marie Corelli,

204:It is impossible to convince the fool that there are pleasures superior to those we share with the rest of the animals. ~ Nicol s G mez D vila,

205:Pa’s eyes found mine. “We got issue with men. There’s a shortage of answers in this world. It’s the fool who thinks he got them. ~ John Larison,

206:The fool who knows his folly Becomes wise by that fact. But the fool who thinks he's wise - He's called 'a fool' indeed! ~ Anonymous,

207:What the fool cannot learn he laughs at, thinking that by his laughter he shows superiority instead of latent idiocy.” *From ~ Claude M Bristol,

208:In the intelligent man faith is the only remedy for anguish. The fool is cured by “reason,” “progress,” alcohol, work. ~ Nicol s G mez D vila,

209:The greatest advantage I know of being thought a wit by the world is, that it gives one the greater freedom of playing the fool. ~ Alexander Pope,

210:When the evil deed, after it has become known, brings sorrow to the fool, then it destroys his bright lot, nay, it cleaves his head. ~ Max Muller,

211:An evil deed, like fresh milk, does not go bad suddenly. Smouldering, like fire covered by ashes, the evil deed follows the fool. ~ Gautama Buddha,

212:When prosperous the fool trembles for the evil that is to come; in adversity the philosopher smiles for the good that he has had. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

213:If words were sweet little lambs, then the Fool watched them bound cheerfully away into the flame-thrower of the duchess’s glare. ~ Terry Pratchett,

214:It is the coward and the fool who says, ‘This is fate.’” But it is the strong man who stands up and says, “I will make my fate. ~ Swami Vivekananda,

215:I shall live here in the rains, There in winter, Elsewhere in summer," muses the fool, Not aware of the nearness of death. ~ Gautama Buddha,

216:The fool is not the man who merely does foolish things. The fool is the man who does not know enough to cash in on his foolishness. ~ Elbert Hubbard,

217:The fool says in his heart, “There is no God.”         They are corrupt, doing abominable iniquity;         there is none who does good. ~ Anonymous,

218:The fool thinks he has won a battle when he bullies with harsh speech, but knowing how to be forbearing alone makes one victorious. ~ Gautama Buddha,

219:The most perceptive character in a play is the fool, because the man who wishes to seem simple cannot possibly be a simpleton. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

220:A science is any discipline in which the fool of this generation can go beyond the point reached by the genius of the last generation. ~ Max Gluckman,

221:God loves to play the fool in season; man does it in season & out of season. It is the only difference. ~ Sri Aurobindo(Thoughts & Aphorisms),

222:Lecktrickery?” grinned the fool boys, rubbing their rabbits’ feet against the spell of these longest syllables in all Tarnation. ~ William T Vollmann,

223:The fool worries, thinking, "I have sons, I have wealth." Indeed, when he himself is not his own, whence are sons, whence is wealth? ~ Gautama Buddha,

224:He is a romantic, a dreamer, and never afraid to play the fool. He is fearless and reckless and brave and I love him for it. Desperately. ~ Stacey Jay,

225:It is not the business of government to make men virtuous or religious, or to preserve the fool from the consequences of his own folly. ~ Henry George,

226:It might be argued, that to be a knave is the gift of fortune, but to play the fool to advantage it is necessary to be a learned man. ~ William Hazlitt,

227:To-morrow! it is a period nowhere to be found in all the hoary registers of time, unless perchance in the fool's calendar. Wisdom ~ Orison Swett Marden,

228:Here will I live in the rainy season, here in the autumn and in the summer: thus muses the fool. He realizes not the danger (of death). ~ Gautama Buddha,

229:When we play the fool, how wideThe theatre expands! beside,How long the audience sits before us!How many prompters! what a chorus! ~ Walter Savage Landor,

230:The astute investor Warren Buffett is fond of saying that any player unaware of the fool in the market probably is the fool in the market. ~ Michael Lewis,

231:Wizards and witches used words as if they were tools to get things done, but the Fool reckoned that words were things in their own right. ~ Terry Pratchett,

232:It will do you no harm to find yourself ridiculous. Resign yourself to be the fool you are... ...We must always take risks. That is our destiny. ~ T S Eliot,

233:The cat seldom interferes with other people's rights. His intelligence keeps him from doing many of the fool things that complicate life. ~ Carl Van Vechten,

234:The person who constantly studies without doing spiritual practice is like the fool who attempts to live in the blueprint of a house. ~ Mata Amritanandamayi,

235:Regard incessantly this body as the bespangled chariot of a king; it gladdens the simpleton but not the wise, dazzles the fool but not the sage. ~ Udanavarga,

236:In essence, there are not really twenty-two trumps, there is only one—the Fool. Al the other trumps live inside (and issue from) the Fool. ~ Lon Milo DuQuette,

237:O human creature,you are the investigator without knowledge, the magistrate without jurisdiction, and all in all, the fool of the farce. ~ Michel de Montaigne,

238:"The fool, dwelling on the bank of the Ganga, digs a well for water!" Such are we! Living in the midst of God - we must go and make images. ~ Swami Vivekananda,

239:Inside it he inscribed a few lines of poetry, portraying us as the gypsy and the fool, one creating silence; one listening closely to the silence. ~ Patti Smith,

240:Should a seeker not find a companion who is better or equal, let him resolutely pursue a solitary course; there is no fellowship with the fool. ~ Gautama Buddha,

241:Unless it is relevant and accurate, knowledge can be the sinking ship the fool insists is sea-worthy, because knowledge often masquerades as wisdom. ~ Anonymous,

242:The fool says, "These are my sons, this is my land, this is my money." In reality, the fool does not own himself, much less sons, land, or money. ~ Gautama Buddha,

243:How long the night to the watchman, How long the road to the weary traveller, How long the wandering of many lives To the fool who misses the way. ~ Gautama Buddha,

244:I've learned to feel good when I feel good. it's better to be driven around in a red porsche than to own one. the luck of the fool is inviolate. ~ Charles Bukowski,

245:It will do you no harm to find yourself ridiculous. Resign yourself to be the fool you are... ...We must always take risks. That is our destiny... ~ T S Eliot,

246:Well, she hath one o’ my sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! ~ William Shakespeare,

247:Memory blurs, that's the point. If memory didn't blur you wouldn't have the fool's courage to do things again, again, again, that tear you apart. ~ Joyce Carol Oates,

248:As the moon retaineth her nature, though darkness spread itself before her face as a curtain, so the Soul remaineth perfect even in the bosom of the fool. ~ Akhenaton,

249:I don’t need to be a hero, Fool. I’d settle for feeling that what I did every day had significance to someone besides myself.” “p. 144 Fitz to the Fool ~ Robin Hobb,

250:I’ll distract them,” Carter said. “You search. The Trophy room is through there.” “Carter!” But the fool ran off to protect me. I hate when he does that. ~ Rick Riordan,

251:I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil: the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil—I don't know which. ~ Joseph Conrad,

252:I think one of the funniest things about '30 Rock' is that Liz Lemon is sort of like Buster Keaton - she's always the fool, the joke is always on her. ~ Cristin Milioti,

253:I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil--I don't know which. ~ Joseph Conrad,

254:For there will be no memory of the wise man or of the fool; in the days to come all will be forgotten, and alas, the wise man dies the same death as the fool! ~ Anonymous,

255:The fool will upset the whole science of astronomy, but as the Holy Scripture shows, it was the sun and not the earth which Joshua ordered to stand still. ~ Martin Luther,

256:the wise man needs nothing and yet he can make good use of anything, whereas the fool ‘needs’ countless things but can make good use of none of them. ~ Donald J Robertson,

257:The dull always seek to be clever at the fool's expense, to somehow repay him for his cutting wit, but never are they clever, and often they are cruel. ~ Christopher Moore,

258:The Stoic Sage, or wise man, needs nothing but uses everything well; the fool believes himself to “need” countless things, but he uses them all badly. ~ Donald J Robertson,

259:You're wrong," Lord Dudley said. "You've always been a fool." "The fool thinks he is wise," G retorted. "But the wise man knows himself to be a fool. ~ Cynthia Hand,

260:The salvation of the world depends on the men who will not take evil good-humouredly, and whose laughter destroys the fool instead of encouraging him. ~ George Bernard Shaw,

261:I’ll distract them,” Carter said. “You search. The Trophy room is through there.” “Carter!” But the fool ran off to protect me. I hate when he does that. ~ Rick Riordan,

262:The serpent, the king, the tiger, the stinging wasp, the small child, the dog owned by other people, and the fool: these seven ought not to be awakened from sleep. ~ Chanakya,

263:Few things are needful to make the wise man happy, but nothing satisfies the fool; - and this is the reason why so many of mankind are miserable. ~ Francois de La Rochefoucauld,

264:These sons belong me, and this wealth belongs me," with such thoughts the fool is tormented. He himself does not belong to himself; how much less sons and wealth? ~ F Max M ller,

265:The truth is perilous never to the true, Nor knowledge to the wise; and to the fool, And to the false, error and truth alike, Error is worse than ignorance. ~ Philip James Bailey,

266:I've learned to feel good when I feel good. it's better to be driven around in a red porsche than to own one. the luck of the fool is inviolate. ~ Charles Bukowski,

267:When truth presents itself, the wise person see the light, takes it in, and makes adjustments. The fool tries to adjust the truth so he does not have to adjust to it. ~ Henry Cloud,

268:You see, said the wolf. He senses me. Not clearly, but he does. Hello, Fool. My ears itch. Outside the tent, the Fool reached down suddenly to scratch the wolf’s ears. ~ Robin Hobb,

269:Falsehoods cease being false when enough people believe them, Bakal. Instead, they blaze like eternal truths, and woe to the fool who tries pissing a stream on that. ~ Steven Erikson,

270:How tragic that the very thing that could set us free-playing the fool-is the thing we will not do. When we're afraid to be fools, we end up being afraid to be anything. ~ Mike Mason,

271:The essence of Taoism is really expressed by these few words. Taoism is the way of the child, the way of the fool, the way of someone who doesn't need to be noticed. ~ Frederick Lenz,

272:The fruit of coveting and desire ripens in sorrow; pleasant at first it soon burns, as a torch burns the hand of the fool who has not in time cast it from him. ~ Sutra in 42 articles,

273:The fool who has not sense to discriminate between what is good and what is bad is well nigh as dangerous as the man who does discriminate and yet chooses the bad. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,

274:Like most trends, at the beginning it's driven by fundamentals, at some point speculation takes over. What the wise man does in the beginning, the fool does in the end. ~ Warren Buffett,

275:Papa-Lo start thinking too deep and start thinking that he should be more than what he is. He’s the worst kind of fool, the fool who start believing things can get better. ~ Marlon James,

276:With that the dream departed, leaving him there, his heart racing with hopes that would not come to pass. He thought he would take the city of Priam then, that very day, the fool. ~ Homer,

277:The fool who repeats again and again: "I am bound, I am bound," remains in bondage. He who repeats day and night: "I am a sinner, I am a sinner," becomes a sinner indeed. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,

278:The dupe of friendship, and the fool of love; have I not reason to hate and to despise myself? Indeed I do; and chiefly for not having hated and despised the world enough. ~ William Hazlitt,

279:True wisdom is less presuming than folly. The wise man doubteth often, and changeth his mind; the fool is obstinate, and doubteth not; he knoweth all things but his own ignorance. ~ Akhenaton,

280:A wrong action may not bring its reaction at once, even as fresh milk turns not sour at once: like a smouldering fire concealed under ashes it consumes the wrongdoer, the fool. ~ Gautama Buddha,

281:The door's locked," said the Fool. "There's all sorts of noises, but the door's locked." "Well, it's a dungeon, isn't it?" "They're not supposed to lock from the inside! ~ Terry Pratchett,

282:why do I want to appear to be drinking more than I am?' 'Make it a habit. Men in their cups are fools, more often than not. And it can be wise to look the fool at times. ~ Raymond E Feist,

283:Search then the ruling passion; there alone, The wild are constant, and the cunning known; The fool consistent, and the false sincere; Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here. ~ Alexander Pope,

284:I am a patriot. That means I owe my loyalty to the armies I swore to lead and the citizens I swore to protect. I am loyal to the crown and what it means. Not to the fool wearing it. ~ Craig Schaefer,

285:I've fallen in love with you. I love you even now when you sit before me with the eyes of a wolf. So take pity upon the fool I have become. I forgot it was only a bargain between us. ~ Ronda Thompson,

286:The fool only is troublesome. A plan of sense perceives when he is agreeable or tiresome; he disappears the very minute before he would have been thought to have stayed too long. ~ Jean de la Bruyere,

287:The wise man, he said, lacked nothing but needed a great number of things, whereas 'the fool, on the other hand, needs nothing (for he does not know how to use anything) but lack everything. ~ Seneca,

288:Who is the man who can speak to the strong? Where is the fool who can talk to the wise? Men who are dead now have learnt this long, Bitter is wisdom that fails when it tries. ~ Derek Walcott,

289:For give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry. Bid the dishonest man mend himself. If he mend, he is no longer dishonest. If he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything ~ William Shakespeare,

290:Hmph. She talked about Cameron’s daddy like he’s the only one in the wrong. I mean, sometimes you got to wonder who’s got the biggest problem: the fool or the one who fell for him? ~ Michelle Stimpson,

291:To err is human, to forgive divine. (Acheron) I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I only ask for a chance to show you now that I’m not the fool I was once. (Styxx) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

292:If thou keepest this limited human ego and thinkest thyself the superman, thou art but the fool of thy own pride, the plaything of thy own force and the instrument of thy own illusions. ~ SRI AUROBINDO,

293:The wise man lacked nothing but needed a great number of things, whereas the fool, on the other hand, needs nothing (for he does not know how to use anything) but lacks everything. ~ Seneca the Younger,

294:Sharp and mild, dull and keen, well known and strange, dirty and clean, where both the fool and wise are seen: All this am I, have ever been, - in me dove, snake and swine convene! ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

295:To err is human, to forgive divine. (Acheron) I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I only ask for a chance to show you now that I’m not the fool I was once. (Styxx) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

296:When a wise man does not understand, he says: "I do not understand." The fool and the uncultured are ashamed of their ignorance. They remain silent when a question could bring them wisdom. ~ Frank Herbert,

297:It’s a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead... ~ Ray Bradbury,

298:For usually people resist as long as they can to dismiss the fool they harbor in their bosom, they resist to confess a major mistake or to admit a truth that makes them despair. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

299:According to Seneca, Chrysippus’ quipped that the wise man needs nothing and yet he can make good use of anything, whereas the fool ‘needs’ countless things but can make good use of none of them. ~ Anonymous,

300:The Fool Whereabouts unknown My eyes flashed open. The Empress’s screams had awakened the dark in me. Reverse, perverse. The Dark Calling. Her smile was broken. It was time. I always know best. ~ Kresley Cole,

301:The world is blessed most by men who do things, and not by those who merely talk about them. -James Oliver 'Tomorrow I will live,' the fool does say; tomorrow itself is late; the wise live yesterday. ~ Martial,

302:I wish they would all go away. Except the Fool. I wished he would join me. Somehow, I had always thought he would join me. Now, I could not recall why. Perhaps I had buried that in the stone. ~ Robin Hobb,

303:Every success story has a parent who says, 'over my dead body.' Every success story has an old person who walks up to you and says, when you're acting the fool, 'you know I worry about you sometimes.' ~ Bill Cosby,

304:Get money - but stop once in a while to figure what it is costing you to get it. No man gets it without giving something in return. The wise man gives his labor and ability. The fool gives his life. ~ Bruce Barton,

305:“It is the coward and the fool who says, ‘This is fate'” — so says the Sanskrit proverb. But it is the strong man who stands up and says, “I will make my fate.” ~ Swami Vivekananda #swamivivekananda #swamijiquotes,

306:The fool I was who first laid eyes on her all those years ago did one thing right— he saw redemption within his reach, and he snatched it up for himself. And then he sabotaged it again, and again. ~ Laura Thalassa,

307:“Think not lightly of evil, saying, “It will not come to me.” Drop by drop is the water pot filled. Likewise, the fool, gathering it little by little, fills himself with evil.” ~ Buddha#buddha #buddhaquote #Dharma,

308:Who you pretends you is, you comes to be. The bigger what bows to the Master on the street, who acts the fool, who forgets who he am, that man a slave. He shuts his bible, he deserves to be a slave ~ Donald McCaig,

309:Who you pretends you is, you comes to be. The nigger that bows to the Master on the street, who acts the fool, who forgets who he am, that man a slave. He shuts his bible, he deserves to be a slave ~ Donald McCaig,

310:Sharp and mild, dull and keen, well known and strange, dirty and clean, where both the fool and wise are seen: All this am I, have ever been, - in me dove, snake and swine convene! ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

311:It is occasionally used to imitate the court jester, who plays the fool but knows he is smarter than the king. He talks and talks and entertains, and no one suspects that he is more than just a fool. ~ Robert Greene,

312:Let’s keep a record of the fool things we have done and criticize ourselves. Since we can’t hope to be perfect, let’s do what E.H. Little did: let’s ask for unbiased, helpful, constructive criticism. ~ Dale Carnegie,

313:According to Seneca, Chrysippus’ quipped that the wise man needs nothing and yet he can make good use of anything, whereas the fool ‘needs’ countless things but can make good use of none of them. ~ Donald J Robertson,

314:All pictures that's painted with sense and with thought / Are painted by madmen as sure as a groat; / For the greater the fool in the pencil more blest, / And when they are drunk they always paint best. ~ William Blake,

315:Wise is the one who learns from another´s mistakes. Less wise is the one who learns only from his own mistakes. The fool keeps making the same mistakes again and again and never learns from them. ~ Sri Sri Ravi Shankar,

316:Be warned my son, no man is free from error, but the wise and prudent man, When he has fallen into evil courses Does not persist but tries to find amendment It is the stubborn man who is the fool ~ Sophocles,

317:It does no good to tell a beautiful woman how beautiful she is. If she already knows, it gives her power over the fool who tells her. If she does not, there is nothing that can be said to make her believe it. ~ Meg Elison,

318:Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

319:Reiko moved on to the Beatles, playing “Norwegian Wood,” “Yesterday,” “Michelle,” and “Something.” She sang and played “Here Comes the Sun,” then played “The Fool on the Hill.” I laid seven matches in a row. ~ Haruki Murakami,

320:There is only one greater folly than that of the fool who says in his heart there is no God, and that is the folly of the people that says with its head that it does not know whether there is a God or not. ~ Otto von Bismarck,

321:Oh, how often I had played the part of the fool, but I learned from it every time. This new pain would ultimately help me grow stronger; I knew that. But it ached so terribly, and I felt so very, very cold. In ~ Charlie N Holmberg,

322:Inside it he inscribed a few lines of poetry, portraying us as the gypsy and the fool, one creating silence; one listening closely to the silence. In the clanging twirl of our lives, these roles would reverse many times ~ Patti Smith,

323:From this skull-rock strange golden roots throw Ikons and incidents; the man in the mask Manipulates. I am the fool that falls And never learns to wait and watch, Icarus eternally damned, the dupe of time . . . ~ John Fowles,

324:The Fool Says, There Is No God To the choirmaster. Of David.     PSALM 14  g The  h fool says in his heart,  i “There is no God.”         They are  j corrupt, they do abominable deeds,          k there is none who does good. ~ Anonymous,

325:Even if we are impressed with the scholarship of man and the achievements of scientific knowledge, let us not play the fool by trumpeting the wonder of these tiny chirps while ignoring the thunderclap of Christ’s omniscience. ~ Anonymous,

326:This game is a hell we’ve all been damned into. It’s designed to madden us. The most intelligent Arcana ever to play is called the Fool. The one who least wanted to kill was named Death. And you, Empress, rule over nothing! ~ Kresley Cole,

327:It is the fool who always rushes to take sides. Do not commit to any side or cause by yourself. By maintaining your independence, you become the master of others — playing people against one another, making them pursue you. ~ Robert Greene,

328:The Fool, when removed from solid ground, leaps- From mountaintop, to burning star, to black, black space. The scholar, when bereft of scroll, of quill, of heavy tome, Falls. And cannot be found. ~ Kelly Barnhill,

329:The extent of creativity to which I admire in an individual is his ability to be richly creative while still, in a way, telling the truth. It is the fool who creates only his own lies, and the bore who simply repeats what he is told. ~ Criss Jami,

330:Ah, Catylast, can it be that you do not see all the changes you have made? Some by your resignation and acceptance of circumstance, some by your wild struggles. You say that you hate change, but you *are* change. The Fool in Fool's Fate ~ Robin Hobb,

331:As she walked along she dramatized the night. There was about it a wild, lawless charm that appealed to a certain wild, lawless strain hidden deep in Emily’s nature—the strain of the gypsy and the poet, the genius and the fool. ~ Lucy Maud Montgomery,

332:Shut up!" Finn turned, furious. "Look at you both! The only friends I have in this hell and all you can do is fight over me. Do either of you care about me? Not the seer, the fighter, the fool who takes all the risks, but me, Finn? ~ Catherine Fisher,

333:Ah, Catylast, can it be that you do not see all the changes you have made? Some by your resignation and acceptance of circumstance, some by your wild struggles. You say that you hate change, but you *are* change. The Fool in Fool's Fate ~ Robin Hobb,

334:Exactly how,” she said, eventually, “does one go about knocking over the houses of people one does not like?” “Urban clearance,” said the Fool. “I was thinking of burning them down.” “Hygienic urban clearance,” the Fool added promptly. ~ Terry Pratchett,

335:He doesn't want your mind, the fool, and I don't want your body. I can buy women cheap. But I do want your mind and your heart, and I'll never have them, any more than you'll ever have Ashley's mind. And that's why I'm sorry for you. ~ Margaret Mitchell,

336:Have you ever stood on a sandy beach when the tide is coming in? Felt the waves come up around your feet and suck the sand from under you. That’s my life now. With every day, I feel I sink deeper into uncertainty.” p. 628 The Fool to Fitz ~ Robin Hobb,

337:So the fool, as distinct from the scoundrel, is completely self- satisfied; in fact, he can easily become dangerous, as it does not take much to make him aggressive. A fool must therefore be treated more cautiously than a scoundrel. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

338:The NR aims to distribute “mini-retirements” throughout life instead of hoarding the recovery and enjoyment for the fool’s gold of retirement. By working only when you are most effective, life is both more productive and more enjoyable. ~ Timothy Ferriss,

339:When blithe to argument I come, Though armed with facts, and merry, May Providence protect me from The fool as adversary, Whose mind to him a kingdom is Where reason lacks dominion, Who calls conviction prejudice And prejudice opinion. ~ Phyllis McGinley,

340:But there was a cost to that surcease from pain, Fool. When you dull pain and hide it from yourself…” My words trickled away. I did not want to sound self-pitying. “You dull your joys as well.” He said it simply." p. 510 Fitz to the Fool ~ Robin Hobb,

341:It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. ~ Eric Greitens,

342:Society is in this respect like a fire-the wise man warming himself at a proper distance from it; not coming too close, like the fool, who, on getting scorched, runs away and shivers in solitude, loud in his complaint that the fire burns. ~ Arthur Schopenhauer,

343:It is a difficult thing―if not impossible―to forgive oneself for foolish errors, not for trampling a life or goring another with sharp horns, but for being the fool who opened the gate and let the bull out, blind to potential consequences. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

344:It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. ~ John Stuart Mill,

345:It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. ~ Michael J Sandel,

346:The fool sees naught but folly; and the madman only madness. Yesterday I asked a foolish man to count the fools among us. He laughed and said, "This is too hard a thing to do, and it will take too long. Were it not better to count only the wise?" ~ Khalil Gibran,

347:Being young you have not yet known the fool’s triumph nor yet nor yet love being lost as soon as won. No. That’s wrong. Only won here. Not lost at all. And dread? Won’t any more. For bound to him is what’s to bind and as for crying? For the wind. ~ Eimear McBride,

348:Of those who reckon lives against lives, who permit themselves to take life in the name of justice, only the fool believes he always decides rightly. I'm no fool. I'm more like the blind man who claims it's impossible for anyone to see. pg 234 ~ Brian Van Reet,

349:It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question.”14 ~ Daniel Todd Gilbert,

350:It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question.”29 ~ Michael J Sandel,

351:It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question.” Now, ~ Eric Greitens,

352:That’s different. She’s a woman, and women act in that silly way. I’m not saying she did it for a moment. She heard he was accused and she trumped up a story. I’m used to that sort of game. You wouldn’t believe the fool things I’ve known women do. ~ Agatha Christie,

353:It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, is of a different opinion, it is only because they only know their own side of the question. ~ John Stuart Mill,

354:You're wrong," Lord Dudley said. "You've always been a fool." "The fool thinks he is wise," G retorted. "But the wise man knows himself to be a fool." That was a great line, he thought. He tried to remember where he'd stashed the quill and paper. ~ Cynthia Hand,

355:We're not going in through the embassy,' said Kaz. 'Always hit where the mark isn't looking.' 'Who's Mark?' asked Wylan. Jesper burst out laughing. 'Oh, Saints, you are something. The mark, the pigeon, the cosy, the fool you're looking to fleece. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

356:From Elisha Comes to Red Horse: "I leave their politics and religion be. Folks can think the way they want, act the way they please, even to acting the fool. All I ask is they don't make too much noise and don't interfere with other people. ~ Louis L Amour,

357:He growled and stood up. “There is a knocking without,” he said. “Without what?” said the Fool. “Without the door, idiot.” The Fool gave him a worried look. “A knocking without a door?” he said suspiciously. “This isn’t some kind of Zen, is it? ~ Terry Pratchett,

358:It does no good to tell a beautiful woman how beautiful she is. If she already knows, it gives her power over the fool who tells her. If she does not, there is nothing that can be said to make her believe it. Dusty did not know everything, but she knew that. ~ Meg Elison,

359:That’s the girl you complain about driving home with every weekend? That’s the girl youwhine endlessly about walking in on you when you’re acting the fool? That’s the girl you dodge calls from and avoid like the plague? Geez Rule I never knew you were gay. ~ Jay Crownover,

360:I once heard a learned man say, "Every evil has its remedy, except folly. To reprimand an obstinate fool or to preach to a dolt is like writing upon the water. Christ healed the blind, the halt, the palsied, and the leprous. But the fool He could not cure." ~ Khalil Gibran,

361:Behold, the fool saith, "Put not all thine eggs in the one basket" - which is but a matter of saying, "Scatter your money and your attention"; but the wise man saith, "Pull all your eggs in the one basket and - WATCH THAT BASKET." - Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar ~ Mark Twain,

362:The Fool card represented one who walked without fear, aware of the choices she made in the journey of life, life itself being defined as a state of courage and wisdom and not an uncontrollable participation in society, as many people experienced their lives. ~ Ana Castillo,

363:The fools standpoint is that all social institutions are games. He sees the whole world as game playing. That's why, when people take their games seriously and take on stern and pious expressions, the fool gets the giggles because he knows that it is all a game. ~ Alan Watts,

364:The wise man who is not heeded is counted a fool, and the fool who proclaims the general folly first and loudest passes for a prophet and Führer, and sometimes it is luckily the other way round as well, or else mankind would long since have perished of stupidity. ~ Carl Jung,

365:on the fool’s trip to save Paul. And for what? My fucking friend and his wife were dead. Maybe they would have been able to ride the damn thing out in their attic. Couldn’t be worse, that’s for sure. So we had potentially only forestalled my son’s death and theirs. ~ Mark Tufo,

366:Stuart Mill wrote, ‘It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. ~ Daniel Todd Gilbert,

367:I appear to have no time for blondes--except for Bugs Bunny, dressed up as a woman, as he seduces the fool Fudd. That is a woman I could be, definitely: a cartoon man-rabbit dressed up as a girl, trying to have sex with a stuttering bald man. I could definitely do that. ~ Caitlin Moran,

368:Science is the art of creating suitable illusions which the fool believes or argues against, but the wise man enjoys for their beauty or their ingenuity, without being blind to the fact that they are human veils and curtains concealing the abysmal darkness of the unknowable ~ Carl Jung,

369:Darwin's theory is as dead as he is. Everyone is surviving, fit or not. Years ago, any kid dumb enough to chase a shiny object down a well was dead, and out of the gene pool. Now they got the technology and medicine to save the fool so he can breed more open mouth breathers. ~ Lenny Bruce,

370:Many politicians are in the habit of laying it down as a self-evident proposition that no people ought to be free till they are fit to use their freedom. The maxim is worthy of the fool in the old story who resolved not to go into the water till he had learned to swim. ~ Thomas B Macaulay,

371:In the Tarot deck, the Fool is depicted as a young man about to step off a cliff into empty air. Most people assume that the Fool will fall. But we don't see it happen, and a Fool doesn't know that he's subject to the laws of gravity. Against all odds, he just might float. ~ Richard Kadrey,

372:Now, we know that life is only a stage to play the fool upon as long as the part amuses us. There was one more convenience lacking to modern comfort; a decent, easy way to quit that stage; the back stairs to liberty; or, as I said this moment, Death’s private door. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,

373:Poison is a glyph for magical power itself: complex, concentrated, liberated in the hands of the elect, and disastrous in the hands of the fool. Its very nature is transmutative, changing all it touches, the maker and breaker of laws, policies, and epidemiological systems. ~ Daniel A Schulke,

374:You might contemplate the purpose of a court…” You brainless, twaddling idiot, I thought scornfully. I wished he were before me. I wished I could personally flout him and his busy searchers, and make him look like the fool he was. And watch the reaction, and walk away laughing. ~ Sherwood Smith,

375:The intelligent use humor as a shield against humiliation. The cruel use humor as a sword to insult others. The irresponsible use humor to escape from responsibility. The fool takes humor too seriously! Humor is spontaneous; to make an effort to be humorous makes no sense. ~ Sri Sri Ravi Shankar,

376:What many men desire--that 'many' may be meant By the fool multitude that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to th' interior, but like the martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. ~ William Shakespeare,

377:It's true there are moments - foolish moments, ecstasy on a tree stump - when I'm all but gone, scattered I like to think like seed, for I'm the sort now in the fool's position of having love left over which I'd like to lose; what good is it now to me, candy ungiven after Halloween? ~ William H Gass,

378:When it's time to get dressed, put on your clothes. When you must walk, then walk. When you must sit, then sit. Just be your ordinary self in ordinary life, unconcerned in seeking for Buddhahood. When you're tired, lie down. The fool will laugh at you but the wise man will understand. ~ Linji Yixuan,

379:The fool knows nothing of God; he never comes across anything divine. He remains part of the stupid collectivity. Remember, the society, the collective has no soul; the soul belongs to the individual. Hence, those who belong to the collective are destroying every possibility of being souls. ~ Rajneesh,

380:“You might contemplate the purpose of a court…” You brainless, twaddling idiot, I thought scornfully. I wished he were before me. I wished I could personally flout him and his busy searchers, and make him look like the fool he was. And watch the reaction, and walk away laughing. ~ Sherwood Smith,

381:As the philosopher John Stuart Mill wrote, "It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, are a different opinion, it is because they know only their own side of the question. ~ Daniel Todd Gilbert,

382:so-called worst-case event, when it happened, exceeded the worst case at the time. I have called this mental defect the Lucretius problem, after the Latin poetic philosopher who wrote that the fool believes that the tallest mountain in the world will be equal to the tallest one he has observed. ~ Anonymous,

383:Throughout all the years that I lived in South Africa, people were to call me a fool for refusing to live life the way they did and by doing the things they did. Little did they realise that in our world, the black world, one could only survive if one played the fool, and bided his time.   ~ Mark Mathabane,

384:I necessarily fear change except that it's so seldom for the better. It's just that I can live with any number of things going straight to hell as long as these streams continue to hold up. If this amounts to living in a fool's paradise, don't waste your time trying to explain that to the fool. ~ John Gierach,

385:Mother-Earth Who but the fool and improvident, who but the dreamer and madman Leaves for the far and ungrasped earth’s close and provident labour? Children of earth, our mother gives tokens, she lays down her signposts, Step by step to advance on her bosom, to g ~ Sri Aurobindo, Collected Poems, Ilion,

386:A whetstone is no carving instrument, And yet it maketh sharp the carving tool; And if you see my efforts wrongly spent, Eschew that course and learn out of my school; For thus the wise may profit by the fool, And edge his wit, and grow more keen and wary, For wisdom shines opposed to its contrary. ~ Geoffrey Chaucer,

387:It's a change, and I don't like changes, especially changes I don't understand.' 'Life is change,' the Fool observed lacidly. 'And death is an even greater change. I think we must resign ourselves to change, Fitz.' 'I'm tired of resigning myself to things. My entire life has been one long resignation. ~ Robin Hobb,

388:Ned knew what it was like to feel useless. He had been the expendable grandchild, the non-heir. He'd been the fool, the idiot, the one who could be counted on to muck up anything worth doing. His grandfather had expected nothing of Ned, and Ned, young idiot that he had been, had delivered spectacularly. ~ Courtney Milan,

389:I always call niggas fools for wanting to learn the hard way. When I'm really the fool for tryna teach 'em. When the blinds leading the blind. You can't reach 'em. If niggas ain't as hungry as you then why feed 'em? Niggas ain't tryna be lead then why lead 'em? Having big problems with your dogs, why breed em? ~ Joe Budden,

390:We all are weak, in one way or another. It does not matter the species. Some times that weakness is a strength in dusguise. Sometimes it is our utter undoing. Some times it is both. A wise man seeks to find a lesson from it. A fool lets it control and destroy him. And sometimes the wise man is the fool. ~ Christie Golden,

391:'When you have a lemon, make a lemonade.' That is what a great educator does. But the fool does the exact opposite. If he finds that life has handed him a lemon, he gives up and says, 'I 'm beaten. It is fate. I haven't got a chance.' Then he proceeds to rail against the world and indulge in an orgy of self-pity . ~ Dale Carnegie,

392:since the wickedness of the Evil One has prevailed so mightily against man’s nature as even to drive some into denying the existence of God, that most foolish and woe-fulest pit of destruction (whose folly David, revealer of the Divine meaning, exposed when he said(9), The fool said in his heart, There is no God), ~ John of Damascus,

393:He begged me not to be impatient—to moderate my transports—to read   soothing   books—to   drink   nothing   stronger   than Hock—and to bring the consolations of philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself, why, in the name of every thing rational, could he not have enclosed me a letter of presentation? ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

394:If you want to be a yogi, you must be free, and place yourself in circumstances where you are alone and free from all anxiety. One who desires a comfortable and nice life and at the same time wants to realize the Self is like the fool who, wanting to cross the river, caught hold of a crocodile, mistaking it for a log of wood. ~ Swami Vivekananda,

395:But the greatest peril of misplaced worry, Seneca cautions, is that in keeping us constantly tensed against an imagined catastrophe, it prevents us from fully living. He ends the letter with a quote from Epicurus illustrating this sobering point: The fool, with all his other faults, has this also, he is always getting ready to live. ~ Seneca,

396:But, hell, I wouldn't have grudged him your body. I know how little bodies mean - especially women's bodies. But I do grudge him your heart and your dear, hard, unscrupulous mind. He doesn't want your mind, the fool, and I don't want your body. I can buy women cheap. But I do want your mind and your heart, and I'll never have them. ~ Margaret Mitchell,

397:The fool's number is zero, but that's because he represents the infinite possibility of all things. He may become anything. See, he carries all of his possessions in a bundle on his back. He is ready for anything, to go anywhere, to become whatever he needs to be. Don't count out the fool, Pocket, simply because his number is zero. ~ Christopher Moore,

398:Why can’t I take you? Why is it so hard? You have the other half of my soul; with you I will be complete! So. Then. Why?” Crispin murmured clenching his fists. Oh, he pitied the fool who would be in his way once he returned to his domain. “Oh, what suffering will befall them in her place,” he smiled wickedly. ~Crispin~ ~ J L Clayton,

399:For example, the Bible does say this is a proposition, "There is no God." But of course the context of Psalm 14:1 enriches it a bit: "the fool has said in his heart, there is no God." So there are contextual constraints and when you finish putting in all the contextual constraints and sophisticated discussions of what inerrancy is and isn't. ~ D A Carson,

400:Max Gluckman once said: “A science is any discipline in which the fool of this generation can go beyond the point reached by the genius of the last generation.” Science moves forward by slaying its heroes, as Newton fell to Einstein. Every young physicist dreams of being the new champion that future physicists will dream of dethroning. ~ Eliezer Yudkowsky,

401:... No photograph ever was good, yet, of anybody - hunger and thirst and utter wretchedness overtake the outlaw who invented it! It transforms into desperadoes the weakest of men; depicts sinless innocence upon the pictured faces of ruffians; gives the wise man the stupid leer of a fool, and the fool an expression of more than earthly wisdom. ~ Mark Twain,

402:In every deck, the Fool is in a precarious position. Think of all of the idioms we have for taking chances. “Going out on a limb.” “Winging it.” “Break a leg.” “Going for broke.” These all sound really painful, but what they’re about is deciding that being still is not for you. When you see this in a reading, you'll know it's time to jump. ~ Melissa Cynova,

403:No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. ~ T S Eliot,

404:The Scripture saith, The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God; it is not said, The fool hath thought in his heart; so as he rather saith it, by rote to himself, as that he would have, than that he can thoroughly believe it, or be persuaded of it....It appeareth in nothing more, that atheism is rather in the lip, than in the heart of man. ~ Francis Bacon,

405:And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them: for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that’s villanous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. ~ William Shakespeare,

406:In Hindustan, as in England, there are doctrines for the learned, and dogmas for the unlearned; strong meat for men & milk for babes; facts for the few, & fictions for the many, realities for the wise, and romances for the simple; esoteric truth for the philosopher, & exoteric fable for the fool. ~ Hurrychund Chintamon quoted by H. P. Blavatsky, New York (20 Jan. 1877),

407:It was the quality of her feelings that shattered him—the pure belief and care that she had for him. He'd underestimated her, and he was more the fool for it, for denying this regard...this love for him. There was no other word to describe it. It truly was the same for her. The thought flooded him, filled his veins with equal parts relief and agony. ~ Alexandra Bracken,

408:In Hindustan, as in England, there are doctrines for the learned, and dogmas for the unlearned; strong meat for men & milk for babes; facts for the few, & fictions for the many, realities for the wise, and romances for the simple; esoteric truth for the philosopher, & exoteric fable for the fool. ~ Hurrychund Chintamon, quoted by H. P. Blavatsky, in New York (20 Jan. 1877),

409:What does the Right have to show for eight years of a Republican presidency? I supported George W. Bush in 2000 because I thought he had a conservative bone in his body somewhere. I supported him in 2004 because I thought him the lesser of two evils. At this point, I wouldn't let the fool park his car in my driveway. Bruce Bartlett was right, every damn word. ~ John Derbyshire,

410:Who is the madder,’ Osman the clown whispered into his bullock's ear as he groomed it in its small byre, ‘the madwoman, or the fool who loves the madwoman?’ The bullock didn't reply. ‘Maybe we should have stayed untouchable,’ Osman continued. ‘A compulsory ocean sounds worse than a forbidden well.’ And the bullock nodded, twice for yes, boom, boom. ~ Salman Rushdie,

411:Why can’t I take you? Why is it so hard? You have the other half of my soul; with you I will be complete! So. Then. Why?” Crispin murmured clenching his fists. Oh, he pitied the fool who would be in his way once he returned to his domain. “Oh, what suffering will befall them in her place,” he smiled wickedly. ~ J L ClaytonCrispin~ J L Clayton ~ J L Clayton,

412:This is hard,” he said, but he did not seem to address his words to me. “I’m too close to the end. I’ve had glimpses of this, but never clear ones. And now all I know is that I must go on, and that every step I take leads me closer to my death.” He met my eyes and said without shame, “I’m terrified.” I smiled. “Welcome to human existence.” p. 335 The Fool to Fitz ~ Robin Hobb,

413:Now, blessings light on him that first invented sleep!Ê It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot.Ê It is the current coin that purchases all the pleasures of the world cheap, and the balance that sets the king and the shepherd, the fool and the wise man, even. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

414:I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. ~ Gillian Flynn,

415:I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. ~ Gillian Flynn,

416:No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. ~ T S Eliot,

417:I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want too play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. ~ Gillian Flynn,

418:I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It ~ Gillian Flynn,

419:Wakefulness is the way to life. The fool sleeps As if he were already dead, But the Master is awake And he lives forever. He watches. He is clear. How happy he is! For he sees that wakefulness is life. How happy he is, Following the path of the awakened. With Great perseverance He meditates, seeking Freedom and happiness. ~ Gautama Buddha,

420:Chade, I know the Fool is strange. But I like it when he comes to talk to me. He speaks in riddles, and he insults me, and makes fun of me, and gives himself leave to tell me things he thinks I should do, like wash my hair, or not wear yellow. But (...) I like him. He mocks me, but from him, it seems a kindness. He makes me feel, well, important. That he could choose me to talk to. ~ Robin Hobb,

421:What I’m afraid of is you leading me down a path I’m not sure I can travel. Because maybe I am the fool who loves too easily. The one who sees the best in people. The one who sees what they deserve. Evan’s dad didn’t leave me jaded. He left me knowing exactly what it is I want. And what scares me most is I see so much of what I want in you, and I’m not sure you see the same in me. ~ A L Jackson,

422:Trust had. But I had broken that, like a child who takes something apart to see how it works and ends up with a handful of pieces. Perhaps he could not be the Fool again, any more than I could go back to being Burrich’s stable boy. Perhaps our relationship had changed too profoundly for us to relate as Fitz and the Fool. Perhaps Tom Badgerlock and Lord Golden were all that was left to us. ~ Robin Hobb,

423:Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an in- telligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nine- teenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

424:The mind is the only thing about human beings that’s worth anything. Why does it have to be tied to a bag of skin, blood, hair, meat, bones and tubes? No wonder people can’t get anything done, stuck for life with a parasite that has to be stuffed with food and protected from weather and germs all the time. And the fool thing wears out anyway – no matter how much you stuff and protect it. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

425:It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

426:This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit. ~ William Shakespeare,

427:Choose your leaders with wisdom and forethought. To be led by a coward is to be controlled by all that the coward fears. To be led by a fool is to be led by the opportunists who control the fool. To be led by a thief is to offer up your most precious treasures to be stolen. To be led by a liar is to ask to be told lies. To be led by a tyrant is to sell yourself and those you love into slavery. ~ Octavia E Butler,

428:The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. "Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood." "Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie." "Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind." (This guy must have written a long time ago.) ~ William Shakespeare,

429:Choose your leaders with wisdom and forethought. To be led by a coward is to be controlled by all that the coward fears. To be led by a fool is to be led by the opportunists who control the fool. To be led by a thief is to offer up your most precious treasures to be stolen. To be led by a liar is to ask to be told lies. To be led by a tyrant is to sell yourself and those you love into slavery. I ~ Octavia E Butler,

430:pride that incident had delivered may have prompted him to plan an aggressive response simply to prove he would not be made the fool. The increase of activity in mid-September was definitely new, though, after a relatively quiet August. Woodhull had written to Tallmadge on September 1: “In regard of the state of affairs in general he [Culper Junior] assured the express they remained as heretofore or as ~ Brian Kilmeade,

431:He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. When had Emma become so important to him? He knew he had been acting the fool with Nate, but it didn’t occur to him until now that he was afraid of losing her. No longer could he pretend she merely fit in with his plans. Somehow this spirited, soft, loving woman had wormed herself into his heart. And he was determined to keep her right there. ~ Callie Hutton,

432:The wise man knows himself, and is, therefore, neither unduly humble nor elated, because he had no more to do with making himself than with the cut of his cloak, or with the fitness of his loin-cloth. But the fool either loses his head by comparing himself with still greater fools, or is prostrated when he finds himself inferior to other and lesser fools. This shyness he calls modesty, humility, and so forth. ~ Anonymous,

433:Change is when new selves come into the foreground while others recede into forgotten landscapes. Maybe definition of having lived a full life is when every citizen in the hall of selves gets to take you for a spin, the commander the lover the coward the misanthrope the fighter the priest the moral guardian the immoral guardian the lover of life the hater of life the fool the judge the jury the executioner.. ~ Steve Toltz,

434:The saviour answered...and said, If you want to be perfect, you will keep these teachings. If not, you deserve to be called ignorant. For a wise person cannot associate with a fool. The wise person is perfect in all wisdom, but to the fool, good and evil are one and the same. For the wise person will be nourished by the truth...Some people have wings but run after what they can see, what is far from the truth. ~ Anonymous,

435:Choose your leaders with wisdom and forethought. To be led by a coward is to be controlled by all that the coward fears. To be led by a fool is to be led by the opportunists who control the fool. To be led by a thief is to offer up your most precious treasures to be stolen. To be led by a liar is to ask to be told lies. To be led by a tyrant is to sell yourself and those you love into slavery. ~ Octavia E Butler,

436:WHEN all works that have From cradle run to grave From grave to cradle run instead; When thoughts that a fool Has wound upon a spool Are but loose thread, are but loose thread; When cradle and spool are past And I mere shade at last Coagulate of stuff Transparent like the wind, I think that I may find A faithful love, a faithful love. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Fool By The Roadside ,

437:I have withered within me all human hope. With every silent leap of a sullen beast, I have downed and strangled every joy. I have called for executioners; I want to perish chewing on their gun butts. I have called for plagues, to suffocate in sand and blood. Unhappiness has been my god. I have lain down in the mud, and dried myself off in the crime-infested air. I have played the fool to the point of madness. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

438:Like looking down on a lubricious chess set, isn't it? The king moves in tiny steps, with no direction, like a drunkard trying to avoid the archer's bolt. The others work their strategies and wait for the old man to fall. He has no power, yet all power moves in his orbit and to his mad whim. Do you know there's no fool piece on the chessboard, Kent?" "Methinks the fool is the player, the mind above the moves. ~ Christopher Moore,

439:DANCE there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water's roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind. What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of wind! ~ William Butler Yeats, To A Child Dancing In The Wind ,

440:This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit. ~ William Shakespeare,

441:If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. ~ Gillian Flynn,

442:In Russian fairy tales, the narrative flows a little differently. In those stories, you won’t find a tale for Cinderella, one for Snow White, one for Rapunzel. Instead, a peculiar cast of characters recurs over and over, in nearly every story, performing different acts and suffering different sorrows, but remaining the same. Ivan the Fool. Yelena the Bright. Baba Yaga. Vasilisa the Brave. Koschei the Deathless. ~ Catherynne M Valente,

443:Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

444:The farmer after sacrificing pleasure, taste, freedom, thought, love, to his work, turns out often a bankrupt, like the merchant.This result might well seem astounding. All this drudgery, from cockcrowing to starlight, for all these years, to end in mortgages and the auctioneer's flag, and removing from bad to worse. It is time to have the thing looked into, and with a sifting criticism ascertained who is the fool. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

445:To withhold belief because the evidence doesn't support the claims is an honorable and wise response. Likewise, to believe against poor evidence is credulity, the mark of the fool, and brings no honor to God. However, the evidence about Jesus is compelling, so withholding belief in Him is to commit an immoral act. Unbelief is judged by Jesus not as an intellectual error but as a hostile act of prejudice against God Himself. ~ R C Sproul,

446:It is not the business of government to make men virtuous or religious, or to preserve the fool from the consequences of his own folly. Government should be repressive no further than is necessary to secure liberty by protecting the equal rights of each from aggression on the part of others, and the moment governmental prohibitions extend beyond this line they are in danger of defeating the very ends they are intended to serve. ~ Henry George,

447:I have come back but disorder is not what it was. I have lost the trick of it! The innocence of it!… Anne, Anne, flee on your donkey, flee this sad hotel, ride out on some hairy beast, gallop backward pressing your buttocks to his withers, sit to his clumsy gait somehow. Ride out any old way you please! In this place everyone talks to his own mouth. That’s what it means to be crazy. Those I loved best died of it— the fool’s disease. ~ Anne Sexton,

448:The errors of a wise man are literally more instructive than the truths of a fool. The wise man travels in lofty, far-seeing regions; the fool in low-lying, high-fenced lanes; retracing the footsteps of the former, to discover where he diviated, whole provinces of the universe are laid open to us; in the path of the latter, granting even that he has not deviated at all, little is laid open to us but two wheel-ruts and two hedges. ~ Thomas Carlyle,

449:Woe to him who could look on and say: The fool! If she had waited, if she had let time do its work, her despair would surely have subsided, another man would have turned up to comfort her.— That's just like saying: The fool, dying of fever! If he had waited until his strength returned, his circulation improved, the tumult of his blood calmed down, everything would have turned out well and he would still be alive today! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

450:I hope you find your truth and when you do, you stand in the middle of it strong, beautiful and nimble like the World dancer. Because when the Fool followed her own path and trusted herself, she found herself in the World. And by the time she did, she was so high on the music-so enraptured by the dancing, so lost in the beauty, so in tune with herself, and so filled with magic-she didn't even realize she's arrived at her destination. ~ Sasha Graham,

451:The Fool held his breath. On long nights on the hard flagstones he had dreamed of women like her. Although, if he really thought about it, not much like her; they were better endowed around the chest, their noses weren’t so red and pointed, and their hair tended to flow more. But the Fool’s libido was bright enough to tell the difference between the impossible and the conceivably attainable, and hurriedly cut in some filter circuits. ~ Terry Pratchett,

452:The cactus thrives in the desert while the fern thrives in the wetland. The fool will try to plant them in the same flowerbox. The florist will sigh and add a wall divider and proper soil to both sides. The grandparent will move the flowerbox halfway out of the sun. The child will turn it around properly so that the fern is in the shade, and not the cactus. The moral of the story? Kids are smart. ~ Vera Nazarian,

453:Few human creatures would consent to be changed into any of the lower animals for a promise of the fullest allowance of a beast's pleasures; no intelligent human being would consent to be a fool, no instructed person would be an ignoramus, no person of feeling and conscience would be selfish and base, even though they should be persuaded that the fool, the dunce, or the rascal is better satisfied with his lot than they are with theirs. ~ John Stuart Mill,

454:Ahoy there, Lord Pegleg!" cried the Fool. "Why are you hopping on one foot?" "And what would you have do on one foot?" the man asked. "Pirouette? Besides, if I were to untie my other foot I would move too fast for anyone to see me. Why, I would trip over the equator in one stride." "That's pretty quick," the Fool said. "If you think that's quick," the man replied, "you should have seen me before the old arthritis set in. ~ Eric Metaxas,

455:A circle is the only geometric shape defined by its centre. No chicken and egg about it, the centre came first, the circumference follows. The earth, by definition, has a centre. And only the fool that knows it can go wherever he pleases, knowing the centre will hold him down, stop him flying out of orbit. But when your sense of centre shifts, comes whizzing to the surface, the balance has gone. The balance has gone. The balance my baby has gone. ~ Sarah Kane,

456:The fool!" I broke in—"the fool! Thou callest him great; but how can the man be truly great who has no strength to stand against a woman's wiles? Cæsar, with the world hanging on his word! Cæsar, at whose breath forty legions marched and changed the fate of peoples! Cæsar the cold! the far-seeing! the hero!—Cæsar to fall like a ripe fruit into a false girl's lap! Why, in the issue, of what common clay was this Roman Cæsar, and how poor a thing! ~ H Rider Haggard,

457:The mind of man is capable of anything-because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage-who can tell?-but truth-truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder-the man know, and can look on without a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet the truth with his own true stuff-with his own inborn strength. ~ Joseph Conrad,

458:I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil—I don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place—and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won’t pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. ~ Joseph Conrad,

459:It is really most absurd to wish to turn this scene of misery into a pleasure spot and set ourselves the goal of achieving pleasures and joys instead of freedom from pain, as so many do. Those who, with too gloomy a gaze, regard this world as a kind of hell and, accordingly, are only concerned with procuring a fireproof room in it, are much less mistaken. The fool runs after the pleasures of life and sees himself cheated; the sage avoids evils. ~ Arthur Schopenhauer,

460:Ladies, your power can influence for right or wrong, for victory or defeat. Remember, people have a way of becoming what you encourage them to be, not what you nag them to be. Speak to the fool in your child, and the fool will stand up. Speak to the champion in your child, and the champion will stand up. Speak to the fool in your husband, and the fool will stand up; but speak to the king in your husband, and he’ll hurt himself trying to please you. ~ Jentezen Franklin,

461:Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish girl! she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored, till his blood became calm? all would then have gone well, and he would have been alive now. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

462:The Buddhas and the Christs are born complete. They neither seek love nor give love, because they are love itself. But we who are born again and again must discover the meaning of love, must learn to live love as the flower lives beauty. How wonderful, if only you can believe it, act on it! Only the fool, the absolute fool, is capable of it. He alone is free to plumb the depths and scour the heavens. His innocence preserves him. He asks no protection. ~ Henry Miller,

463:But now, to close my letter, I have only to stamp the usual seal upon it, in other words, to commit thereto some noble message to be delivered to you: "The fool, with all his other faults, has this also, he is always getting ready to live." Reflect, my esteemed Lucilius, what this saying means, and you will see how revolting is the fickleness of men who lay down every day new foundations of life, and begin to build up fresh hopes even at the brink of the grave. ~ Seneca,

464:If we rail and kick against it and grow bitter, we won't change the inevitable; but we will change ourselves. I know. I have tried it. I once refused to accept an inevitable situation with which I was confronted. I played the fool and railed against it, and rebelled. I turned my nights into hells of insomnia. I brought upon myself everything I didn't want. Finally, after a year of self-torture, I had to accept what I knew from the outset I couldn't possible alter. ~ Dale Carnegie,

465:Who needs a dream? Who needs ambition? Who'd be the fool in my position? Once I had dreams, now they're obsessions. Hopes became needs, lovers possessions. Then they move in, oh so discretely. Slowly at first, smiling too sweetly. I opened doors, they walked right through them. Called me their friend, I hardly knew them... Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. Times have been good, fast, entertaining. But what's the point if I'm concealing not only love, all other feeling. ~ Tim Rice,

466:Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, ‘The foolish girl! she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have found another lover to comfort her.’ One might as well say, ‘The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored, till his blood became calm? all would then have gone well, and he would have been alive now. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

467:Hugh paid no more attention to the farce than he had to the opera. He took every opportunity to study the young woman sitting beside him. She didn't hide her amusement at the production on stage, laughing at the pranks of the fool and clapping one hand to her mouth when the hero fell to his knee and proclaimed his love for the fainting maiden. Hugh sensed it was all genuine, as genuine as her nerves and her devotion to Willy and even her welcoming words to him this evening. ~ Caroline Linden,

468:I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. ~ Gillian Flynn,

469:Any good strategy involves risk. If you think your strategy is foolproof, the fool may well be you. Execution, too, is uncertain — what works in one company with one workforce may have different results elsewhere. Chance often plays a greater role than we think, or than successful managers usually like to admit. The link between inputs and outcomes is tenuous. Bad outcomes don’t always mean that managers made mistakes; and good outcomes don’t always mean they acted brilliantly. ~ Philip M Rosenzweig,

470:Petruchio: Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry. Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting. Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out. Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies. Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. Katherine: In his tongue. Petruchio: Whose tongue? Katherine: Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell. Petruchio: What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman. ~ William Shakespeare,

471:If I can't laugh at the fool I am I'll despair at the beast I am. You must laugh at yourself, Michael." "I expect you're right," he said. "One must come out on the other side of despair before one can find that stony sanctuary." "And laughing at yourself gives you freedom." "From what?" asked Michael grimly. "From hating yourself. One can be just as self-engrossed in self-hatred as self-love, and either way be as blind to the quality of those about you... ~ Elizabeth Goudge,

472:The fool says 'I never intended to kill. I meant only to wound.' But I tell you that if you prick a finger with a poisoned thorn you may not claim innocence when the heart dies. Do not plant a weed and pretend surprise when it grows to strangle your garden. For, I tell you that hate is to kill, for from hatred grows death as surely as life grows from love. Therefore do not nurture hatred, but love, even for those who hate you in return. Hatred wins many battles, and yet love will triumph. ~ Michael Grant,

473:Erasmus dramatizes a well-established political position: that of the fool who claims license to criticize all and sundry without reprisal, since his madness defines him as not fully a person and therefore not a political being with political desires and ambitions. The Praise of Folly, therefore sketches the possibility of a position for the critic of the scene of political rivalry, a position not simply impartial between the rivals but also, by self-definition, off the stage of rivalry altogether. ~ J M Coetzee,

474:If You Have A Lemon, Make A Lemonade That is what a great educator does. But the fool does the exact opposite. If he finds that life has handed him a lemon, he gives up and says: "I'm beaten. It is fate. I haven't got a chance." Then he proceeds to rail against the world and indulge in an orgy of selfpity. But when the wise man is handed a lemon, he says: "What lesson can I learn from this misfortune? How can I improve my situation? How can I turn this lemon into a lemonade? ~ Dale Carnegie,

475:Do not cry to me. I can only cry with you. I will not die for you. I am still too young in the meaning of love. Talk to the Fool, to the one who left a throne to enter an anthill. He will enter your shadow. It cannot taint Him. He has done it before. His holiness is not fragile. It burns like a father to the sun. Touch His skin, put your hand in His side. He has kept His scars when He did not have to. Give Him your pain and watch it overwhelmed, burned away by the joy He takes in loving. In stooping. ~ N D Wilson,

476:Do not cry to me. I can only cry with you. I will not die for you. I am still too young in the meaning of love. Talk to the Fool, to the one who left a throne to enter an anthill. He will enter your shadow. It cannot taint HIm. He has done it before. His holiness is not fragile. It burns like a father to the sun. Touch His skin, put your hand in His side. He has kept His scars when He did not have to. Give Him your pain and watch it overwhelmed, burned away in the joy He takes in loving. In stooping. ~ N D Wilson,

477:Petruchio: Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry. Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting. Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out. Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies. Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. Katherine: In his tongue. Petruchio: Whose tongue? Katherine: Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell. Petruchio: What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman. ~ William Shakespeare,

478:No, my trouble was that I am one of those who, in popular parlance, have never known what it is to be young. There had been an over-plus of gloom, a lack of freshness, about my early years. The very look of me was enough to produce in others a sense of chill, and the more I realized this, the less accommodating did I become. I have never learned how to wear my clothes, how to choose a tie, or tie it when chosen. I have never in all my life known what it is to be unself-conscious, or to laugh or play the fool. ~ Fran ois Mauriac,

479:He swam at my feet, Powerful arms in broad strokes Sweeping the sand. So I asked this man, What seas do you swim? And to this he answered, 'I have seen shells and the like On this desert floor, So I swim this land's memory Thus honouring its past,' Is the journey far, queried I. 'I cannot say,' he replied, 'For I shall drown long before I am done.' Sayings of the Fool Thenys Bule" Steven Erikson - Malazan Book of the Fallen 02 Deadhouse Gates ~ Steven Erikson,

480:I care not what the sailors say: All those dreadful thunder-stones, All that storm that blots the day Can but show that Heaven yawns; Great Europa played the fool That changed a lover for a bull. Fol de rol, fol de rol. To round that shell's elaborate whorl, Adorning every secret track With the delicate mother-of-pearl, Made the joints of Heaven crack: So never hang your heart upon A roaring, ranting journeyman. Fol de rol, fol de rol. ~ William Butler Yeats, Crazy Jane Reproved ,

481:The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who grew up with TV and movies and now the internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script ~ Gillian Flynn,

482:The old man would go on with this talking and this talking, drop by drop, stone by stone, flake by flake. His mind would well over at last and he would not be Montag any more, this the old man told him, assured him, promised him. He would be Montag-plus-Faber, fire plus water, and then, one day, after everything had mixed and simmered and worked away in silence, there would be neither fire nor water, but wine. Out of two separate and opposite things, a third. And one day he would look back upon the fool and know the fool. ~ Ray Bradbury,

483:We are not a couple,' she said softly. 'Therefore I cannot cuckold you.' 'Shall I pull out the note and point to the bit where it says we're lovers?' Her lashes lowered a touch. 'Are you jealous, darling?' 'Sleep with whomever you please, Diane. But if you attempt to make me look the fool, I won't be so cooperative.' Even as he spoke the words he realized he was lying - which wasn't that unusual, except for the fact that he'd evidently been attempting to lie to himself. That was a damned useless waste of effort. ~ Suzanne Enoch,

484:It’s all right,” said the Fool urgently. “You’ll be perfectly safe with me.” “Yes, I will, won’t I,” said Magrat, trying to look around him to see where the others had gone. “They’re staging the play outside, in the big courtyard. We’ll get a lovely view from one of the gate towers, and no one else will be there. I put some wine up there for us, and everything.” When she still looked half-reluctant he added, “And there’s a cistern of water and a fireplace that the guards use sometimes. In case you want to wash your hair. ~ Terry Pratchett,

485:God bless the lawn mower, he thought. Who was the fool who made January first New Year’s Day? No, they should set a man to watch the grasses across a million Illinois, Ohio, and Iowa lawns, and on that morning when it was long enough for cutting, instead of ratchets and horns and yelling, there should be a great swelling symphony of lawn mowers reaping fresh grass upon the prairie lands. Instead of confetti and serpentine, people should throw grass spray at each other on the one day each year that really represents Beginning! ~ Ray Bradbury,

486:Upon Mrs Scorton's reappearance, she found herself confronted, not by the fool of his family, but by the Honourable Frederick Standen, a Pink of the Pinks, who knew to a nicety how to blend courtesy with hauteur, and who informed her, with exquisite politeness, that he rather fancied his cousin was tired, and would like to be taken home. One of the uninvited guests, entering the box in Eliza's wake, ventured on a warm sally, found himself being inspected from head to foot through a quizzing-glass, and stammered an apology. ~ Georgette Heyer,

487:It can sometimes be a hearbreaking struggle for us to arrive at a place where we are no longer afraid of the child inside us. We often fear that people won't take us seriously, or that they won't think us qualified enough. For the sake of being accepted, we can forget our source and put on one of the rigid masks of professionalism or conformity that society is continually offering us. The childlike part of us is the part that, like the Fool, simply does and says, without needing to qualify himself or strut his credentials. ~ Stephen Nachmanovitch,

488:In attachment there is pain, and in pain deliverance, so that at this point attachment itself offers no obstacle, and the liberated one is at last free to love with all his might and to suffer with all his heart. This is not because he has learned the trick of splitting himself into higher and lower selves so that he can watch himself with inward indifference, but rather because he has found the meeting-point of the limit of wisdom and the limit of foolishness. The Bodhisattva is the fool who has become wise by persisting in his folly. ~ Alan W Watts,

489:This book is the synthesis of, on one hand, the no-nonsense practitioner of uncertainty who spent his professional life trying to resist being fooled by randomness and trick the emotions associated with probabilistic outcomes and, on the other, the aesthetically obsessed, literature-loving human being willing to be fooled by any form of nonsense that is polished, refined, original, and tasteful. I am not capable of avoiding being the fool of randomness; what I can do is confine it to where it brings some aesthetic gratification. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,

490:As an aesthetic phenomenon existence is still bearable for us,57 and art furnishes us with eyes and hands and above all the good conscience to be able to turn ourselves into such a phenomenon. At times we need a rest from ourselves by looking upon, by looking down upon, ourselves and, from an artistic distance, laughing over ourselves or weeping over ourselves. We must discover the hero no less than the fool in our passion for knowledge; we must occasionally find pleasure in our folly, or we cannot continue to find pleasure in our wisdom. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

491:Heigho! the lark and the owl! One flies the morning, and one lulls the night: Only the nightingale, poor fond soul, Sings like the fool through darkness and light. 'A widow bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. 'There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Archys Song From Charles The First (A Widow Bird Sate Mourning For Her Love) ,

492:The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. ~ Gillian Flynn,

493:Debasement was limited at first to one’s own territory. It was then found that one could do better by taking bad coins across the border of neighboring municipalities and exchanging them for good with ignorant common people, bringing back the good coins and debasing them again. More and more mints were established. Debasement accelerated in hyper-fashion until a halt was called after the subsidiary coins became practically worthless, and children played with them in the street, much as recounted in Leo Tolstoy’s short story, Ivan the Fool. ~ Charles P Kindleberger,

494:The Fool knows this game and this world better than anyone. He can take care of himself.” “But he can’t see his own future! And he was so sick.” “Matto was doing tons better than before,” Finn assured me. “Sievā, he’ll travel with another person (JACK!) reading his companion’s future to safeguard his own. You know his weaknesses, but you ignore his strengths.” I didn’t want to be part of the problem. "Wh-when will he come back? Will I ever see him again?” Aric’s eyes were grave. “He’ll find you when you least expect it. . . . ~ Kresley Cole,

495:He was between Edoran and the Falcon now, and Arisa pushed past the prince to stand with him. Weasel on the right and Arisa on the left. The image of the cards Arisa has laid out floated through his mind: the fool, with the storm protecting him and the hanged man guiding him true. No matter how powerful the sword and shield were supposed to be, Weasel and Arisa mattered more..."I do give them to you," he announced. "Of my free will. Because this is my sword." He laid a hand on Arisa's shoulder. "And Weasel is my shield. What you hold are only pieces of iron. ~ Hilari Bell,

496:What happened?" Wyatt asked Crystal, and stood back so the two of them could come inside out of the oppressive heat. "Why are you asking her?" Reed thumped past him. "I'm the one on crutches." "She'll tell me the truth," Wyatt said. "You'll just give me some bullshit story that will end with 'You should see the other guy'." "You wound me, bro" [Reed] "He tore his ACL the day before yesterday trying to do a stunt on a skateboard." [Crystal] "Mendoza dared him." [Luke Colter] "No one held a gun to the fool's head" [Mendoza] ~ Cindy Gerard,

497:What's the news of the war?' The doctor twisted the ends of his moustache and said, 'Germany is taking everything, the Italians are playing the fool, the French have run away, the Belgians have been overrun whilst they were looking the other way, the Poles have been charging tanks with cavalry, the Americans have been playing baseball, the British have been drinking tea and adjusting their monocles, the Russians have been sitting on their hands except when voting unanimously to do whatever they are told. Thank God we are out of it. Why don't we turn on the radio? ~ Louis de Berni res,

498:Ours was a ragged and uneven parting. Each of us had intended to see the other again. Each of us had had final words to say. My days with the Fool ended like a half-played game of Stones, the outcome poised and uncertain, possibilities hovering. Sometimes it seemed to me a cruelty that so much was unresolved between us; at other times, a blessing that a hope of reunion lingered. It is like the anticipation that a clever minstrel evokes when he pauses, letting silence pool before sweeping into the final refrain of his song. Sometimes a gap can seem like a promise yet to be fulfilled. ~ Robin Hobb,

499:While we may forgive the fool for hurting us, we do not give the fool unlimited opportunity to hurt us again. To do so would be to act foolishly ourselves. When Jesus extends mercy in the Gospels, he always does so with an implicit or explicit “Go and sin no more.” When our offender persists in sinning against us, we are wise to put boundaries in place. Doing so is itself an act of mercy toward the offender. By limiting his opportunity to sin against us, we spare him further guilt before God. Mercy never requires submission to abuse, whether spiritual, verbal, emotional, or physical. ~ Jen Wilkin,

500:You said just now, "Don't be so ashamed of yourself, because that's the root of your trouble"––with those words, you seem to have reached right into my innermost soul. What I mean is, when I visit people, I always feel that I'm really the lowest of the low, that everybody takes me for a buffoon, so I say to myself, why shouldn't I act the fool, I'm not afraid of what any of you might think, because every single one of you is even worse than me. That's why I'm a buffoon, I'm a buffoon born of shame, great starets, of shame. It's anxiety pure and simple that makes me so unruly. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

501:They dunked their clothes into the grotto and scrubbed them against the rocks to leach out the grime, including his calf bandage. The fool wrestled with a stubborn stain that wouldn’t disappear from her shift. Frustrated, she puffed her lower lip. Of a normal girl, the picture would have been rather cute. Well. What girl yearned to be called cute, a classification associated with pups. A word he had never uttered or assigned. Notwithstanding, “cute” ill-suited her. She was many things. Volatile. Hotheaded. Reckless. But not cute. Those golden irises and calamitous hands were not cute. ~ Natalia Jaster,

502:I was the Fool and the Fool was me. He was the Catalyst and so was I. We were two halves of a whole, sundered and come together again. For an instant I knew him in his entirety, complete and magical, and then he was pulling apart from me, laughing, a bubble inside me, separate and unknowable, yet joined to me. "You do love me !" I was incredulous. He had never truly believed it before. "Before, it was words. I always feared it war born of pity. But you are truly my friend. This is knowing. This is feeling what you feel for me. So this is the Skill". For a moment he reveled in simple recognition. ~ Robin Hobb,

503:But a part of me wants to fling the cloak off and put Elias’s back on. I know I’m acting the fool, but somehow Elias’s cloak made me feel good. Perhaps because more than reminding me of him, it reminded me of who I was around him. Braver. Stronger. Flawed, certainly, but unafraid. I miss that girl. That Laia. That version of myself that burned brightest when Elias Veturius was near. The Laia who made mistakes. The Laia whose mistakes led to needless death. How could I forget? I thank Keenan quietly and stuff the old cloak in my bag. Then I pull the new one closer and tell myself that it’s warmer. ~ Sabaa Tahir,

504:In any market, as in any poker game, there is a fool. The astute investor Warren Buffett is fond of saying that any player unaware of the fool in the market probably is the fool in the market. In 1980, when the bond market emerged from a long dormancy, many investors and even Wall Street banks did not have a clue who was the fool in the new game. Salomon bond traders knew about fools because that was their job. Knowing about markets is knowing about other people’s weaknesses. And a fool, they would say, was a person who was willing to sell a bond for less or buy a bond for more than it was worth. ~ Michael Lewis,

505:The fool’s addled mind trusted nature to a fault. Having learned nothing from her encounter with the burning stream, she pranced around the grotto’s rim and dove into the air, plunging headfirst before he could stop her. She was going to get herself or both of them killed at this rate. Shaking his head, Jeryn sat and watched her forget that he existed. Her figure flew back up, her hair spraying the vicinity with twinkling particles. She spritzed fluid, and her mouth parted in what he surmised to be a mute laugh. She tumbled over and under with the agility of a Spring acrobat. A dramatic swimmer. ~ Natalia Jaster,

506:I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil - I don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place – and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won’t pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove! – breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. ~ Joseph Conrad,

507:I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil — I don’t know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place — and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won’t pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove! — breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. ~ Joseph Conrad,

508:What you can't do is leave me!" He was thrown back. There were still six crewmen standing against him. That wasn't deterring him in the least, however, which only infuriated her the more. The fool man was going to get tossed in the river yet. She might do it herself. She was, after all, fed up with being told what she could or couldn't do. "And why can't I leave you?" "Because I love you!" He hadn't even paused in throwing another punch to shout that. Georgina, however, went very still, and breathless, and nearly sat down on the deck, her knees had gone so weak with the incredible emotion that welled up inside her. ~ Johanna Lindsey,

509:The Garuda Purana is one of the Vishnu Puranas. It is in the form of a dialog between Vishnu and Garuda, the King of Birds... Portions of the Garuda Purana are used by some Hindus as funeral liturgy…. The Garuda Purana starts with the details of the afterlife. The final part of this text is an appeal to self-knowledge as the key to liberation, going beyond austerities and study of the texts: "The fool, not knowing that the truth is seated in himself, is bewildered by the Shastras,--a foolish goatherd, with the young goat under his arm, peers into the well." ~ Sacred Text, in The Garuda Purana Translated by Ernest Wood and S.V. Subrahmanyam (1911),

510:PSALM 92 ‡It is good to give thanks to the LORD, to sing praises to your name, O Most High; 2†to declare your steadfast love in the morning, and your faithfulness by night, 3†to the music of the lute and the harp, to the melody of the lyre. 4For you, O LORD, have made me glad by your work; at the works of your hands I sing for joy. 5How great are your works, O LORD! Your thoughts are very deep! 6The stupid man cannot know; the fool cannot understand this: 7that though the wicked sprout like grass and all evildoers flourish, they are doomed to destruction forever; 8but you, O LORD, are on high forever. 9For behold, your enemies, O LORD, ~ Anonymous,

511:All I know is that while I’m asleep, I’m never afraid, and I have no hopes, no struggles, no glories — and bless the man who invented sleep, a cloak over all human thought, food that drives away hunger, water that banishes thirst, fire that heats up cold, chill that moderates passion, and, finally, universal currency with which all things can be bought, weight and balance that brings the shepherd and the king, the fool and the wise, to the same level. There’s only one bad thing about sleep, as far as I’ve ever heard, and that is that it resembles death, since there’s very little difference between a sleeping man and a corpse. ~ Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,

512:Peter—do please be happy. I mean, you’ve always been the comfortable sort of person that nothing could touch. Don’t alter, will you?” That was the second time Wimsey had been asked not to alter himself; the first time, the request had exalted him; this time, it terrified him. As the taxi lurched along the rainy Embankment, he felt for the first time the dull and angry helplessness which is the first warning stroke of the triumph of mutability. Like the poisoned Athulf in the Fool’s Tragedy, he could have cried, “Oh, I am changing, changing, fearfully changing.” Whether his present enterprise failed or succeeded, things would never be the same again. ~ Dorothy L Sayers,

513:Will There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, Can circumvent or hinder or control The firm resolve of a determined soul. Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great; All things give way before it, soon or late. What obstacle can stay the mighty force Of the sea-seeking river in its course, Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait? Each well-born soul must win what it deserves. Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves, Whose slightest action or inaction serves The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still, And waits an hour sometimes for such a will. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

514:The existence of the authentic reactionary is usually a scandal to the progressive. His presence causes a vague discomfort. In the face of the reactionary attitude the progressive experiences a slight scorn, accompanied by surprise and restlessness. In order to soothe his apprehensions, the progressive is in the habit of interpreting this unseasonable and shocking attitude as a guise for self-interest or as a symptom of stupidity; but only the journalist, the politician, and the fool are not secretly flustered before the tenacity with which the loftiest intelligences of the West, for the past one hundred fifty years, amass objections against the modern world. ~ Nicol s G mez D vila,

515:Lark frowned. “I thought she was associated with fate. Her Arcana name’s Our Lady of Fate.” “As she desired it to be,” he said. “But it’s a very liberal translation.” I’d thought these Arcana things were set in stone. Now the goalposts were moving. He downed that shot, then poured another. “She appears to control fate, but she doesn’t have any influence over what happens to her. Her power is passive. She doesn’t read the future and consciously affect it—not like the Fool does.” Aric’s gaze grew distant. “Ages ago, Fortune was known more accurately as Lady Luck. The Fool was known as the Hand of Fate. She despised him for that and envied his power. ~ Kresley Cole,

516:wash your dress in running water. dry it on the southern side of a rock. let them have four guesses and make them all wrong. take a fistful of snow in the summer heat. cook haluski in hot sweet butter. drink cold milk to clean your insides. be careful when you wake: breathing lets them know how asleep you are. don't hang your coat from a hook in the door. ignore curfew. remember weather by the voice of the wheel. do not become the fool they need you to become. change your name. lose your shoes. practice doubt. dress in oiled cloth around sickness. adore darkness. turn sideways in the wind. the changing of stories is a cheerful affair. give the impression of not having known. ~ Colum McCann,

517:Butch : Two words for you. CYNDI.LAUPER Vishous : Clearly, the paste you ate has gone to your head. Did Marissa like all that lace you glued on ? Oh... and I'm talking to your body, not that ridiculous card you made her. Butch : How does that song go ? *sings song about true colors* Vishous : I have no idea what you are talking about. Butch : Oh.Really. So you deny that shit was playing in the weight room yesterday ? Vishous : Please. Like I listen to crap like that ? Butch : So you deny that song was also playing in the Escalade last night ? Vishous : Don't act the fool. Butch : So you deny that song was ALSO coming out of your shower early this morning. ~ J R Ward,

518:OBSOLETE, adj. No longer used by the timid. Said chiefly of words. A word which some lexicographer has marked obsolete is ever thereafter an object of dread and loathing to the fool writer, but if it is a good word and has no exact modern equivalent equally good, it is good enough for the good writer. Indeed, a writer's attitude toward "obsolete" words is as true a measure of his literary ability as anything except the character of his work. A dictionary of obsolete and obsolescent words would not only be singularly rich in strong and sweet parts of speech; it would add large possessions to the vocabulary of every competent writer who might not happen to be a competent reader. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

519:Sonnet To Mathew Wood, Esq., Alderman And M. P. Hold on thy course uncheck'd, heroic Wood! Regardless what the player's son may prate, Saint Stephens' fool, the Zany of DebateWho nothing generous ever understood. London's twice Prætor! scorn the fool-born jestThe stage's scum, and refuse of the playersStale topics against Magistrates and MayorsCity and Country both thy worth attest. Bid him leave off his shallow Eton wit, More fit to sooth the superficial ear Of drunken Pitt, and that pickpocket Peer, When at their sottish orgies they did sit, Hatching mad counsels from inflated vein, Till England, and the nations, reeled with pain. R. et R. ~ Charles Lamb,

520:There is talk of a new astrologer [Nicolaus Copernicus] who wants to prove that the earth moves and goes around instead of the sky, the sun, the moon, just as if somebody were moving in a carriage or ship might hold that he was sitting still and at rest while the earth and the trees walked and moved. But that is how things are nowadays: when a man wishes to be clever he must . . . invent something special, and the way he does it must needs be the best! The fool wants to turn the whole art of astronomy upside-down. However, as Holy Scripture tells us, so did Joshua bid the sun to stand still and not the earth. [Martin Luther stating his objection to heliocentrism due to his Scripture's geocentrism] ~ Martin Luther,

521:He had wished me well in finding my own fate to follow, and I never doubted his sincerity. But it had taken me years to accept that his absence in my life was a deliberate finality, an act he had chosen, a thing completed even as some part of my soul still dangled, waiting for his return. That, I think, is the shock of any relationship ending. It is realizing that what is still an ongoing relationship to someone is, for the other person, something finished and done with. For some years I waited, like a faithful dog told to sit and stay. I had had no reason to believe that the Fool had lost affection or regard for me. Yet the ringing silence and constant absence began, over time, to feel like dislike or, worse, indifference. ~ Robin Hobb,

522:The Truth Friend, though thy soul should burn thee, yet be still Thoughts were not meant for strife, nor tongues for swords, He that sees clear is gentlest of his words, And that's not truth that hath the heart to kill. The whole world's thought shall not one truth fulfil. Dull in our age, and passionate in youth, No mind of man hath found the perfect truth, Nor shalt thou find it; therefore, friend, be still. Watch and be still, nor hearken to the fool, The babbler of consistency and rule: Wisest is he, who, never quite secure, Changes his thoughts for better day by day: To-morrow some new light will shine, be sure, And thou shalt see thy thought another way. ~ Archibald Lampman,

523:Starling lowered her voice, but it carried anyway. “He is FitzChivalry, son of Chivalry the Abdicated. And you are the Fool.” “Once, perhaps, I was the Fool. It is common knowledge here in Jhaampe. But now I am the Toymaker. As I no longer use the other title, you may take it for yourself if you wish. As for Tom, I believe he takes the title Bed Bolster these days.” “I will be seeing the Queen about this.” “A wise decision. If you wish to become her Fool, she is certainly the one you must see. But for now, let me show you something else. No, step back, please, so you can see it all. Here it comes.” I heard the slam and the latch. “The outside of my door,” the Fool announced gladly. “I painted it myself. Do you like it? ~ Robin Hobb,

524:These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong--too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil. The fool is too much of a fool or the devil too much of a devil--I don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place--and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won't pretend to say. But most of us are neither one or the other. ~ Joseph Conrad,

525:Corbulo: a name to conjure with, a name to follow into battle, wherever he led; a name to have a man marching to the gates of Rome, crying Imperator! until the crowds and the idiot senate and the corrupt wax-brains of the Praetorian Guard and every other man with voting powers in the city came to understand what we already knew: that this man should be our emperor, that Rome would thrive under his rule, in place of the fool who presently held the throne. Corbulo, who stood before us that bright, brisk spring afternoon and watched as our centurions bawled us through our paces, and then as Cadus took charge and marched us through the display that we had been practising, if we were honest, for the last four years, just for this moment. ~ M C Scott,

526:She has enough men fawning over her," I said. "They come and go like . . ." I strained to think of an analogy and failed. "I’d rather be her friend." "You would rather be close to her heart," Wilem said without any particular inflection. "You would rather be joyfully held in the circle of her arms. But you fear she will reject you. You fear she would laugh and you would look the fool." Wilem shrugged easily. "You are hardly the first to feel this way. There is no shame in it." That struck uncomfortably close to the mark, and for a long moment I couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. "I hope," I admitted quietly. "But I don’t want to assume. I’ve seen what happens to the men that assume too much and cling to her. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

527:Do you know the parable about the frog in the cream? Two frogs landed in a pail of cream. One, thinking rationally, understood straight away that there was no point in resistance and that you can’t deceive destiny. But then what if there’s an afterlife – why bother jumping around, entertaining false hopes in vain? He crossed his legs and sank to the bottom. The second, the fool, was probably an atheist. And she started to flop around. It would seem that she had no reason to flail about if everything was predestined. But she flopped around and flopped around anyway . . . Meanwhile, the cream turned to butter. And she crawled out. We honour the memory of this second frog’s friend, eternally damned for the sake of progress and rational thought. ~ Dmitry Glukhovsky,

528:Ryzhkova was accustomed to tarot with its layers of meaning, interpretations, and reversals, and how a picture might look one way but contain a contrary truth. Used to her silent apprentice, she had forgotten that language itself was as subtle and slippery as her cards, and that words contained hidden seeds that blossomed with a speaker’s intent. A wish for safety meant nothing if the force behind it was a desire to kill. Though she spoke of love and protection, dread, grief, and anger bled through. Each word that fell from her tongue bound itself to paper with a small part of her soul, infusing the cards not with love as she thought, but with a hex burned strong and deep by fear. Buried in the heart of the deck, the Fool’s eyes shut. She closed the box. A ~ Erika Swyler,

529:Well the end is coming, isn't it? We spend our entire lives running from it. No speaking of it allowed. Fearing it for our loved ones." She shook her head and folded the burp cloth in her hand. "But after all we've seen of the world, I decided I'll get more joy out of the days I have left if I just acknowledge that death is part of life. The leaves on an apple tree blossom yield and fall. No use fretting over the sweetness of the fruit. Got to pick it when it looks ripe and move on. It's the fool who's forlorn over what he imagines he's lost. I'm sure that's in the Gospel somewhere." Even if it wasn't, Rachel would amend the text to her liking. The Word according to Rachel, as some complained. Not Marilla of course. Rachel was her closest friend, so she kept quiet, in Cuthbert fashion. ~ Sarah McCoy,

530:the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. ~ Gillian Flynn,

531:1036 The Wind Didn'T Come From The Orchard—today 316 The Wind didn't come from the Orchard—today— Further than that— Nor stop to play with the Hay— Nor joggle a Hat— He's a transitive fellow—very— Rely on that— If He leave a Bur at the door We know He has climbed a Fir— But the Fir is Where—Declare— Were you ever there? If He brings Odors of Clovers— And that is His business—not Ours— Then He has been with the Mowers— Whetting away the Hours To sweet pauses of Hay— His Way—of a June Day— If He fling Sand, and Pebble— Little Boys Hats—and Stubble— With an occasional Steeple— And a hoarse "Get out of the way, I say," Who'd be the fool to stay? Would you—Say— Would you be the fool to stay? ~ Emily Dickinson,

532:It is extraordinarily entertaining to watch the historians of the past ... entangling themselves in what they were pleased to call the "problem" of Queen Elizabeth. They invented the most complicated and astonishing reasons both for her success as a sovereign and for her tortuous matrimonial policy. She was the tool of Burleigh, she was the tool of Leicester, she was the fool of Essex; she was diseased, she was deformed, she was a man in disguise. She was a mystery, and must have some extraordinary solution. Only recently has it occrurred to a few enlightened people that the solution might be quite simple after all. She might be one of the rare people were born into the right job and put that job first. ~ Dorothy L Sayers,

533:It is extraordinarily entertaining to watch the historians of the past ... entangling themselves in what they were pleased to call the "problem" of Queen Elizabeth. They invented the most complicated and astonishing reasons both for her success as a sovereign and for her tortuous matrimonial policy. She was the tool of Burleigh, she was the tool of Leicester, she was the fool of Essex; she was diseased, she was deformed, she was a man in disguise. She was a mystery, and must have some extraordinary solution. Only recently has it occrurred to a few enlightened people that the solution might be quite simple after all. She might be one of the rare people were born into the right job and put that job first. ~ Dorothy L Sayers,

534:We have seen that our numerical zero derives originally from the Hindu sunya, meaning void or emptiness, deriving from the Sanskrit name for the mark denoting emptiness, or sunya-bindu, meaning an empty dot. These developed between the sixth and eighth centuries. By the ninth century, the assimilation of Indian mathematics by the Arab world led to the literal translation of sunya into Arabic as as-sifr, which also means 'empty' or the 'absence of anything'. We still see a residue of this because it is the origin of the English word 'cipher'. Originally, it meant 'Nothing', or if used insultingly of a person it would mean that they were a nonentity-a nobody-as in King Lear where the fool says to the King "Now thou art an 0 without a figure. I am better than thou art now. I am a fool, thou art nothing. ~ John D Barrow,

535:Teach Me I Am Forgotten By The Dead Teach me I am forgotten by the dead And that the dead is by herself forgot And I no longer would keep terms with me. I would not murder, steal, or fornicate, Nor with ambition break the peace of towns But I would bury my ambition The hope & action of my sovereign soul In miserable ruin. Nor a hope Should ever make a holiday for me I would not be the fool of accident I would not have a project seek an end That needed aught Beyond the handful of my present means The sun of Duty drop from his firmament To be a rushlight for each petty end I would not harm my fellow men On this low argument, 'twould harm myself. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Teach Me I Am Forgotten By The Dead ,

536:I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen first hand that I didn't immediately reference to amp is of a TV show. You know the awful singsong the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. ~ Gillian Flynn,

537:/Farsi & Turkish Sacrifice your intellect in love for the Friend: for anyway, intellects come from where He is. The spiritually intelligent have sent their intellects back to Him: only the fool remains where the Beloved is not. If from bewilderment, this intellect of yours flies out of your head, every tip of your hair will become a new knowing. In the presence of the Beloved, the brain needn't labor; for there the brain and intellect spontaneously produce fields and orchards of spiritual knowledge. If you turn toward that field, you will hear a subtle discourse; in that oasis your palm tree will freshen and flourish. [2306.jpg] -- from Rumi: Jewels of Remembrance: A Daybook of Spiritual Guidance , Edited by Camille Helmiski / Edited by Kabir Helminski ~ Jalaluddin Rumi, Sacrifice your intellect in love for the Friend ,

538:I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with movies and TV and now the internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because i'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again. ~ Gillian Flynn,

539:The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. ~ Gillian Flynn,

540:Forgiving lavishly does not mean that we continue to place ourselves in harm's way. The Bible takes great pains to address the dangers of keeping company with those who perpetually harm others. Those who learn nothing from their past mistakes are termed fools. While we may forgive the fool for hurting us, we do not give the fool unlimited opportunity to hurt us again. To do so would be to act foolishly ourselves. When Jesus extends mercy in the Gospels, he always does so with an implicit or explicit, "Go and sin no more." When our offender persists in sinning against us, we are wise to put boundaries in place. Doing so is itself an act of mercy toward the offender. By limiting his opportunity to sin against us, we spare him further guilt before God. Mercy never requires submission to abuse, whether spiritual, verbal, emotional, or physical. ~ Jen Wilkin,

541:Tomorrow at seven o'clock a strange phenomenon will occur: the earth is going to sit on the moon. This has also been written about by the noted English chemist Wellington. I confess, I felt troubled at heart when I pictured to myself the extraordinary delicacy and fragility of the moon. For the moon is usually made in Hamburg, and made quite poorly. I'm surprised England doesn't pay attention to this. It's made by a lame cooper, and one can see that the fool understands nothing about the moon. He used tarred rope and a quantity of cheap olive oil, and that's why there's a terrible stench all over the earth, so that you have to hold your nose. And that's why the moon itself is such a delicate sphere that people can't live on it, and now only noses live there. And for the same reason, we can't see our own noses, for they're all in the moon. ~ Nikolai Gogol,

542:I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just like a real actual person, instead of a collective personality trait selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again. ~ Gillian Flynn,

543:I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again. ~ Gillian Flynn,

544:It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly endowed being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect. But he can learn to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those imperfections qualify. It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, is of a different opinion, it is only because they only know their own side of the question. ~ John Stuart Mill,

545:To a Child Dancing in the Wind Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water’s roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool’s triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind. What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of wind? Has no one said those daring Kind eyes should be more learn’d? Or warned you how despairing The moths are when they are burned, I could have warned you, but you are young, So we speak a different tongue. O you will take whatever’s offered And dream that all the world’s a friend, Suffer as your mother suffered, Be as broken in the end. But I am old and you are young, And I speak a barbarous tongue. ~ W B Yeats,

546:The Hawk hired fifty harpers and jesters and taught them new songs. Songs about the puny fairy fool who had been chased away from Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea by the legendary Hawk. And being such a legend in his own time, his tales were ceded great truth and staying power. The players were delighted with the epic grandeur of such a wild tale. When they had rehearsed to perfection the ditties and refrains portraying the defeat of the fool, the Hawk sent them into the counties of Scotland and England. Grimm accompanied the group of players traveling to Edinburgh to help spread the tale himself, while Hawk spent late hours by the candle scribbling, crossing out and perfecting his command for when the fool came. Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, he would reach for his set of sharp awls and blades and begin carving toy soldiers and dolls, one by one. ~ Karen Marie Moning,

547:A Retort As vicious women think all men are knaves, And shrew-bound gentlemen discourse of slaves; As reeling drunkards judge the world unsteady And idlers swear employers ne'er get ready Thieves that the constable stole all they had, The mad that all except themselves are mad; So, in another's clear escutcheon shown, Barnes rails at stains reflected from his own; Prates of 'docility,' nor feels the dark Ring round his neck-the Ralston collar mark. Back, man, to studies interrupted once, Ere yet the rogue had merged into the dunce. Back, back to Yale! and, grown with years discreet, The course a virgin's lust cut short, complete. Go drink again at the Pierian pool, And learn-at least to better play the fool. No longer scorn the draught, although the font, Unlike Pactolus, waters not Belmont. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

548:A LOVING RECIPE FORA PERFECT CUP OF TEA • 1 willing friend who loves to sit and share • 1 grateful heart to have a friend that cares • 1 beautiful garden to show us God is near You desire truth in the innermost being, and in the hidden part You will make me know wisdom. -PSALM 51:6 Recently I was driving down one of our busy freeways in Southern California, when a sign suddenly appeared before me that read, "What the fool does at the end, wise men do at the beginning." I don't know how I was able to glimpse this since I was driving by, but my mind affirmed that this slogan has so much meaning. We live in a day when humanity has sold out to secular materialism, a day when many people have put God on hold. The attitude of "I can do it myself; I don't need help from anyone-especially from a God I can't see or touch" rules. But as time goes on, many older ~ Emilie Barnes,

549:Here’s what I like about God: Trees are crooked, mountains are lumpy, a lot of his creatures are funny-looking, and he made it all anyway. He didn’t let the aardvark convince him he had no business designing creatures. He didn’t make a puffer fish and get discouraged. No, the maker made things—and still does. European film directors often enjoy creative careers, during which their films mature from the manifestos of angry young men to the rueful wisdom of great works by creative masters. Is an afternoon siesta the secret? Is their vita just a little more dolce? We’ve taken espresso to our American hearts, but we haven’t quite taken to the “break” in our coffee breaks. Worried about playing the fool, we forget how to simply play. We try to make our creativity linear and goal oriented. We want our “work” to lead somewhere. We forget that diversions do more than merely divert us. ~ Julia Cameron,

550:The control which knowledge gives over ignorance on the spiritual planes of nature is very much like the control that wealth gives over poverty in the physical world. Wealth may be a blessing or a curse; so may knowledge, which is mental wealth. The wise man will always be master of the fool, for he has a mentality which is capable of demanding respect, and the fool must bow down to that thing which he cannot comprehend. In every age, a few have come into the realization of nature's tremendous powers, and in one way or another, legitimate or otherwise, have become temporary wielders of the serpent scepter. As a man can steal money and remain wealthy until the law dispossesses him, so may a black magician steal a certain amount of divine power and manipulate it to the gratification of his own ends until at last his misuse of power destroys him. ~ Manly P Hall, Magic: A Treatise on Esoteric Ethics,

551:Lady Harris's Fool is a cornucopia of sacred images, many of which reveal themselves only after long meditation (and the aid of a magnifying glass). He bursts into midair of existence from behind three swirling rings that issue from and return to his heart. These are the three veils of negativity (Ain, Ain Soph, and Ain Soph Aur)23 that Qabalists teach gave birth to the singularity of creation. His satchel is filled with the entire universe in the form of planetary and zodiacal coins. The Fool is the Holy Spirit itself. The dove, symbol of the Holy Spirit; the butterfly, symbol of transformation; winged globe, symbol of Mercurial air; and the Egyptian vulture-goddess Mauf24 pour from the Holy Grail in the Fool's right hand. Like the Virgin Mary, Maut became impregnated by the spirit (breath) of the wind. “The whole picture,” Crowley tells us, “is a glyph of the creative light. ~ Lon Milo DuQuette,

552:The Sulkers The world's too busy now to pause To listen to a whiner's cause; It has no time to stop and pet The sulker in a peevish fret, Who wails he'll neither work nor play Because things haven't gone his way. The world keeps plodding right along And gives its favors right or wrong To all who have the grit to work Regardless of the fool or shirk. The world says this to every man: 'Go out and do the best you can.' The world's too busy to implore The beaten one to try once more; 'Twill help him if he wants to rise, And boost him if he bravely tries, And shows determination grim; But it won't stop to baby him. The world is occupied with men Who fall but quickly rise again; But those who whine because they're hit And step aside to sulk a bit Are doomed some day to wake and find The world has left them far behind. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

553:Let Observation with extensive View, Survey Mankind, from China to Peru; Remark each anxious Toil, each eager strife, And watch the busy Scenes of crowded Life; Then say how Hope and Fear, Desire and Hate, O'erspread with Snares the clouded Maze of Fate, Where wav'ring Man, betray'd by vent'rous Pride, To tread the dreary Paths without a Guide; As treach'rous Phantoms in the Mist delude, Shuns fancied Ills, or chases airy Good. How rarely Reason guides the stubborn Choice, Rules the bold Hand, or prompts the suppliant Voice, How Nations sink, by darling Schemes oppress'd, When Vengeance listens to the Fool's Request. Fate wings with ev'ry Wish th' afflictive Dart, Each Gift of Nature, each Grace of Art, With fatal Heat impetuous Courage glows, With fatal Sweetness Elocution flows, Impeachment stops the Speaker's pow'rful Breath, And restless Fire precipitates on Death. ~ Samuel Johnson,

554:Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me. Kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are you. Kath. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean.202 Pet. Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee; For, knowing thee to be but young and light,— Kath. Too light for such a swain as you to catch, And yet as heavy as my weight should be. Pet. Should be! should buz! Kath. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard. Pet. O slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?208 Kath. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. Pet. Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith you are too angry. Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. Pet. My remedy is, then, to pluck it out.212 Kath. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. Pet. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. Kath. In his tongue. Pet. Whose tongue? Kath. Yours, if you talk of tails; and so farewell.216 Pet. What! with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again. ~ William Shakespeare,

555:The Appology 'Tis true I write and tell me by what Rule I am alone forbid to play the fool To follow through the Groves a wand'ring Muse And fain'd Idea's for my pleasures chuse Why shou'd it in my Pen be held a fault Whilst Mira paints her face, to paint a thought Whilst Lamia to the manly Bumper flys And borrow'd Spiritts sparkle in her Eyes Why shou'd itt be in me a thing so vain To heat with Poetry my colder Brain? But I write ill and there-fore shou'd forbear Does Flavia cease now at her fortieth year In ev'ry Place to lett that face be seen Which all the Town rejected at fifteen Each Woman has her weaknesse; mind [sic] indeed Is still to write tho' hopelesse to succeed Nor to the Men is this so easy found Ev'n in most Works with which the Witts abound (So weak are all since our first breach with Heav'n) Ther's lesse to be Applauded than forgiven. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

556:More generally, we underestimate the share of randomness in about everything, a point that may not merit a book—except when it is the specialist who is the fool of all fools. Disturbingly, science has only recently been able to handle randomness (the growth in available information has been exceeded only by the expansion of noise). Probability theory is a young arrival in mathematics; probability applied to practice is almost nonexistent as a discipline. In addition we seem to have evidence that what is called “courage” comes from an underestimation of the share of randomness in things rather than the more noble ability to stick one’s neck out for a given belief. In my experience (and in the scientific literature), economic “risk takers” are rather the victims of delusions (leading to overoptimism and overconfidence with their underestimation of possible adverse outcomes) than the opposite. Their “risk taking” is frequently randomness foolishness. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,

557:Thy Name My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? I will declare thy name unto my brethren.… Psalm 102 OK. Let’s not call what ditched us God: ghu, the root in Sanskrit, means not God, but only the calling thereupon. Let’s call God Fun. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was Fun. Fun created man in his own image. The fool hath said in his heart, There is no Fun. Let’s call the House of God the Funhouse. Fun derives, according to Dr. Onions (may he with his Johnson rest in peace), from fond, or foolish. God, in this prime sense, is fond of us, and we, if all goes well, of him. Let’s call God luck. There is no luck in scripture. Chance gets mentioned several times, my favorite being, Time and chance happeneth to them all; but luck is the unspoken name. King David to the harp and sackbut sings, in paraphrase, My luck? Gimme a fucking break! With my luck, how do I know? ~ Brooks Haxton,

558:No I am not Prince Hamlet nor was meant to be Am an attendant lord one that will do To swell a progress start a scene or two Advise the prince no doubt an easy tool Deferential glad to be of use Politic cautious and meticulous Full of high sentence but a bit obtuse At times indeed almost ridiculous— Almost at times the Fool. I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind Do I dare to eat a peach I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us and we drown. ~ T S Eliot,

559:He was changed as completely as Amory Blaine could ever be changed. Amory plus Beatrice plus two years in Minneapolis - these had been his ingredients when he entered St. Regis'. But the Minneapolis years were not a thick enough overlay to conceal the "Amory plus Beatrice" from the ferreting eyes of a boarding school, so St. Regis' had very painfully drilled Beatrice out of him and begun to lay down new and more conventional planking on the fundamental Amory. But both St. Regis' and Amory were unconscious of the fact that this fundamental Amory had not in himself changed. Those qualities for which he had suffered: his moodiness, his tendency to pose, his laziness, and his love of playing the fool, were now taken as a matter of course, recognized eccentricities in a star quarter-back, a clever actor, and the editor of the "St. Regis' Tattler"; it puzzled him to see impressionable small boys imitating the very vanities that had not long ago been contemptible weaknesses. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

560:Oh God, midnight’s not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two’s not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there’s hope, for dawn’s just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body’s at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You’re the nearest to dead you’ll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you’d slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that’s burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It’s a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead – And wasn’t it true, had he read somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. than at any other time... ~ Ray Bradbury,

561:He shook his head slowly. “I am not the person I was born. Neither are you. I know no one who is. Truly, Fitz, all we ever know are facets of one another. Perhaps we feel as if we know one another well when we know several facets of that person. Father, son, brother, friend, lover, husband… a man can be all of those things, yet no one person knows him in all of those roles. I watch you being Hap’s father, and yet I do not know you as I knew my father, any more than I knew my father as his brother did. So. When I show myself in a different light, I do not make a pretense. Rather I bare a different aspect to the world than they have seen before. Truly, there is a place in my heart where I am forever the Fool and your playfellow. And within me there is a genuine Lord Golden, fond of good drink and well-prepared food and elegant clothing and witty speech. And so, when I show myself as him, I am deceiving no one, but only sharing a different part of myself.” p. 40 The Fool to Fitz ~ Robin Hobb,

562:Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly. I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty!... Stay, let me take breath... ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

563:go where my mind will sit when my heart's still drink when I'm thirsty and sing when I'm drunk when hard times come I find a pile of grass and sleep the days and months are long the world is vast and idleness is happiness toss off the vintage wine use up the raw laugh beside the earthen pot ha, ha, ha, hum harmonies together with this rude old mountain bonz he has a pair of chickens I've brought along a duck and idleness is happiness I've reined mind's horses locked up my monkey heart leapt up from red dust and evil-mannered wind who woke me from my shady dreams of Empire? I've left the field of honor and wormed into a nest of joys where idleness is happiness he's ploughed the southern field and slept among the eastern hills I've been the way the world goes, often vainly measured bygones in my mind he's the saint and I'm the fool who'd argue that? [2276.jpg] -- from Wine of Endless Life: Taoist Drinking Songs from the Yuan Dynasty, Edited by Jerome P. Seaton ~ Kuan Han-Ching, Idle Wandering ,

564:The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again. ~ Gillian Flynn,

565:But to be brief. The clearness of the Scripture is twofold; even as the obscurity is twofold also. The one is external, placed in the ministry of the word; the other internal, placed in the understanding of the heart. If you speak of the internal clearness, no man sees one iota in the Scriptures, but he that hath the Spirit of God. All have a darkened heart; so that, even if they know how to speak of, and set forth, all things in the Scripture, yet, they cannot feel them nor know them: nor do they believe that they are the creatures of God, nor any thing else: according to that of Psalm xiv, 1. "The fool hath said in his heart, God is nothing." For the Spirit is required to understand the whole of the Scripture and every part of it. If you speak of the external clearness, nothing whatever is left obscure or ambiguous; but all things that are in the Scriptures, are by the Word brought forth into the clearest light, and proclaimed to the whole world. ~ Martin Luther,

566:Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong - too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of the darkness. I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil: the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil - I don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place - and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won't pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells too, by Jove! - breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. And there, don't you see? your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in - your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. And that's difficult enough. ~ Joseph Conrad,

567:Government Standing next to my old friend I sense that his soldiers have retreated. And mine? They’re resting their guns on their shoulders talking quietly. I’m hungry, one says. Cheeseburger, says another, and they all decide to go and find some dinner. But the next day, negotiating the too narrow aisles of The Health and Harmony Food Store—when I say, Excuse me, to the woman and her cart of organic chicken and green grapes she pulls the cart not quite far back enough for me to pass, and a small mob in me begins picking up the fruit to throw. So many kingdoms, and in each kingdom, so many people: the disinherited son, the corrupt counselor, the courtesan, the fool. And so many gods—arguing among themselves, over toast, through the lunch salad and on into the long hours of the mild spring afternoon—I’m the god. No, I’m the god. No, I’m the god. I can hardly hear myself over their muttering. How can I discipline my army? They’re exhausted and want more money. How can I disarm when my enemy seems so intent? ~ Marie Howe,

568:Now Now Say nay, Man dry man, Dry lover mine The deadrock base and blow the flowered anchor, Should he, for centre sake, hop in the dust, Forsake, the fool, the hardiness of anger. Now Say nay, Sir no say, Death to the yes, the yes to death, the yesman and the answer, Should he who split his children with a cure Have brotherless his sister on the handsaw. Now Say nay, No say sir Yea the dead stir, And this, nor this, is shade, the landed crow, He lying low with ruin in his ear, The cockrel's tide upcasting from the fire. Now Say nay, So star fall, So the ball fail, So solve the mystic sun, the wife of light, The sun that leaps on petals through a nought, the come-a-cropper rider of the flower. Now Say nay A fig for The seal of fire, Death hairy-heeled and the tapped ghost in wood, We make me mystic as the arm of air, The two-a-vein, the foreskin, and the cloud. 117 ~ Dylan Thomas,

569:THE FOOL WHO FEEDS THE MONSTER. I knew I had to find this century-old drawing, though I wasn’t sure why. As I rode the escalator through the glass canyon of the atrium and into the bowels of the central branch of the Los Angeles Public Library to search for it, it struck me that I wasn’t just looking for some rare old newspaper. I was looking for myself. I knew who that fool was. He was me. In addiction circles, those in recovery also use the image of the monster as a warning. They tell the story of a man who found a package on his porch. Inside was a little monster, but it was cute, like a puppy. He kept it and raised it. The more he fed it, the bigger it got and the more it needed to be fed. He ignored his worries as it grew bigger, more intimidating, demanding, and unpredictable, until one day, as he was playing with it, the monster attacked and nearly killed him. The realization that the situation was more than he could handle came too late—the man was no longer in control. The monster had a life of its own. ~ Ryan Holiday,

570:You know?" She glanced at him, and a little flare of color rose in her cheeks. "What?" He said, rearranging himself discreetly and then rewrapping the towel more tightly. "You're going to laugh, being a doctor and all, but my mother said something once..." "What?" He had always had control over his body. Always. This was an aberration. "She told me once that men hung." "Hung?" he repeated. If he looked just at her face, then he woudnt see the way the thin linen clung to her breasts, to her hips. He wouldnt think about the deep hunger flaring in his groins. It was just a biological urge, nothing more. "Hung," she said giggling again. "In front. You dont hang, do you" She waved a hand in the general vicinity of his waist. "You dont mind me saying, that, do you? I formed this disgusting vision of--of a hanging thing and--well, you dont hang at all. You stand straight up. He burst out laughing. "I know," she said laughing too. "I'm a fool." But he had an uneasy feeling that he was the fool. ~ Eloisa James,

571:I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or a TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. ~ Gillian Flynn,

572:The Delectable Day The boy on the famous gray pony, Just bidding good-bye at the door, Plucking up maiden heart for the fences Where his brother won honour of yore. The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children, And women as gentle as gay,Ah! how do we male hogs in armour Deserve such companions as they? The afternoon's wander to windward, To meet the dear boy coming back; And to catch, down the turns of the valley, The last weary chime of the pack. The climb homeward by park and by moorland, And through the fir forests again, While the south-west wind roars in the gloaming, Like an ocean of seething champagne. And at night the septette of Beethoven, And the grandmother by in her chair, And the foot of all feet on the sofa Beating delicate time to the air. Ah, God! a poor soul can but thank Thee For such a delectable day! Though the fury, the fool, and the swindler, To-morrow again have their way! Eversley, 6th November 1872. ~ Charles Kingsley,

573:Ossawatomie I DON'T know how he came, shambling, dark, and strong. He stood in the city and told men: My people are fools, my people are young and strong, my people must learn, my people are terrible workers and fighters. Always he kept on asking: Where did that blood come from? They said: You for the fool killer, you for the booby hatch and a necktie party. They hauled him into jail. They sneered at him and spit on him, And he wrecked their jails, Singing, 'God damn your jails,' And when he was most in jail Crummy among the crazy in the dark Then he was most of all out of jail Shambling, dark, and strong, Always asking: Where did that blood come from? They laid hands on him And the fool killers had a laugh And the necktie party was a go, by God. They laid hands on him and he was a goner. They hammered him to pieces and he stood up. They buried him and he walked out of the grave, by God, Asking again: Where did that blood come from? ~ Carl Sandburg,

574:  Let me play the fool. With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster, Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio— I love thee, and ’tis my love that speaks— There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a willful stillness entertain With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, “I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!” O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing, when I am very sure If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I’ll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.— ~ William Shakespeare,

575:It appears that some part of Slothrop ran into the AWOL Džabajev one night in the heart of downtown Niederschaumdorf. (Some believe that fragments of Slothrop have grown into consistent personae of their own. If so, there's no telling which of the Zone's present-day population are offshoots of his original scattering. There's supposed to be a last photograph of him on the only record album ever put out by The Fool, an English rock group—seven musicians posed, in the arrogant style of the early Stones, near an old rocket-bomb site, out in the East End, or South of the River. It is spring, and French thyme blossoms in amazing white lacework across the cape of green that now hides and softens the true shape of the old rubble. There is no way to tell which of the faces is Slothrop's: the only printed credit that might apply to him is "Harmonica, kazoo—a friend." But knowing his Tarot, we would expect to look among the Humility, among the gray and preterite souls, to look for him adrift in the hostile light of the sky, the darkness of the sea. . . .) ~ Thomas Pynchon,

576:Let me advise you, then, to form the habit of taking some of your solitude with you into society, to learn to be to some extent alone even though you are in company; not to say at once what you think, and, on the other hand, not to attach too precise a meaning to what others say; rather, not to expect much of them, either morally or intellectually, and to strengthen yourself in the feeling of indifference to their opinion, which is the surest way of always practicing a praiseworthy toleration. If you do that, you will not live so much with other people, though you may appear to move amongst them: your relation to them will be of a purely objective character. This precaution will keep you from too close contact with society, and therefore secure you against being contaminated or even outraged by it.[1] Society is in this respect like a fire—the wise man warming himself at a proper distance from it; not coming too close, like the fool, who, on getting scorched, runs away and shivers in solitude, loud in his complaint that the fire burns. [Footnote ~ Arthur Schopenhauer,

577:Tears Of A Teenage Mother 2 you listened to my tears and learned that i loved you and had sex yes i knew you didnt love me but still i laid down with you and now im pregnant and you are no where to be fond so what am i suppose to do abort the baby thats to much emotional pain to deal with so NO! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! have the baby and put him up for adoption its doable but still NO! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! make you pay child support and let him grow up without a father NO! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! as you can see im angry now so what do you think i should do the answer nothing it is you that has to do something you have to step up and be a man come and take care of your child you took the chance and now its time to be the man cuz if you dont then your a punk and no girl would want you cuz the fool you are for leaving us is to great to comprehend but now there are no more tears choose your path my wrath or the love of a family ~ david bailey,

578:XXVIII For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, ’Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains—with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me—solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when— In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts—you’re inside the den. XXX Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool’s heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest’s mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. ~ Stephen King,

579:A Prayer In Time Of War The war will change many things in art and life, and among them, it is to be hoped, many of our own ideas as to what is, and what is not, "intellectual." Thou, whose deep ways are in the sea, Whose footsteps are not known, To-night a world that turned from Thee Is waiting -- at Thy Throne. The towering Babels that we raised Where scoffing sophists brawl, The little Antichrists we praised -The night is on them all. The fool hath said . . . The fool hath said . .. And we, who deemed him wise, We who believed that Thou wast dead, How should we seek Thine eyes? How should we seek to Thee for power Who scorned Thee yesterday? How should we kneel, in this dread hour? Lord, teach us how to pray! Grant us the single heart, once more, That mocks no sacred thing, The Sword of Truth our fathers wore When Thou wast Lord and King. Let darkness unto darkness tell Our deep unspoken prayer, For, while our souls in darkness dwell, We know that Thou art there. ~ Alfred Noyes,

580:We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. ~ Gillian Flynn,

581:Even As A Child Even as a child my face was “gloomy.” I found few reasons to smile, none to laugh: father gutting his great gifts for the cheers of clowns. For us. For money. My mother dazed by drugs. My brother charming, selfless. But also smirking, corrupt. All lying, and loving each other. Comedy? From the fool’s angle, the coward’s angle. Laughter means turning your back on suffering. And on the hard truth that tragedy writes the last act—always. I loved the sea because it said that. With infinite dignity and calm and terrible firmness. Knowing too well the struggle and sorrow of life I tried hard to believe, to help. In plays I wanted to bring our past alive—the brave dreams. But probing deep I saw cruelty, decay. In my last year I could only rage that our country too had cast away the best chance ever—like my father! For greed, blind greed, we grew deaf to the one question that matters, “What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world but...” Damn! Damn our dumb callousness. ~ Eugene O'Neill,

582:Going Gone Over stone walls and barns, miles from the black-eyed Susans, over circus tents and moon rockets you are going, going. You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going. An old woman calls up to you from her deathbed deep in sores, asking, "What do you keep of her?" She is the crone in the fables. She is the fool at the supper and you, sir, are the traveler. Although you are in a hurry you stop to open a small basket and under layers of petticoats you show her the tiger-striped eyes that you have lately plucked, you show her specialty, the lips, those two small bundles, you show her the two hands that grip her fiercely, one being mine, one being yours. Torn right off at the wrist bone when you started in your impossible going, gone. Then you place the basket in the old woman's hollow lap and as a last act she fondles these artifacts like a child's head and murmurs, "Precious. Precious." And you are glad you have given them to this one for she too is making a trip. ~ Anne Sexton,

583:We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. (…) I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. (…) If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else. ~ Gillian Flynn,

584:When we heard at first [John Brown] was dead, one of my townsmen observed that "he died as the fool dieth"; which, pardon me, for an instant suggested a likeness in him dying to my neighbor living. Others, craven-hearted, said disparagingly, that "he threw his life away" because he resisted the government. Which ways have they thrown their lives, pray? ---such would praise a man for attacking singly an ordinary band of thieves and murderers. I hear another ask, Yankee-like, "What will he gain by it?" as if he expected to fill his pockets by their enterprise. Such a one has no idea of gain but in this worldly sense. If it does not lead to a "surprise" party, if he does not gain a new pair of boots, or a vote of thanks, it must be a failure. "But he won't gain anything by it." Well, no, I don;t suppose he could get four-and-sixpence a day for being hung, take the year round; but he stands a chance to save a considerable part of his soul- and what a soul!- when you do not. No doubt you can get more in your market for a quart of milk than a quart of blood, but that is not the market heroes carry their blood to. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

585:They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity — like yours — the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you — you so remote from the night of first ages — could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything — because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage — who can tell? — but truth — truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder—the man knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff — with his own inborn strength. Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags — rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. ~ Joseph Conrad,

586:The Higher Pantheism The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains,Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that which He seems? Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him? Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why, For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I"? Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom, Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendour and gloom. Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meetCloser is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. God is law, say the wise; O soul, and let us rejoice, For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the fool, For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see; But if we could see and hear, this Vision-were it not He? ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

587:Going Gone Over stone walls and barns, miles from the black-eyed Susans, over circus tents and moon rockets you are going, going. You who have inhabited me in the deepest and most broken place, are going, going. An old woman calls up to you from her deathbed deep in sores, asking, 'What do you keep of her?' She is the crone in the fables. She is the fool at the supper and you, sir, are the traveler. Although you are in a hurry you stop to open a small basket and under layers of petticoats you show her the tiger-striped eyes that you have lately plucked, you show her specialty, the lips, those two small bundles, you show her the two hands that grip her fiercely, one being mine, one being yours. Torn right off at the wrist bone when you started in your impossible going, gone. Then you place the basket in the old woman's hollow lap and as a last act she fondles these artifacts like a child's head and murmurs, 'Precious. Precious.' And you are glad you have given them to this one for she too is making a trip. ~ Anne Sexton,

588:St. Valentine's Day Let loose the sails of love and let them fill With breezes sweet with tenderness to-day; Scorn not the praises youthful lovers say; Romance is old, but it is lovely still. Not he who shows his love deserves the jeer, But he who speaks not what she longs to hear. There is no shame in love's devoted speech; Man need not blush his tenderness to show; 'Tis shame to love and never let her know, To keep his heart forever out of reach. Not he the fool who lets his love go on, But he who spurns it when his love is won. Men proudly vaunt their love of gold and fame, High station and accomplishments of skill, Yet of life's greatest conquest they are still, And deem it weakness, or an act of shame, To seem to place high value on the love Which first of all they should be proudest of. Let loose the sails of love and let them take The tender breezes till the day be spent; Only the fool chokes out life's sentiment. She is a prize too lovely to forsake. Be not ashamed to send your valentine; She has your love, but needs its outward sign. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

589:He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. As he spoke, he lifted the kettle from the oil flame and poured steaming water into the cup and a bowl. Ginger and cinnamon wafted toward me. “All of time, every sliced instant of it, is rich with vertices of choices. One becomes accustomed to that, to the point at which sometimes even I have to stop and remind myself that I am making choices, even when I do not seem to be. Every indrawn breath is a choice. But sometimes one is reminded of that forcibly, sometimes I meet a person so laden with possibilities and potential that the mere existence of such a being is a jolt to reality. You are like that, still, to me. The sheer improbability of your existence took my breath away. … Yet here you are, with me still, defying the odds by existing. And by your existence, with every breath you take, you change all time. You are like a wedge driven into dry wood. With every beat of your heart, you are pounded deeper into ‘what might be’ and as you advance, you crack the future open, and expose a hundred, a thousand new possibilities, each branching into another hundred, another thousand.” p. 264 The Fool to Fitz ~ Robin Hobb,

590:He stumbled, almost fell, and decided to sit down, with his back against the tunnel wall, his feet resting against the opposite wall. Roaring out of the morass of pity, terror, happiness, joy, sadness, elation that he had inherited - shooting forth from this void, the single sharp thought: She does not love me. It was almost more than he could take. But he was not the kind of person to fold, to crack, to be broken, and so instead, in those moments after the realization, he bent - and bent, and kept on bending beneath the pressure of this new and terrible knowledge. Soon he would bend into a totally new shape altogether. He welcomed that. He wanted that. Maybe the new thing he would become would no longer hurt, would no longer fear, would no longer look back down into the void and wonder what was left of him. She did not love him. It made him laugh as he sat there -- great belly laughs that doubled him over in the dust, where he lay for a long moment, recovering. It was funny beyond bearing. He had fought through a dozen terrors all for love of her. And she did not love him. He felt like a character in a holovid - the jester, the clown, the fool. ~ Jeff VanderMeer,

591:Even from the standpoint of the skeptic, a reasonable and candid search into the unknown, by the light of what is known, will guide the unbiased, intelligent reasoner in the direction of the truth. Yet it is evident that without a direct revelation of the plans and purposes of God, men could only approximate the truth, and arrive at indefinite conclusions. But let us for the moment lay aside the Bible, and look at things from the standpoint of reason alone. He who can look into the sky with a telescope, or even with his natural eye alone, and see the immensity of creation, its symmetry, beauty, order, harmony and diversity, and yet doubt that the Creator of these is vastly his superior both in wisdom and power, or who can suppose for a moment that such order came by chance, without a Creator, has so far lost or ignored the faculty of reason as to be properly considered what the Bible terms him, a fool (one who ignores or lacks reason): 'The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.' However it happened, at least that much of the Bible is true, as every reasonable mind must conclude; for it is a self-evident truth that effects must be produced by competent causes. ~ Charles Taze Russell,

592:A BLOODY and a sudden end, Gunshot or a noose, For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose. He might have had my sister, My cousins by the score, But nothing satisfied the fool But my dear Mary Moore, None other knows what pleasures man At table or in bed. What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead? Though stiff to strike a bargain, Like an old Jew man, Her bargain struck we laughed and talked And emptied many a can; And O! but she had stories, Though not for the priest's ear, To keep the soul of man alive, Banish age and care, And being old she put a skin On everything she said. What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead? The priests have got a book that says But for Adam's sin Eden's Garden would be there And I there within. No expectation fails there, No pleasing habit ends, No man grows old, no girl grows cold But friends walk by friends. Who quarrels over halfpennies That plucks the trees for bread? What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead? ~ William Butler Yeats, John Kinsellas Lament For Mr. Mary Moore ,

593:Standing on your own feet, naturally, is as tiresome and dangerous as standing your ground; and when the wild dogs begin to circle grinning round you with their dripping tongues hanging out and you know that with mock servility they like to go for your toes first, why, then, you should stand on someone else’s feet, or head if necessary. It is a point of faith for me never to be Hitler; he stood his ground in his own two shoes in his own little hole almost to the end, the fool. But I may disguise myself as any other animate or inanimate object in what follows. I can be eight lame women with falsies, eight cracked chamber pots, or -- let’s get right to the point -- a gladiator who is actually constructed of old clothes, brooms, and a paper plate with a face daubed on in finger-paints, not to mention two vagrants inside each shirt-sleeve and pant-leg, moving Goliath’s limbs at my say-so; but as long as you believe in the gladiator, you are whipped, and the Museum people will set out on your track, and then once they catch you, don’t think I won’t come study your exhibit until I can convince your own sweetheart that I am you come back from the dead. For I am Big George, the eternal winner. ~ William T Vollmann,

594:Isana stared at Gaius for a moment. Then she said, "How can you live with yourself?" The First Lord stared at her for a moment, his eyes cold. Then he spoke in a very quiet, precise, measured voice. "I look out my window each day. I look out my window at people who live and breathe. At people who have not been devoured by civil war. At people who have not been ravaged by disease. At people who have not starved to death, who have not been hacked apart by enemies of humanity, at people who are free to lie and steal and plot and complain and accuse and behave in all manner of repugnant ways because the Realm stands. Because law and order stands. Because something other than simple violence shapes the course of their lives. And I look, wife of my son, mother of my heir, at a very few decent people who have had the luxury of living their lives without being called upon to make hideous decisions I would not wish upon my worst enemies, and who consequently find such matters morally appalling when they consider them--because they have not had to be the ones who dealt with them." He took a short, hard swallow of wine. "Feh. Aquitaine thinks me his enemy. The fool. If I truly hated him, I'd give him the Crown. ~ Jim Butcher,

595:I have called this mental defect the Lucretius problem, after the Latin poetic philosopher who wrote that the fool believes that the tallest mountain in the world will be equal to the tallest one he has observed. We consider the biggest object of any kind that we have seen in our lives or hear about as the largest item that can possibly exist. And we have been doing this for millenia. In Pharaonic Egypt, which happens to be the first complete top-down nation-state managed by bureaucrats, scribes tracked the high-water mark of the Nile and used it as an estimate for a future worst-case scenario. The same can be seen in the Fukushima nuclear reactor, which experienced a catastrophic failure in 2011 when a tsunami struck. It had been built to withstand the worst past historical earthquake, with the builders not imagining much worse--and not thinking that the worst past event had to be a surprise, as it had no precedent. Likewise, the former chairman of the Federal Reserve, Fragilista Doctor Alan Greenspan, in his apology to Congress offered the classic "It never happened before." Well, nature, unlike Fragilista Greenspan, prepares for what has not happened before, assuming worse harm is possible. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,

596:It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative...we were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or a TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crispier, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. ~ Gillian Flynn,

597:The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains -- Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? Is not the Vision He? tho' He be not that which He seems? Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him? Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why; For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel 'I am I'? Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom, Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and gloom. Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet -- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice, For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. Law is God, say some: no God at all, says the fool; For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see; But if we could see and hear, this Vision -- were it not He? [2652.jpg] -- from The Longing in Between: Sacred Poetry from Around the World (A Poetry Chaikhana Anthology), Edited by Ivan M. Granger ~ Alfred Tennyson, The Higher Pantheism ,

598:Your woman tries to flee,” Red Buffalo snarled. “She makes a lie of her promise to you, eh? It is just as I said. She can never be one with the People. Never! She is an easop, liar, and unworthy. She has made a fool of you, cousin!” A hush fell over the crowd. Hunter tightened his legs around his stallion and picked up the reins. “Which direction did she go?” “Toward the horses. Where else? Whose will she kill this time, eh?” Hunter kicked his stallion’s flanks, biting down on a roar of sheer outrage. She had given him her God promise! Was nothing sacred to the White Eyes? As he rode out of the village, Hunter heard another horse pounding up behind him. He glanced back to see Swift Antelope coming up fast on his sorrel. Seconds later Hunter spotted Loretta. She was carrying Amy, bent under the weight, scarcely able to lift her feet. He reined in his black, struggling to sort and make sense of his emotions. Anger, yes, but pain as well, a pain that ran so deep he could scarcely bear it. She had used him, and now she meant to flee, her many promises forgotten. From the very beginning she had planned to leave him as soon as he brought her the child. Hunter could tolerate many things, but being made to look the fool wasn’t one of them. ~ Catherine Anderson,

599:On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed a fire of thorns, that crackled 'like the laughter of the fool.' Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearing gowns of various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girls shy and not shy filled the window-bench; four men, including Charley Jake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and John Pitcher, a neighboring dairyman, the shepherd's father-in-law, lolled in the settle; a young man and maid, who were blushing over tentative pourparlers on a life companionship, sat beneath the corner-cupboard; and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward moved restlessly about from spots where his betrothed was not to the spot where she was. Enjoyment was pretty general, and so much the more prevailed in being unhampered by conventional restrictions. Absolute confidence in each other's good opinion begat perfect ease, while the finishing stroke of manner, amounting to a truly princely serenity, was lent to the majority by the absence of any expression or trait denoting that they wished to get on in the world, enlarge their minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever - which nowadays so generally nips the bloom and bonhomie of all except the two extremes of the social scale. ("The Three Strangers") ~ Thomas Hardy,

600:Julian At The Mysteries But when he found himself in darkness, in the earth's awful depths, with a group of unholy Greeks, and bodiless figures appeared before him with haloes of light, the young Julian for a moment lost his nerve: an impulse from his pious years came back and he crossed himself. The Figures vanished at once; the haloes faded away, the lights went out. The Greeks glanced at each other. The young man said: 'Did you see the miracle? I'm frightened, friends. I want to leave. Didn't you see how the demons vanished the second they saw me make the holy sign of the cross?' The Greeks chuckled scornfully: 'Shame on you, shame, to talk that way to us sophists and philosophers! If you want to say things like that, say them to the Bishop of Nicomedia and his priests. The greatest gods of our glorious Greece appeared before you. And if they left, don't think for a minute that they were frightened by a gesture. It was just that when they saw you making that vile, that crude sign, their noble nature was disgusted and they left you in contempt.' This is what they said to him, and the fool recovered from his holy, blessed fear, convinced by the unholy words of the Greeks. ~ Constantine P. Cavafy,

601:According to Q-Jo, the whole tarot deck, or at least the twenty-two trump cards of the Major Arcana, may be read as the Fool's journey. "On one important level," she explained, "the major cards are chapters in the story of a quest. I'm talking the universal human quest for understanding and divine reunion. And it doesn't matter whether the quest starts with the Fool or ends with him, because it's a loop anyhow, a cycle endlessly repeated. When the naive young Fool finally tumbles over the precipice, he falls into the world of experience. Now his journey has really begun. Along the way, he'll meet all the teachers and tempters - the tempters are teachers, too - and challenging situations that a person is likely to meet in the task of his or her growing. The Fool is potentially everybody, but not everybody has the wisdom or the guts to play the fool. A lot of folks don't know what's in that bag they're carrying. And they're all too willing to trade it for cash. Inside the bag, the have every tool they need to facilitate their life's journey, but they won't even open it up and glance inside. Subconsciously, the goal of all of us out-of-control primates is essentially the same, but let me assure you of this: the only ones who'll ever reach that goal are the ones who have the courage to make fools of themselves along the way. ~ Tom Robbins,

602:Me" ( Notice Me) I was sent here on a journey that has no end. I hear you joke of going nowhere fast. Well, maybe life’s a joke and I’m the fool That dreams of being first but ends up last. Life’s a trial—a sentence I can’t escape. Confusion and desperation tear me down and turn to hate. There’s so much more to figure out, But it’s growing way too late. If I could answer half the questions in my mind, If I could find the place where I belong, If words were near as strong and deep as the wall of emotions I climb Then sorrow wouldn’t be so wrong. There’s no way to make you understand. An entire symphony could not play the broken notes in one child’s soul. That child screams and no one hears her, Until the tears have dried and now she’s just too old. I don’t want to hear the philosophies, the opinions, The remarks, the horrible reasonings. Words are to pad the mind and fight with the solitude of the heart. Still, silence chills to the bone and tears the soul apart. She never means to hurt or harm, only to belong. To find the truth ‘mid mortal lies, to sing her only song. But someday this race will end, and if she comes in last, I pray the first will look deeper than the others, smile, and then pass. "Copyright 1985 ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

603:And yet we are a resilient people, caretakers of a blessed nation. It has become a commonplace that we always rise to the occasion in this country. That is still true. And we surprise ourselves, never knowing with exact certainty from whence our next leader or hero will come—good reason to respect and defend one another as Americans, as fellow countrymen dedicated to a great proposition. Allow me a few simple illustrations. If you were sitting in a saloon in 1860, and someone told you that while he did not know who would win that year's presidential election, the next elected president after him was right then a little known leather tanner in Galena, Illinois, he would be laughed out of the saloon. But then came Ulysses S. Grant. If you were sitting at Franklin D. Roosevelt's inauguration, in 1933, and someone told you the next president was a little-known judge in Jackson County, Missouri, he would have been made to look the fool. But then came Harry S. Truman. If you were a political consultant in California in 1950 watching the bitter Senate race between Richard Nixon and Helen Gahagan Douglas (where Nixon labeled Douglas "the pink lady"), and you said that actor Ronald Reagan (who was then campaigning for Douglas) would someday be a Republican president and would crush the Soviet Union, your career would have been over. ~ William J Bennett,

604:My time at Eton did develop in me a character trait that is essentially, I guess, very English: the notion that it is best to be the sort of person who messes about and plays the fool but who, when it really matters, is tough to the core. I think it goes back to the English Scarlet Pimpernel mentality: the nobility of aspiring to be the hidden hero. (In fact, I am sure it is no coincidence that over the years, so many senior SAS officers have also been Old Etonians. Now explain that one, when the SAS really is the ultimate meritocracy? No school tie can earn you a place there. That comes only with sweat and hard work. But the SAS also attracts a certain personality and attitude. It favors the individual, the maverick, and the quietly talented. That was Eton for you, too.) This is essentially a very English ethos: work hard, play hard; be modest; do your job to your utmost, laugh at yourself; and sometimes, if you have to, cuff it. I found that these qualities were ones that I loved in others, and they were qualities that subconsciously I was aspiring to in myself--whether I knew it or not. One truth never changed for me at Eton: however much I threw myself into life there, the bare fact was that I still really lived for the holidays--to be back at home with my mum and dad, and Lara, in the Isle of Wight. It was always where my heart really was. ~ Bear Grylls,

605:I was fighting drowsiness when they finally emerged and started riding southward, again across the hills. I stared after them until my eyes watered. They kept disappearing beyond the hills but then eventually reappeared, each time getting smaller and smaller. Then they disappeared for a long time: another village or town. I made myself wait and watch. Again I was trying not to nod off when I saw a second line appear on the crest of a hill directly west of me, on the other lip of the valley. The urge to sleep fled. I watched the line--it was a long one this time, with tiny bright dots at the front that indicated banners--descend into the town. The banners meant the commander. Was the Marquis still with him, or had he finally gotten bored and gone back to the silk-and-velvet life in Athanarel? “You might contemplate the purpose of a court…” You brainless, twaddling idiot, I thought scornfully. I wished he were before me. I wished I could personally flout him and his busy searchers, and make him look like the fool he was. And watch the reaction, and walk away laughing. While I was indulging my fulminating imaginings, the long line emerged again, much more quickly than the previous one had. Delight suffused me: They had obviously discovered that the previous group had been there, and had probably decided that the place was therefore safe. Excellent. Then that was where I would go. ~ Sherwood Smith,

606:1135 When We Play The Fool Last night I stood in a tawdry place And watched the ways of the human race. I looked at a party of shrieking girls Piled on a table that whirls and whirls, And saw them thrown in a tangled heap, Sprawling and squirming and several deep. And unto the wife who was standing by, 'These are all angels to be,' said I. I followed the ways of the merry throng And heard the laughter and mirth and song. Into a barrel which turned and swayed Men and women a journey made, And tumbling together they seemed to be Like so many porpoises out at seaMen and women who'd worked all day, Eagerly seeking a chance to play. 'What do you make of it all?' she said. I answered: 'The dead are a long time dead, And care is bitter and duty stern, And each must weep when it comes his turn. And all grow weary and long for play, So here is laughter to end the day. Foolish? Oh, yes, it is that,' said I, 'But better the laugh than the dreary sigh. 'Now look at us here, for we're like them, too, And many the foolish things we do. We often grow silly and seek a smile In a thousand ways that are not worth while; Yet after the mirth and the jest are through, We shall all be judged by the deeds we do, And God shall forget on the Judgment Day The fools we were in our hours of play.' ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

607:The Aristocrat The Devil is a gentleman, and asks you down to stay At his little place at What'sitsname (it isn't far away). They say the sport is splendid; there is always something new, And fairy scenes, and fearful feats that none but he can do; He can shoot the feathered cherubs if they fly on the estate, Or fish for Father Neptune with the mermaids for a bait; He scaled amid the staggering stars that precipice, the sky, And blew his trumpet above heaven, and got by mastery The starry crown of God Himself, and shoved it on the shelf; But the Devil is a gentleman, and doesn't brag himself. O blind your eyes and break your heart and hack your hand away, And lose your love and shave your head; but do not go to stay At the little place in What'sitsname where folks are rich and clever; The golden and the goodly house, where things grow worse for ever; There are things you need not know of, though you live and die in vain, There are souls more sick of pleasure than you are sick of pain; There is a game of April Fool that's played behind its door, Where the fool remains for ever and the April comes no more, Where the splendour of the daylight grows drearier than the dark, And life droops like a vulture that once was such a lark: And that is the Blue Devil that once was the Blue Bird; For the Devil is a gentleman, and doesn't keep his word. ~ G K Chesterton,

608:But once this purpose is found, the difficulties are half over. Let the Outsider accept without further hesitation: I am different from other men because I have been destined to something greater; let him see himself in the role of predestined poet, predestined prophet or world-betterer, and a half of the Outsider’s problems have been solved. What he is saying is, in effect, this: In most men, the instinct of brotherhood with other men is stronger—the herd instinct; in me, a sense of brotherhood with something other than man is strongest, and demands priority. When the Outsider comes to look at other men closely and sympathetically, the hard and fast distinctions break down; he cannot say: I am a poet and they are not, for he soon comes to recognize that no one is entirely a business-man, just as no poet is entirely a poet. He can only say: the sense of purpose that makes me a poet is stronger than theirs. His needle swings to magnetic pole without hesitation; theirs wavers around all the points of the compass and only points north when they come particularly close to the pole, when under the influence of drink or patriotism or sentimentality. I speak of these last three conditions without disparagement; all forms of stimulation of man’s sense of purpose are equally valid and, if applied for long enough, would have the effect of making a man into an Outsider. If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise’, Blake wrote. ~ Colin Wilson,

609:Thank you,” I managed to say. Replying with a nod, he approached my horse. “Here, let me help you—” I slipped down myself before he could lend a hand, keeping the fur hide in my possession. “I’m not suddenly incapable because I wear a dress, Thaddeus.” “I wasn’t suggesting….” Wisely, he let the issue drop. Lifting an arm, he offered it to me. That’s when I noticed my sword in sheath belted to his waist. “That’s mine!” I declared, reaching for the hilt. Thaddeus managed a quick side-step. He hardened his jaw at my look of incredulity. I would only wait momentarily for an explanation. “I know the sword is yours, Catherine, everyone knows that. But you’re too beautiful tonight to ruin that radiant look with an ugly, leather belt strapped about you.” I was starting to think the man was using compliments as a weapon to defend himself against me. It did work to temper my anger somewhat. “I brought the sword as a cautionary act, just in case those nasty werewolves show up. Seeing how I’ll be standing beside you all evening, the blade will be at your disposal if needed.” I accepted his reasoning and stood down. “Besides,” Thaddeus added, apparently feeling safe, “what’s yours is mine now anyway.” I glared at the fool. “That works both ways, you know.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “If it must.” Again, he offered me his arm which I grudgingly accepted. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

610:My advice would be to find a good woman and steer well clear of the whole bloody business, and it’s a shame no one told me the same twenty years ago.” He looked sideways at Jezal. “But if, say, you’re stuck out on some great wide plain in the middle of nowhere and can’t avoid it, there’s three rules I’d take to a fight. First, always do your best to look the coward, the weakling, the fool. Silence is a warrior’s best armour, the saying goes. Hard looks and hard words have never won a battle yet, but they’ve lost a few.” “Look the fool, eh? I see.” Jezal had built his whole life around trying to appear the cleverest, the strongest, the most noble. It was an intriguing idea, that a man might choose to look like less than he was. “Second, never take an enemy lightly, however much the dullard he seems. Treat every man like he’s twice as clever, twice as strong, twice as fast as you are, and you’ll only be pleasantly surprised. Respect costs you nothing, and nothing gets a man killed quicker than confidence.” “Never underestimate the foe. A wise precaution.” Jezal was beginning to realise that he had underestimated this Northman. He wasn’t half the idiot he appeared to be. “Third, watch your opponent as close as you can, and listen to opinions if you’re given them, but once you’ve got your plan in mind, you fix on it and let nothing sway you. Time comes to act, you strike with no backwards glances. Delay is the parent of disaster, my father used to tell me, and believe me, I’ve seen some disasters. ~ Joe Abercrombie,

611:Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite, That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light. 'Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy: Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend: It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, Ne'er settled equally, but high or low, That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. 'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile: The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak. 'It shall be sparing and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures; It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. 'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful and too severe, And most deceiving when it seems most just; Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. 'It shall be cause of war and dire events, And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire; Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustious matter is to fire: Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, They that love best their loves shall not enjoy. ~ William Shakespeare,

612:Location 29-30 [One who buys butcher's meat or poultry violates this gâthâ. For by paying the butcher for meat be has killed, the buyer shares his sin by "sanctioning" his act.] ========== Location 31-31 A "creature" is something created (by God), but Buddhists regard all living organisms as evolved by due process of natural law. ========== Location 65-65 Hatred is never quenched by hatred; hatred ceases by [showing] love; this is an old rule. ========== Location 66-66 Let a man overcome anger by love, evil by good, the greedy by liberality, the liar by truth. ========== Location 131-132 The evil-doer suffers in this world, and he suffers in the next; he suffers in both. He suffers when he thinks of the evil he has done; he suffers more when going on the evil path. ========== Location 132-134 Surely an evil deed does not turn on a sudden like milk [curdling]; it is like fire smouldering in the ashes, which burns the fool. . . . An evil deed [Page 10] kills not instantly, as does a sword, but it follows the evil doer [even] into the next world. ========== Location 186-187 "He abused me, he reviled me, he beat me, he subdued me"; he who keeps this in his mind, and who feels resentment, will find no peace. ========== Location 208-208 Purity and impurity belong to oneself, no one can purify another. ~~Golden Rules of Buddhism by Henry Steel Olcott ~ Henry Steel Olcott,

613:Three words will I name theearound and about, From the lip to the lip, full of meaning, they flee; But they had not their birth in the being without, And the heart, not the lip, must their oracle be! And all worth in the man shall forever be o'er When in those three words he believes no more. Man is made free!Man by birthright is free, Though the tyrant may deem him but born for his tool. Whatever the shout of the rabble may be Whatever the ranting misuse of the fool Still fear not the slave, when he breaks from his chain, For the man made a freeman grows safe in his gain. And virtue is more than a shade or a sound, And man may her voice, in this being, obey; And though ever he slip on the stony ground, Yet ever again to the godlike way, To the science of good though the wise may be blind, Yet the practice is plain to the childlike mind. And a God there is!over space, over time, While the human will rocks, like a reed, to and fro, Lives the will of the holya purpose sublime, A thought woven over creation below; Changing and shifting the all we inherit, But changeless through all one immutable spirit Hold fast the three words of beliefthough about From the lip to the lip, full of meaning, they flee; Yet they take not their birth from the being without But a voice from within must their oracle be; And never all worth in the man can be o'er, Till in those three words he believes no more. ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Words Of Belief ,

614:A rat, Evie,” she murmured. “A rat on my table . . . gnaws the threads . . . the salamander stares at me from the shadows . . . the serpent coils around the tree . . . and chokes its roots.” How had she gotten so much worse in such a short time? Her gaze darted. “Spite couldn’t spit . . . and the Devil knew his verses. The cups see the future . . . in a chalice of blood.” ...“Only you can bring us back. You must win . . . the earth depends on it. Cards know it . . . beware the Fool . . . dark dealings. The dark calling, the calling dark.” When she started on another rant, I touched her arm. “What about the Fool?” “The wild card! The game keeper.”... “You have to kill Death. He will turn on you—they all will. Death is poisoning me!” I read until her chest no longer rose and fell. My grandmother was at peace. For some reason, I turned to the last page. Gran had updated the chronicles. The first entry: The cunning Empress has beguiled Death, until all he can see is her. He reunites an Arcana with her Tarasova, courting his own destruction. Another entry: They are murdering me, but the Empress turns a blind eye. Though they have tricked her, I see clearly. She won’t do what’s necessary, so I have put the end into motion. She can never be with him. She has no idea what Life and Death become. . . . What had she meant by that? And what “necessary” thing had she put into motion? I left you clues, Evie. Nothing is as it seems. Midnight serpents choke the roots. The Agent. The ro— ~ Kresley Cole,

615:Location 29-30 [One who buys butcher's meat or poultry violates this gâthâ. For by paying the butcher for meat be has killed, the buyer shares his sin by "sanctioning" his act.] ========== Location 31-31 A "creature" is something created (by God), but Buddhists regard all living organisms as evolved by due process of natural law. ========== Location 65-65 Hatred is never quenched by hatred; hatred ceases by [showing] love; this is an old rule. ========== Location 66-66 Let a man overcome anger by love, evil by good, the greedy by liberality, the liar by truth. ========== Location 131-132 The evil-doer suffers in this world, and he suffers in the next; he suffers in both. He suffers when he thinks of the evil he has done; he suffers more when going on the evil path. ========== Location 132-134 Surely an evil deed does not turn on a sudden like milk [curdling]; it is like fire smouldering in the ashes, which burns the fool. . . . An evil deed [Page 10] kills not instantly, as does a sword, but it follows the evil doer [even] into the next world. ========== Location 186-187 "He abused me, he reviled me, he beat me, he subdued me"; he who keeps this in his mind, and who feels resentment, will find no peace. ========== Location 208-208 Purity and impurity belong to oneself, no one can purify another. ~ Henry Steel Olcott~ Henry Steel OlcottGolden Rules of Buddhism by Henry Steel Olcott ~ Henry Steel Olcott,

616:The books were legends and tales, stories from all over the Realm. These she had devoured voraciously – so voraciously, in fact, that she started to become fatigued by them. It was possible to have too much of a good thing, she reflected. “They’re all the same,” she complained to Fleet one night. “The soldier rescues the maiden and they fall in love. The fool outwits the wicked king. There are always three brothers or sisters, and it’s always the youngest who succeeds after the first two fail. Always be kind to beggars, for they always have a secret; never trust a unicorn. If you answer somebody’s riddle they always either kill themselves or have to do what you say. They’re all the same, and they’re all ridiculous! That isn’t what life is like!” Fleet had nodded sagely and puffed on his hookah. “Well, of course that’s not what life is like. Except the bit about unicorns – they’ll eat your guts as soon as look at you. those things in there” – he tapped the book she was carrying – “they’re simple stories. Real life is a story, too, only much more complicated. It’s still got a beginning, a middle, and an end. Everyone follows the same rules, you know. . . It’s just that there are more of them. Everyone has chapters and cliffhangers. Everyone has their journey to make. Some go far and wide and come back empty-handed; some don’t go anywhere and their journey makes them richest of all. Some tales have a moral and some don’t make any sense. Some will make you laugh, others make you cry. The world is a library, young Poison, and you’ll never get to read the same book twice. ~ Chris Wooding,

617:The books were legends and tales, stories from all over the Realm. These she had devoured voraciously – so voraciously, in fact, that she started to become fatigued by them. It was possible to have too much of a good thing, she reflected. “They’re all the same,” she complained to Fleet one night. “The soldier rescues the maiden and they fall in love. The fool outwits the wicked king. There are always three brothers or sisters, and it’s always the youngest who succeeds after the first two fail. Always be kind to beggars, for they always have a secret; never trust a unicorn. If you answer somebody’s riddle they always either kill themselves or have to do what you say. They’re all the same, and they’re all ridiculous! That isn’t what life is like!” Fleet had nodded sagely and puffed on his hookah. “Well, of course that’s not what life is like. Except the bit about unicorns – they’ll eat your guts as soon as look at you. those things in there” – he tapped the book she was carrying – “they’re simple stories. Real life is a story, too, only much more complicated. It’s still got a beginning, a middle, and an end. Everyone follows the same rules, you know. . . It’s just that there are more of them. Everyone has chapters and cliffhangers. Everyone has their journey to make. Some go far and wide and come back empty-handed; some don’t go anywhere and their journey makes them richest of all. Some tales have a moral and some don’t make any sense. Some will make you laugh, others make you cry. The world is a library, young Poison, and you’ll never get to read the same book twice. ~ Chris Wooding,

618:When was the last time you were kissed?" he went on easily. "And I'm not talking about the dry, noncommittal, meaningless kiss you forget about as soon as it's over." I scrambled out of my stupor long enough to quip, "Like last night's kiss?" He cocked an eyebrow. "That so? I wonder, then, why you moaned my name after you drifted to sleep." "I did not!" "If only I'd had a video recorder. When was the last time you were really kissed?" he repeated. "You seriously think I'm going to tell you?" "Your ex?" he guessed. "And if he was?" "Was it your ex who taught you to be ashamed and uncomfortable with intimacy? He took from you what he wanted, but never seemed to be around when you wanted something back, isn't that right? What do you want, Britt?" he asked me point-blank. "Do you really want to pretend like last night never happened?" "Whatever happened between me and Calvin isn't your business,” I fired back. "For your information, he was a really great boyfriend. I-I wish I was with him right now!" I exclaimed untruthfully. My careless comment made him flinch, but he recovered quickly. "Does he love you?" "What?" I said, flustered. "If you know him so well, it shouldn't be a hard question. Is he in love with you? Was he ever in love with you?" I tossed my head back haughtily. "I know what you're doing. You're trying to cut him down because you're-you're jealous of him!" "You're damn right I'm jealous,” he growled. "When I kiss a girl, I like to know she's thinking about me, not the fool who gave her up. ~ Becca Fitzpatrick,

619:My cousin, Red Buffalo, has said false words to you? If this is so, you will tell me.” “As if you don’t know what he told me!” “You made a lie of your promise and tried to flee, this is what I know! You came at me with a knife, this is what I know! You made me look the fool, this is what I know.” “Oh, yes, you’re the man whose words are drifting on the wind, whispering to him always! The man who never lies! I saw you out there at the fire! How stupid do you think I am?” Grinding out the words between clenched teeth, he said, “Why did you make a lie of your promise?” “Why wouldn’t I? A little girl, Hunter? Animal! Aunt Rachel was right all along. I am the fool!” He made a strangled sound in his throat and rolled off her, turning her loose to throw an arm across his eyes. Loretta tensed, casting a hopeless glance at the door. Even if she made it outside, her chances of saving Amy were slim. In a taut, barely restrained growl he said, “Do not test me by trying to run, Blue Eyes. I will sure enough beat you.” After a moment he let out an audible breath and eased onto his side, folding an arm beneath his head, his blue eyes so dark they looked black in the dusky light. “You will make an echo of Red Buffalo’s words. I cannot fight an enemy whose face is hidden.” Hearing his voice, so silken and close, brought bittersweet memories rushing back to her, and she wanted to cry. “You let me think you were my friend.” Hunter studied her delicate profile, his attention coming to rest on her tremulous lips. Her voice ached with the pain of betrayal, but he felt betrayed as well. ~ Catherine Anderson,

620:And not only the world but humanity itself does need dragons” “And why is that?” Chade demanded disdainfully. “To keep the balance,” the Fool replied. He glanced over me, and then past me, out of the window and his eyes went far and pensive. “Humanity fears no rivals. You have forgotten what it was to share the world with creatures as arrogantly superior as yourselves. You think to arrange the world to your liking. So you map the land and draw lines across it, claiming ownership simply because you can draw a picture of it. The plants that grow and the beasts that rove, you mark as your own, claiming not only what lives today, but what might grow tomorrow, to do with as you please. Then, in your conceit and aggression, you wage wars and slay one another over the lines you have imagined on the world’s face.” “And I suppose dragons are better than we are because they don’t do such things, because they simply take whatever they see. Free spirits, nature’s creatures, possessing all the moral loftiness that comes from not being able to think.” The Fool shook his head, smiling. “No. Dragons are no better than humans. They are little different at all from men. They will hold up a mirror to humanity’s selfishness. They will remind you that all your talk of owning this and claiming that is no more than the snarling of a chained dog or a sparrow’s challenge song. The reality of those claims lasts but for the instant of its sounding. Name it as you will, claim it as you will, the world does not belong to men. Men belong to the world. You will not own the earth that eventually your body will become, nor will it recall the name it once answered to. ~ Robin Hobb,

621:You, my God, have put Your words in my mouth and covered me with the shadow of Your hand—You who set the heavens in place, who laid the foundations of the earth, and who say to Zion, “You are my people.” (Isa. 51:16) You, my Father, are the One who forms the mountain, creates the wind, and reveals His thoughts to man. You are the One who turns dawn to darkness, and treads the high places of the earth—the Lord God Almighty is Your Name! (Amos 4:13) This is what You, the Lord my God, say—You who created the heavens, You are God; You who fashioned and made the earth, You founded it; You did not create it to be empty, but formed it to be inhabited—You say: “I am the Lord, and there is no other.” (Isa. 45:18) O, Lord, You rule forever by Your power, Your eyes watch the nations—let not the rebellious rise up against You. (Ps. 66:7) The fool says in his heart, “There is no God.” (Ps. 14:1) Lord, I acknowledge that You are the “I AM.” This is Your name forever, the name by which You are to be remembered from generation to generation. (Exod. 3:14–15) O, Lord my God, help me never to worship any other god, for You, my Lord, are a jealous God. (Exod. 20:4–5) You, my Lord, are a warrior; the Lord is Your name. (Exod. 15:3) My Father, You are the Lord; that is Your name! You will not give Your glory to another or Your praise to idols. (Isa. 42:8) My Father, help me to know that the Lord my God is God; You are the faithful God, keeping Your covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love You and keep Your commands. (Deut. 7:9) You, my God, are the Rock. Your works are perfect, and all Your ways are just. You are a faithful God who does no wrong. You are upright and just. (Deut. 32:4) ~ Beth Moore,

622:You can't understand. How could you? — with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums — how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man's untrammelled feet may take him into by the way of solitude — utter solitude without a policeman — by the way of silence — utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong — too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil — I don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place—and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won't pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove!—breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. And there, don't you see? Your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in — your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. And that's difficult enough. ~ Joseph Conrad,

623:Off To School IT doesn't seem a year ago that I was tumbling out of bed, The icy steps that lead below at 1 a.m., barefoot, to tread, And puttering round the kitchen stove, while chills ran up and down my form As I stood there and waited for her bottled dinner to get warm; Then sampled it to see that it was not too hot or not too cool, That doesn't seem a year ago, and now she's trudging off to school. It doesn't seem a month ago that I was teaching her to walk, And holding out my arms to her. And that was 'fore she learned to talk. I stood her up against the wall, eager, yet watchful lest she fall, Then suddenly she came to me—the first two steps those feet so small Had, unassisted, ever made! Those feet I hope to guide and rule; That doesn't seem a month ago—and now she's trudging off to school. It doesn't seem a week ago that we were playing peeka-boo, She'd lift her little dress and hide her face as all the babies do; And then we'd laugh and romp and shout, and I would ride her pig-a-back. A pair of gay disturbers we, with not a care along life's track! The days were meant for laughter then, and I was glad to play the fool, That doesn't seem a week ago—and now she's trudging off to school. Oh, Father Time, line deep my brow, and tinge my thinning hair with gray, Deal harshly with my battered form as you go speeding on your way; Print on my face your marks of years, and stamp me with your yesterdays, But, oh, tread softly now, I pray, the ground whereon my baby plays. Pass over her with gentle touch; to keep her young break every rule, But yesterday she was a babe—and now she's trudging off to school. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

624:Dungeon Grates So piteously the lonely soul of man Shudders before this universal plan, So grievous is the burden and the pain, So heavy weighs the long, material chain From cause to cause, too merciless for hate, The nightmare march of unrelenting fate, I think that he must die thereof unless Ever and again across the dreariness There came a sudden glimpse of spirit faces, A fragrant breath to tell of flowery places And wider oceans, breaking on the shore From which the hearts of men are always sore. It lies beyond endeavour; neither prayer Nor fasting, nor much wisdom winneth there, Seeing how many prophets and wise men Have sought for it and still returned again With hope undone. But only the strange power Of unsought Beauty in some casual hour Can build a bridge of light or sound or form To lead you out of all this strife and storm; When of some beauty we are grown a part Till from its very glory’s midmost heart Out leaps a sudden beam of larger light Into our souls. All things are seen aright Amid the blinding pillar of its gold, Seven times more true than what for truth we hold In vulgar hours. The miracle is done And for one little moment we are one With the eternal stream of loveliness That flows so calm, aloft from all distress Yet leaps and lives around us as a fire Making us faint with overstrong desire To sport and swim for ever in its deep— Only a moment. O! but we shall keep Our vision still. One moment was enough, We know we are not made of mortal stuff. And we can bear all trials that come after, The hate of men and the fool’s loud bestial laughter 29 And Nature’s rule and cruelties unclean, For we have seen the Glory—we have seen. ~ Clive Staples Lewis,

625:O mad, superbly drunk;   If you kick open your doors and play the fool in public;   If you empty your bag in a night, and snap your fingers at prudence;   If you walk in curious paths and play with useless things;   Reck not rhyme or reason;   If unfurling your sails before the storm you snap the rudder in two,   Then I will follow you, comrade, and be drunken and go to the dogs.   I have wasted my days and nights in the company of steady wise neighbours.   Much knowing has turned my hair grey, and much watching has made my sight dim.   For years I have gathered and heaped up scraps and fragments of things:   Crush them and dance upon them, and scatter them all to the winds.   For I know 'tis the height of wisdom to be drunken and go the dogs.   Let all crooked scruples vanish, let me hopelessly lose my way.   Let a gust of wild giddiness come and sweep me away from my anchors.   The world is peopled with worthies, and workers, useful and clever.   There are men who are easily first, and men who come decently after.   Let them be happy and prosper, and let me be foolishly futile.   For I know 'tis the end of all works to be drunken and go to the dogs.   I swear to surrender this moment all claims to the ranks of the decent.   I let go my pride of learning and judgment of right and of wrong.   I'll shatter memory's vessel, scattering the last drop of tears.   With the foam of the berry-red wine I will bathe and brighten my laughter.   The badge of the civil and staid I'll tear into shreds for the nonce.   I'll take the holy vow to be worthless, to be drunken and go to the dogs. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener XLII - O Mad, Superbly Drunk ,

626:It was unearthly, and the men were--No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it--this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled, and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity--like yours--the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you--you so remote from the night of first ages--could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything--because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valor, rage--who can tell?--but truth--truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder--the man knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff--with his own inborn strength. Principles? Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags--rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. An appeal to me in this fiendish row--is there? Very well; I hear; I admit, but I have a voice too, and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer fright and fine sentiments, is always safe. Who's that grunting? You wonder I didn't go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no--I didn't. Fine sentiments, you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had to mess about with white-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandages on those leaky steam-pipes--I tell you. ~ Joseph Conrad,

627:March 27 MORNING “Then all the disciples forsook Him and fled.” — Matthew 26:56 HE never deserted them, but they in cowardly fear of their lives, fled from Him in the very beginning of His sufferings. This is but one instructive instance of the frailty of all believers if left to themselves; they are but sheep at the best, and they flee when the wolf cometh. They had all been warned of the danger, and had promised to die rather than leave their Master; and yet they were seized with sudden panic, and took to their heels. It may be, that I, at the opening of this day, have braced up my mind to bear a trial for the Lord’s sake, and I imagine myself to be certain to exhibit perfect fidelity; but let me be very jealous of myself, lest having the same evil heart of unbelief, I should depart from my Lord as the apostles did. It is one thing to promise, and quite another to perform. It would have been to their eternal honour to have stood at Jesus’ side right manfully; they fled from honour; may I be kept from imitating them! Where else could they have been so safe as near their Master, who could presently call for twelve legions of angels? They fled from their true safety. O God, let me not play the fool also. Divine grace can make the coward brave. The smoking flax can flame forth like fire on the altar when the Lord wills it. These very apostles who were timid as hares, grew to be bold as lions after the Spirit had descended upon them, and even so the Holy Spirit can make my recreant spirit brave to confess my Lord and witness for His truth. What anguish must have filled the Saviour as He saw His friends so faithless! This was one bitter ingredient in His cup; but that cup is drained dry; let me not put another drop in it. If I forsake my Lord, I shall crucify Him afresh, and put Him to an open shame. Keep me, O blessed Spirit, from an end so shameful. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

628:Can Vei La Lauzeta When I see the lark joyfully moving its wings against the sun's rays, and falling because of the sweetness that enters its heart, ah! a great envy comes upon me of all those who I see happy. I am astonished that my heart does not melt with desire. Alas! I thought I knew so much about love, and I know so little, because I cannot stop loving the one from whom I will never obtain anything. She has taken my heart, myself, herself, and the whole world, and has left me with nothing but yearning and a languishing heart. I no longer have power over myself, and am no longer my own person, from the moment when she lets me look into her eyes, that mirror that pleases me so. Mirror, since I am mirrored in you, my sighs have caused my death, for I am lost just as Narcissus lost himself in the fountain. I despair of women; never more shall I trust them. As once I exalted them, now shall I cast them down. Since I see that not one of them is for me against she who destroys and confounds me, I doubt and mistrust them all, since I well know they are all the same. And in this I see that my lady is very much a woman, and that is why I criticize her. For she does not want that which she should want, and that which she is forbidden, she does. I am fallen very low, and I have acted like the fool on the bridge. And I don't know why this has happened to me, unless it's because I tried to mount too high. Since nothing works any more with my lady - neither prayers nor pity nor my rights concerning her; and since it no longer pleases her that I love her, I will never more say it to her. And so I take my leave and go away from her. She has killed me, and I respond to her with death. And I leave, since she doesn't retain me, I the unhappy one, into exile, I know not where ~ Bernard de Ventadorn,

629:For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child's boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again. ~ Gillian Flynn,

630: I I sought a theme and sought for it in vain, I sought it daily for six weeks or so. Maybe at last, being but a broken man, I must be satisfied with my heart, although Winter and summer till old age began My circus animals were all on show, Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot, Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.        II What can I but enumerate old themes? First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams, Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose, Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems, That might adorn old songs or courtly shows; But what cared I that set him on to ride, I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride? And then a counter-truth filled out its play, 'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it; She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away, But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it. I thought my dear must her own soul destroy, So did fanaticism and hate enslave it, And this brought forth a dream and soon enough This dream itself had all my thought and love. And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea; Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said It was the dream itself enchanted me: Character isolated by a deed To engross the present and dominate memory. Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.        III Those masterful images because complete Grew in pure mind, but out of what began? A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street, Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving **** Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Circus Animals Desertion ,

631:1. What is this force, Lucilius, that drags us in one direction when we are aiming in another, urging us on to the exact place from which we long to withdraw? What is it that wrestles with our spirit, and does not allow us to desire anything once for all? We veer from plan to plan. None of our wishes is free, none is unqualified, none is lasting. 2. "But it is the fool," you say, "who is inconsistent; nothing suits him for long." But how or when can we tear ourselves away from this folly? No man by himself has sufficient strength to rise above it; he needs a helping hand, and some one to extricate him. 3. Epicurus remarks that certain men have worked their way to the truth without any one's assistance, carving out their own passage. And he gives special praise to these, for their impulse has come from within, and they have forged to the front by themselves. Again, he says, there are others who need outside help, who will not proceed unless someone leads the way, but who will follow faithfully. Of these, he says, Metrodorus was one; this type of man is also excellent, but belongs to the second grade. We ourselves are not of that first class, either; we shall be well treated if we are admitted into the second. Nor need you despise a man who can gain salvation only with the assistance of another; the will to be saved means a great deal, too. 4. You will find still another class of man, – and a class not to be despised, – who can be forced and driven into righteousness, who do not need a guide as much as they require someone to encourage and, as it were, to force them along. This is the third variety. If you ask me for a man of this pattern also, Epicurus tells us that Hermarchus was such. And of the two last-named classes, he is more ready to congratulate the one, but he feels more respect for the other; for although both reached the same goal, it is a greater credit to have brought about the same result with the more difficult material upon which to work. ~ Seneca,

632:Ye are stirring up a lot of trouble, arenae ye?” “Me? I just came to explore this building. She is the one stirring up trouble. She wants Cathal, I think.” “She does, e’en though his Outsider blood sickens her. Edmee would like to be the lady of Cambrun. She has ne’er been able to convince Cathal of that, however. It doesnae help her cause that she makes her contempt of his mother so verra clear. Cathal has ne’er intended to wed with a MacNachton, either. He wants bairns.” Bridget frowned at him. “There is a wee bit more to me than a womb, ye ken.” “Och, aye, a wee bit.” He laughed when she softly hissed in annoyance, then grew serious. “O’er the last few days ’tis evident neither of ye will suffer in the making of a bairn.” He only briefly smiled at her blushes. “Tis a blessing, that. And where is the insult in a mon thinking a woman a good choice as mother to his bairns?” None, she supposed, but she was not about to admit it. “There should be more.” “Ah, poor lass, so unsure of yourself.” He nimbly danced out of her reach when she tried to hit him. “The only thing I will say is that, compared to the rest of us, Cathal is nearly a monk. He isnae one to be caught in embraces with a lass round every corner. And, aye, mayhap he thinks too much on a bairn, but ’tisnae just an heir he seeks, is it? Tis the salvation of his people. Tis no small thing that. So, do ye cease teasing the fool and say aye?” Bridget sighed. “Tisnae an easy thing to decide. Tisnae just my fate, but that of my children I must consider and ye ask me to do it in but a week.” “We are but a wee bit different.” “Och, aye, ye are that.” “But, that shouldnae trouble a Callan, I think.” He sighed when she did not respond to that remark. “We arenae what ye think we are, lass. Nay exactly. I dinnae believe the soulless dead breed bairns.” He smiled gently at the look of consternation that briefly crossed her face. “We are but different. Cursed in some ways, blessed in others, but ’tis Cathal who must tell ye the tale. ~ Hannah Howell,

633:A Sonnet Upon The Pitiful Burning Of The Globe Playhouse In Now sit thee down, Melpomene, Wrapp'd in a sea-coal robe, And tell the doleful tragedy That late was play'd at Globe; For no man that can sing and say But was scar'd on St. Peter's Day. Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true. All you that please to understand, Come listen to my story, To see Death with his raking brand 'Mongst such an auditory; Regarding neither Cardinal's might, Nor yet the rugged face of Henry the Eight. Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true. This fearful fire began above, A wonder strange and true, And to the stage-house did remove, As round as tailor's clew; And burnt down both beam and snag, And did not spare the silken flag. Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true. Out run the knights, out run the lords, And there was great ado; Some lost their hats and some their swords, Then out run Burbage too; The reprobates, though drunk on Monday, Prayed for the fool and Henry Condye. Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true. The periwigs and drum-heads fry, Like to a butter firkin; A woeful burning did betide To many a good buff jerkin. Then with swoll'n eyes, like drunken Flemings, 24 Distressed stood old stuttering Hemings. Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true. ... Be warned, you stage strutters all, Lest you again be catched, And such a burning do befall As to them whose house was thatched; Forbear your whoring, breeding biles, And lay up that expense for tiles. Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true. Go draw you a petition, And do you not abhor it, And get, with low submission, A license to beg for it In churches, sans churchwardens' checks, In Surrey and in Middlesex. Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true. ~ Anonymous Americas,

634:On A Proposed Crematory When a fair bridge is builded o'er the gulf Between two cities, some ambitious fool, Hot for distinction, pleads for earliest leave To push his clumsy feet upon the span, That men in after years may single him, Saying: 'Behold the fool who first went o'er!' So be it when, as now the promise is, Next summer sees the edifice complete Which some do name a crematorium, Within the vantage of whose greater maw's Quicker digestion we shall cheat the worm And circumvent the handed mole who loves, With tunnel, adit, drift and roomy stope, To mine our mortal parts in all their dips And spurs and angles. Let the fool stand forth To link his name with this fair enterprise, As first decarcassed by the flame. And if With rival greedings for the fiery fame They push in clamoring multitudes, or if With unaccustomed modesty they all Hold off, being something loth to qualify, Let me select the fittest for the rite. By heaven! I'll make so warrantable, wise And excellent censure of their true deserts, And such a searching canvass of their claims, That none shall bait the ballot. I'll spread my choice Upon the main and general of those Who, moved of holy impulse, pulpit-born, Protested 'twere a sacrilege to burn God's gracious images, designed to rot, And bellowed for the right of way for each Distempered carrion through the water pipes. With such a sturdy, boisterous exclaim They did discharge themselves from their own throats Against the splintered gates of audience 'Twere wholesomer to take them in at mouth Than ear. These shall burn first: their ignible And seasoned substances-trunks, legs and arms, Blent indistinguishable in a mass, 365 Like winter-woven serpents in a pit None vantaged of his fellow-fools in point Of precedence, and all alive-shall serve As fueling to fervor the retort For after cineration of true men. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

635:Peccavi, Domine O Power to whom this earthly clime Is but an atom in the whole, O Poet-heart of Space and Time, O Maker and Immortal Soul, Within whose glowing rings are bound, Out of whose sleepless heart had birth The cloudy blue, the starry round, And this small miracle of earth: Who liv'st in every living thing, And all things are thy script and chart, Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing, And yearnest in the human heart; O Riddle with a single clue, Love, deathless, protean, secure, The ever old, the ever new, O Energy, serene and pure. Thou, who art also part of me, Whose glory I have sometime seen, O Vision of the Ought-to-be, O Memory of the Might-have-been, I have had glimpses of thy way, And moved with winds and walked with stars, But, weary, I have fallen astray, And, wounded, who shall count my scars? O Master, all my strength is gone; Unto the very earth I bow; I have no light to lead me on; With aching heart and burning brow, I lie as one that travaileth In sorrow more than he can bear; I sit in darkness as of death, And scatter dust upon my hair. The God within my soul hath slept, And I have shamed the nobler rule; O Master, I have whined and crept; 134 O Spirit, I have played the fool. Like him of old upon whose head His follies hung in dark arrears, I groan and travail in my bed, And water it with bitter tears. I stand upon thy mountain-heads, And gaze until mine eyes are dim; The golden morning glows and spreads; The hoary vapours break and swim. I see thy blossoming fields, divine, Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees-And then that broken soul of mine-How much less beautiful than these! O Spirit, passionless, but kind, Is there in all the world, I cry, Another one so base and blind, Another one so weak as I? O Power, unchangeable, but just, Impute this one good thing to me, I sink my spirit to the dust In utter dumb humility. ~ Archibald Lampman,

636:Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak profanely), that neither having th' accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villainous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready. ~ William Shakespeare,

637:When Dacey Rode The Mule ’TWAS to a small, up-country town, When we were boys at school, There came a circus with a clown, Likewise a bucking mule. The clown announced a scheme they had Spectators for to bring— They’d give a crown to any lad Who’d ride him round the ring. And, gentle reader, do not scoff Nor think a man a fool— To buck a porous-plaster off Was pastime to that mule. The boys got on he bucked like sin; He threw them in the dirt. What time the clown would raise a grin By asking, “Are you hurt?” But Johnny Dacey came one night, The crack of all the school; Said he, “I’ll win the crown all right; Bring in your bucking mule.” The elephant went off his trunk, The monkey played the fool, And all the band got blazing drunk When Dacey rode the mule. But soon there rose a galling shout Of laughter, for the clown From somewhere in his pants drew out A little paper crown. He placed the crown on Dacey’s head While Dacey looked a fool; “Now, there’s your crown, my lad,” he said, “For riding of the mule!” The band struck up with “Killaloe”, And “Rule Britannia, Rule”, And “Young Man from the Country”, too, 525 When Dacey rode the mule. Then Dacey, in a furious rage, For vengeance on the show Ascended to the monkeys’ cage And let the monkeys go; The blue-tailed ape and the chimpanzee He turned abroad to roam; Good faith! It was a sight to see The people step for home. For big baboons with canine snout Are spiteful, as a rule— The people didn’t sit it out, When Dacey rode the mule. And from the beasts he let escape, The bushmen all declare, Were born some creatures partly ape And partly native-bear. They’re rather few and far between, The race is nearly spent; But some of them may still be seen In Sydney Parliament. And when those legislators fight, And drink, and act the fool, Just blame it on that torrid night When Dacey rode the mule. A.B. (Banjo) Pasterson ~ Banjo Paterson,

638: XVII - AT THE FOUNTAIN MARGARET and LISBETH With pitchers. LISBETH Hast nothing heard of Barbara? MARGARET No, not a word. I go so little out. LISBETH It's true, Sibylla said, to-day. She's played the fool at last, there's not a doubt. Such taking-on of airs! MARGARET How so? LISBETH It stinks! She's feeding two, whene'er she eats and drinks. MARGARET Ah! LISBETH    And so, at last, it serves her rightly. She clung to the fellow so long and tightly! That was a promenading! At village and dance parading! As the first they must everywhere shine, And he treated her always to pies and wine, And she made a to-do with her face so fine; So mean and shameless was her behavior, She took all the presents the fellow gave her. 'Twas kissing and coddling, on and on! So now, at the end, the flower is gone. MARGARET The poor, poor thing! LISBETH Dost pity her, at that? When one of us at spinning sat, And mother, nights, ne'er let us out the door She sported with her paramour. On the door-bench, in the passage dark, The length of the time they'd never mark. So now her head no more she'll lift, But do church-penance in her sinner's shift! MARGARET He'll surely take her for his wife. LISBETH He'd be a fool! A brisk young blade Has room, elsewhere, to ply his trade. Besides, he's gone. MARGARET That is not fair! LISBETH If him she gets, why let her beware! The boys shall dash her wreath on the floor, And we'll scatter chaff before her door! [Exit. MARGARET (returning home) How scornfully I once reviled, When some poor maiden was beguiled! More speech than any tongue suffices I craved, to censure others' vices. Black as it seemed, I blackened still, And blacker yet was in my will; And blessed myself, and boasted high, And nowa living sin am I! Yetall that drove my heart thereto, God! was so good, so dear, so true! Faust ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, AT THE FOUNTAIN ,

639:Well, that’s everyone,” Nigel said, “although we do have one extra basket. Perhaps I could interest you in taking it, Miss Easton. Surely you deserve a Christmas treat as well.” His eyes gleamed with a teasing light, and Amelia could feel her cheeks flushing hot. Having finally acknowledged her feelings for him, it was difficult to meet his gaze. “I think I’ve eaten too many treats already,” she said with a forced chuckle. “I’ve been terribly self-indulgent tonight.” “I cannot agree with you, Miss Easton. To my mind, you aren’t spoiled nearly enough.” His smile fueled her blush. Amelia suspected her cheeks were now as red as his waistcoat. “I am in complete agreement,” Aunt Lucy chimed in. “Amelia is always thinking of others, never of herself. But as much as she deserves additional treats, that extra basket is for her sister, Gwen.” “Ah, the youngest Easton,” Nigel said. “She didn’t join us tonight.” “She’s confined to the nursery with an earache, poor thing,” Amelia explained, “and she’s very sad to be missing all the fun.” She paused to watch Nigel gingerly extract the mistletoe wreath from his hair. “I know it’s a great deal to ask, Mr. Dash, but do you think…” She trailed off, hating to impose on him yet again. Nigel placed the crown back on his head with a rueful smile. “Why not? It’s not as if I could look any more of a fool that I already do.” “I wouldn’t bet on that,” Broadmore said, barging in to the conversation. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Dash. Wait till everyone around town hears how you played the fool.” Aunt Lucy gave his lordship her most imperial glare as she rose. “I am vastly grateful to Mr. Dash for his generosity and kindness. His charitable spirit is certainly a great deal more admirable than yours, Lord Broadmore, and entirely in keeping with the holiday season.” She turned her back on him to speak with Thomas. In the face of that forceful snub, Broadmore could do nothing but silently fume. Nigel gave him a bland smile but saved a wink for Amelia. Choking back a laugh, she came to her feet. “I’ll escort you to the nursery, Mr. Dash. I promised to visit Gwen before her bedtime, and I know she’ll be thrilled to have a visit from Father Christmas.” She plucked the ornate basket of sweets from the footman’s tray. “I’ll take that, Thomas.” Broadmore ~ Anna Campbell,

640:And she saw Mr. Nobley clearly. The thin wrinkles just beginning at the corners of his eyes, the whiskers on his chin darkening already after his morning shave, the hint of lines around his mouth that suggested he might smile more in real life. He had the kind of face you wanted to kiss--lips, forehead, cheeks, eyelids, everywhere except his chin. That you wanted to bite. Jane thought: I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers. Miss Erstwhile thought: My, what a catch. How the society page would rant! “I think you should stay away from him, Miss Erstwhile.” Mr. Nobley turned his back on Martin and took her arm, returning her to the path. “I don’t know why you care, sir,” she said, doing her best to sound Austen-y, “but I certainly will, if you’ll do me a favor. Perform in the theatrical.” “Miss Erstwhile…” “Oh, come on! It will please me to no end to see you so uncomfortable. You’re not afraid, are you? You seem so stuck on being proper all the time, but there can’t be anything really wrong in doing a little theatrical. This is, after all, the nineteenth century. So perhaps your protests stem from your fear of appearing the fool?” “You accuse me of vanity. It may be that the enterprise simply does not seem to me amusing. And yet in part you are right. I am not much of an actor.” “Aren’t you?” She looked at him meaningfully. He flinched and recovered. “My true concerns, however, are in regards to the delicate sentiments of our good hostess.” “And if we propose the recreation to her and she approves, will you participate?” “Yes, I suppose I must.” He tightened his lips, in annoyance or against a smile, she wasn’t sure. “You are infuriatingly persistent, Miss Erstwhile.” “And you, Mr. Nobley, are annoyingly stubborn. Together we must be Impertinence and Inflexibility.” “That was clever.” “Was it? Thanks, it just came to me.” “No forethought?” “Not a lick.” “Hm, impressive.” Jane jabbed him with her elbow. When they caught up to the rest of the party, Miss Charming was engaging Colonel Andrews in a discussion on the “relative ickiness of tea” and Captain East and Amelia were either walking in silence or whispering their hearts’ secrets. “We’re going to do the theatrical,” Jane announced to the others. “Mr. Nobley is clay in my hands. ~ Shannon Hale,

641:When I see the lark beating Its wings in joy against the rays of the sun That it forgets itself and lets itself fall Because of the sweetness that comes to its heart, Alas! Such great envy then overwhelms me Of all those whom I see rejoicing, I wonder that my heart, at that moment, Does not melt from desire. Alas! How much I thought I knew About love, and how little I know, Because I cannot keep myself from loving The one from whom I will gain nothing. She has all my heart, and my soul, And herself and the whole world; And when she left, nothing remained But desire and a longing heart. I have never had power over myself Nor been by own man from the very hour When she let me see into her eyes, Into a mirror that pleases me so much. Mirror, since I saw myself in you, I have been slain by deep sighs, That I have lost myself just as the handsome Narcissus did in the fountain. I despair of ladies; I will never trust them again; As I used to defend them Now I shall abandon them, Because I see no one who does any good for me Against her who destroys and confounds me, I fear and distrust them all, Because I know very well that they are all alike. She really shows herself to be a woman in this, My lady, for which I condemn her; Because she does not want what she should want, And what she shouldn't do, she does. I have fallen on an evil grace, And I have indeed acted like the fool on the bridge And I do not know how this happened to me, Unless I tried to climb too high on the mountain. Mercy is indeed lost, And I never knew it, Because she, who ought to have most of it, Has none, and where will I look for it? Ah! It would never seem, when looking at her, That she would let this love-sick wretch, Who will never be well without her, To die, without helping him. Since these things will never bring me good from my lady, Neither prayers, pity, nor the rights I have, Nor is it a pleasure to her That I love her, I will never tell her again. Thus I part from her and give her up. She has slain me, and through death I will respond, And I go away, since she does not ask me to stay, Wretched, into exile, I know not where. Tristan, you will have nothing more from me, For I go away, wretched, I know not where. I will withdraw from singing and renounce it, And I hide myself from joy and love. ~ Bernart de Ventadorn, When I see the lark beating ,

642:Do you believe yourself in love with Deveaux?” He snarled the words. Between gritted teeth, he said, “It’s emblazoned on your pretty face. But you wouldn’t love him if you truly knew him. Your feelings would wither and die.” “What are you talking about?” “He’s lied to you repeatedly.” “Uh-huh. I’ll just take your word for it?” “No, I received my information from the Fool. He was quite worried about his Empress’s safety when you were in Deveaux’s keeping.” “You know I’ll fact-check.” “I expect you to.” “And why would you two be discussing my safety?” “I’ve been up-front about my intentions with you, unlike Deveaux. Did you never wonder about his instant infatuation with you?” “Maybe he had a thing for cheerleaders.” Death shook his head. “No, he targeted you before he ever saw you.” “That doesn’t make sense.” “You were possessed by someone he hated.” He downed another shot. “Jack despised Brand. That was no secret.” “You never asked yourself why?” “Because Brand was rich and seemed to have everything so easy.” “I’m sure that had something to do with it. However, the main reason he hated Brandon Radcliffe”—Death’s eyes had never looked so flat and dark—“was that they shared a father” “You’re saying Brand and Jackson were . . . half brothers?” Only one son had known of their connection. Was this why Jack’s eyes had darted when I’d asked him if he had any secrets? Death was relishing this. “Deveaux coveted all his brother had: the perfect family, the house, the car. The girl. He could never have any of the others—but he could have you. And he did.” “You’re lying.” You can trust me alone, Evie. “Matthew would’ve told me about this.” Death tsked. “Such trust you have in the Fool. How do you think I learned what my armor would do to your powers?” I tottered on my feet. “H-he wouldn’t!” “It’s nothing personal with him, just strategy and scheming.” I’d thought Matthew an innocent, wide-eyed boy. “The Fool knew that I’d kill you if I had no means to control you. In essence, he’s saved your life. So far, at least.” Death continued, “Deveaux didn’t even like you, but he pursued you.” “You don’t know anything!” I cried, though I could hear Jack’s words: Even when I hated you, I wanted you. “One benefit of my endless life? I have quite a grasp on human behavior.” “Maybe he did target me. But his feelings grew from that. You’ll have to do better than this.” “Do better? As you wish, creature.” With an evil grin, he said, “Deveaux killed your mother. ~ Kresley Cole,

643:Lucien is throwing a ball next Friday in honor of Charles's homecoming, and he wants you to be there." "Wants?" Juliet drawled, "Demands is more like it." "It's his way of thanking you for all you've done for Charles," Nerissa added.  "He wants to give you a magical, Cinderella night-at-the-ball as his way of expressing his gratitude for saving Charles's life." "But — but I can't attend, I — I don't even know how to dance!" "Then you will learn," said Nerissa, blithely. "And . . . I don't know the correct things to say to people, or how to address them properly . . . or — or . . . anything!" "We will teach you." "And I can't afford fancy new clothes, let alone a ball gown!" "Ah, but I can, and I would be very offended if you do not accept them as a small token of my appreciation for saving my brother's life," intoned a smoothly urbane, aristocratic voice.  Gasping, Amy whirled to see the duke of Blackheath standing in the doorway, an amused little smile playing about his otherwise severe face. Amy sank in a curtsey.  "Your Grace!" "My dear girl.  Are you giving my sister trouble?" "No, but I really can't go to a ball, I'll look the fool and I've got no business being there anyhow and —" "Do you want to go to the ball?" "Well of course, it'll be magical, wondrous, but I'll feel like a chicken amongst a flock of peacocks!" The duke folded his arms and leaned negligently against the door jamb, his black eyes holding her captive.  "Do you remember the conversation we had last night . . . about helping Charles?" That soft, suave tone was enough to make Amy's heart still.  "Well yes, but I don't see how this has anything to do with him . . ." "Of course you don't.  And so I will tell you.   Nerissa wants a new gown for the ball.  As a lady's maid, you will want some new clothes.  And I —" he gave a silky smile — "I will want Charles to ride alongside your coach to provide safe escort to and from London."  He smiled, but the gesture was just a little bit sinister.  "It would benefit him greatly to feel . . . useful, don't you think?" And Amy, standing there feeling nervous and dry-mouthed and very, very intimidated indeed, suddenly understood.  By sending the girls off to London and asking Charles to go along as protection, Lucien was setting things up so that Charles would have opportunity to regain some of his feelings of self-worth. She only hoped he wasn't lining up a highwayman to rob them, as well! She returned the duke's smile, suddenly feeling like a co-conspirator instead of a scared ninny.  "Yes, your Grace.  I quite understand." "Good.  I knew that you would. ~ Danelle Harmon,

644:Everything belonged to him--but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible--it was not good for one either--trying to imagine. He had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land--I mean literally. You can't understand. How could you?--with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbors ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums--how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man's untrammeled feet may take him into by the way of solitude--utter solitude without a policeman--by the way of silence, utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbor can be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong--too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil: the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil--I don't know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place -- and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won't pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells too, by Jove!-- breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. And there, don't you see? Your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in--your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. And that's difficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to excuse or even explain--I am trying to account to myself for--for--Mr. Kurtz--for the shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honored me with its amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was because it could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England, and--as he was good enough to say himself--his sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, his father was half-French. All Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz. ~ Joseph Conrad,

645:To The Fool-Killer Ah, welcome, welcome! Sit you down, old friend; Your pipe I'll serve, your bottle I'll attend. 'Tis many a year since you and I have known Society more pleasant than our own In our brief respites from excessive work I pointing out the hearts for you to dirk. What have you done since lately at this board We canvassed the deserts of all the horde And chose what names would please the people best, Engraved on coffin-plates-what bounding breast Would give more satisfaction if at rest? But never mind-the record cannot fail: The loftiest monuments will tell the tale. I trust ere next we meet you'll slay the chap Who calls old Tyler 'Judge' and Merry 'Cap' Calls John P. Irish 'Colonel' and John P., Whose surname Jack-son speaks his pedigree, By the same title-men of equal rank Though one is belly all, and one all shank, Showing their several service in the fray: One fought for food and one to get away. I hope, I say, you'll kill the 'title' man Who saddles one on every back he can, Then rides it from Beersheba to Dan! Another fool, I trust, you will perform Your office on while my resentment's warm: He shakes my hand a dozen times a day If, luckless, I so often cross his way, Though I've three senses besides that of touch, To make me conscious of a fool too much. Seek him, friend Killer, and your purpose make Apparent as his guilty hand you take, And set him trembling with a solemn: 'Shake!' But chief of all the addle-witted crew Conceded by the Hangman's League to you, The fool (his dam's acquainted with a knave) Whose fluent pen, of his no-brain the slave, 634 Strews notes of introduction o'er the land And calls it hospitality-his hand May palsy seize ere he again consign To me his friend, as I to Hades mine! Pity the wretch, his faults howe'er you see, Whom A accredits to his victim, B. Like shuttlecock which battledores attack (One speeds it forward, one would drive it back) The trustful simpleton is twice unblestA rare good riddance, an unwelcome guest. The glad consignor rubs his hands to think How duty is commuted into ink; The consignee (his hands he cannot rub He has the man upon them) mutters: 'Cub!' And straightway plans to lose him at the Club. You know, good Killer, where this dunce abides The secret jungle where he writes and hides Though no exploring foot has e'er upstirred His human elephant's exhaustless herd. Go, bring his blood! We'll drink it-letting fall A due libation to the gods of Gall. On second thought, the gods may have it all. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

646:Ivar Ingemundson's Lay Wherefore have I longings, When to live them strength is lacking? And wherefore see I, If I see but sorrow? Flight of my eye to the great and distant Dooms it to gales of darkening doubt; But fleeing backward to the present, It's prisoned in pain and pity. For I see a land with no leader, I see a leader with no land. The land how heavy-laden The leader how high his longing! Might the men but know it, That he is here among them! But they see a man in fetters, And leave him to lie there. Round the ship a storm is raging, At the rudder stands a fool. Who can save it? He, who below the deck is longing, Half-dead and in fetters. (Looking upward) Hear how they call Thee And come with arms uplifted! They have their savior at hand, And Thou sayest it never? Shall they, then, all thus perish, Because the one seems absent? Wilt Thou not let the fool die, That life may endure in many? What means that solemn saying: 62 One shall suffer for many? But many suffer for one. Oh, what means it? The wisdom Thou gavest Wearies me with guesswork. The light Thou hast dealt me Leads me to darkness. Not me alone, moreover, But millions and millions! Space unending spans not all the questions From earth here and up toward heaven. Weakness cowers in walls of cloisters, But wills of power press onward, And thronging, with longing, They thrust one another out of the lands.Whither? Before their eyes is night, 'In Nazareth a light is set!' one says aloud, A hundred thousand say it; All see it now: To Nazareth! But the half-part perish from hunger by the wayside, The other half by the sword of the heathen, The pest awaits the pilgrim in Nazareth,Wast Thou there, or wast Thou not there? Oh, where art Thou? The whole world now awakens, And on the way is searching And seeking after Thee! Or wast Thou in the hunger? Wast Thou in the pest? Wast Thou in the sword of the heathen? Saltest Thou with the salt of wrath? Refinest Thou with suffering's fire? Hast Thou millions of millions hidden in Thy future, 63 Whom Thou thus wilt save to freedom? Oh, to them are the thousands that now suffer But one And that one I would beseech Thee forNothing! I follow a little brook And find it leads to an ocean, I see here a little drop, And swelling in mist it mounts a mighty cloud. See, how I'm tossed so will-less By troublous waves of doubt, The wind overturned my little boat, The wreck is all my refuge. Lead me, lead me, I see nowhere land! Lift me, lift me, I nowhere footing find! ~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,

647:I stood on a rise, overlooking the plague valley. Matthew was beside me. The last thing I remembered was crawling into my sleeping bag after the whiskey had hit me like a two-by-four to the face. Now my friend was here with me. “I’ve missed you. Are you feeling better?” How much was this vision taking out of him? “Better.” He didn’t appear as pale. He wore a heavy coat, open over a space camp T-shirt. “I’m so relieved to hear that, sweetheart. Why would you bring us here?” “Power is your burden.” I surveyed all the bodies. “I felt the weight of it when I killed these people.” “Obstacles multiply.” “Which ones?” A breeze soughed over the valley. “Bagmen, slavers, militia, or cannibals?” He held up the fingers of one hand. “There are now five. The miners watch us. Plotting.” “But miners are the same as cannibals, right?” He shuffled his boots with irritation. “Miners, Empress.” “Okay, okay.” I rubbed his arm. “Are you and Finn being safe?” His brows drew together as he gazed out. “Smite and fall, mad and struck.” I looked with him, like we were viewing a sunset, a beautiful vista. Not plague and death. “You’ve told me those words before.” “So much for you to learn, Empress. Beware the inactivated card.” One Arcana’s powers lay dormant—until he or she killed another player. “Who is it?” “Don’t ask, if you ever want to know.” Naturally, I started to ask, but he cut me off. “Do you believe I see far?” He peered down at me. “Do you believe I see an unbroken line that stretches on through eternity? Centuries ago, I told an Empress that a future incarnation of hers would live in a world of ash where nothing grew. She never believed me.” I could imagine Phyta or the May Queen surveying verdant fields and crops, doubting the Fool. “Now I tell you that dark days are ahead. Will you believe me?” “I will. I do. Please tell me what will happen. How dark?” “Darkest. Power is your burden; knowing is mine.” His expression turned pleading, his soft brown eyes imploring. “Never hate me.” I raised my hands, cradling his face. “Even when I was so mad at you, I never hated you.” “Remember. Matthew knows best.” He sounded like his mom—when she’d tried to drown him: Mother knows best, son. I dropped my hands. “It scares me when you say that.” “Do you know what you really want? I see it. I feel it. Think, Empress. See far.” I was trying! “Help me, then. I’m ready. Help me see far!” “All is not as it seems. What would you sacrifice? What would you endure?” “To end the game?” His voice grew thick as he said, “Things will happen beyond your wildest imaginings.” “Good things?” His eyes watered. “Good, bad, good, bad, good, good, bad, bad, good-bye. You are my friend. ~ Kresley Cole,

648:Death told me the Fool showed you a vision with ten swords in your back.” I nodded. “The ten of swords card indicates that a devastating catastrophe is headed one’s way and will strike without warning. Bingo, Matthew.” “Hmm.” “Hmm, what?” “That card is also about letting go and accepting one’s current circumstances.” Accepting that you can’t change fate. As my mom had done with my dad. “Should I let go of Jack? Like you let go of the man you lost?” She lifted one slim shoulder. “You’d already fallen for another.” “I swore revenge on Richter. How can I think of surrendering that need?” Richter, I’m . . . not coming for you? “Do you know what I fear more than marching off to die fighting him? That I might have to live with what he did.” “No one’s suggesting you give up your revenge. But what if we can’t find him for half a year? Two years? Will you cease living till then? Will you force Death to stop as well? He yearns to be a normal man. Even if just for a day. Will you not give that to him?” “I made the point to him about our limited time,” I said, still cringing at my clumsiness. “All I did was insult him.” “He wanted a wife. Not a buddy.” Was she listening to everything in the castle? “I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t know what to do.” She pinned my gaze with her own. “Therein lies the lesson of the card, Evie Greene. The lesson of life. When you can’t change your situation, you must change yourself. You must rise and walk—despite the ten swords in your back.” What was harder than dying? Living a nightmare. Mom had learned to live without Dad. I had learned to live without Mom. Could I go on without Jack? “I shouldn’t even be thinking about Aric. I disobeyed the dictates of the game, and I got Jack killed. What if I do the same to Aric?” Circe made a sound of amusement. “You always did think highly of yourself. Do you believe you had something to do with that massacre? Think logically. Richter could have reversed the order of his attacks—targeting Fort Arcana earlier, vaporizing the Magician, one of Fauna’s wolves, and the stronghold of his enemies. He could have shot at the army by helicopter afterward. Instead he targeted mortals and one player. The Moon.” My lips parted. “Because she was more of a threat to him.” “She was the only one in the area who could slay him from a distance. Richter will target the Tower as well, since Joules shares that ability,” she said. “So if we should blame any card for your mortal’s death, blame the Moon.” “I’ll never blame her.” “Yet you’ll blame yourself?” Circe shook her head, and the river swirled. “I say we blame the Emperor.” Could it be that easy? Had Richter always had Selena in his sights? If fate couldn’t be changed—then she’d been doomed to die the second we’d saved her from the Lovers. ~ Kresley Cole,

649:Themes of descent often turn on the struggle between the titanic and the demonic within the same person or group. In Moby Dick, Ahab’s quest for the whale may be mad and “monomaniacal,” as it is frequently called, or even evil so far as he sacrifices his crew and ship to it, but evil or revenge are not the point of the quest. The whale itself may be only a “dumb brute,” as the mate says, and even if it were malignantly determined to kill Ahab, such an attitude, in a whale hunted to the death, would certainly be understandable if it were there. What obsesses Ahab is in a dimension of reality much further down than any whale, in an amoral and alienating world that nothing normal in the human psyche can directly confront. The professed quest is to kill Moby Dick, but as the portents of disaster pile up it becomes clear that a will to identify with (not adjust to) what Conrad calls the destructive element is what is really driving Ahab. Ahab has, Melville says, become a “Prometheus” with a vulture feeding on him. The axis image appears in the maelstrom or descending spiral (“vortex”) of the last few pages, and perhaps in a remark by one of Ahab’s crew: “The skewer seems loosening out of the middle of the world.” But the descent is not purely demonic, or simply destructive: like other creative descents, it is partly a quest for wisdom, however fatal the attaining of such wisdom may be. A relation reminiscent of Lear and the fool develops at the end between Ahab and the little black cabin boy Pip, who has been left so long to swim in the sea that he has gone insane. Of him it is said that he has been “carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro . . . and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps.” Moby Dick is as profound a treatment as modern literature affords of the leviathan symbolism of the Bible, the titanic-demonic force that raises Egypt and Babylon to greatness and then hurls them into nothingness; that is both an enemy of God outside the creation, and, as notably in Job, a creature within it of whom God is rather proud. The leviathan is revealed to Job as the ultimate mystery of God’s ways, the “king over all the children of pride” (41:34), of whom Satan himself is merely an instrument. What this power looks like depends on how it is approached. Approached by Conrad’s Kurtz through his Antichrist psychosis, it is an unimaginable horror: but it may also be a source of energy that man can put to his own use. There are naturally considerable risks in trying to do so: risks that Rimbaud spoke of in his celebrated lettre du voyant as a “dérèglement de tous les sens.” The phrase indicates the close connection between the titanic and the demonic that Verlaine expressed in his phrase poète maudit, the attitude of poets who feel, like Ahab, that the right worship of the powers they invoke is defiance. ~ Northrop Frye,

650:The silence stretched, and she could hear him shift his feet. The lower tones of the dancing music trembled through the walls, muffled and sad, stripped of vigor and all high prancing notes. Surreal, Jane thought. That’s what you call this. “Miss Erstwhile, let me impress upon you my utmost sincerity…” “There’s no need.” She sat up straighter, smoothed her hands over her skirt. “I understand completely. But I guess I just can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I did my best, and this place was really good for me, you were really good for me. But I’ve come to the end. And it’s okay.” Something in her tone must have caught at him. He knelt beside her, taking her hand. “Are you? Are you okay?” he asked in more honest, feeling tones than she had ever heard from him. The change startled her. Despite his austere looks, he had an openness about his expression that she could only account for in his eyes. Dark eyes, focused on her, pleading with her. But it was all just a game. “I don’t know you,” she said softly. He blinked twice. He looked down. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. Forgive me. We can speak of this later.” He rose to leave. “Mr. Nobley,” she said, and he stopped. “Thank you for thinking kindly of me. I can’t accept your proposal, and I won’t ever be able to. I’m flattered by your attentions, and I have no doubt that many a fine lady will melt under such proclamations in the future.” “But not you.” He sounded beautifully sad. What an actor, she thought. “No, I guess not. I’m embarrassed that I came here at all as though begging for your tormented, lovesick proposal. Thank you for giving it to me so that I could see that it’s not what I want.” “What do you want?” His voice nearly growled with the question. “Excuse me?” “I am asking sincerely,” he said, though he still sounded angry. “What do you want?” “Something real.” He frowned. “Does this have anything to do with a certain gardener?” “Don’t argue with me about this. It’s none of your business.” He scowled but said, “I truly wish you every happiness, Miss Erstwhile, whom I will never call Jane.” “Let’s toss the pretense out the window, shall we? Go ahead and call me Jane.” He seemed saddened by that invitation, and she remembered what it meant to a Regency man to call a woman by her first name. “Except it won’t imply that we’re engaged or anything…Never mind. I’m sorry, I feel like a fool.” “I am the fool,” he said. “Then here’s to fools.” Jane smiled sadly. “I should return.” Mr. Nobley bowed. “Enjoy the ball.” She left him in the dark library, starling herself with the suddenness of yet another ending. But she’d done it. She’d said no. To Mr. Nobley, to the idea of Mr. Darcy, to everything that held her back. She felt so light, her heels barely touching the floor. I’m done, Carolyn, I know what I want, she thought as she approached the palpable strokes of dancing music. ~ Shannon Hale,

651:As the sun set, I ate a hospital meal and watched TV. Every few minutes, I glanced at the girl on the bed and tried to see Raven. I struggled to remember her smile and laugh. With her face so swollen, she didn’t seem like my love. I worried I’d lost her because I brought Caleb to Ellsberg. Eventually, the nurse showed me how to turn the chair into a pull out bed. I thanked her, but the thing was too damn small for me to fit on. Besides, I didn’t want to sleep until Raven woke up. Finally, I gave into my weird little urge to kiss the sleeping beauty. I needed to know she was okay. Know she wanted me to stay because she still loved me. I felt nervous until her swollen lips twitched into a smile after my kiss. “Tell me a story,” she mumbled while gripping my shirt with her good hand and tugging me into the bed with her. I adjusted our bodies just enough for me to rest next to her. While the position wasn’t comfortable, I finally relaxed at knowing my woman wanted me close. Caressing her battered face with my fingers, I loved how she smiled for me. Even in pain and after a hellish day, she soothed my fears. “Once upon a time,” I said and she smiled again, “there was a lonely fool who wasted one day after another of his life. One day, he met the most fascinating chick and she quickly wrapped the fool around her finger. She loved him in the best way and saved him from himself. He loved her too and only wanted for her to be happy and safe.” Hesitating, I frowned at the sight of her suffering. As if knowing what I was thinking, she reached up and ran a finger of my lips. “More.” “After the evil… let’s call them gnomes because I hate those ugly little fuckers. So, once the gnomes were destroyed, the fool and his lovely savior bought a big house for all the beautiful blond babies they would have together.” As Raven smiled at this idea, my uneasiness faded. “Their kids all had names with a V in them to honor their hot parents.” Raven laughed then moaned at the gesture. Still, she kept smiling for me. “The fool, his beautiful woman, and their army of glorious babies played videogames, bowled, and roller skated. They were always happy and never sad in a town with their friends and family. They all lived happily ever after.” Raven swollen lips smiled enough to show her missing tooth. Even though she was essentially blind with her battered eyes, she knew I’d seen her mouth and covered it with her hand. “You’re beautiful, darling. Nothing will ever change that.” Raven grunted, unconvinced. “There’s more to love about you than your beauty.” Another grunt followed by a hint of a pout. “Sugar, if I got all banged up and my stunning good looks were damaged, you’d still love me, right?” Raven laughed, but said nothing, so I answered for her. “Of course, you would. My amazing personality and giant brain would keep you horny even if my hot body wasn’t at its best.” Laughing harder now, Raven leaned against me. “I liked your story.” “Unlike most fairytales, this one is coming true. ~ Bijou Hunter,

652: ON LOVE OF THE NEIGHBOR You crowd around your neighbor and have fine words for it. But I say unto you: your love of the neighbor is your bad love of yourselves. You flee to your neighbor from yourselves and would like to make a virtue out of that: but I see through your "selflessness. The you is older than the l; the you has been pronounced holy, but not yet the 1: so man crowds toward his neighbor. Do I recommend love of the neighbor to you? Sooner I should even recommend flight from the neighbor and love of the farthest. Higher than love of the neighbor is love of the farthest and the future; higher yet than the love of human beings I esteem the love of things and ghosts. This ghost that runs after you, my brother, is more beautiful than you; why do you not give him your flesh and your bones? But you are afraid and run to your neighbor. You cannot endure yourselves and do not love yourselves enough: now you want to seduce your neighbor to love, and then gild yourselves with his error. Would that you could not endure all sorts of neighbors and their neighbors; then you would have to create your friend and his overflowing heart out of yourselves. You invite a witness when you want to speak well of yourselves; and when you have seduced him to think well of you, then you think well of yourselves. Not only are they liars who speak when they know better, but even more those who speak when they know nothing. And thus you speak of yourselves to others and deceive the neighbor with yourselves. Thus speaks the fool: 'Association with other people corrupts one's character-especially if one has none." One man goes to his neighbor because he seeks himself; another because he would lose himself. Your bad love of yourselves turns your solitude into a prison. It is those farther away who must pay for your love of your neighbor; and even if five of you are together, there is always a sixth who must die. I do not love your festivals either: I found too many actors there, and the spectators, too, often behaved like actors. I teach you not the neighbor, but the friend. The friend should be the festival of the earth to you and 62 an anticipation of the overman. I teach you the friend and his overflowing heart. But one must learn to be a sponge if one wants to be loved by hearts that overflow. I teach you the friend in whom the world stands completed, a bowl of goodness-the creating friend who always has a completed world to give away. And as the world rolled apart for him, it rolls together again in circles for him, as the becoming of the good through evil, as the becoming of purpose out of accident. Let the future and the farthest be for you the cause of your today: in your friend you shall love the overman as your cause. My brothers, love of the neighbor I do not recommend to you: I recommend to you love of the farthest. Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON LOVE OF THE NEIGHBOUR ,

653:Charles?  What is wrong?" That rueful little smile still in place, he bent his head, looking down as though he could see the beautiful animal whose broad forehead was pressed to his chest, and whose ears were only a few inches from his nose.  "I cannot ride him," he said softly, with one of his long, slow, blinks that lent him an air of studied sadness.  "As much as he means to me, as much as I've missed him, he is nothing more to me than a pet, now —" He never finished the sentence.  As though he'd taken violent offense at his master's words, the stallion flung up his head, the blow catching Charles squarely beneath the jaw, snapping his head back and sending him reeling backwards into Amy's arms. She staggered under his weight. "Will, help me!" Her brother rushed forward, and together they eased the captain down onto his back in the straw.  He lay unmoving, his lashes still against his cheeks.  Blood gushed from his nose. "Charles!" Amy slid a hand beneath his nape and lifted his head just as his eyes fluttered open. "Oh-h-h-h," he moaned, covering his nose with one hand and trying to stop the bleeding.  "Damn." "Will, get some cold water, quick!" Amy urged.  As her brother ran out of the barn toward the well, Amy helped Charles to sit up.  Cradling him against her body and tipping his head back over her arm, she tore off her neckerchief and pressed it to his nose. "You silly man," she said, in gentle admonishment.  "I would've thought you knew your horse well enough to realize he doesn't take kindly to insults, either to himself or to his master." "I didn't insult him. "  His voice sounded nasally and thick. "You insulted yourself." "I did not." "You did.  You said you couldn't ride him." "I damn well can't." "You damn well will.  My brother didn't go to all the trouble of bringing him back just so you could do nothing more than groom and feed him." "My dear Amy, please be realistic.  I cannot ride him." "Why not?" "Because I can't see." "So you can't.  But there's nothing wrong with your legs —" she blushed hotly, remembering the feel of them hard and strong against her own — "or your balance, or anything else about you.  You simply can't see where you're going.  But Contender can." "I shall not be able to guide him where I wish to go, pull him up when he needs pulling up, anticipate possible dangers to both himself and I." "Then you can go out riding with Mira and me, and we'll anticipate those things for you." "But I shall look the fool, up there on his back." "You shall look splendid." "Amy," he said in a patient, controlled voice, "you do not understand.  If something cannot be done the proper way, it should not be done at all.  Since I cannot ride him the proper way, I should not —" "No, Charles, you don't understand.  Sometimes there is no right way to do something, but a whole parcel of varying ways.  So you can't ride him the way you used to.  You find a different way." "But —" "You're doing it again," she scolded. "Doing what?" "Trying to be perfect.  And taking yourself far too seriously.  Stop it." He began to protest, then grinned and gave her a half-hearted salute.  "Yes, ma'm." At ~ Danelle Harmon,

654:When Mora came in with my hot chocolate, she also brought me a gift: a book. I took it eagerly. The book was a memoir from almost three hundred years before, written by the Duchess Nirth Masharlias, who married the heir to a principality. Though she never ruled, three of her children married into royalty. I had known of her, but not much beyond that. There was no letter, but slipped in the pages was a single petal of starliss. The text it marked was written in old-fashioned language, but even so, I liked the voice of the writer at once: …and though the Count spoke strictly in Accordance with Etiquette, his words were an Affront, for he knew my thoughts on Courtship of Married Persons… I skipped down a ways, then started to laugh when I read: …and mock-solemn, matching his Manner to the most precise Degree, I challenged him to a Duel. He was forced to go along with the Jest, lest the Court laugh at him instead of with him, but he liked it Not… …and at the first bells of Gold we were there on the Green, and lo, the Entire Court was out with us to see the Duel. Instead of Horses, I had brought big, shaggy Dogs from the southern Islands, playful and clumsy under their Gilt Saddles, and for Lances, we had great paper Devices which were already Limp and Dripping from the Rain… Twice he tried to speak Privily to me, but knowing he would apologize and thus end the Ridiculous Spectacle, I heeded him Not, and so we progressed through the Duel, attended with all proper Appurtenances, from Seconds to Trumpeteers, with the Court laughing themselves Hoarse and No One minding the increasing Downpour. In making us both Ridiculous I believe I put paid to all such Advances in future… The next page went on about other matters. I laid the book down, staring at the starliss as I thought this over. The incident on this page was a response--the flower made that clear enough--but what did it mean? And why the mystery? Since my correspondent had taken the trouble to answer, why not write a plain letter? Again I took up my pen, and I wrote carefully: Dear Mysterious Benefactor: I read the pages you marked, and though I was greatly diverted, the connection between this story and my own dilemma leaves me more confused than before. Would you advise my young lady to act the fool to the high-ranking lady--or are you hinting that the young one already has? Or is it merely a suggestion that she follow the duchess’s example and ward off the high-ranking lady’s hints with a joke duel? If you’ve figured out that this is a real situation and not a mere mental exercise, then you should also know that I promised someone important that I would not let myself get involved in political brangles; and I wish most straightly to keep this promise. Truth to tell, if you have insights that I have not--and it’s obvious that you do--in this dilemma I’d rather have plain discourse than gifts. The last line I lingered over the longest. I almost crossed it out, but instead folded the letter, sealed it, and when Mora came in, I gave it to her to deliver right away. Then I dressed and went out to walk. ~ Sherwood Smith,

655:The Night Quatrains THE Sun is set, and gone to sleep With the fair princess of the deep, Whose bosom is his cool retreat, When fainting with his proper heat; His steeds their flaming nostrils cool In spume of the cerulean pool; Whilst the wheels dip their hissing naves [hubs] Deep in Columbus's western waves. From whence great rolls of smoke arise To overshade the beauteous skies, Who bid the World's bright eye adieu In gelid tears of falling dew. And now from the Iberian vales Night's sable steeds her chariot hales, Where double cypress curtains screen The gloomy melancholic queen. These, as they higher mount the sky, Ravish all colour from the ey, And leave it but an useless glass , [mirror] Which few or no reflections grace. The crystal arch o'er Pinduss crown Is on a sudden dusky grown, And all's with fun'ral black o'erspread, As if the Day, which sleeps, were dead. No ray of Light the heart to cheer, But little twinkling stars appear, Which like faint dying embers lie, Fit not to work nor travel by. Perhaps to him they torches are, Who guide Night's sov'reign's drowsy car, And him they may befriend so near, But us they neither light nor cheer. Or else those little sparks of Light Are nails that tire the wheels of Night, Which to new stations still are brought As they roll o'er the gloomy vault, Or nails that arm the horse's hoof 13 Which trampling o'er the marble roof And striking fire in the air, We mortals call a shooting star. That's all the Light we now receive, Unless what belching Vulcans give, And those yield such a kind of Light As adds more horror to the Night. Nyctimine now freed from Day, From sullen bush flies out to prey, And does with ferret note proclaim Th'arrival of th'usurping Dame. The rail now cracks in fields and meads, Toads now forsake the nettle-beds, The tim'rous hare goes to relief, And wary men bolt out the thief. The fire's new rak'd, and hearth swept clean By Madge, the dirty kitchen quean*, [servant] The safe is lock'd, the mouse-trap set, The leaven laid, and bucking wet. Now in false floors and roofs above, The lustful cats make ill-tun'd love, The ban-dog on the dunghill lies, And watchful nurse sings lullabies. Philomel chants it whilst she bleeds, The bittern booms it in the reeds, And Reynard ent'ring the back yard, The Capitolian cry is heard. The Goblin now the fool alarms, Hags meet to mumble o'er their charms; The Night Mare rides the dreaming ass, And Fairies trip it on the grass. The drunkard now supinely snores, His load of ale sweats through his pores, Yet when he wakes the swine shall find A cropala remains behind. The sober now and chaste are blest With sweet, and with refreshing rest, And to sound sleeps they've best pretence, Have greatest share of Innocence. We should so live then that we may Fearless put off our clots and clay, And travel through Death's shades to Light, 14 For every Day must have its Night. ~ Charles Cotton,

656:Evil Hasten towards the good, leave behind all evil thoughts, for to do good without enthusiasm is to have a mind which delights in evil. If one does an evil action, he should not persist in it, he should not delight in it. For full of suffering is the accumulation of evil. If one does a good action, he should persist in it and take delight in it. Full of happiness is the accumulation of good. As long as his evil action has not yet ripened, an evildoer may experience contentment. But when it ripens, the wrong-doer knows unhappiness. As long as his good action has not yet ripened, one who does good may experience unhappiness. But when it ripens, the good man knows happiness. Do not treat evil lightly, saying, "That will not touch me." A jar is filled drop by drop; even so the fool fills himself little by little with wickedness. Do not treat good lightly, saying, "That will not touch me." A jar is filled drop by drop; even so the sage fills himself little by little with goodness. The merchant who is carrying many precious goods and who has but few companions, avoids dangerous roads; and a man who loves his life is wary of poison. Even so should one act regarding evil. A hand that has no wound can carry poison with impunity; act likewise, for evil cannot touch the righteous man. If you offend one who is pure, innocent and defenceless, the insult will fall back on you, as if you threw dust against the wind. Some are reborn here on earth, evil-doers go to the worlds of Niraya,1 the just go to the heavenly worlds, but those who have freed themselves from all desire attain Nirvana. Neither in the skies, nor in the depths of the ocean, nor in the rocky caves, nowhere upon earth does there exist a place where a man can find refuge from his evil actions. Neither in the skies, nor in the depths of the ocean, nor in the rocky caves, nowhere upon earth does there exist a place where a man can hide from death. People have the habit of dealing lightly with thoughts that come. And the atmosphere is full of thoughts of all kinds which do not in fact belong to anybody in particular, which move perpetually from one person to another, very freely, much too freely, because there are very few people who can keep their thoughts under control. When you take up the Buddhist discipline to learn how to control your thoughts, you make very interesting discoveries. You try to observe your thoughts. Instead of letting them pass freely, sometimes even letting them enter your head and establish themselves in a quite inopportune way, you look at them, observe them and you realise with stupefaction that in the space of a few seconds there passes through the head a series of absolutely improbable thoughts that are altogether harmful. ...? Conversion of the aim of life from the ego to the Divine: instead of seeking one's own satisfaction, to have the service of the Divine as the aim of life. * What you must know is exactly the thing you want to do in life. The time needed to learn it does not matter at all. For those who wish to live according to Truth, there is always something to learn and some progress to make. 2 October 1969 ~ The Mother, Questions And Answers 1929-1931,

657:XXIV. And more than that - a furlong on - why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? With all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood - Bog, clay and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss, or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXVII. And just as far as ever from the end! Naught in the distance but the evening, naught To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom friend, Sailed past, not best his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains - with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me - solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when - In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den. XXX. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left a tall scalped mountain ... Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII. Not see? because of night perhaps? - why day Came back again for that! before it left The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, - Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!' XXXIII. Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers, my peers - How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV. There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! In a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. ~ Robert Browning,

658:Dialogue In Verse _Jack._ Seest thou not yon farmer's son? He hath stoln my love from me, alas! What shall I do? I am undone; My heart will ne'er be as it was. O, but he gives her gay gold rings, And tufted gloves [for] holiday, And many other goodly things, That hath stoln my love away. _Friend._ Let him give her gay gold rings Or tufted gloves, were they ne'er so [gay]; [F]or were her lovers lords or kings, They should not carry the wench away. _Jack._ But 'a dances wonders well, And with his dances stole her love from me: Yet she wont to say, I bore the bell For dancing and for courtesy. _Dick._ Fie, lusty younker, what do you here, Not dancing on the green to-day? For Pierce, the farmer's son, I fear, Is like to carry your wench away. _Jack._ Good Dick, bid them all come hither, And tell Pierce from me beside, That, if he thinks to have the wench, Here he stands shall lie with the bride. _Dick._ Fie, Nan, why use thy old lover so, For any other new-come guest? Thou long time his love did know; Why shouldst thou not use him best? _Nan._ Bonny Dick, I will not forsake My bonny Rowland for any gold: If he can dance as well as Pierce, He shall have my heart in hold. 11 _Pierce._ Why, then, my hearts, let's to this gear; And by dancing I may won My Nan, whose love I hold so dear As any realm under the sun. _Gentleman._ Then, gentles, ere I speed from hence, I will be so bold to dance A turn or two without offence; For, as I was walking along by chance, I was told you did agree. _Friend._ 'Tis true, good sir; and this is she Hopes your worship comes not to crave her; For she hath lovers two or three, And he that dances best must have her. _Gentleman._ How say you, sweet, will you dance with me? And you [shall] have both land and [hill]; My love shall want nor gold nor fee. _Nan._ I thank you, sir, for your good will; But one of these my love must be: I'm but a homely country maid, And far unfit for your degree; [To dance with you I am afraid.] _Friend._ Take her, good sir, by the hand, As she is fairest: were she fairer, By this dance, you shall understand, He that can win her is like to wear her. _Fool._ And saw you not [my] Nan to-day, My mother's maid have you not seen? My pretty Nan is gone away To seek her love upon the green. [I cannot see her 'mong so many:] She shall have me, if she have any. _Nan._ Welcome, sweetheart, and welcome here, Welcome, my [true] love, now to me. This is my love [and my darling dear], And that my husband [soon] must be. 12 And, boy, when thou com'st home, thou'lt see Thou art as welcome home as he. _Gentleman._ Why, how now, sweet Nan! I hope you jest. _Nan._ No, by my troth, I love the fool the best: And, if you be jealous, God give you good-night! I fear you're a gelding, you caper so light. _Gentleman._ I thought she had jested and meant but a fable, But now do I see she hath play['d] with his bable. I wish all my friends by me to take heed, That a fool come not near you when you mean to speed. ~ Christopher Marlowe,

659:ONCE more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle But Gregory's wood and one bare hill Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind. Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed; And for an hour I have walked and prayed Because of the great gloom that is in my mind. I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, And-under the arches of the bridge, and scream In the elms above the flooded stream; Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea. May she be granted beauty and yet not Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught, Or hers before a looking-glass, for such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend. Helen being chosen found life flat and dull And later had much trouble from a fool, While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray, Being fatherless could have her way Yet chose a bandy-legged smith for man. It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat Whereby the Horn of plenty is undone. In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned; Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned By those that are not entirely beautiful; Yet many, that have played the fool For beauty's very self, has charm made wise. And many a poor man that has roved, Loved and thought himself beloved, From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes. May she become a flourishing hidden tree That all her thoughts may like the linnet be, And have no business but dispensing round Their magnanimities of sound, Nor but in merriment begin a chase, Nor but in merriment a quarrel. O may she live like some green laurel Rooted in one dear perpetual place. My mind, because the minds that I have loved, The sort of beauty that I have approved, Prosper but little, has dried up of late, Yet knows that to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief. If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf. An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind? Considering that, all hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will; She can, though every face should scowl And every windy quarter howl Or every bellows burst, be happy Still. And may her bridegroom bring her to a house Where all's accustomed, ceremonious; For arrogance and hatred are the wares Peddled in the thoroughfares. How but in custom and in ceremony Are innocence and beauty born? Ceremony's a name for the rich horn, And custom for the spreading laurel tree. ~ William Butler Yeats, A Prayer For My Daughter ,

660:The Passing Show I know not if it was a dream. I viewed A city where the restless multitude, Between the eastern and the western deep Had reared gigantic fabrics, strong and rude. Colossal palaces crowned every height; Towers from valleys climbed into the light; O'er dwellings at their feet, great golden domes Hung in the blue, barbarically bright. But now, new-glimmering to-east, the day Touched the black masses with a grace of gray, Dim spires of temples to the nation's God Studding high spaces of the wide survey. Well did the roofs their solemn secret keep Of life and death stayed by the truce of sleep, Yet whispered of an hour when sleepers wake, The fool to hope afresh, the wise to weep. The gardens greened upon the builded hills Above the tethered thunders of the mills With sleeping wheels unstirred to service yet By the tamed torrents and the quickened rills. A hewn acclivity, reprieved a space, Looked on the builder's blocks about his base And bared his wounded breast in sign to say: 'Strike! 'tis my destiny to lodge your race. ''Twas but a breath ago the mammoth browsed Upon my slopes, and in my caves I housed Your shaggy fathers in their nakedness, While on their foemen's offal they caroused.' Ships from afar afforested the bay. Within their huge and chambered bodies lay The wealth of continents; and merrily sailed 538 The hardy argosies to far Cathay. Beside the city of the living spreadStrange fellowship!-the city of the dead; And much I wondered what its humble folk, To see how bravely they were housed, had said. Noting how firm their habitations stood, Broad-based and free of perishable woodHow deep in granite and how high in brass The names were wrought of eminent and good, I said: 'When gold or power is their aim, The smile of beauty or the wage of shame, Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare When they would conquer an abiding fame.' From the red East the sun-a solemn riteCrowned with a flame the cross upon a height Above the dead; and then with all his strength Struck the great city all aroar with light! II I know not if it was a dream. I came Unto a land where something seemed the same That I had known as 'twere but yesterday, But what it was I could not rightly name. It was a strange and melancholy land, Silent and desolate. On either hand Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead, And dead above it seemed the hills to stand. Grayed all with age, those lonely hills-ah me, How worn and weary they appeared to be! Between their feet long dusty fissures clove The plain in aimless windings to the sea. One hill there was which, parted from the rest, Stood where the eastern water curved a-west. Silent and passionless it stood. I thought 539 I saw a scar upon its giant breast. The sun with sullen and portentous gleam Hung like a menace on the sea's extreme; Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars Of cloud were conscious of his failing beam. It was a dismal and a dreadful sight, That desert in its cold, uncanny light; No soul but I alone to mark the fear And imminence of everlasting night! All presages and prophecies of doom Glimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom, And in the midst of that accursèd scene A wolf sat howling on a broken tomb. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

661:sorun aslında ‘’soytarı’’ gibi soytarılarımızın olmaması olabilir. ‘Soytarı’ kelimesi, Arapça, sahte fallus takarak gülünç ve çoğunlukla müstehcen oyunlar oynayan kişiler için kullanılan ‘sa’tir’den geliyor. Arapça ‘satir’in kaynağı ise Eski Yunanca’da sahte penis ve keçi ayaklarla tasvir edilen mitolojik yaratık ‘satyros’. Batı dillerine vakıf Ahmet Vefik Paşa, Lehçe-i Osmani’de, soytarı kelimesini ‘’taklitçi maskara’’ şeklinde tanımlamış. Maskara, Arapça’dan Batı dillerine geçmiş kelimelerden biri. Güldürmek, eğlendirmek için başka kılığa giren, yüzünü başka bir şeyle kaplayan örten gibi anlamları var. Evet doğru tahmin ettiniz; ‘maske’ ve ‘maskot’ ile de tabii ki ilgili… İngilizce’de ‘jester’ deniyor soytarıya. Anglo-Norman ‘gestour (ozan)’ kelimesinden türemiş. Fransızca da ‘minstrel’ de deniyor bu halk ozanlarına. Minstrel ise, eski Fransızca’da hizmet, görev gibi anlamları olan ‘menistere’ o da Latince ‘bir başka otoritenin emrinde görev yapan’ anlamındaki ‘ministerium’dan geliyor. Britanya devleti 1916’dan beri Başbakanın altındaki devlet departmanlarına ‘minister’ demeye başladı. Jester(soytarı) ile bakanın(minister) birleştiği yer de burası. Jester, Kral’ın dar kabinesinin bir üyesiydi. Sadece üyesi değil en imtiyazlı üyesiydi. Elbette ki kralı eğlendirmek, keyiflendirmek gibi bir görevi vardı. Ama bununla sınırlı değildi. Soytarı, Kral’ın gittiği her yere giderdi. Asla yanından ayrılmazdı. Hatta yatak odasına bile girebilirdi. Düzenle kaos arasındaki çok ince bir çizgide görev yapardı. Çünkü en önemli görevi, kimsenin yüzüne karşı gerçekleri konuşamayacağı kişiye (kral, derebey, hükümdar vs) sürekli doğruyu söylemekti. Etrafları yağcı ve yalakayla çevrili krallar, kendilerine doğruyu söyleyebilsin diye etraflarında bir soytarıyı mutlaka tutardı. Soytarının becerisi, krala, rahatsız edici gerçeği, mizahi bir tarzda kralı rencide etmeden, küçük düşürmeden söyleyebilmekti. Bunu da çoğunlukla bir dörtlükle, bir halk şarkısı şeklinde ozanca, dans, kıyafet ve mimikleriyle komikçe dile getirirlerdi. Hükümdarlığın üst düzey yetkililerini, piskoposların veya hükümdarın yozluğunu, tembelliğini, yönetimle ilgili dokunulmaz görülen herşeydeki yanlışı hicvedebilirdi. Örneğin bütün gece sabaha kadar içip, akşama kadar sızması nedeniyle bir çok devlet işini aksatan İkinci Charles’ın soytarısı, bir sabah Kral daha yeni uyumaya hazırlanırken odasına girmiş ve onu uyutmamıştı. ‘Peki tamam, duyayım hatamı, söyle’ diyen krala, ‘bütün ülkenin diline düşen hatanızı burada söyleyerek başımı derde sokacak değilim’ diyerek zekice bir karşılık vermişti. Soytarılar, ciddi politik kararlarda bile kimsenin konuşmak istemediği gerçeği dile getirebilirdi. 1386 yılında Avusturya Dükü, İsviçre’ye saldırma kararını özel savaş konseyinde tartışmaya açtı. Bütün konsey üyeleri kararın ne kadar isabetli olduğunu söyleyerek alkışlıyor ve İsviçre’ye girmenin yolları üzerine kafa yoruyordu. Gerçeği konuşmak Dük’ün yanı başında oturan soytarıya düştü: ‘’Sizi ahmaklar, hepiniz İsviçre’ye nasıl gireceğinizi biliyorsunuz da, bir taneniz bile geri nasıl çıkabileceğimizi söylemiyor..!’’ Yani Shakespeare’in ‘King Lear’ oyununda, krala doğruları söyleyebilen tek bilgi karakterin ‘The Fool’ olması boşuna değil. ‘The Fool, Kral Lear’in sadece iyi zamanında değil kötü zamanında da yanında kalan tek kişidir. Shakespeare'in ‘Twelfth Night’ oyununda ise ‘soytarı Feste’, ‘’deliyi oynayacak kadar bilge’’ diye tanımlanıyordu. Kağıt oyunlarındaki her derde deva ‘joker’ de, soytarıdan başkası değildir. Polonya’nın 16’ncı yüzyılın ilk y ~ Anonymous,

662:Scene 1. A Castle In Normandy Hugo. Well, boy, what is it? Henry. The feast is spread. Hugo. Why tarry the guests for me? Let Eric sit at the table's head; Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] What share have I at their festive board? Their mirth I can only mar; To me no pleasure their cups afford, Their songs on my silence jar. With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, And yet with a hopeful heart, I must toil and strain with the planets again When the rays of the sun depart; He who must needs with the topers tope, And the feasters feast in the hall, How can he hope with a matter to cope That is immaterial? Orion. He who his appetite stints and curbs, Shut up in the northern wing, With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, And his draught from the tasteless spring, Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. There are some good things upon earthPleasure and power and fair renown, And wisdom of worldly worth! There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, In follies that light the eyes, But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence Is alone by the fool termed wise. 239 Hugo. Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; Perchance, having jeer'd and scoff'd To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; I wot thou hast served me oft. This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; What errors canst thou detect? Orion. Nay, the constellations are misplaced, And the satellites incorrect; Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek An hour of needful rest, The night is young and the planets are weak; See, the sun still reddens the west. Hugo. I fear I shall sleep too long. Orion. If you do It matters not much; the sky Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; Now, list to my lullaby. [Hugo reclines on a couch.] (Sings.) Still the darkling skies are red, Though the day-god's course is run; Heavenly night-lamps overhead Flash and twinkle one by one. Idle dreamer-earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? From the tree of knowledge first, Since his parents pluck'd the fruit, Man, with partial knowledge curs'd, Of the tree still seeks the root; 240 Musty volumes crowd thy shelf Which of these true knowledge brings? Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Will the stars from heaven descend? Can the earth-worm soar and rise? Can the mortal comprehend Heaven's own hallow'd mysteries? Greed and glory, power and pelf These are won by clowns and kings; Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Sow and reap, and toil and spin; Eat and drink, and dream and die; Man may strive, yet never win, And I laugh the while and cry Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, Whatever dreams it has brought him [Looks at the plans.] If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, He's wiser than one who taught him. Why does he number the Pole-star thus? Or the Pleiades why combine? And what is he doing with Sirius, In the devil's name or in mine? Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, That the sins of his youth are slain, When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back To his old pet sins again. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

663:The Fool Errant The Fool Errant sat by the highway of life And his gaze wandered up and his gaze wandered down, A vigorous youth, but with no wish to walk, Yet his longing was great for the distant town. He whistled a little frivolous tune Which he felt to be pulsing with ecstasy, For he thought that success always followed desire, Such a very superlative fool was he. A maiden came by on an ambling mule, Her gown was rose-red and her kerchief blue, On her lap she carried a basket of eggs. Thought the fool, "There is certainly room for two." So he jauntily swaggered towards the maid And put out his hand to the bridle-rein. "My pretty girl," quoth the fool, "take me up, For to ride with you to the town I am fain." But the maiden struck at his upraised arm And pelted him hotly with eggs, a score. The mule, lashed into a fury, ran; The fool went back to his stone and swore. Then out of the cloud of settling dust The burly form of an abbot appeared, Reading his office he rode to the town. And the fool got up, for his heart was cheered. He stood in the midst of the long, white road And swept off his cap till it touched the ground. "Ah, Reverent Sir, well met," said the fool, "A worthier transport never was found. "I pray you allow me to mount with you, Your palfrey seems both sturdy and young." The abbot looked up from the holy book 310 And cried out in anger, "Hold your tongue! "How dare you obstruct the King's highroad, You saucy varlet, get out of my way." Then he gave the fool a cut with his whip And leaving him smarting, he rode away. The fool was angry, the fool was sore, And he cursed the folly of monks and maids. "If I could but meet with a man," sighed the fool, "For a woman fears, and a friar upbraids." Then he saw a flashing of distant steel And the clanking of harness greeted his ears, And up the road journeyed knights-at-arms, With waving plumes and glittering spears. The fool took notice and slowly arose, Not quite so sure was his foolish heart. If priests and women would none of him Was it likely a knight would take his part? They sang as they rode, these lusty boys, When one chanced to turn toward the highway's side, "There's a sorry figure of fun," jested he, "Well, Sirrah! move back, there is scarce room to ride." "Good Sirs, Kind Sirs," begged the crestfallen fool, "I pray of your courtesy speech with you, I'm for yonder town, and have no horse to ride, Have you never a charger will carry two?" Then the company halted and laughed out loud. "Was such a request ever made to a knight?" "And where are your legs," asked one, "if you start, You may be inside the town gates to-night." "'T is a lazy fellow, let him alone, They've no room in the town for such idlers as he." But one bent from his saddle and said, "My man, Art thou not ashamed to beg charity! 311 "Thou art well set up, and thy legs are strong, But it much misgives me lest thou'rt a fool; For beggars get only a beggar's crust, Wise men are reared in a different school." Then they clattered away in the dust and the wind, And the fool slunk back to his lonely stone; He began to see that the man who asks Must likewise give and not ask alone. Purple tree-shadows crept over the road, The level sun flung an orange light, And the fool laid his head on the hard, gray stone And wept as he realized advancing night. A great, round moon rose over a hill And the steady wind blew yet more cool; And crouched on a stone a wayfarer sobbed, For at last he knew he was only a fool. ~ Amy Lowell,

664:Look at that ship. That clipper cost me a queen’s ransom, even with the Kestrel thrown in the bargain. But it was the fastest ship to be had.” He took her hands in his. “Forget money. Forget society. Forget expectations. We’ve no talent for following rules, remember? We have to follow our hearts. You taught me that.” He gathered her to him, drawing her hands to his chest. “God, sweet, don’t you know? You’ve had my heart in your pocket since the day we met. Following my heart means following you. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if I have to.” He shot an amused glance at the captain. “Though I’d expect your good captain would prefer I didn’t. In fact, I think he’d gladly marry us today, just to be rid of me.” “Today? But we couldn’t.” His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, but we could.” He pulled her to the other side of the ship, slightly away from the gaping crowd. Wrapping his arms around her, he leaned close to whisper in her ear, “Happy birthday, love.” Sophia melted in his embrace. It was her birthday, wasn’t it? The day she’d been anticipating for months, and here she’d forgotten it completely. Until Gray had appeared on the horizon, she hadn’t been looking forward to anything. But now she did. She looked forward to marriage, and children, and love and grand adventure. Real life and true passion. All of it with this man. “Oh, Gray.” “Please say yes,” he whispered. “Sophia.” The name was a caress against her ear. “I love you.” He kissed her cheek and pulled away. “I’ve been remiss in not telling you. You can’t know how I’ve regretted it. But I love you, Sophia Jane Hathaway. I love you as no man ever loved a woman. I love you so much, I fear I’ll burst with it. In fact, I think I shall burst if I go another minute without kissing you, so if you’ve any mind to say yes, I’d thank you to-“ Sophia flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. Hard at first, to quiet the fool man; then gently, to savor him. oh, how she loved the taste of him, like freshly baked bread and rum. Warm and wholesome and comforting, with just a hint of spice and danger. “Yes,” she sighed against his lips. She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Yes, I will marry you.” His arms tightened about her waist. “Today?” “Today. But you must let me change my gown first.” Smiling, she stroked his smooth cheek. “You even shaved.” “Every day since we left Tortola.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ve a few new scars to show for it.” “Good.” She kissed him. “I’m glad. And I don’t care if society casts us out for the pirates we are, just as long as I’m with you.” “Oh, I don’t know that we’ll be cast out, exactly. We’re definitely not pirates. After your stirring testimony”-he chucked her under the chin-“Fitzhugh decided to make the best of an untenable situation. Or an unhangable pirate, as it were. If he couldn’t advance on his career by convicting me, he figured he’d advance it by commending me. Awarded me the Kestrel as salvage and recommended me to the governor for a special citation of valor. There’s talk of knighthood.” He grinned. “Can you believe it? Me, a hero.” “Of course I believe it.” She laced her fingers at the back of his neck. “I’ve always known it, although I should curse that judge and his ‘citation of valor.’ As if you needed a fresh supply of arrogance. Just remember, whatever they deem you-gentleman or scoundrel, hero or pirate-you are mine.” “So I am.” He kissed her soundly, passionately. “And which would you prefer tonight?” At the seductive grown in his voice, shivers of arousal swept down to her toes. “Your gentleman? Your scoundrel? Your hero or your pirate?” She laughed. “I imagine I’ll enjoy all four on occasion. But tonight, I believe I shall find tremendous joy in simply calling you my husband.” He rested his forehead against hers. “My love.” “That, too. ~ Tessa Dare,

665:The Mackaiad Mackay's hot wrath to Bonynge, direful spring Of blows unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing That wrath which hurled to Hellman's office floor Two heroes, mutually smeared with gore, Whose hair in handfuls marked the dire debate, And riven coat-tails testified their hate. Sing, muse, what first their indignation fired, What words augmented it, by whom inspired. First, the great Bonynge comes upon the scene And asks the favor of the British Queen. Suppliant he stands and urges all his claim: His wealth, his portly person and his name, His habitation in the setting sun, As child of nature; and his suit he won. No more the Sovereign, wearied with his plea, From slumber's chain her faculties can free. Low and more low the royal eyelids creep, She gives the assenting nod and falls asleep. Straightway the Bonynges all invade the Court And telegraph the news to every port. Beneath the seas, red-hot, the tidings fly, The cables crinkle and the fishes fry! The world, awaking like a startled bat, Exclaims: 'A Bonynge? What the devil's that?' Mackay, meanwhile, to envy all attent, Untaught to spare, unable to relent, Walks in our town on needles and on pins, And in a mean, revengeful spirit-grins! Sing, muse, what next to break the peace occurred What act uncivil, what unfriendly word? The god of Bosh ascending from his pool, Where since creation he has played the fool, Clove the blue slush, as other gods the sky, And, waiting but a moment's space to dry, Touched Bonynge with his finger-tip. 'O son,' He said, 'alike of nature and a gun, Knowest not Mackay's insufferable sin? 509 Hast thou not heard that he doth stand and grin? Arise! assert thy manhood, and attest The uncommercial spirit in thy breast. Avenge thine honor, for by Jove I swear Thou shalt not else be my peculiar care!' He spake, and ere his worshiper could kneel Had dived into his slush pool, head and heel. Full of the god and to revenges nerved, And conscious of a will that never swerved, Bonynge set sail: the world beyond the wave As gladly took him as the other gave. New York received him, but a shudder ran Through all the western coast, which knew the man; And science said that the seismic action Was owing to an asteroid's impaction. O goddess, sing what Bonynge next essayed. Did he unscabbard the avenging blade, The long spear brandish and porrect the shield, Havoc the town and devastate the field? His sacred thirst for blood did he allay By halving the unfortunate Mackay? Small were the profit and the joy to him To hew a base-born person, limb from limb. Let vulgar souls to low revenge incline, That of diviner spirits is divine. Bonynge at noonday stood in public places And (with regard to the Mackays) made faces! Before those formidable frowns and scowls The dogs fled, tail-tucked, with affrighted howls, And horses, terrified, with flying feet O'erthrew the apple-stands along the street, Involving the metropolis in vast Financial ruin! Man himself, aghast, Retreated east and west and north and south Before the menace of that twisted mouth, Till Jove, in answer to their prayers, sent Night To veil the dreadful visage from their sight! Such were the causes of the horrid strife The mother-wrongs which nourished it to life. O, for a quill from an archangel's wing! 510 O, for a voice that's adequate to sing The splendor and the terror of the fray, The scattered hair, the coat-tails all astray, The parted collars and the gouts of gore Reeking and smoking on the banker's floor, The interlocking limbs, embraces dire, Revolving bodies and deranged attire! Vain, vain the trial: 'tis vouchsafed to none To sing two millionaires rolled into one! My hand and pen their offices refuse, And hoarse and hoarser grows the weary muse. Alone remains, to tell of the event, Abandoned, lost and variously rent, The Bonynge nethermost habiliment. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

666:The Royal Jester Once on a time, so ancient poets sing, There reigned in Godknowswhere a certain king. So great a monarch ne'er before was seen: He was a hero, even to his queen, In whose respect he held so high a place That none was higher,-nay, not even the ace. He was so just his Parliament declared Those subjects happy whom his laws had spared; So wise that none of the debating throng Had ever lived to prove him in the wrong; So good that Crime his anger never feared, And Beauty boldly plucked him by the beard; So brave that if his army got a beating None dared to face him when he was retreating. This monarch kept a Fool to make his mirth, And loved him tenderly despite his worth. Prompted by what caprice I cannot say, He called the Fool before the throne one day And to that jester seriously said: 'I'll abdicate, and you shall reign instead, While I, attired in motley, will make sport To entertain your Majesty and Court.' 'T was done and the Fool governed. He decreed The time of harvest and the time of seed; Ordered the rains and made the weather clear, And had a famine every second year; Altered the calendar to suit his freak, Ordaining six whole holidays a week; Religious creeds and sacred books prepared; Made war when angry and made peace when scared. New taxes he inspired; new laws he made; Drowned those who broke them, who observed them, flayed, In short, he ruled so well that all who'd not Been starved, decapitated, hanged or shot Made the whole country with his praises ring, Declaring he was every inch a king; And the High Priest averred 't was very odd If one so competent were not a god. 551 Meantime, his master, now in motley clad, Wore such a visage, woeful, wan and sad, That some condoled with him as with a brother Who, having lost a wife, had got another. Others, mistaking his profession, often Approached him to be measured for a coffin. For years this highborn jester never broke The silence-he was pondering a joke. At last, one day, in cap-and-bells arrayed, He strode into the Council and displayed A long, bright smile, that glittered in the gloom Like a gilt epithet within a tomb. Posing his bauble like a leader's staff, To give the signal when (and why) to laugh, He brought it down with peremptory stroke And simultaneously cracked his joke! I can't repeat it, friends. I ne'er could school Myself to quote from any other fool: A jest, if it were worse than mine, would start My tears; if better, it would break my heart. So, if you please, I'll hold you but to state That royal Jester's melancholy fate. The insulted nation, so the story goes, Rose as one man-the very dead arose, Springing indignant from the riven tomb, And babes unborn leapt swearing from the womb! All to the Council Chamber clamoring went, By rage distracted and on vengeance bent. In that vast hall, in due disorder laid, The tools of legislation were displayed, And the wild populace, its wrath to sate, Seized them and heaved them at the Jester's pate. Mountains of writing paper; pools and seas Of ink, awaiting, to become decrees, Royal approval-and the same in stacks Lay ready for attachment, backed with wax; Pens to make laws, erasers to amend them; With mucilage convenient to extend them; Scissors for limiting their application, 552 And acids to repeal all legislationThese, flung as missiles till the air was dense, Were most offensive weapons of offense, And by their aid the Fool was nigh destroyed. They ne'er had been so harmlessly employed. Whelmed underneath a load of legal cap, His mouth egurgitating ink on tap, His eyelids mucilaginously sealed, His fertile head by scissors made to yield Abundant harvestage of ears, his pelt, In every wrinkle and on every welt, Quickset with pencil-points from feet to gills And thickly studded with a pride of quills, The royal Jester in the dreadful strife Was made (in short) an editor for life! An idle tale, and yet a moral lurks In this as plainly as in greater works. I shall not give it birth: one moral here Would die of loneliness within a year. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

667:When they were come into Faery's Court They rang -- no one at home -- all gone to sport And dance and kiss and love as faerys do For Faries be as human lovers true -- Amid the woods they were so lone and wild Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd And where the very books as if affraid Hurry along to some less magic shade. 'No one at home'! the fretful princess cry'd 'And all for nothing such a dre[a]ry ride And all for nothing my new diamond cross No one to see my persian feathers toss No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule. Ape, Dwarf and Fool why stand you gaping there Burst the door open, quick -- or I declare I'll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.' The Dwarf began to tremble and the Ape Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agape The Princess grasp'd her switch but just in time The Dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme. "O mighty Princess did you ne'er hear tell What your poor servants know but too too well Know you the three great crimes in faery land The first alas! poor Dwarf I understand I made a whipstock of a faery's wand The next is snoring in their company The next the last the direst of the three Is making free when they are not at home. I was a Prince -- a baby prince -- my doom You see, I made a whipstock of a wand My top has henceforth slept in faery land. He was a Prince the Fool, a grown up Prince But he has never been a King's son since He fell a snoring at a faery Ball Your poor Ape was a Prince and he poor thing But ape -- so pray your highness stay awhile 'Tis sooth indeed we know it to our sorrow -- Persist and you may be an ape tomorrow -- While the Dwarf spake the Princess all for spite Peal'd the brown hazel twig to lilly white Clench'd her small teeth, and held her lips apart Try'd to look unconcerned with beating heart. They saw her highness had made up her mind And quaver'd like the reeds before the wind And they had had it, but O happy chance The Ape for very fear began to dance And grin'd as all his uglyness did ache-- She staid her vixen fingers for his sake He was so very ugly: then she took Her pocket mirror and began to look First at herself and [then] at him and then She smil'd at her own beauteous face again. Yet for all this -- for all her pretty face She took it in her head to see the place. Women gain little from experience Either in Lovers, husbands or expense. The more their beauty the more fortune too Beauty before the wide world never knew. So each fair reasons -- tho' it oft miscarries. She thought her pretty face would please the fa[e]ries. "My darling Ape I wont whip you today Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play."    They all three wept but counsel was as vain As crying cup biddy to drops of rain. Yet lingeringly did the sad Ape forth draw The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw. The Princess took it and dismounting straight Trip'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gate And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteously Opened -- she enter'd with her servants three. Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen But the Mule grasing on the herbage green. End of Canto xii. Canto the xiii. The Mule no sooner saw himself alone Than he prick'd up his Ears -- and said 'well done! At least unhappy Prince I may be free -- No more a Princess shall side saddle me O King of Othaiete -- tho' a Mule 'Aye every inch a King' -- tho' 'Fortune's fool.' Well done -- for by what Mr. Dwarfy said I would not give a sixpence for her head.' Even as he spake he trotted in high glee To the knotty side of an old Pollard tree And rub'd his sides against the mossed bark Till his Girths burst and left him naked stark Except his Bridle -- how get rid of that Buckled and tied with many a twist and plait. At last it struck him to pretend to sleep And then the thievish Monkies down would creep And filch the unpleasant trammels quite away. No sooner thought of than adown he lay Sham'd a good snore -- the Monkey-men descended And whom they thought to injure they befriended. They hung his Bridle on a topmost bough And of[f] he went run, trot, or anyhow-- Found at the end of "Nonsense Verses" in Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, An Extempore ,

668:A CURSING rogue with a merry face, A bundle of rags upon a crutch, Stumbled upon that windy place Called Cruachan, and it was as much As the one sturdy leg could do To keep him upright while he cursed. He had counted, where long years ago Queen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed, A pair of lapwings, one old sheep, And not a house to the plain's edge, When close to his right hand a heap Of grey stones and a rocky ledge Reminded him that he could make. If he but shifted a few stones, A shelter till the daylight broke. But while he fumbled with the stones They toppled over; "Were it not I have a lucky wooden shin I had been hurt'; and toppling brought Before his eyes, where stones had been, A dark deep hollow in the rock. He gave a gasp and thought to have fled, Being certain it was no right rock Because an ancient history said Hell Mouth lay open near that place, And yet stood still, because inside A great lad with a beery face Had tucked himself away beside A ladle and a tub of beer, And snored, no phantom by his look. So with a laugh at his own fear He crawled into that pleasant nook. "Night grows uneasy near the dawn Till even I sleep light; but who Has tired of his own company? What one of Maeve's nine brawling sons Sick of his grave has wakened me? But let him keep his grave for once That I may find the sleep I have lost." What care I if you sleep or wake? But I'Il have no man call me ghost." Say what you please, but from daybreak I'll sleep another century." And I will talk before I sleep And drink before I talk.' And he Had dipped the wooden ladle deep Into the sleeper's tub of beer Had not the sleeper started up. Before you have dipped it in the beer I dragged from Goban's mountain-top I'll have assurance that you are able To value beer; no half-legged fool Shall dip his nose into my ladle Merely for stumbling on this hole In the bad hour before the dawn." Why beer is only beer.' "But say ""I'll sleep until the winter's gone, Or maybe to Midsummer Day,'' And drink and you will sleep that length. "I'd like to sleep till winter's gone Or till the sun is in his strength. This blast has chilled me to the bone.' "I had no better plan at first. I thought to wait for that or this; Maybe the weather was accursed Or I had no woman there to kiss; So slept for half a year or so; But year by year I found that less Gave me such pleasure I'd forgo Even a half-hour's nothingness, And when at one year's end I found I had not waked a single minute, I chose this burrow under ground. I'll sleep away all time within it: My sleep were now nine centuries But for those mornings when I find The lapwing at their foolish dies And the sheep bleating at the wind As when I also played the fool.' The beggar in a rage began Upon his hunkers in the hole, "It's plain that you are no right man To mock at everything I love As if it were not worth, the doing. I'd have a merry life enough If a good Easter wind were blowing, And though the winter wind is bad I should not be too down in the mouth For anything you did or said If but this wind were in the south.' "You cry aloud, O would 'twere spring Or that the wind would shift a point, And do not know that you would bring, If time were suppler in the joint, Neither the spring nor the south wind But the hour when you shall pass away And leave no smoking wick behind, For all life longs for the Last Day And there's no man but cocks his ear To know when Michael's trumpet cries "That flesh and bone may disappear, And souls as if they were but sighs, And there be nothing but God left; But, I alone being blessed keep Like some old rabbit to my cleft And wait Him in a drunken sleep.' He dipped his ladle in the tub And drank and yawned and stretched him out, The other shouted, "You would rob My life of every pleasant thought And every comfortable thing, And so take that and that." Thereon He gave him a great pummelling, But might have pummelled at a stone For all the sleeper knew or cared; And after heaped up stone on stone, And then, grown weary, prayed and cursed And heaped up stone on stone again, And prayed and cursed and cursed and bed From Maeve and all that juggling plain, Nor gave God thanks till overhead The clouds were brightening with the dawn. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Hour Before Dawn ,

669:The Kerrigan Boys By jove it’s hot on the track today, my flannel is soaked with sweat. I think I’ll sit in the shade a bit and wait for the sun to set. I know of a decent camping place by the river beyond the town, And I’d rather carry my swag through there after the sun goes down. A touch of pride, well perhaps it is, though I haven’t much cause for pride. It’s sixteen years to a day almost, since old man Kerrigan died. Sixteen years and his place is sold and the fortune he left us spent, For the road down hill is an easy road and that was the way we went. Kerrigan, that was our father’s name, was one of the tough old sort. And he held by graft as he held by God, and he hated drink and sport. We lads were fond of a bit of fun though he kept us under the rein, And we had to bow to the old man’s will, though it went against our grain. He was kind enough in his hard old way, but we had to earn our keep, Driving horses and milking cows, branding and shearing sheep. No wonder we bucked a bit at times, for you know what youngsters are, We mustn’t dance at the local hall or drink in Mulligan’s bar. Well, those were the orders the old man gave, but we did it just the same, Jack was two years younger than I, so I was the more to blame. But I’ve often thought had he been less hard and left us a bit more free It might have been better for him perhaps, and better for Jack and me. The old man dropped in the yard one day where we had the weaners penned. We picked him up and we carried him home but we knew that it was the end. The neighbours gathered from miles around he hadn’t a single foe, And the crowd that stood by the open grave spoke well of the man below. We grieved a lot for the old man’s death though he left us wealthy men; If we had not known what he meant to us we realized it then. Our only sister had died at birth and our mother was long since dead, And we found that we were the only heirs when the old man’s will was read We were just a couple of country lads; we’d never been off the farm, We’d been held in check from our boyhood up by the weight of the old man’s arm. Good in the saddle and fair with our fists with a touch of the old man’s pride, 14 But the neighbours muttered and shook their heads when old man Kerrigan died. Hard and all as the old man was for years he had kept a stud. For the love of the horse for the horses sake is strong in the Irish blood. But breeding was only a hobby with him a sort of a harmless craze, Though I’d often thought that he had his fling way back in his younger days. We got mixed up with a racing crowd and started to go the pace. Forgot the sound of the old man’s voice and the frown on his rugged face. For the road down hill is and easy road though it ends in a swift descent, We were only youngsters, a reckless pair, and that was the way we went. We staked for a win on the Chester colt on the strength of a trail he showed. But someone got to the boy on top, we knew by the race he rode. He lost ten lengths and he finished last it was useless to make a fuss, For the men we met in the racing game were far too cunning for us We backed him again in the Greytown Cup and he won by half the straight, But we left our cash in the bookies bags, for he failed to draw the weight. We cursed the jockey and we cursed the horse, and we sold him there and then. We’d had enough of the racing game and the ways of racing men. We could have got out of our troubles still if we put our hands to the plough, But the life of leisure and cards and drink had got the grip on us now. You may call it flashness or call it pride or simply a want of sencse, But the publicans and auctioneers grew wealthy at our expense. We sat and drank in Mulligan’s pub and gambled the whole night long. We dealt in cattle and dealt in sheep and most of our deals went wrong. As long as the banks would cash our cheques we didn’t care what we spent, For the road downhill is an easy road and that was the way we went. Then things got bad and a drought came on and it lasted over a year. Our stock died off and our dams gave out and we knew that the end was near. Our credit stopped and the bank foreclosed and our fathers place was sold, For the road downhill is and easy road as the prodigal found of old. Five years after the old man’s death together we took the track. I wandered into the nearest pub and I had a drink with Jack. Then he shook my hand and he wished me luck and I knew he was close to tears, And I’ve never set eyes on Jack since then or heard of him now for years. 15 Somewhere out to the west of Bourke he’s humping his swag maybe, Tramping along in the broiling sun and cursing himself and me. I’d give two years of my worthless life, though it may not last that long, For one more look at his honest face, one grip of his fingers strong Well that’s the tale of the Kerrigan boys and the moral is near the end. You’ll always have plenty of friend at hand as long as you’ve cash to spend. We had our chance and we played the fool, it’s too late now to repent, For the road downhill is an easy road and that was the road we went. ~ Edward Harrington,

670:ON PASSING BY Thus, walking slowly among many peoples and through numerous towns, Zarathustra returned on roundabout paths to his mountains and his cave. And on the way he also came unexpectedly to the gate of the great city; but here a foaming fool jumped toward him with outspread hands and barred his way. This, however, was the same fool whom the people called "Zarathustra's ape": for he had gathered something of his phrasing and cadences and also liked to borrow from the treasures of his wisdom. But the fool spoke thus to Zarathustra: "O Zarathustra, here is the great city; here you could find nothing and lose everything. Why do you want to wade through this mire? Have pity on your foot Rather spit on the city gate and turn back. Here is hell for a hermit's thoughts: here great thoughts are boiled alive and cooked till they are small. Here all great feelings decay: only the smallest rattleboned feelings may rattle here. Don't you smell the slaughterhouses and ovens of the spirit even now? Does not this town steam with the fumes of slaughtered spirit? "Don't you see the soul hanging like a limp, dirty rag? And they still make newspapers of these ragst "Don't you hear how the spirit has here been reduced to plays on words? It vomits revolting verbal swill. And they still make newspapers of this swill! "They hound each other and know not where. They overheat each other and know not why. They tinkle with their tin, they jingle with their gold. They are cold and seek warmth from brandy; they are heated and seek coolness from frozen spirits; they are all diseased and sick with public opinions. "All lusts and vices are at home here; but there are also some here who are virtuous: there is much serviceable, serving virtue-much serviceable virtue with pen fingers and hard sitting- and waiting-flesh, blessed with little stars on the chest and with padded, rumpless daughters. There is also much piety, and there are many devout lickspittles, batteries of fakers and flattery-bakers before the God of Hosts. For it is 'from above' that the stars and the gracious spittle trickle; every starless chest longs above. "The moon has her courtyard, and the courtyard has its mooncalves; to everything, however, that comes from 177 the court, the beggarly mob and all serviceable beggarvirtue pray. 'I serve, you serve, we serve'-thus all serviceable virtue prays to the prince, that the deserved star may finally be pinned on the narrow chest. "The moon, however, still revolves around all that is earthly: So too the prince still revolves around that which is earthliest-but that is the gold of the shopkeeper. The God of Hosts is no god of gold bars; the prince proposes, but the shopkeeper disposes. "By everything in you that is bright and strong and good, 0 Zarathustra, spit on this city of shopkeepers and turn back! Here all blood flows putrid and lukewarm and spumy through all the veins; spit on the great city which is the great swill room where all the swill spumes together. Spit on the city of compressed souls and narrow chests, of popeyes and sticky fingers-on the city of the obtrusive, the impudent, the scribble and scream-throats, the overheated ambitious-conceited -where everything infirm, infamous, lustful, dusky, overmusty, pussy, and plotting putrefies together: spit on the great city and turn back" Here, however, Zarathustra interrupted the foaming fool and put his hand over the fool's mouth. "Stop at last" cried Zarathustra; "your speech and your manner have long nauseated me. Why did you live near the swamps so long, until you yourself have become a frog and a toad? Does not putrid, spumy swamp-blood flow through your own veins now that you have learned to croak and revile thus? Why have you not gone into the woods? Or to plow the soil? Does not the sea abound in green islands? I despise your despising; and if you warned me, why did you not warn yourself? "Out of love alone shall my despising and my warning bird fly up, not out of the swamp. "They call you my ape, you foaming fool; but I call you my grunting swine: with your grunting you spoil for me my praise of folly. What was it that first made you grunt? That nobody flattered you sufficiently; you sat down to this filth so as to have reason to grunt much -to have reason for much revenge. For all your foaming is revenge, you vain fool; I guessed it well. "But your fool's words injure me, even where you are right. And even if Zarathustra's words were a thousand times right, still you would always do wrong with my words." Thus spoke Zarathustra; and he looked at the great city, sighed, and long remained silent. At last he spoke thus: "I am nauseated by this great city too, and not only by this fool. Here as there, there is nothing to better, nothing to worsen. Woe unto this great city And I wish I already saw the pillar of fire in which it will be burned. For such pillars of fire must precede the great noon. But this has its own time and its own destiny. "This doctrine, however, I give you, fool, as a parting present: where one can no longer love, there one should pass by." Thus spoke Zarathustra, and he passed by the fool and the great city. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON PASSING BY ,

671:Shakespeare Standing alone, a study in itself, How Shakespeare’s volume glorifies my shelf! For thence his spirit forth on mine has shined, Like a great morning on the hills of mind. Sphered in the light of his creative powers, A wonder-world, inorbing this of ours, Gathers around us, like the peopled haze That wraps some roamer in a dream’s wild ways. Lean fatal hags ride in the troubled air, And wing’d immortals meet us everywhere; These of a silken loveliness that shows Like the dim beauty of a moonlit rose; Lined rigidly as sculptured iron those. Lo! Now futurity uplifts her veil, And pours her phantom kings before the tyrant pale. Now in the moon’s quick glimpses gleaming cold, A mail-clad monarch’s spectral form behold; Whilst, like to echoes from oblivion’s coast, Comes the dread speech of the unquiet ghost! Turn we a page—oh! For some charm to save That meek mad maiden from her early grave! “Sweets to the sweet,” with the sad queen we groan; As o’er her shroud the votive flowers are thrown, We see how wild a death the best may die, And dash the sacred teardrops from our eye. But seek we surer matter,—knowledge hard With ethics such as time-schooled minds regard; Or such as, breathing the soul’s fervour, primes Our piety, or our moral faith sublimes; How many a noble page is shared between Wit, fancy, prudence in her sagest mien, And that high wisdom which informs us still Heaven “shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will;” And shows, though vain and erring, human nature Is yet a pile of half-angelic stature: Material, yet ethereal, both, though each;— Soul quickening matter as thought quickens speech— 129 A body built of clay—a mind of godlike reach! And constantly some vital moral shines, Like sunlight, in the current of his lines. Ambition’s worshipper, in Casear’s death, May see how mortal is mere glory’s breath, And learn from Richard’s spectre-haunted hour To loathe the ghastliness of godless power. The princely spendthrift, seeing Timon’s end, May grow to doubt the too too flattering friend; And if he hate, when he with anger starts, The heartlessness of fashionable hearts, Hence let him learn to be, though rich, the sure And generous helper of the struggling poor. Even Shylock’s bond must show how, soon or late, Contempt imperils, in begetting hate; The sire may learn to curb that rival scorn, Whose blasting rage let Juliet die forlorn: The child be chastened by the filial tear Shed for the wrongs that maddened royal Lear, When in the scenic agony we find Distempered matter and distempered mind, Nature’s wild roar, and the yet wilder speech Of mightiest human woe, each storming into each. But if, to loftier teaching disinclined, We would (as sometimes) mirth in all things find, Let Falstaff then be our companion fit, And wrap us in the mad delight of wit; Or let Malvolio, cross-gartered, show To what strange lengths man’s vanity may go; Or learn we once for all in Touchstone’s school, How shrewd that knave is who can play the fool. Or does our mirth was scornful? Pistol then Shall prove what scarecrows often rank as men, By dint of a big martialness of tone, Loud, like a drum s, from hollowness alone! Is our mood fierce? Another leaf shall yield Meet matter, storying some old battle-field; With all its wrack of passion let at large, The gathering huddle, the close thundering charge, The death-shrieks drowning in the exultant shout 130 Of victory, flooding like a deluge out! But, hating scenes of violence and crime, Would we to Innocence devote the time? Behold how spotless from this world of guile Is she who waves us to yon magic isle,— Miranda, lovely e’en to Caliban, That hag-born, lump-faced, mockery of man! With injured virtue would we mingle tears? Lo! Katherine, or Hermione, appears. Would we condole with lonely Love? O then, Behold that mortal angel, Imogen! With joyous goodness thirst we to rejoice? Belmont is vocal with its Portia’s voice! Would we be spiced with lady-wit? One kiss, In fancy, from the bee-like Beatrice, Stingingly sweet, have we the grace to snatch it, Shall make us Benedicts, and lo! We catch it. In woody Arden let us wander wild, With buoyant Rosalind and Celia mild; Or, with the melancholy Jaques, ’plain How blind is fortune, yet how worthless gain,— Gain or of gold or glory, both a jest, Merely a solemn mockery at best. Then roam we on, in thought to join afar Those princely revellers in green Navarre; Taking, for joy’s completeness, in our round The shepherd-feast that glads Bohemian ground, To talk with Perdita of flowers,—from whose Soft-dropping words, as from a shower of dews, They borrow fresher scents, and still diviner hues! Would we be solaced with a song? Sweet lays That breathe the innocence of olden days, Like drops of liquid gold, all through and through the glorious volume sparkle into view! How oft, in Austral woods, the parting day Has gone through western golden gates away While “sweetest Shakespeare, fancy’s darling child, Warbled for me his native woodnotes wild.” 131 ~ Charles Harpur,

672:The Journey Some of my friends (for friends I must suppose All, who, not daring to appear my foes, Feign great good-will, and not more full of spite Than full of craft, under false colours fight) Some of my friends (so lavishly I print) As more in sorrow than in anger, hint (Tho' that indeed will scarce admit a doubt) That I shall run my stock of genius out, My no great stock, and, publishing so fast, Must needs become a bankrupt at the last. Recover'd from the vanity of youth, I feel, alas! this melancholy truth, Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend, And am, if not too late, resolv'd to mend, Resolv'd to give some respite to my pen, Apply myself once more to books and men, View what is present, what is past review, And my old stock exhausted, lay in new. For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bear This oath to Heav'n), for twice six moons, I swear, No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay, Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way; Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend, Who in my hearing shall a rhyme commend. It cannot be--Whether I will, or no, Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow. Convinc'd, determin'd, I in prose begin, But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in, And taints me thro' and thro': by this good light, In verse I talk by day, I dream by night; If now and then I curse, my curses chime, Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme, E'en now I err, in spite of common-sense, And my confession doubles my offence. Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force; Mean are the words, and such as come of course, The subject not less simple than the lay; A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a day. Far from me now be ev'ry tuneful Maid, 241 I neither ask, nor can receive their aid. Pegasus turn'd into a common hack, Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track, Nor would I have the Sisters of the Hill Behold their bard in such a dishabille. Absent, but only absent for a time, Let them caress some dearer son of rhyme; Let them, as far as decency permits, Without suspicion, play the fool with wits, 'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule, Wits are false things, there's danger in a fool. Let them, tho' modest, Gray more modest woo; Let them with Mason bleat, and bray, and coo; Let them with Franklin, proud of some small Greek, Make Sophocles disguis'd, in English speak; Let them with Glover o'er Medea doze; Let them with Dodsley wail Cleone's woes, Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears, Melts, as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers; Let them with simple Whitehead, taught to creep Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep; Let them with Browne contrive, to vulgar trick, To cure the dead, and make the living sick; Let them in charity to Murphy give Some old French piece, that he may steal and live; Let them with antic Foote subscriptions get, And advertise a Summer-house of Wit. Thus, or in any better way they please, With these great men, or with great men like these, Let them their appetite for laughter feed; I on my Journey all alone proceed. If fashionable grown, and fond of pow'r, With hum'rous Scots let them disport their hour: Let them dance, fairy-like, round Ossian's tomb; Let them forge lies, and histories for Hume; Let them with Home, the very prince of verse, Make something like a Tragedy in Erse; Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale Of rueful length; Let them plain things obscure, Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth; 242 With ev'ry pert, prim prettiness of youth Born of false Taste, with Fancy (like a child Not knowing what it cries for) running wild, With bloated style, by affectation taught, With much false colouring, and little thought, With phrases strange, and dialect decreed By reason never to have pass'd the Tweed, With words which Nature meant each other's foe, Forc'd to compound whether they will or no; With such materials let them, if they will, To prove at once their pleasantry and skill, Build up a bard to war 'gainst Common-Sense, By way of compliment to Providence; Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of Sense, Read musty lectures on Benevolence, Or con the pages of his gaping Day, Where all his former fame was thrown away, Where all but barren labour was forgot, And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot; Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light, But not one hour of darkness; when the night Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes, When for our past misdoings Conscience takes A deep revenge, when by Reflection led, She draws his curtain, and looks Comfort dead, Let ev'ry Muse be gone; in vain he turns And tries to pray for sleep; an Etna burns, A more than Etna in his coward breast, And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest: Tho' soft as plumage from young zephyr's wing, His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring. Ingratitude hath planted daggers there, No good man can deserve, no brave man bear. Thus, or in any better way they please, With these great men, or with great men like these, Let them their appetite for laughter feed I on my Journey all alone proceed. ~ Charles Churchill,

673: PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN THE LORD === THE HEAVENLY HOST Afterwards MEPHISTOPHELES (The THREE ARCHANGELS come forward.) RAPHAEL The sun-orb sings, in emulation, 'Mid brother-spheres, his ancient round: His path predestined through Creation He ends with step of thunder-sound. The angels from his visage splendid Draw power, whose measure none can say; The lofty works, uncomprehended, Are bright as on the earliest day. GABRIEL And swift, and swift beyond conceiving, The splendor of the world goes round, Day's Eden-brightness still relieving The awful Night's intense profound: The ocean-tides in foam are breaking, Against the rocks' deep bases hurled, And both, the spheric race partaking, Eternal, swift, are onward whirled! MICHAEL And rival storms abroad are surging From sea to land, from land to sea. A chain of deepest action forging Round all, in wrathful energy. There flames a desolation, blazing Before the Thunder's crashing way: Yet, Lord, Thy messengers are praising The gentle movement of Thy Day. THE THREE Though still by them uncomprehended, From these the angels draw their power, And all Thy works, sublime and splendid, Are bright as in Creation's hour. MEPHISTOPHELES Since Thou, O Lord, deign'st to approach again And ask us how we do, in manner kindest, And heretofore to meet myself wert fain, Among Thy menials, now, my face Thou findest. Pardon, this troop I cannot follow after With lofty speech, though by them scorned and spurned: My pathos certainly would move Thy laughter, If Thou hadst not all merriment unlearned. Of suns and worlds I've nothing to be quoted; How men torment themselves, is all I've noted. The little god o' the world sticks to the same old way, And is as whimsical as on Creation's day. Life somewhat better might content him, But for the gleam of heavenly light which Thou hast lent him: He calls it Reason thence his power's increased, To be far beastlier than any beast. Saving Thy Gracious Presence, he to me A long-legged grasshopper appears to be, That springing flies, and flying springs, And in the grass the same old ditty sings. Would he still lay among the grass he grows in! Each bit of dung he seeks, to stick his nose in. THE LORD Hast thou, then, nothing more to mention? Com'st ever, thus, with ill intention? Find'st nothing right on earth, eternally? MEPHISTOPHELES No, Lord! I find things, there, still bad as they can be. Man's misery even to pity moves my nature; I've scarce the heart to plague the wretched creature. THE LORD Know'st Faust? MEPHISTOPHELES The Doctor Faust? THE LORD My servant, he! MEPHISTOPHELES Forsooth! He serves you after strange devices: No earthly meat or drink the fool suffices: His spirit's ferment far aspireth; Half conscious of his frenzied, crazed unrest, The fairest stars from Heaven he requireth, From Earth the highest raptures and the best, And all the Near and Far that he desireth Fails to subdue the tumult of his breast. THE LORD Though still confused his service unto Me, I soon shall lead him to a clearer morning. Sees not the gardener, even while buds his tree, Both flower and fruit the future years adorning? MEPHISTOPHELES What will you bet? There's still a chance to gain him, If unto me full leave you give, Gently upon my road to train him! THE LORD As long as he on earth shall live, So long I make no prohibition. While Man's desires and aspirations stir, He cannot choose but err. MEPHISTOPHELES My thanks! I find the dead no acquisition, And never cared to have them in my keeping. I much prefer the cheeks where ruddy blood is leaping, And when a corpse approaches, close my house: It goes with me, as with the cat the mouse. THE LORD Enough! What thou hast asked is granted. Turn off this spirit from his fountain-head; To trap him, let thy snares be planted, And him, with thee, be downward led; Then stand abashed, when thou art forced to say: A good man, through obscurest aspiration, Has still an instinct of the one true way. MEPHISTOPHELES Agreed! But 'tis a short probation. About my bet I feel no trepidation. If I fulfill my expectation, You'll let me triumph with a swelling breast: Dust shall he eat, and with a zest, As did a certain snake, my near relation. THE LORD Therein thou'rt free, according to thy merits; The like of thee have never moved My hate. Of all the bold, denying Spirits, The waggish knave least trouble doth create. Man's active nature, flagging, seeks too soon the level; Unqualified repose he learns to crave; Whence, willingly, the comrade him I gave, Who works, excites, and must create, as Devil. But ye, God's sons in love and duty, Enjoy the rich, the ever-living Beauty! Creative Power, that works eternal schemes, Clasp you in bonds of love, relaxing never, And what in wavering apparition gleams Fix in its place with thoughts that stand forever! (Heaven closes: the ARCHANGELS separate.) MEPHISTOPHELES (solus) I like, at times, to hear The Ancient's word, And have a care to be most civil: It's really kind of such a noble Lord So humanly to gossip with the Devil! Faust Faust FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY I ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN ,

674:The Ruling Thought Most sweet, most powerful, Controller of my inmost soul; The terrible, yet precious gift Of heaven, companion kind Of all my days of misery, O thought, that ever dost recur to me; Of thy mysterious power Who speaketh not? Who hath not felt Its subtle influence? Yet, when one is by feeling deep impelled Its secret joys and sorrows to unfold, The theme seems ever new however old. How isolated is my mind, Since thou in it hast come to dwell! As by some magic spell, My other thoughts have all, Like lightning, disappeared; And thou, alone, like some huge tower, In a deserted plain, Gigantic, solitary, dost remain. How worthless quite, Save but for thee, have in my sight All earthly things, and life itself become! How wearisome its days; And all its works, and all its plays, A vain pursuit of pleasures vain, Compared with the felicity, The heavenly joy, that springs from thee! As from the naked rocks Of the rough Apennine, The weary pilgrim turns his longing eyes To the bright plain that in the distance lies; So from the rough and barren intercourse Of worldly men, to thee I gladly turn, As to a Paradise, my weary mind, 104 And sweet refreshment for my senses find. It seems to me incredible, that I This dreary world, this wretched life, So full of folly and of strife, Without thy aid, could have so long endured; Nor can I well conceive, How one's desires _could_ cling To other joys than those which thou dost bring. Never, since first I knew By hard experience what life is, Could fear of death my soul subdue. To-day, a jest to me appears, That which the silly world, Praising at times, yet ever hates and fears, The last extremity! If danger comes, I, with undaunted mien, Its threats encounter with a smile serene. I always hated coward souls, And meanness held in scorn. _Now_, each unworthy act At once through all my senses thrills; Each instance vile of human worthlessness, My soul with holy anger fills. This arrogant, this foolish age, Which feeds itself on empty hopes, Absorbed in trifles, virtue's enemy, Which idly clamors for utility, And has not sense enough to see How _useless_ all life thenceforth must become, I feel _beneath_ me, and its judgments laugh To scorn. The motley crew, The foes of every lofty thought, Who laugh at _thee_, I trample under foot. To that, which thee inspires, What passion yieldeth not? What other, save this one, Controls our hearts' desires? Ambition, avarice, disdain, and hate, 105 The love of power, love of fame, What are they but an empty name, Compared with it? And this, The source, the spring of all, That sovereign reigns within the breast, Eternal laws have on our hearts impressed. Life hath no value, meaning hath, Save but for thee, our only hope and stay; The sole excuse for Fate, That cruelly hath placed us here, To undergo such useless misery; For thee alone, the wise man, not the fool, To life still fondly clings, Nor calls on death to end his sufferings. Thy joys to gather, thou sweet thought, Long years of sorrow I endure, And bear of weary life the strain; But not in vain! And I would still return, In spite of all my sad experience, Towards such a goal, my course to recommence; For through the sands, and through the viper-brood Of this, our mortal wilderness, My steps I ne'er so wearily have dragged To thee, that all the danger and distress Were not repaid by such pure happiness. O what a world, what new immensity, What paradise is that, To which, so oft, by thy stupendous charm Impelled, I seem to soar! Where I Beneath a brighter light am wandering, And my poor earthly state, And all life's bitter truths forget! Such are, I ween, the dreams Of the Immortals. Ah, what _but_ a dream, Art thou, sweet thought, The truth, that thus embellished? A dream, an error manifest! But of a nature, still divine, 106 An error brave and strong, That will with truth the fight prolong, And oft for truth doth compensate; Nor leave us e'er, till summoned hence by Fate. And surely thou, my thought, Thou sole sustainer of my days, The cause beloved of sorrows infinite, In Death alone wilt be extinguished quite; For by sure signs within my soul I feel Thy sovereign sway, perpetual. All other fancies sweet The aspect of the truth Hath weakened ever. But whene'er I turn To gaze again on her, of whom with thee To speak, is all I live for, ah, That great delight increases still, That frenzy fine, the breath of life, to me! Angelic beauty! Every lovely face, On which I gaze, A phantom seems to me, That vainly strives to copy thee, Of all the graces that our souls inthral, Sole fount, divine original! Since first I thee beheld, Of what most anxious care of mine, Hast thou not been the end and aim? What day has ever passed, what hour, When I thought not of thee? What dream of mine Has not been haunted by thy face divine? Angelic countenance, that we In dreams, alas, alone may see, What else on earth, what in the universe, Do I e'er ask, or hope for, more, Than those dear eyes forever to behold? Than thy sweet thought still in my heart to hold? ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

675:The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto Ix. Preludes. I The Wife's Tragedy Man must be pleased; but him to please Is woman's pleasure; down the gulf Of his condoled necessities She casts her best, she flings herself. How often flings for nought, and yokes Her heart to an icicle or whim, Whose each impatient word provokes Another, not from her, but him; While she, too gentle even to force His penitence by kind replies, Waits by, expecting his remorse, With pardon in her pitying eyes; And if he once, by shame oppress'd, A comfortable word confers, She leans and weeps against his breast, And seems to think the sin was hers; And whilst his love has any life, Or any eye to see her charms, At any time, she's still his wife, Dearly devoted to his arms; She loves with love that cannot tire; And when, ah woe, she loves alone, Through passionate duty love springs higher, As grass grows taller round a stone. II Common Graces Is nature in thee too spiritless, Ignoble, impotent, and dead, To prize her love and loveliness The more for being thy daily bread? And art thou one of that vile crew Which see no splendour in the sun, Praising alone the good that's new, Or over, or not yet begun? And has it dawn'd on thy dull wits That love warms many as soft a nest, 82 That, though swathed round with benefits, Thou art not singularly blest? And fail thy thanks for gifts divine, The common food of many a heart, Because they are not only thine? Beware lest in the end thou art Cast for thy pride forth from the fold, Too good to feel the common grace Of blissful myriads who behold For evermore the Father's face. III The Zest of Life Give thanks. It is not time misspent; Worst fare this betters, and the best, Wanting this natural condiment, Breeds crudeness, and will not digest. The grateful love the Giver's law; But those who eat, and look no higher, From sin or doubtful sanction draw The biting sauce their feasts require. Give thanks for nought, if you've no more, And, having all things, do not doubt That nought, with thanks, is blest before Whate'er the world can give, without. IV Fool and Wise Endow the fool with sun and moon, Being his, he holds them mean and low; But to the wise a little boon Is great, because the giver's so. Sahara. I stood by Honor and the Dean, They seated in the London train. A month from her! yet this had been, Ere now, without such bitter pain. But neighbourhood makes parting light, And distance remedy has none; Alone, she near, I felt as might 83 A blind man sitting in the sun; She near, all for the time was well; Hope's self, when we were far apart, With lonely feeling, like the smell Of heath on mountains, fill'd my heart. To see her seem'd delight's full scope, And her kind smile, so clear of care, Ev'n then, though darkening all my hope, Gilded the cloud of my despair. II She had forgot to bring a book. I lent one; blamed the print for old; And did not tell her that she took A Petrarch worth its weight in gold. I hoped she'd lose it; for my love Was grown so dainty, high, and nice, It prized no luxury above The sense of fruitless sacrifice. III The bell rang, and, with shrieks like death, Link catching link, the long array, With ponderous pulse and fiery breath, Proud of its burthen, swept away; And through the lingering crowd I broke, Sought the hill-side, and thence, heart-sick, Beheld, far off, the little smoke Along the landscape kindling quick. IV What should I do, where should I go, Now she was gone, my love! for mine She was, whatever here below Cross'd or usurp'd my right divine. Life, without her, was vain and gross, The glory from the world was gone, And on the gardens of the Close As on Sahara shone the sun. Oppress'd with her departed grace, My thoughts on ill surmises fed; The harmful influence of the place 84 She went to fill'd my soul with dread. She, mixing with the people there, Might come back alter'd, having caught The foolish, fashionable air Of knowing all, and feeling nought. Or, giddy with her beauty's praise, She'd scorn our simple country life, Its wholesome nights and tranquil days, And would not deign to be my Wife. ‘My Wife,’ ‘my Wife,’ ah, tenderest word! How oft, as fearful she might hear, Whispering that name of ‘Wife,’ I heard The chiming of the inmost sphere. I pass'd the home of my regret. The clock was striking in the hall, And one sad window open yet, Although the dews began to fall. Ah, distance show'd her beauty's scope! How light of heart and innocent That loveliness which sicken'd hope And wore the world for ornament! How perfectly her life was framed; And, thought of in that passionate mood, How her affecting graces shamed The vulgar life that was but good! VI I wonder'd, would her bird be fed, Her rose-plots water'd, she not by; Loading my breast with angry dread Of light, unlikely injury. So, fill'd with love and fond remorse, I paced the Close, its every part Endow'd with reliquary force To heal and raise from death my heart. How tranquil and unsecular The precinct! Once, through yonder gate, I saw her go, and knew from far Her love-lit form and gentle state. Her dress had brush'd this wicket; here 85 She turn'd her face, and laugh'd, with light Like moonbeams on a wavering mere. Weary beforehand of the night, I went; the blackbird, in the wood, Talk'd by himself, and eastward grew In heaven the symbol of my mood, Where one bright star engross'd the blue. ~ Coventry Patmore,

676:A certain poet in outlandish clothes Gathered a crowd in some Byzantine lane, Talked of his country and its people, sang To some stringed instrument none there had seen, A wall behind his back, over his head A latticed window. His glance went up at time As though one listened there, and his voice sank Or let its meaning mix into the strings. MAEVE the great queen was pacing to and fro, Between the walls covered with beaten bronze, In her high house at Cruachan; the long hearth, Flickering with ash and hazel, but half showed Where the tired horse-boys lay upon the rushes, Or on the benches underneath the walls, In comfortable sleep; all living slept But that great queen, who more than half the night Had paced from door to fire and fire to door. Though now in her old age, in her young age She had been beautiful in that old way That's all but gone; for the proud heart is gone, And the fool heart of the counting-house fears all But Soft beauty and indolent desire. She could have called over the rim of the world Whatever woman's lover had hit her fancy, And yet had been great-bodied and great-limbed, Fashioned to be the mother of strong children; And she'd had lucky eyes and high heart, And wisdom that caught fire like the dried flax, At need, and made her beautiful and fierce, Sudden and laughing. O unquiet heart, Why do you praise another, praising her, As if there were no tale but your own tale Worth knitting to a measure of sweet sound? Have I not bid you tell of that great queen Who has been buried some two thousand years? When night was at its deepest, a wild goose Cried from the porter's lodge, and with long clamour' Shook the ale-horns and shields upon their hooks; But the horse-boys slept on, as though some power Had filled the house with Druid heaviness; And wondering who of the many-changing Sidhe Had come as in the old times to counsel her, Maeve walked, yet with slow footfall, being old, To that small chamber by the outer gate. The porter slept, although he sat upright With still and stony limbs and open eyes. Maeve waited, and when that ear-piercing noise Broke from his parted lips and broke again, She laid a hand on either of his shoulders, And shook him wide awake, and bid him say Who of the wandering many-changing ones Had troubled his sleep. But all he had to say Was that, the air being heavy and the dogs More still than they had been for a good month, He had fallen asleep, and, though he had dreamed nothing, He could remember when he had had fine dreams. It was before the time of the great war Over the White-Horned Bull and the Brown Bull. She turned away; he turned again to sleep That no god troubled now, and, wondering What matters were afoot among the Sidhe, Maeve walked through that great hall, and with a sigh Lifted the curtain of her sleeping-room, Remembering that she too had seemed divine To many thousand eyes, and to her own One that the generations had long waited That work too difficult for mortal hands Might be accomplished, Bunching the curtain up She saw her husband Ailell sleeping there, And thought of days when he'd had a straight body, And of that famous Fergus, Nessa's husband, Who had been the lover of her middle life. Suddenly Ailell spoke out of his sleep, And not with his own voice or a man's voice, But with the burning, live, unshaken voice Of those that, it may be, can never age. He said, "High Queen of Cruachan and Magh Ai, A king of the Great Plain would speak with you.' And with glad voice Maeve answered him, "What king Of the far-wandering shadows has come to me, As in the old days when they would come and go About my threshold to counsel and to help?' The parted lips replied, "I seek your help, For I am Aengus, and I am crossed in love.' "How may a mortal whose life gutters out Help them that wander with hand clasping hand, Their haughty images that cannot wither, For all their beauty's like a hollow dream, Mirrored in streams that neither hail nor rain Nor the cold North has troubled?' He replied, "I am from those rivers and I bid you call The children of the Maines out of sleep, And set them digging under Bual's hill. We shadows, while they uproot his earthy house, Will overthrow his shadows and carry off Caer, his blue-eyed daughter that I love. I helped your fathers when they built these walls, And I would have your help in my great need, Queen of high Cruachan.' "I obey your will With speedy feet and a most thankful heart: For you have been, O Aengus of the birds, Our giver of good counsel and good luck.' And with a groan, as if the mortal breath Could but awaken sadly upon lips That happier breath had moved, her husband turned Face downward, tossing in a troubled sleep; But Maeve, and not with a slow feeble foot, Came to the threshold of the painted house Where her grandchildren slept, and cried aloud, Until the pillared dark began to stir With shouting and the clang of unhooked arms. She told them of the many-changing ones; And all that night, and all through the next day To middle night, they dug into the hill. At middle night great cats with silver claws, Bodies of shadow and blind eyes like pearls, Came up out of the hole, and red-eared hounds With long white bodies came out of the air Suddenly, and ran at them and harried them. The Maines" children dropped their spades, and stood With quaking joints and terror-stricken faces, Till Maeve called out, "These are but common men. The Maines' children have not dropped their spades Because Earth, crazy for its broken power, Casts up a Show and the winds answer it With holy shadows.' Her high heart was glad, And when the uproar ran along the grass She followed with light footfall in the midst, Till it died out where an old thorn-tree stood. Friend of these many years, you too had stood With equal courage in that whirling rout; For you, although you've not her wandering heart, Have all that greatness, and not hers alone, For there is no high story about queens In any ancient book but tells of you; And when I've heard how they grew old and died, Or fell into unhappiness, I've said, ~ William Butler Yeats, The Old Age Of Queen Maeve ,

677:English version by Kunzang Tenzin HOMAGE TO ARYAMANJUSRI! Homage to the destroyer of demonic power! The wind lashes calm waters into rollers and breakers; The king makes multifarious forms out of unity, Seeing many faces of this one Archer, Saraha. The cross-eyed fool sees one lamp as two; The vision and the viewer are one, You broken, brittle mind! Many lamps are lit in the house, But the blind are still in darkness; Sahaja is all-pervasive But the fool cannot see what is under his nose. Just as many rivers are one in the ocean All half-truths are swallowed by the one truth; The effulgence of the sun illuminates all dark corners. Clouds draw water from the ocean to fall as rain on the earth And there is neither increase nor decrease; Just so, reality remains unaltered like the pure sky. Replete with the Buddha's perfections Sahaja is the one essential nature; Beings are born into it and pass into it, Yet there is neither existence nor non-existence in it. Forsaking bliss the fool roams abroad, Hoping for mundane pleasure; Your mouth is full of honey now, Swallow it while you may! Fools attempt to avoid their suffering, The wise enact their pain. Drink the cup of sky-nectar While others hunger for outward appearances. Flies eat filth, spurning the fragrance of sandalwood; Man lost to nirvana furthers his own confusion, Thirsting for the coarse and vulgar. The rain water filling an ox's hoof-print Evaporates when the sun shines; The imperfections of a perfect mind, All are dissolved in perfection. Salt sea water absorbed by clouds turns sweet; The venom of passionate reaction In a strong and selfless mind becomes elixir. The unutterable is free of pain; Non-meditation gives true pleasure. Though we fear the dragon's roar Rain falls from the clouds to ripen the harvest. The nature of beginning and end is here and now, And the first does not exist without the last; The rational fool conceptualising the inconceivable Separates emptiness from compassion. The bee knows from birth That flowers are the source of honey; How can the fool know That samsara and nirvana are one? Facing himself in a mirror The fool sees an alien form; The mind with truth forgotten Serves untruth's outward sham. Flowers' fragrance is intangible Yet its reality pervades the air, Just as mandala circles are informed By a formless presence. Still water stung by an icy wind Freezes hard in starched and jagged shapes; In an emotional mind agitated by critical concepts The unformed becomes hard and intractable. Mind immaculate by nature is untouched By samsara and nirvana's mud; But just like a jewel lost in a swamp Though it retains its lustre it does not shine. As mental sloth increases pure awareness diminishes; As mental sloth increases suffering also grows. Shoots sprout from the seed and leaves from the branches. Separating unity from multiplicity in the mind The light grows dim and we wander in the lower realms; Who is more deserving of pity than he Who walks into fire with his eyes wide open? Obsessed with the joys of sexual embrace The fool believes he knows ultimate truth; He is like someone who stands at his door And, flirting, talks about sex. The wind stirs in the House of Emptiness Exciting delusions of emotional pleasure; Fallen from celestial space, stung, The tormented yogin faints away. Like a brahmin taking rice and butter Offering sacrifice to the flame, He who visualises material things as celestial ambrosia Deludes himself that a dream is ultimate reality. Enlightening the House of Brahma in the fontanelle Stroking the uvala in wanton delight, Confused, believing binding pleasure to be spiritual release, The vain fools calls himself a yogin. Teaching that virtue is irrelevant to intrinsic awareness, He mistakes the lock for the key; Ignorant of the true nature of the gem The fool calls green glass emerald. His mind takes brass for gold, Momentary peak experience for reality accomplished; Clinging to the joy of ephemeral dreams He calls his short-thrift life Eternal Bliss. With a discursive understanding of the symbol EVAM, Creating four seals through an analysis of the moment, He labels his peak experience sahaja: He is clinging to a reflection mistaken for the mirror. Like befuddled deer leaping into a mirage of water Deluded fools in their ignorance cling to outer forms And with their thirst unslaked, bound and confined, They idealise their prison, pretending happiness. The relatively real is free of intellectual constructs, And ultimately real mind, active or quiescent, is no-mind, And this is the supreme,the highest of the high, immaculate; Friends, know this sacred high! In mind absorbed in samadhi that is concept-free, Passion is immaculately pure; Like a lotus rooted in the slime of a lake bottom, This sublime reality is untouched by the pollution of existence. Make solid your vision of all things as visionary dream And you attain transcendence, Instantaneous realisation and equanimity; A strong mind binding the demons of darkness Beyond thought your own spontaneous nature is accomplished. Appearances have never ceased to be their original radiance, And unformed, form never had a substantial nature to be grasped; It is a continuum of unique meditation, In an inactive, stainless, meditative mind that is no-mind. Thus the I is intellect, mind and mind-forms, I the world, all seemingly alien show, I the infinite variety of vision-viewer, I the desire, the anger, the mental sloth - And bodhicitta. Now there is a lamp lit in spiritual darkness Healing the splits riven by the intellect So that all mental defilements are erased. Who can define the nature of detachment? It cannot be denied nor yet affirmed, And ungraspable it is inconceivable. Through conceptualisation fools are bound, While concept-free there is immaculate sahaja. The concepts of unity and multiplicity do not bring integration; Only through awareness do sentient beings reach freedom. Cognition of radiance is strong meditation; Abide in a calm, quiescent mind. Reaching the joy swollen land Powers of seeing expand, And there is joy and laughter; Even chasing objects there is no separation. From joy, buds of pure pleasure emerge, Bursting into blooms of supreme pleasure, And so long as outflow is contained Unutterable bliss will surely mature. What, where and by whom are nothing, Yet the entire event is imperative. Whether love and attachment or desirelessness The form of the event is emptiness. Like pigs we wallow in this sensual mire But what can stain our pearly mind? Nothing can ever contaminate it, And by nothing can we ever be bound. ~ Saraha, The Royal Song of Saraha (Dohakosa) ,

678:The Spleen What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape? Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind, Who never yet thy real Cause cou'd find, Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape. Still varying thy perplexing Form, Now a Dead Sea thou'lt represent, A Calm of stupid Discontent, Then, dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm. Trembling sometimes thou dost appear, Dissolv'd into a Panick Fear; On Sleep intruding dost thy Shadows spread, Thy gloomy Terrours round the silent Bed, And croud with boading Dreams the Melancholy Head: Or, when the Midnight Hour is told, And drooping Lids thou still dost waking hold, Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes, Before them antick Spectres dance, Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance, And airy Phantoms rise. Such was the monstrous Vision seen, When Brutus (now beneath his Cares opprest, And all Rome's Fortunes rolling in his Breast, Before Philippi's latest Field, Before his Fate did to Octavius lead) Was vanquish'd by the Spleen. Falsly, the Mortal Part we blame Of our deprest, and pond'rous Frame, Which, till the First degrading Sin Let Thee, its dull Attendant, in, Still with the Other did comply, Nor clogg'd the Active Soul, dispos'd to fly, And range the Mansions of it's native Sky. Nor, whilst in his own Heaven he dwelt, Whilst Man his Paradice possest, His fertile Garden in the fragrant East, And all united Odours smelt, No armed Sweets, until thy Reign, Cou'd shock the Sense, or in the Face 179 A flusht, unhandsom Colour place. Now the Jonquille o'ercomes the feeble Brain; We faint beneath the Aromatick Pain, {6} Till some offensive Scent thy Pow'rs appease, And Pleasure we resign for short, and nauseous Ease. In ev'ry One thou dost possess, New are thy Motions, and thy Dress: Now in some Grove a list'ning Friend Thy false Suggestions must attend, Thy whisper'd Griefs, thy fancy'd Sorrows hear, Breath'd in a Sigh, and witness'd by a Tear; Whilst in the light, and vulgar Croud, Thy Slaves, more clamorous and loud, By Laughters unprovok'd, thy Influence too confess. In the Imperious Wife thou Vapours art, Which from o'erheated Passions rise In Clouds to the attractive Brain, Until descending thence again, Thro' the o'er-cast, and show'ring Eyes, Upon her Husband's soften'd Heart, He the disputed Point must yield, Something resign of the contested Field; Til Lordly Man, born to Imperial Sway, Compounds for Peace, to make that Right away, And Woman, arm'd with Spleen, do's servilely Obey. The Fool, to imitate the Wits, Complains of thy pretended Fits, And Dulness, born with him, wou'd lay Upon thy accidental Sway; Because, sometimes, thou dost presume Into the ablest Heads to come: That, often, Men of Thoughts refin'd, Impatient of unequal Sence, Such slow Returns, where they so much dispense, Retiring from the Croud, are to thy Shades inclin'd. O'er me, alas! thou dost too much prevail: I feel thy Force, whilst I against thee rail; I feel my Verse decay, and my crampt Numbers fail. Thro' thy black Jaundice I all Objects see, As Dark, and Terrible as Thee, 180 My Lines decry'd, and my Employment thought An useless Folly, or presumptuous Fault: Whilst in the Muses Paths I stray, Whilst in their Groves, and by their secret Springs My Hand delights to trace unusual Things, And deviates from the known, and common way; Nor will in fading Silks compose Faintly th' inimitable Rose, Fill up an ill-drawn Bird, or paint on Glass The Sov'reign's blurr'd and undistinguish'd Face, The threatning Angel, and the speaking Ass. Patron thou art to ev'ry gross Abuse, The sullen Husband's feign'd Excuse, When the ill Humour with his Wife he spends, And bears recruited Wit, and Spirits to his Friends. The Son of Bacchus pleads thy Pow'r, As to the Glass he still repairs, Pretends but to remove thy Cares, Snatch from thy Shades one gay, and smiling Hour, And drown thy Kingdom in a purple Show'r. When the Coquette, whom ev'ry Fool admires, Wou'd in Variety be Fair, And, changing hastily the Scene From Light, Impertinent, and Vain, Assumes a soft, a melancholy Air, And of her Eyes rebates the wand'ring Fires, The careless Posture, and the Head reclin'd, The thoughtful, and composed Face, Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent Mind, Allows the Fop more liberty to gaze, Who gently for the tender Cause inquires; The Cause, indeed, is a Defect in Sense, Yet is the Spleen alleg'd, and still the dull Pretence. But these are thy fantastic Harms, The Tricks of thy pernicious Stage, Which do the weaker Sort engage; Worse are the dire Effects of thy more pow'rful Charms. By Thee Religion, all we know, That shou'd enlighten here below, Is veil'd in Darkness, and perplext With anxious Doubts, with endless Scruples vext, 181 And some Restraint imply'd from each perverted Text. Whilst Touch not, Taste not, what is freely giv'n, Is but thy niggard Voice, disgracing bounteous Heav'n. From Speech restrain'd, by thy Deceits abus'd, To Desarts banish'd, or in Cells reclus'd, Mistaken Vot'ries to the Pow'rs Divine, Whilst they a purer Sacrifice design, Do but the Spleen obey, and worship at thy Shrine. In vain to chase thee ev'ry Art we try, In vain all Remedies apply, In vain the Indian Leaf infuse, Or the parch'd Eastern Berry bruise; Some pass, in vain, those Bounds, and nobler Liquors use. Now Harmony, in vain, we bring, Inspire the Flute, and touch the String. From Harmony no help is had; Musick but soothes thee, if too sweetly sad, And if too light, but turns thee gayly Mad. Tho' the Physicians greatest Gains, Altho' his growing Wealth he sees Daily increas'd by Ladies Fees, Yet dost thou baffle all his studious Pains. Not skilful Lower thy Source cou'd find, Or thro' the well-dissected Body trace The secret, the mysterious ways, By which thou dost surprize, and prey upon the Mind. Tho' in the Search, too deep for Humane Thought, With unsuccessful Toil he wrought, 'Til thinking Thee to've catch'd, Himself by thee was caught, Retain'd thy Pris'ner, thy acknowleg'd Slave, And sunk beneath thy Chain to a lamented Grave. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

679:The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto X. Preludes. I The Joyful Wisdom Would Wisdom for herself be woo'd, And wake the foolish from his dream, She must be glad as well as good, And must not only be, but seem. Beauty and joy are hers by right; And, knowing this, I wonder less That she's so scorn'd, when falsely dight In misery and ugliness. What's that which Heaven to man endears, And that which eyes no sooner see Than the heart says, with floods of tears, ‘Ah, that's the thing which I would be!’ Not childhood, full of frown and fret; Not youth, impatient to disown Those visions high, which to forget Were worse than never to have known; Not worldlings, in whose fair outside Nor courtesy nor justice fails, Thanks to cross-pulling vices tied, Like Samson's foxes, by the tails; Not poets; real things are dreams, When dreams are as realities, And boasters of celestial gleams Go stumbling aye for want of eyes; Not patriots nor people's men, In whom two worse-match'd evils meet Than ever sought Adullam's den, Base conscience and a high conceit; Not new-made saints, their feelings iced, Their joy in man and nature gone, Who sing ‘O easy yoke of Christ!’ But find 'tis hard to get it on; Not great men, even when they're good; The good man whom the time makes great, By some disgrace of chance or blood, God fails not to humiliate; 105 Not these: but souls, found here and there, Oases in our waste of sin, Where everything is well and fair, And Heav'n remits its discipline; Whose sweet subdual of the world The worldling scarce can recognise, And ridicule, against it hurl'd, Drops with a broken sting and dies; Who nobly, if they cannot know Whether a 'scutcheon's dubious field Carries a falcon or a crow, Fancy a falcon on the shield; Yet, ever careful not to hurt God's honour, who creates success, Their praise of even the best desert Is but to have presumed no less; Who, should their own life plaudits bring, Are simply vex'd at heart that such An easy, yea, delightful thing Should move the minds of men so much. They live by law, not like the fool, But like the bard, who freely sings In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule, And finds in them, not bonds, but wings. Postponing still their private ease To courtly custom, appetite, Subjected to observances, To banquet goes with full delight; Nay, continence and gratitude So cleanse their lives from earth's alloy, They taste, in Nature's common food, Nothing but spiritual joy. They shine like Moses in the face, And teach our hearts, without the rod, That God's grace is the only grace, And all grace is the grace of God. II The Devices Love, kiss'd by Wisdom, wakes twice Love, And Wisdom is, thro' loving, wise. Let Dove and Snake, and Snake and Dove, This Wisdom's be, that Love's device. 106 Going To Church. I woke at three; for I was bid To breakfast with the Dean at nine, And thence to Church. My curtain slid, I found the dawning Sunday fine; And could not rest, so rose. The air Was dark and sharp; the roosted birds Cheep'd, ‘Here am I, Sweet; are you there?’ On Avon's misty flats the herds Expected, comfortless, the day, Which slowly fired the clouds above; The cock scream'd, somewhere far away; In sleep the matrimonial dove Was crooning; no wind waked the wood, Nor moved the midnight river-damps, Nor thrill'd the poplar; quiet stood The chestnut with its thousand lamps; The moon shone yet, but weak and drear, And seem'd to watch, with bated breath, The landscape, all made sharp and clear By stillness, as a face by death. II My pray'rs for her being done, I took Occasion by the quiet hour To find and know, by Rule and Book, The rights of love's beloved power. III Fronting the question without ruth, Nor ignorant that, evermore, If men will stoop to kiss the Truth, She lifts them higher than before, I, from above, such light required As now should once for all destroy The folly which at times desired A sanction for so great a joy. 107 IV Thenceforth, and through that pray'r, I trod A path with no suspicions dim. I loved her in the name of God, And for the ray she was of Him; I ought to admire much more, not less; Her beauty was a godly grace; The mystery of loveliness, Which made an altar of her face, Was not of the flesh, though that was fair, But a most pure and living light Without a name, by which the rare And virtuous spirit flamed to sight. If oft, in love, effect lack'd cause And cause effect, 'twere vain to soar Reasons to seek for that which was Reason itself, or something more. My joy was no idolatry Upon the ends of the vile earth bent, For when I loved her most then I Most yearn'd for more divine content. That other doubt, which, like a ghost, In the brain's darkness haunted me, Was thus resolved: Him loved I most, But her I loved most sensibly. Lastly, my giddiest hope allow'd No selfish thought, or earthly smirch; And forth I went, in peace, and proud To take my passion into Church; Grateful and glad to think that all Such doubts would seem entirely vain To her whose nature's lighter fall Made no divorce of heart from brain. I found them, with exactest grace And fresh as Spring, for Spring attired; And by the radiance in her face I saw she felt she was admired; And, through the common luck of love, A moment's fortunate delay, To fit the little lilac glove, 108 Gave me her arm; and I and they (They true to this and every hour, As if attended on by Time), Enter'd the Church while yet the tower Was noisy with the finish'd chime. VI Her soft voice, singularly heard Beside me, in her chant, withstood The roar of voices, like a bird Sole warbling in a windy wood; And, when we knelt, she seem'd to be An angel teaching me to pray; And all through the high Liturgy My spirit rejoiced without allay, Being, for once, borne clearly above All banks and bars of ignorance, By this bright spring-tide of pure love And floated in a free expanse, Whence it could see from side to side, The obscurity from every part Winnow'd away and purified By the vibrations of my heart. ~ Coventry Patmore,

680:Sainte-Nitouche Though not for common praise of him, Nor yet for pride or charity, Still would I make to Vanderberg One tribute for his memory: One honest warrant of a friend Who found with him that flesh was grass— Who neither blamed him in defect Nor marveled how it came to pass; Or why it ever was that he— That Vanderberg, of all good men, Should lose himself to find himself, Straightway to lose himself again. For we had buried Sainte-Nitouche, And he had said to me that night: “Yes, we have laid her in the earth, But what of that?” And he was right. And he had said: “We have a wife, We have a child, we have a church; ’T would be a scurrilous way out If we should leave them in the lurch. “That’s why I have you here with me To-night: you know a talk may take The place of bromide, cyanide, Et cetera. For heaven’s sake, “Why do you look at me like that? What have I done to freeze you so? Dear man, you see where friendship means A few things yet that you don’t know; “And you see partly why it is That I am glad for what is gone: For Sainte-Nitouche and for the world In me that followed. What lives on— 252 “Well, here you have it: here at home— For even home will yet return. You know the truth is on my side, And that will make the embers burn. “I see them brighten while I speak, I see them flash,—and they are mine! You do not know them, but I do: I know the way they used to shine. “And I know more than I have told Of other life that is to be: I shall have earned it when it comes, And when it comes I shall be free. “Not as I was before she came, But farther on for having been The servitor, the slave of her— The fool, you think. But there’s your sin— “Forgive me!—and your ignorance: Could you but have the vision here That I have, you would understand As I do that all ways are clear “For those who dare to follow them With earnest eyes and honest feet. But Sainte-Nitouche has made the way For me, and I shall find it sweet. “Sweet with a bitter sting left?—Yes, Bitter enough, God knows, at first; But there are more steep ways than one To make the best look like the worst; “And here is mine—the dark and hard, For me to follow, trust, and hold: And worship, so that I may leave No broken story to be told. “Therefore I welcome what may come, 253 Glad for the days, the nights, the years.”— An upward flash of ember-flame Revealed the gladness in his tears. “You see them, but you know,” said he, “Too much to be incredulous: You know the day that makes us wise, The moment that makes fools of us. “So I shall follow from now on The road that she has found for me: The dark and starry way that leads Right upward, and eternally. “Stumble at first? I may do that; And I may grope, and hate the night; But there’s a guidance for the man Who stumbles upward for the light, “And I shall have it all from her, The foam-born child of innocence. I feel you smiling while I speak, But that’s of little consequence; “For when we learn that we may find The truth where others miss the mark, What is it worth for us to know That friends are smiling in the dark? “Could we but share the lonely pride Of knowing, all would then be well; But knowledge often writes itself In flaming words we cannot spell. “And I, who have my work to do, Look forward; and I dare to see, Far stretching and all mountainous, God’s pathway through the gloom for me.” I found so little to say then That I said nothing.—“Say good-night,” Said Vanderberg; “and when we meet 254 To-morrow, tell me I was right. “Forget the dozen other things That you have not the faith to say; For now I know as well as you That you are glad to go away.” I could have blessed the man for that, And he could read me with a smile: “You doubt,” said he, “but if we live You’ll know me in a little while.” He lived; and all as he foretold, I knew him—better than he thought: My fancy did not wholly dig The pit where I believed him caught. But yet he lived and laughed, and preached, And worked—as only players can: He scoured the shrine that once was home And kept himself a clergyman. The clockwork of his cold routine Put friends far off that once were near; The five staccatos in his laugh Were too defensive and too clear; The glacial sermons that he preached Were longer than they should have been; And, like the man who fashioned them, The best were too divinely thin. But still he lived, and moved, and had The sort of being that was his, Till on a day the shrine of home For him was in the Mysteries:— “My friend, there’s one thing yet,” said he, “And one that I have never shared With any man that I have met; But you—you know me.” And he stared 255 For a slow moment at me then With conscious eyes that had the gleam, The shine, before the stroke:—“You know The ways of us, the way we dream: “You know the glory we have won, You know the glamour we have lost; You see me now, you look at me,— And yes, you pity me, almost; “But never mind the pity—no, Confess the faith you can’t conceal; And if you frown, be not like one Of those who frown before they feel. “For there is truth, and half truth,—yes, And there’s a quarter truth, no doubt; But mine was more than half.… You smile? You understand? You bear me out? “You always knew that I was right— You are my friend—and I have tried Your faith—your love.”—The gleam grew small, The stroke was easy, and he died. I saw the dim look change itself To one that never will be dim; I saw the dead flesh to the grave, But that was not the last of him. For what was his to live lives yet: Truth, quarter truth, death cannot reach; Nor is it always what we know That we are fittest here to teach. The fight goes on when fields are still, The triumph clings when arms are down; The jewels of all coronets Are pebbles of the unseen crown; The specious weight of loud reproof Sinks where a still conviction floats; 256 And on God’s ocean after storm Time’s wreckage is half pilot-boats; And what wet faces wash to sight Thereafter feed the common moan:— But Vanderberg no pilot had, Nor could have: he was all alone. Unchallenged by the larger light The starry quest was his to make; And of all ways that are for men, The starry way was his to take. We grant him idle names enough To-day, but even while we frown The fight goes on, the triumph clings, And there is yet the unseen crown But was it his? Did Vanderberg Find half truth to be passion’s thrall, Or as we met him day by day, Was love triumphant, after all? I do not know so much as that; I only know that he died right: Saint Anthony nor Sainte-Nitouche Had ever smiled as he did—quite. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

681:Flee On Your Donkey Because there was no other place to flee to, I came back to the scene of the disordered senses, came back last night at midnight, arriving in the thick June night without luggage or defenses, giving up my car keys and my cash, keeping only a pack of Salem cigarettes the way a child holds on to a toy. I signed myself in where a stranger puts the inked-in X's— for this is a mental hospital, not a child's game. Today an intern knocks my knees, testing for reflexes. Once I would have winked and begged for dope. Today I am terribly patient. Today crows play black-jack on the stethoscope. Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse. The curtains, lazy and delicate, billow and flutter and drop like the Victorian skirts of my two maiden aunts who kept an antique shop. Hornets have been sent. They cluster like floral arrangements on the screen. Hornets, dragging their thin stingers, hover outside, all knowing, hissing: the hornet knows. I heard it as a child 72 but what was it that he meant? The hornet knows! What happened to Jack and Doc and Reggy? Who remembers what lurks in the heart of man? What did The Green Hornet mean, he knows? Or have I got it wrong? Is it The Shadow who had seen me from my bedside radio? Now it's Dinn, Dinn, Dinn! while the ladies in the next room argue and pick their teeth. Upstairs a girl curls like a snail; in another room someone tries to eat a shoe; meanwhile an adolescent pads up and down the hall in his white tennis socks. A new doctor makes rounds advertising tranquilizers, insulin, or shock to the uninitiated. Six years of such small preoccupations! Six years of shuttling in and out of this place! O my hunger! My hunger! I could have gone around the world twice or had new children - all boys. It was a long trip with little days in it and no new places. In here, it's the same old crowd, the same ruined scene. The alcoholic arrives with his gold clubs. The suicide arrives with extra pills sewn into the lining of her dress. The permanent guests have done nothing new. Their faces are still small like babies with jaundice. Meanwhile, they carried out my mother, wrapped like somebody's doll, in sheets, bandaged her jaw and stuffed up her holes. 73 My father, too. He went out on the rotten blood he used up on other women in the Middle West. He went out, a cured old alcoholic on crooked feet and useless hands. He went out calling for his father who died all by himself long ago that fat banker who got locked up, his genes suspended like dollars, wrapped up in his secret, tied up securely in a straitjacket. But you, my doctor, my enthusiast, were better than Christ; you promised me another world to tell me who I was. I spent most of my time, a stranger, damned and in trance—that little hut, that naked blue-veined place, my eyes shut on the confusing office, eyes circling into my childhood, eyes newly cut. Years of hints strung out—a serialized case history— thirty-three years of the same dull incest that sustained us both. You, my bachelor analyst, who sat on Marlborough Street, sharing your office with your mother and giving up cigarettes each New Year, were the new God, the manager of the Gideon Bible. I was your third-grader with a blue star on my forehead. In trance I could be any age, voice, gesture—all turned backward like a drugstore clock. Awake, I memorized dreams. Dreams came into the ring 74 like third string fighters, each one a bad bet who might win because there was no other. I stared at them, concentrating on the abyss the way one looks down into a rock quarry, uncountable miles down, my hands swinging down like hooks to pull dreams up out of their cage. O my hunger! My hunger! Once, outside your office, I collapsed in the old-fashioned swoon between the illegally parked cars. I threw myself down, pretending dead for eight hours. I thought I had died into a snowstorm. Above my head chains cracked along like teeth digging their way through the snowy street. I lay there like an overcoat that someone had thrown away. You carried me back in, awkwardly, tenderly, with help of the red-haired secretary who was built like a lifeguard. My shoes, I remember, were lost in the snowbank as if I planned never to walk again. That was the winter that my mother died, half mad on morphine, blown up, at last, like a pregnant pig. I was her dreamy evil eye. In fact, 75 I carried a knife in my pocketbook— my husband's good L. L. Bean hunting knife. I wasn't sure if I should slash a tire or scrape the guts out of some dream. You taught me to believe in dreams; thus I was the dredger. I held them like an old woman with arthritic fingers, carefully straining the water out— sweet dark playthings, and above all, mysterious until they grew mournful and weak. O my hunger! My hunger! I was the one who opened the warm eyelid like a surgeon and brought forth young girls to grunt like fish. I told you, I said— but I was lying— that the knife was for my mother . . . and then I delivered her. The curtains flutter out and slump against the bars. They are my two thin ladies named Blanche and Rose. The grounds outside are pruned like an estate at Newport. Far off, in the field, something yellow grows. Was it last month or last year that the ambulance ran like a hearse with its siren blowing on suicide— Dinn, dinn, dinn!— a noon whistle that kept insisting on life all the way through the traffic lights? 76 I have come back but disorder is not what it was. I have lost the trick of it! The innocence of it! That fellow-patient in his stovepipe hat with his fiery joke, his manic smile— even he seems blurred, small and pale. I have come back, recommitted, fastened to the wall like a bathroom plunger, held like a prisoner who was so poor he fell in love with jail. I stand at this old window complaining of the soup, examining the grounds, allowing myself the wasted life. Soon I will raise my face for a white flag, and when God enters the fort, I won't spit or gag on his finger. I will eat it like a white flower. Is this the old trick, the wasting away, the skull that waits for its dose of electric power? This is madness but a kind of hunger. What good are my questions in this hierarchy of death where the earth and the stones go Dinn! Dinn! Dinn! It is hardly a feast. It is my stomach that makes me suffer. Turn, my hungers! For once make a deliberate decision. There are brains that rot here like black bananas. Hearts have grown as flat as dinner plates. Anne, Anne, 77 flee on your donkey, flee this sad hotel, ride out on some hairy beast, gallop backward pressing your buttocks to his withers, sit to his clumsy gait somehow. Ride out any old way you please! In this place everyone talks to his own mouth. That's what it means to be crazy. Those I loved best died of it— the fool's disease. ~ Anne Sexton,

682:A gentle was Fridolin, And he his mistress dear, Savern's fair Countess, honored in All truth and godly fear. She was so meek, and, ah! so good! Yet each wish of her wayward mood, He would have studied to fulfil, To please his God, with earnest will. From the first hour when daylight shone Till rang the vesper-chime, He lived but for her will alone, And deemed e'en that scarce time. And if she said, "Less anxious be!" His eye then glistened tearfully. Thinking that he in duty failed, And so before no toil he quailed. And so, before her serving train, The Countess loved to raise him; While her fair mouth, in endless strain, Was ever wont to praise him. She never held him as her slave, Her heart a child's rights to him gave; Her clear eye hung in fond delight Upon his well-formed features bright. Soon in the huntsman Robert's breast Was poisonous anger fired; His black soul, long by lust possessed, With malice was inspired; He sought the Count, whom, quick in deed, A traitor might with ease mislead, As once from hunting home they rode, And in his heart suspicion sowed. "Happy art thou, great Count, in truth," Thus cunningly he spoke; "For ne'er mistrust's envenomed tooth Thy golden slumbers broke; A noble wife thy love rewards, And modesty her person guards. The tempter will be able ne'er Her true fidelity to snare." A gloomy scowl the Count's eye filled: "What's this thou say'st to me? Shall I on woman's virtue build, Inconstant as the sea? The flatterer's mouth with ease may lure; My trust is placed on ground more sure. No one, methinks, dare ever burn To tempt the wife of Count Savern." The other spoke: "Thou sayest it well, The fool deserves thy scorn Who ventures on such thoughts to dwell, A mere retainer born, Who to the lady he obeys Fears not his wishes' lust to raise." "What!" tremblingly the Count began, "Dost speak, then, of a living man?" "Is, then, the thing, to all revealed, Hid from my master's view? Yet, since with care from thee concealed, I'd fain conceal it too" "Speak quickly, villain! speak or die!" Exclaimed the other fearfully. "Who dares to look on Cunigond?" "'Tis the fair page that is so fond." "He's not ill-shaped in form, I wot," He craftily went on; The Count meanwhile felt cold and hot, By turns in every bone. "Is't possible thou seest not, sir, How he has eyes for none but her? At table ne'er attends to thee, But sighs behind her ceaselessly?" "Behold the rhymes that from him came His passion to confess" "Confess!""And for an answering flame, The impious knave!to press. My gracious lady, soft and meek, Through pity, doubtless, feared to speak; That it has 'scaped me, sore I rue; What, lord, canst thou to help it do?" Into the neighboring wood then rode The Count, inflamed with wrath, Where, in his iron foundry, glowed The ore, and bubbled forth. The workmen here, with busy hand, The fire both late and early fanned. The sparks fly out, the bellows ply, As if the rock to liquefy. The fire and water's might twofold Are here united found; The mill-wheel, by the flood seized hold, Is whirling round and round; The works are clattering night and day, With measured stroke the hammers play, And, yielding to the mighty blows, The very iron plastic grows. Then to two workmen beckons he, And speaks thus in his ire; "The first who's hither sent by me Thus of ye to inquire 'Have ye obeyed my lord's word well?' Him cast ye into yonder hell, That into ashes he may fly, And ne'er again torment mine eye!" The inhuman pair were overjoyed, With devilish glee possessed For as the iron, feeling void, Their heart was in their breast, And brisker with the bellows' blast, The foundry's womb now heat they fast, And with a murderous mind prepare To offer up the victim there. Then Robert to his comrade spake, With false hypocrisy: "Up, comrade, up! no tarrying make! Our lord has need of thee." The lord to Fridolin then said: "The pathway toward the foundry tread, And of the workmen there inquire, If they have done their lord's desire." The other answered, "Be it so!" But o'er him came this thought, When he was all-prepared to go, "Will she command me aught?" So to the Countess straight he went: "I'm to the iron-foundry sent; Then say, can I do aught for thee? For thou 'tis who commandest me." To this the Lady of Savern Replied in gentle tone: "To hear the holy mass I yearn, For sick now lies my son; So go, my child, and when thou'rt there, Utter for me a humble prayer, And of thy sins think ruefully, That grace may also fall on me." And in this welcome duty glad, He quickly left the place; But ere the village bounds he had Attained with rapid pace, The sound of bells struck on his ear, From the high belfry ringing clear, And every sinner, mercy-sent, Inviting to the sacrament. "Never from praising God refrain Where'er by thee He's found!" He spoke, and stepped into the fane, But there he heard no sound; For 'twas the harvest time, and now Glowed in the fields the reaper's brow; No choristers were gathered there, The duties of the mass to share. The matter paused he not to weigh, But took the sexton's part; "That thing," he said, "makes no delay Which heavenward guides the heart." Upon the priest, with helping hand, He placed the stole and sacred band, The vessels he prepared beside, That for the mass were sanctified. And when his duties here were o'er, Holding the mass-book, he, Ministering to the priest, before The altar bowed his knee, And knelt him left, and knelt him right, While not a look escaped his sight, And when the holy Sanctus came, The bell thrice rang he at the name. And when the priest, bowed humbly too, In hand uplifted high, Facing the altar, showed to view The present Deity, The sacristan proclaimed it well, Sounding the clearly-tinkling bell, While all knelt down, and beat the breast, And with a cross the Host confessed. The rites thus served he, leaving none, With quick and ready wit; Each thing that in God's house is done, He also practised it. Unweariedly he labored thus, Till the Vobiscum Dominus, When toward the people turned the priest, Blessed them,and so the service ceased. Then he disposed each thing again, In fair and due array; First purified the holy fane, And then he went his way, And gladly, with a mind at rest, On to the iron-foundry pressed, Saying the while, complete to be, Twelve paternosters silently. And when he saw the furnace smoke, And saw the workmen stand, "Have ye, ye fellows," thus he spoke, "Obeyed the Count's command?" Grinning they ope the orifice, And point into the fell abyss: "He's cared forall is at an end! The Count his servants will commend." The answer to his lord he brought, Returning hastily, Who, when his form his notice caught, Could scarcely trust his eye: "Unhappy one! whence comest thou?" "Back from the foundry""Strange, I vow! Hast in thy journey, then, delayed?" "'Twas only, lord, till I had prayed." "For when I from thy presence went (Oh pardon me!) to-day, As duty bid, my steps I bent To her whom I obey. She told me, lord, the mass to hear, I gladly to her wish gave ear, And told four rosaries at the shrine, For her salvation and for thine." In wonder deep the Count now fell, And, shuddering, thus spake he: "And, at the foundry, quickly tell, What answer gave they thee?" "Obscure the words they answered in, Showing the furnace with a grin: 'He's cared forall is at an end! The Count his servants will commend.'" "And Robert?" interrupted he, While deadly pale he stood, "Did he not, then, fall in with thee? I sent him to the wood." "Lord, neither in the wood nor field Was trace of Robert's foot revealed." "Then," cried the Count, with awe-struck mien, "Great God in heaven his judge hath been!" With kindness he before ne'er proved, He led him by the hand Up to the Countess,deeply moved, Who naught could understand. "This child, let him be dear to thee, No angel is so pure as he! Though we may have been counselled ill, God and His hosts watch o'er him still." ~ Friedrich Schiller, Fridolin (The Walk To The Iron Factory) ,

683:Merlin “Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see, So far beyond the faint edge of the world? D’ye look to see the lady Vivian, Pursued by divers ominous vile demons That have another king more fierce than ours? Or think ye that if ye look far enough And hard enough into the feathery west Ye’ll have a glimmer of the Grail itself? And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady, What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?” So Dagonet, whom Arthur made a knight Because he loved him as he laughed at him, Intoned his idle presence on a day To Gawaine, who had thought himself alone, Had there been in him thought of anything Save what was murmured now in Camelot Of Merlin’s hushed and all but unconfirmed Appearance out of Brittany. It was heard At first there was a ghost in Arthur’s palace, But soon among the scullions and anon Among the knights a firmer credit held All tongues from uttering what all glances told— Though not for long. Gawaine, this afternoon, Fearing he might say more to Lancelot Of Merlin’s rumor-laden resurrection Than Lancelot would have an ear to cherish, Had sauntered off with his imagination To Merlin’s Rock, where now there was no Merlin To meditate upon a whispering town Below him in the silence.—Once he said To Gawaine: “You are young; and that being so, Behold the shining city of our dreams And of our King.”—“Long live the King,” said Gawaine.— “Long live the King,” said Merlin after him; “Better for me that I shall not be King; Wherefore I say again, Long live the King, And add, God save him, also, and all kings— All kings and queens. I speak in general. 184 Kings have I known that were but weary men With no stout appetite for more than peace That was not made for them.”—“Nor were they made For kings,” Gawaine said, laughing.—“You are young, Gawaine, and you may one day hold the world Between your fingers, knowing not what it is That you are holding. Better for you and me, I think, that we shall not be kings.” Gawaine, Remembering Merlin’s words of long ago, Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again, He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard: “There’s more afoot and in the air to-day Than what is good for Camelot. Merlin May or may not know all, but he said well To say to me that he would not be King. Nor more would I be King.” Far down he gazed On Camelot, until he made of it A phantom town of many stillnesses, Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings To reign in, without omens and obscure Familiars to bring terror to their days; For though a knight, and one as hard at arms As any, save the fate-begotten few That all acknowledged or in envy loathed, He felt a foreign sort of creeping up And down him, as of moist things in the dark,— When Dagonet, coming on him unawares, Presuming on his title of Sir Fool, Addressed him and crooned on till he was done: “What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?” “Sir Dagonet, you best and wariest Of all dishonest men, I look through Time, For sight of what it is that is to be. I look to see it, though I see it not. I see a town down there that holds a king, And over it I see a few small clouds— Like feathers in the west, as you observe; And I shall see no more this afternoon Than what there is around us every day, 185 Unless you have a skill that I have not To ferret the invisible for rats.” “If you see what’s around us every day, You need no other showing to go mad. Remember that and take it home with you; And say tonight, ‘I had it of a fool— With no immediate obliquity For this one or for that one, or for me.’” Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously: “I’ll not forget I had it of a knight, Whose only folly is to fool himself; And as for making other men to laugh, And so forget their sins and selves a little, There’s no great folly there. So keep it up, As long as you’ve a legend or a song, And have whatever sport of us you like Till havoc is the word and we fall howling. For I’ve a guess there may not be so loud A sound of laughing here in Camelot When Merlin goes again to his gay grave In Brittany. To mention lesser terrors, Men say his beard is gone.” “Do men say that?” A twitch of an impatient weariness Played for a moment over the lean face Of Dagonet, who reasoned inwardly: “The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing, One of these days.”—Gawaine looked hard at him: “If I be too familiar with a fool, I’m on the way to be another fool,” He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him: “Yes, Dagonet,” he ventured, with a laugh, “Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly, And that he shines now as the Lord’s anointed, And wears the valiance of an ageless youth Crowned with a glory of eternal peace.” Dagonet, smiling strangely, shook his head: “I grant your valiance of a kind of youth 186 To Merlin, but your crown of peace I question; For, though I know no more than any churl Who pinches any chambermaid soever In the King’s palace, I look not to Merlin For peace, when out of his peculiar tomb He comes again to Camelot. Time swings A mighty scythe, and some day all your peace Goes down before its edge like so much clover. No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes, Without a trumpet—and without a beard, If what you say men say of him be true— Nor yet for sudden war.” Gawaine, for a moment, Met then the ambiguous gaze of Dagonet, And, making nothing of it, looked abroad As if at something cheerful on all sides, And back again to the fool’s unasking eyes: “Well, Dagonet, if Merlin would have peace, Let Merlin stay away from Brittany,” Said he, with admiration for the man Whom Folly called a fool: “And we have known him; We knew him once when he knew everything.” “He knew as much as God would let him know Until he met the lady Vivian. I tell you that, for the world knows all that; Also it knows he told the King one day That he was to be buried, and alive, In Brittany; and that the King should see The face of him no more. Then Merlin sailed Away to Vivian in Broceliande, Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods Of many savors, and sweet ortolans. Wise books of every lore of every land Are there to fill his days, if he require them, And there are players of all instruments— Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms And there forgets that any town alive Had ever such a name as Camelot. 187 So Vivian holds him with her love, they say, And he, who has no age, has not grown old. I swear to nothing, but that’s what they say. That’s being buried in Broceliande For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy. But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard This tale, or many like it, more than once; And you must know that Love, when Love invites Philosophy to play, plays high and wins, Or low and loses. And you say to me, ‘If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay Away from Brittany.’ Gawaine, you are young, And Merlin’s in his grave.” “Merlin said once That I was young, and it’s a joy for me That I am here to listen while you say it. Young or not young, if that be burial, May I be buried long before I die. I might be worse than young; I might be old.”— Dagonet answered, and without a smile: “Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that; A fancy—a mere fancy.” Then he smiled: “And such a doom as his may be for you, Gawaine, should your untiring divination Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord. And when you stake your wisdom for a woman, Compute the woman to be worth a grave, As Merlin did, and say no more about it. But Vivian, she played high. Oh, very high! Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,—and her love. Gawaine, farewell.” “Farewell, Sir Dagonet, And may the devil take you presently.” He followed with a vexed and envious eye, And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet’s Departure, till his gaunt obscurity Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees. “Poor fool!” he murmured. “Or am I the fool? With all my fast ascendency in arms, 188 That ominous clown is nearer to the King Than I am—yet; and God knows what he knows, And what his wits infer from what he sees And feels and hears. I wonder what he knows Of Lancelot, or what I might know now, Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool To springe a friend.… No, I like not this day. There’s a cloud coming over Camelot Larger than any that is in the sky,— Or Merlin would be still in Brittany, With Vivian and the viols. It’s all too strange.” And later, when descending to the city, Through unavailing casements he could hear The roaring of a mighty voice within, Confirming fervidly his own conviction: “It’s all too strange, and half the world’s half crazy!”— He scowled: “Well, I agree with Lamorak.” He frowned, and passed: “And I like not this day.” ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

684:Part V: Ex Fumo Dare Lucem ['Twixt the Cup and the Lip] Prologue Calm and clear ! the bright day is declining, The crystal expanse of the bay, Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining 'Twixt headlands of purple and grey, While the little waves leap in the sunset, And strike with a miniature shock, In sportive and infantine onset, The base of the iron-stone rock. Calm and clear ! the sea-breezes are laden With a fragrance, a freshness, a power, With a song like the song of a maiden, With a scent like the scent of a flower ; And a whisper, half-weird, half-prophetic, Comes home with the sigh of the surf ;— But I pause, for your fancies poetic Never rise from the level of 'Turf.' Fellow-bungler of mine, fellow-sinner, In public performances past, In trials whence touts take their winner, In rumours that circulate fast, In strains from Prunella or Priam, Staying stayers, or goers that go, You're much better posted than I am, 'Tis little I care, less I know. Alas ! neither poet nor prophet Am I, though a jingler of rhymes— 'Tis a hobby of mine, and I'm off it At times, and I'm on it at times ; And whether I'm off it or on it, Your readers my counsels will shun, Since I scarce know Van Tromp from Blue Bonnet, Though I might know Cigar from The Nun. 220 With 'visions' you ought to be sated And sicken'd by this time ; I swear That mine are all myths self-created, Air visions that vanish in air ; If I had some loose coins I might chuck one, To settle this question and say, Here goes ! 'this is tails for the black one, And heads for my fav'rite, the bay.' And must I rob Paul to pay Peter, Or Peter defraud to pay Paul ? My rhymes, are they stale ? if my metre Is varied, one chime rings through all ; One chime—though I sing more or sing less, I have but one string to my lute, And it might have been better if, stringless And songless, the same had been mute. Yet not as a seer of visions, Nor yet as a dreamer of dreams, I send you these partial decisions On hackney'd, impoverish'd themes ; But with song out of tune, sung to pass time, Flung heedless to friends or to foes, Where the false notes that ring for the last time May blend with some real ones, who knows ? THE RACE On the hill they are crowding together, In the stand they are crushing for room, Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather, They gather like bees on the broom ; They flutter like moths round a candle— Stale similes, granted, what then ? I've got a stale subject to handle, A very stale stump of a pen. Hark ! the shuffle of feet that are many, Of voices the many-tongued clang— 'Has he had a bad night ?' 'Has he any 221 Friends left ?'—How I hate your turf slang ; 'Tis stale to begin with, not witty, But dull, and inclined to be coarse, But bad men can't use (more's the pity) Good words when they slate a good horse. Heu ! heu ! quantus equis (that's Latin For 'bellows to mend' with the weeds), They're off ! lights and shades ! silk and satin ! A rainbow of riders and steeds ! And one shows in front, and another Goes up and is seen in his place, Sic transit (more Latin)—Oh ! bother, Let's get to the end of the race. See, they come round the last turn careering, Already Tait's colours are struck, And the green in the vanguard is steering, And the red's in the rear of the ruck ! Are the stripes in the shade doom'd to lie long ? Do the blue stars on white skies wax dim ? Is it Tamworth or Smuggler ? 'Tis Bylong That wins—either Bylong or Tim. As the shell through the breach that is riven And sapp'd by the springing of mines, As the bolt from the thunder-cloud driven, That levels the larches and pines Through yon mass parti-colour'd that dashes Goal-turn'd, clad in many-hued garb, From rear to van, surges and flashes The yellow and black of The Barb. Past The Fly, falling back on the right, and The Gull, giving way on the left, Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, and Whose sides by the rowels are cleft ; Where Tim and the chestnut together Still bear of the battle the brunt, As if eight stone twelve were a feather, 222 He comes with a rush to the front. Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar, And Bylong's the horse that can stay, But Kean is in trouble—and Carter Is hard on the satin-skinn'd bay ; And The Barb comes away unextended, Hard held, like a second Eclipse, While behind, the hoof-thunder is blended With the whistling and crackling of whips. EPILOGUE He wins ; yes, he wins upon paper, He hasn't yet won upon turf, And these rhymes are but moonshine and vapour, Air-bubbles and spume from the surf. So be it, at least they are given Free, gratis, for just what they're worth, And (whatever there may be in heaven) There's little worth much upon earth. When, with satellites round them, the centre Of all eyes, hard press'd by the crowd, The pair, horse and rider, re-enter The gate, 'mid a shout long and loud, You may feel, as you might feel, just landed Full length on the grass from the clip Of a vicious cross-counter, right-handed, Or upper-cut whizzing from hip. And that's not so bad if you're pick'd up Discreetly, and carefully nursed ; Loose teeth by the sponge are soon lick'd up, And next time you may get home first. Still I'm not sure you'd like it exactly (Such tastes as a rule are acquired), And you'll find in a nutshell this fact lie, Bruised optics are not much admired. Do I bore you with vulgar allusions ? Forgive me, I speak as I feel, 223 I've ponder'd and made my conclusions— As the mill grinds the corn to the meal ; So man striving boldly but blindly, Ground piecemeal in Destiny's mill, At his best, taking punishment kindly, Is only a chopping-block still. Are we wise ? Our abstruse calculations Are based on experience long ; Are we sanguine ? Our high expectations Are founded on hope that is strong ; Thus we build an air-castle that crumbles And drifts till no traces remain, And the fool builds again while he grumbles, And the wise one laughs, building again. 'How came they to pass, these rash blunders, These false steps so hard to defend ?' Our friend puts the question and wonders, We laugh and reply, 'Ah ! my friend, Could you trace the first stride falsely taken, The distance misjudged, where or how, When you pick'd yourself up, stunn'd and shaken, At the fence 'twixt the turf and the plough ?' In the jar of the panel rebounding ! In the crash of the splintering wood ! In the ears to the earth shock resounding In the eyes flashing fire and blood ! In the quarters above you revolving ! In the sods underneath heaving high ! There was little to aid you in solving Such questions—the how or the why. And destiny, steadfast in trifles, Is steadfast for better or worse In great things, it crushes and stifles, And swallows the hopes that we nurse. Men wiser than we are may wonder, When the future they cling to so fast, To the roll of that destiny's thunder, Goes down with the wrecks of the past. 224 . The past! the dead past! that has swallow'd All the honey of life and the milk, Brighter dreams than mere pastimes we've follow'd, Better things than our scarlet or silk ; Aye, and worse things—that past is it really Dead to us who again and again Feel sharply, hear plainly, see clearly, Past days with their joy and their pain ? Like corpses embalm'd and unburied They lie, and in spite of our will, Our souls on the wings of thought carried, Revisit their sepulchres still ; Down the channels of mystery gliding, They conjure strange tales, rarely read, Of the priests of dead Pharaohs presiding At mystical feasts of the dead. Weird pictures arise, quaint devices, Rude emblems, baked funeral meats, Strong incense, rare wines, and rich spices, The ashes, the shrouds, and the sheets ; Does our thraldom fall short of completeness For the magic of a charnel-house charm, And the flavour of a poisonous sweetness, And the odour of a poisonous balm ? And the links of the past—but, no matter, For I'm getting beyond you, I guess, And you'll call me 'as mad as a hatter' If my thoughts I too freely express ; I subjoin a quotation, pray learn it, And with the aid of your lexicon tell us The meaning thereof—'Res discernit Sapiens, quas confundit asellus.' Already green hillocks are swelling, And combing white locks on the bar, Where a dull, droning murmur is telling 225 Of winds that have gather'd afar ; Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow, Nor yet what the night may bring forth, Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow, Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath. Yet the skies are still tranquil and starlit, The sun 'twixt the wave and the west Dies in purple, and crimson, and scarlet, And gold ; let us hope for the best, Since again from the earth his effulgence The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe, Kind reader, extend your indulgence To this the last lay of 'The Pipe.' ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

685:Phi Beta Kappa Poem Harvard, 1914 SIR, friends, and scholars, we are here to serve A high occasion. Our New England wears All her unrivalled beauty as of old; And June, with scent of bayberry and rose And song of orioles— as she only comes By Massachusetts Bay —is here once more, Companioning our fête of fellowship. The open trails, South, West, and North, lead back From populous cities or from lonely plains, Ranch, pulpit, office, factory, desk, or mill, To this fair tribunal of ambitious youth, The shadowy town beside the placid Charles, Where Harvard waits us through the passing years, Conserving and administering still Her savor for the gladdening of the race. Yearly, of all the sons she has sent forth, And men her admiration would adopt, She summons whom she will back to her side As if to ask, 'How fares my cause of truth In the great world beyond these studious walls?' Here, from their store of life experience, They must make answer as grace is given them, And their plain creed, in verity, declare. Among the many, there is sometimes called One who, like Arnold's scholar gypsy poor, Is but a seeker on the dusky way, 'Still waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.' He must bethink him first of other days, And that old scholar of the seraphic smile, As we recall him in this very place With all the sweetest culture of his age, His gentle courtesy and friendliness, A chivalry of soul now strangely rare, And that ironic wit which made him, too, The unflinching critic and most dreaded foe Of all things mean, unlovely, and untrue. What Mr. Norton said, with that slow smile, Has put the fear of God in many a heart, 130 Even while his hand encouraged eager youth. From such enheartening who would not dare speak— Seeing no truth can be too small to serve, And no word worthless that is born of love? Within the noisy workshop of the world, Where still the strife is upward out of gloom, Men doubt the value of high teaching —cry, 'What use is learning? Man must have his will! The élan of life alone is paramount! Away with old traditions! We are free!' So folly mocks at truth in Freedom's name. Pale Anarchy leads on, with furious shriek, Her envious horde of reckless malcontents And mad destroyers of the Commonwealth, While Privilege with indifference grows corrupt, Till the Republic stands in jeopardy From following false idols and ideals, Though sane men cry for honesty once more, Order and duty and self-sacrifice. Our world and all it holds of good for us Our fathers and unselfish mothers made, With noble passion and enduring toil, Strenuous, frugal, reverent, and elate, Caring above all else to guard and save The ampler life of the intelligence And the fine honor of a scrupulous code — Ideals of manhood touched with the divine. For this they founded these great schools we serve, Harvard, Columbia, Princeton, Dartmouth, Yale, Amherst and Williams, trusting to our hands The heritage of all they held most high, Possessions of the spirit and the mind, Investments in the provinces of joy. Vast provinces are these! And fortunate they Who at their will may go adventuring there, Exploring all the boundaries of Truth, Learning the roads that run through Beauty's realm, Sighting the pinnacles where Good meets God, Encompassed by the eternal unknown sea! Even for a little to o'erlook those lands, The kingdoms of Religion, Science, Art, Is to be made forever happier 131 With blameless memories that shall bring content And inspiration for all after days. And fortunate they whom destiny allows To rest within those provinces and serve The dominion of ideals all their lives. For whoso will, putting dull greed aside, And holding fond allegiance to the best, May dwell there and find fortitude and joy. In the free fellowship of kindred minds, One band of scholar gypsies I have known, Whose purpose all unworldly was to find An answer to the riddle of the Earth — A key that should unlock the book of life And secrets of its sorceries reveal. This, they discovered, had long since been found And laid aside forgotten and unused. Our dark young poet who from Dartmouth came Was told the secret by his gypsy bride, Who had it from a master over seas, And he it was first hinted to the band The magic of that universal lore, Before the great Mysteriarch summoned him. It was the doctrine of the threefold life, The beginning of the end of all their doubt. In that Victorian age it has become So much the fashion now to half despise, Within the shadow of Cathedral walls They had been schooled, and heard the mellow chimes For Lenten litanies and daily prayers, With a mild, eloquent, beloved voice Exhorting to all virtue and that peace Surpassing understanding —casting there That 'last enchantment of the Middle Age,' The spell of Oxford and her ritual. So duteous youth was trained, until there grew Restive outreaching in men's thought to find Some certitude beyond the dusk of faith. They cried on mysticism to be gone, Mazed in the shadowy princedom of the soul. Then as old creeds fell round them into dust, They reached through science to belief in law, Made reason paramount in man, and guessed 132 At reigning mind within the universe. Piecing the fragments of a fair design With reverent patience and courageous skill, They saw the world from chaos step by step, Under far-seeing guidance and restraint, Emerge to order and to symmetry, As logical and sure as music's own. With Spencer, Darwin, Tyndall, and the rest, Our band saw roads of knowledge open wide Through the uncharted province of the truth, As on they fared through that unfolding world. Yet there they found no rest-house for the heart, No wells sufficient for the spirit's thirst, No shade nor glory for the senses starved. . . . Turning— they fled by moonlit trails to seek The magic principality of Art, Where loveliness, not learning, rules supreme. They stood intoxicated with delight before The poised unanxious splendor of the Greek; They mused upon the Gothic minsters gray, Where mystic spirit took on mighty form, Until their prayers to lovely churches turned — (Like a remembrance of the Middle Age They rose where Ralph or Bertram dreamed in stone); Entranced they trod a painters' paradise, Where color wasted by the Scituate shore Between the changing marshes and the sea; They heard the golden voice of poesie Lulling the senses with its last caress In Tennysonion accents pure and fine; And all their laurels were for Beauty's brow, Though toiling Reason went ungarlanded. Then poisonous weeds of artifice sprang up, Defiling Nature at her sacred source; And there the questing World-soul could not stay, Onward must journey with the changing time, To come to this uncouth rebellious age, Where not an ancient creed nor courtesy Is underided, and each demagogue Cries some new nostrum for the cure of ills. To-day the unreasoning iconoclast Would scoff at science and abolish art, 133 To let untutored impulse rule the world. Let learning perish, and the race returns To that first anarchy from which we came, When spirit moved upon the deep and laid The primal chaos under cosmic law. And even now, in all our wilful might, The satiated being cannot bide, But to that austere country turns again, The little province of the saints of God, Where lofty peaks rise upward to the stars From the gray twilight of Gethsemane, And spirit dares to climb with wounded feet Where justice, peace, and loving kindness are. What says the lore of human power we hold Through all these striving and tumultuous days? 'Why not accept each several bloom of good, Without discarding good already gained, As one might weed a garden overgrown — Save the new shoots, yet not destroy the old? Only the fool would root up his whole patch Of fragrant flowers, to plant the newer seed.' Ah, softly, brothers! Have we not the key, Whose first fine luminous use Plotinus gave, Teaching that ecstasy must lead the man? Three things, we see, men in this life require, (As they are needed in the universe): First of all spirit, energy, or love, The soul and mainspring of created things; Next wisdom, knowledge, culture, discipline, To guide impetuous spirit to its goal; And lastly strength, the sound apt instrument, Adjusted and controlled to lawful needs. The next world-teacher must be one whose word Shall reaffirm the primacy of soul, Hold scholarship in her high guiding place, And recognize the body's equal right To culture such as it has never known, In power and beauty serving soul and mind. Inheritors of this divine ideal, With courage to be fine as well as strong, Shall know what common manhood may become, Regain the gladness of the sons of morn, 134 The radiance of immortality. Out of heroic wanderings of the past, And all the wayward gropings of our time, Unswerved by doubt, unconquered by despair, The messengers of such a hope must go; As one who hears far off before the dawn, On some lone trail among the darkling hills, The hermit thrushes in the paling dusk, And at the omen lifts his eyes to see Above him, with its silent shafts of light, The sunrise kindling all the peaks with fire. ~ Bliss William Carman,

686:The Peter-Bird Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened, And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson. Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices; Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic-Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains! Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders-These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of the forest. Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil; And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror-"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!" Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor, Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions. One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter, Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming; Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble. "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!" "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding-Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter! Peter got hold of some books--how, I'm unable to tell you; Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions! It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend. Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil, Wrought with a brain, not a hoe--surely 't was hostile to farming! "Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin of Peter!" 350 So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms, Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating, Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. "Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for churning!" "Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!" "Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding, and chiding-Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter; Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him-Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter! Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys-"See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on woodland and meadow! Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron! She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish magical nostrums; Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires, and spiders, Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salamanders and toadstools; Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!" Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos-Thinking and reading of books must have unsettled his reason! "There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy! I will go out in the wet--you all can't hender me, nuther!" Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning, Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow, Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley. Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor; Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened, Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had done gone and done it! Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason-Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis, And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition. Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter 351 And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter, Up from the spring house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. Such were the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter Decades and decades ago down in the State of Kentucky-Such are the voices that cry now from the woodland and meadow, "Peter--O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding-Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it! These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless, Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil, Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge! Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened, Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. "Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"-Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smoke-house proceeded; Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping, Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor-Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter. Joining the search came the rest, brothers and sisters and cousins, Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter! And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women, Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter. Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers, Colonels and jedges galore from cornfields and mint-beds and thickets, All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining, Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the Logans, The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the Morgans; The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays, and Hardins, The Beynroths, the Sherleys, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys, and Slaughters-All, famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming, 352 Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in that hunt for the truant, To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter. Still on those prosperous farms where heirs and assigns of the people Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate-Still on those farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent) That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter. Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people; That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter, She out of her cave in a thrice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit (Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a chicken), She changed all those folk into birds and shrieked with demoniac venom: "Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever, Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos, Crooning of Peter, the fool who scouted at stories of witches, Crying of Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!" This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend; As I have told it to you, so tell the folk and the legend. That it is true I believe, for on the breezes this morning Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter; Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers, Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places-Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming, Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis, Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden, Always neglecting his chores--given to books and to reading, Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief, Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage. This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples, Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon; When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows, When from the spring house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard, When from the redbud and gum and from the redolent lilac, When from the dirt roads and pikes cometh that calling for Peter; Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever! 353 This is the legend of old, told in the tum-titty meter Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming (My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon!); Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended. ~ Eugene Field,

687:I. My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. II. What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, III. If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be. IV. For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope. V. As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith, ``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'') VI. While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. VII. Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among ``The Band''-to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps-that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now-should I be fit? VIII. So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. IX. For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on; nought else remained to do. X. So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers-as well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove. XI. No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See ``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly, ``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: ``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place, ``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.'' XII. If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. XIII. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. XV. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards-the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. XVII. Giles then, the soul of honour-there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good-but the scene shifts-faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII. Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof-to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. XX. So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of route despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI. Which, while I forded,-good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! -It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. XXII. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage- XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No foot-print leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. XXIV. And more than that-a furlong on-why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel-that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood- Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXVII. And just as far as ever from the end! Nought in the distance but the evening, nought To point my footstep further! At the thought, great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap-perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains-with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me,-solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when- In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts-you're inside the den! XXX. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counter-part In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII. Not see? because of night perhaps?-why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,- ``Now stab and end the creature-to the heft!'' XXXIII. Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers,- How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet, each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV. There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'' ~ Robert Browning, Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came ,

688:'Fairy!' the Spirit said,    And on the Queen of Spells    Fixed her ethereal eyes,    'I thank thee. Thou hast given A boon which I will not resign, and taught A lesson not to be unlearned. I know The past, and thence I will essay to glean A warning for the future, so that man May profit by his errors and derive    Experience from his folly; For, when the power of imparting joy Is equal to the will, the human soul    Requires no other heaven.' MAB    'Turn thee, surpassing Spirit!    Much yet remains unscanned.    Thou knowest how great is man,    Thou knowest his imbecility;    Yet learn thou what he is;    Yet learn the lofty destiny    Which restless Time prepares    For every living soul. 'Behold a gorgeous palace that amid Yon populous city rears its thousand towers And seems itself a city. Gloomy troops Of sentinels in stern and silent ranks Encompass it around; the dweller there Cannot be free and happy; hearest thou not The curses of the fatherless, the groans Of those who have no friend? He passes on The King, the wearer of a gilded chain That binds his soul to abjectness, the fool Whom courtiers nickname monarch, whilst a slave Even to the basest appetitesthat man Heeds not the shriek of penury; he smiles At the deep curses which the destitute Mutter in secret, and a sullen joy Pervades his bloodless heart when thousands groan But for those morsels which his wantonness Wastes in unjoyous revelry, to save All that they love from famine; when he hears The tale of horror, to some ready-made face Of hypocritical assent he turns, Smothering the glow of shame, that, spite of him, Flushes his bloated cheek.                Now to the meal Of silence, grandeur and excess he drags His palled unwilling appetite. If gold, Gleaming around, and numerous viands culled From every clime could force the loathing sense To overcome satiety,if wealth The spring it draws from poisons not,or vice, Unfeeling, stubborn vice, converteth not Its food to deadliest venom; then that king Is happy; and the peasant who fulfils His unforced task, when he returns at even And by the blazing fagot meets again Her welcome for whom all his toil is sped, Tastes not a sweeter meal.                Behold him now Stretched on the gorgeous couch; his fevered brain Reels dizzily awhile; but ah! too soon The slumber of intemperance subsides, And conscience, that undying serpent, calls Her venomous brood to their nocturnal task. Listen! he speaks! oh! mark that frenzied eye Oh! mark that deadly visage!' KING                  'No cessation! Oh! must this last forever! Awful death, I wish, yet fear to clasp thee!Not one moment Of dreamless sleep! O dear and blessd Peace, Why dost thou shroud thy vestal purity In penury and dungeons? Wherefore lurkest With danger, death, and solitude; yet shun'st The palace I have built thee? Sacred Peace! Oh, visit me but once,but pitying shed One drop of balm upon my withered soul!' THE FAIRY 'Vain man! that palace is the virtuous heart, And Peace defileth not her snowy robes In such a shed as thine. Hark! yet he mutters; His slumbers are but varied agonies; They prey like scorpions on the springs of life. There needeth not the hell that bigots frame To punish those who err; earth in itself Contains at once the evil and the cure; And all-sufficing Nature can chastise Those who transgress her law; she only knows How justly to proportion to the fault The punishment it merits.                Is it strange That this poor wretch should pride him in his woe? Take pleasure in his abjectness, and hug The scorpion that consumes him? Is it strange That, placed on a conspicuous throne of thorns, Grasping an iron sceptre, and immured Within a splendid prison whose stern bounds Shut him from all that's good or dear on earth, His soul asserts not its humanity? That man's mild nature rises not in war Against a king's employ? No'tis not strange. He, like the vulgar, thinks, feels, acts, and lives Just as his father did; the unconquered powers Of precedent and custom interpose Between a king and virtue. Stranger yet, To those who know not Nature nor deduce The future from the present, it may seem, That not one slave, who suffers from the crimes Of this unnatural being, not one wretch, Whose children famish and whose nuptial bed Is earth's unpitying bosom, rears an arm To dash him from his throne!                 Those gilded flies That, basking in the sunshine of a court, Fatten on its corruption! what are they? The drones of the community; they feed On the mechanic's labor; the starved hind For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield Its unshared harvests; and yon squalid form, Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes A sunless life in the unwholesome mine, Drags out in labor a protracted death To glut their grandeur; many faint with toil That few may know the cares and woe of sloth. Whence, thinkest thou, kings and parasites arose? Whence that unnatural line of drones who heap Toil and unvanquishable penury On those who build their palaces and bring Their daily bread?From vice, black loathsome vice; From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong; From all that genders misery, and makes Of earth this thorny wilderness; from lust, Revenge, and murder.And when reason's voice, Loud as the voice of Nature, shall have waked The nations; and mankind perceive that vice Is discord, war and misery; that virtue Is peace and happiness and harmony; When man's maturer nature shall disdain The playthings of its childhood;kingly glare Will lose its power to dazzle, its authority Will silently pass by; the gorgeous throne Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall, Fast falling to decay; whilst falsehood's trade Shall be as hateful and unprofitable As that of truth is now.               Where is the fame Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth Seek to eternize? Oh! the faintest sound From time's light footfall, the minutest wave That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing The unsubstantial bubble. Ay! to-day Stern is the tyrant's mandate, red the gaze That flashes desolation, strong the arm That scatters multitudes. To-morrow comes! That mandate is a thunder-peal that died In ages past; that gaze, a transient flash On which the midnight closed; and on that arm The worm has made his meal.                The virtuous man, Who, great in his humility as kings Are little in their grandeur; he who leads Invincibly a life of resolute good And stands amid the silent dungeon-depths More free and fearless than the trembling judge Who, clothed in venal power, vainly strove To bind the impassive spirit;when he falls, His mild eye beams benevolence no more; Withered the hand outstretched but to relieve; Sunk reason's simple eloquence that rolled But to appall the guilty. Yes! the grave Hath quenched that eye and death's relentless frost Withered that arm; but the unfading fame Which virtue hangs upon its votary's tomb, The deathless memory of that man whom kings Call to their minds and tremble, the remembrance With which the happy spirit contemplates Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth, Shall never pass away. 'Nature rejects the monarch, not the man; The subject, not the citizen; for kings And subjects, mutual foes, forever play A losing game into each other's hands, Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.              When Nero High over flaming Rome with savage joy Lowered like a fiend, drank with enraptured ear The shrieks of agonizing death, beheld The frightful desolation spread, and felt A new-created sense within his soul Thrill to the sight and vibrate to the sound, Thinkest thou his grandeur had not overcome The force of human kindness? And when Rome With one stern blow hurled not the tyrant down, Crushed not the arm red with her dearest blood, Had not submissive abjectness destroyed Nature's suggestions?              Look on yonder earth: The golden harvests spring; the unfailing sun Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the trees, Arise in due succession; all things speak Peace, harmony and love. The universe, In Nature's silent eloquence, declares That all fulfil the works of love and joy, All but the outcast, Man. He fabricates The sword which stabs his peace; he cherisheth The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raiseth up The tyrant whose delight is in his woe, Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun, Lights it the great alone? Yon silver beams, Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch Than on the dome of kings? Is mother earth A step-dame to her numerous sons who earn Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil; A mother only to those puling babes Who, nursed in ease and luxury, make men The playthings of their babyhood and mar In self-important childishness that peace Which men alone appreciate?    'Spirit of Nature, no! The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs   Alike in every human heart.    Thou aye erectest there   Thy throne of power unappealable;   Thou art the judge beneath whose nod   Man's brief and frail authority    Is powerless as the wind    That passeth idly by;   Thine the tribunal which surpasseth    The show of human justice    As God surpasses man!    'Spirit of Nature! thou Life of interminable multitudes;   Soul of those mighty spheres Whose changeless paths through Heaven's deep silence lie;   Soul of that smallest being,    The dwelling of whose life   Is one faint April sun-gleam;    Man, like these passive things, Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth;   Like theirs, his age of endless peace,    Which time is fast maturing,    Will swiftly, surely, come; And the unbounded frame which thou pervadest,    Will be without a flaw   Marring its perfect symmetry!       ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab - Part III. ,

689:To The Right Hon. Mr. Dodington Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought To ease the burden of my graceful thought: And now a poet's gratitude you see: Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three: For whose the present glory, or the gain? You give protection, I a worthless strain. You love and feel the poet's sacred flame, And know the basis of a solid fame; Though prone to like, yet cautious to commend, You read with all the malice of a friend; Nor favour my attempts that way alone, But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own. An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er, When wanted Britain bright examples more? Her learning, and her genius too, decays; And dark and cold are her declining days; As if men now were of another cast, They meanly live on alms of ages past, Men still are men; and they who boldly dare, Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair; Or, if they fail, they justly still take place Of such who run in debt for their disgrace; Who borrow much, then fairly make it known, And damn it with improvements of their own. We bring some new materials, and what's old New cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould; Late times the verse may read, if these refuse; And from sour critics vindicate the Muse. 'Your work is long', the critics cry. 'Tis true, And lengthens still, to take in fools like you: Shorten my labour, if its length you blame: For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game; As haunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue, Renounce their four legs, and start up on two. Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile, Will I enjoy (dread feast!) the critic's rage, And with the fell destroyer feed my page. 100 For what ambitious fools are more to blame, Than those who thunder in the critic's name? Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this, To see what wretches gain the praise they miss. Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak, Like an old Druid from his hollow oak, As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries, 'Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!' Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach, Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach. One judges as the weather dictates; right The poem is at noon, and wrong at night: Another judges by a surer gage, An author's principles, or parentage; Since his great ancestors in Flanders fell, The poem doubtless must be written well. Another judges by the writer's look; Another judges, for he bought the book: Some judge, their knack of judging wrong to keep; Some judge, because it is too soon to sleep. Thus all will judge, and with one single aim, To gain themselves, not give the writer, fame. The very best ambitiously advise, Half to serve you, and half to pass for wise. Critics on verse, as squibs on triumphs wait, Proclaim the glory, and augment the state; Hot, envious, noisy, proud, the scribbling fry Burn, hiss, and bounce, waste paper, stink, and die. Rail on, my friends! what more my verse can crown Than Compton's smile, and your obliging frown? Not all on books their criticism waste: The genius of a dish some justly taste, And eat their way to fame; with anxious thought The salmon is refus'd, the turbot bought. Impatient art rebukes the sun's delay And bids December yield the fruits of May; Their various cares in one great point combine The business of their lives, that is--to dine. 101 Half of their precious day they give the feast; And to a kind digestion spare the rest. Apicius, here, the taster of the town, Feeds twice a week, to settle their renown. These worthies of the palate guard with care The sacred annals of their bills of fare; In those choice books their panegyrics read, And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed. If man by feeding well commences great, Much more the worm to whom that man is meat. To glory some advance a lying claim, Thieves of renown, and pilferers of fame: Their front supplies what their ambition lacks; They know a thousand lords, behind their backs. Cottil is apt to wink upon a peer, When turn'd away, with a familiar leer; And Harvey's eyes, unmercifully keen, Have murdered fops, by whom she ne'er was seen. Niger adopts stray libels; wisely prone, To cover shame still greater than his own. Bathyllus, in the winter of threescore, Belies his innocence, and keeps a ----. Absence of mind Brabantio turns to fame, Learns to mistake, nor knows his brother's name; Has words and thoughts in nice disorder set, And takes a memorandum to forget. Thus vain, not knowing what adorns or blots Men forge the patents that create them sots. As love of pleasure into pain betrays, So most grow infamous through love of praise. But whence for praise can such an ardour rise, When those, who bring that incense, we despise? For such the vanity of great and small, Contempt goes round, and all men laugh at all. Nor can even satire blame them; for 'tis true, They have most ample cause for what they do O fruitful Britain! doubtless thou wast meant A nurse of fools, to stock the continent. Though Phoebus and the Nine for ever mow, 102 Rank folly underneath the scythe will grow The plenteous harvest calls me forward still, Till I surpass in length my lawyer's bill; A Welsh descent, which well-paid heralds damn; Or, longer still, a Dutchman's epigram. When, cloy'd, in fury I throw down my pen, In comes a coxcomb, and I write again. See Tityrus, with merriment possest, Is burst with laughter, ere he hears the jest: What need he stay? for when the jest is o'er, His teeth will be no whiter than before. Is there of thee, ye fair! so great a dearth, That you need purchase monkeys for your mirth! Some, vain of paintings, bid the world admire; Of houses some; nay, houses that they hire: Some (perfect wisdom!) of a beauteous wife; And boast, like Cordeliers, a scourge for life. Sometimes, through pride, the sexes change their airs; My lord has vapours, and my lady swears; Then, stranger still! on turning of the wind, My lord wears breeches, and my lady's kind. To show the strength, and infamy of pride, By all 'tis follow'd, and by all denied. What numbers are there, which at once pursue, Praise, and the glory to contemn it, too? Vincenna knows self-praise betrays to shame, And therefore lays a stratagem for fame; Makes his approach in modesty's disguise, To win applause; and takes it by surprise. 'To err,' says he, 'in small things, is my fate.' You know your answer, 'he's exact in great'. 'My style', says he, 'is rude and full of faults.' 'But oh! what sense! what energy of thoughts!' That he wants algebra, he must confess; 'But not a soul to give our arms success'. 'Ah! that's an hit indeed,' Vincenna cries; 'But who in heat of blood was ever wise? I own 'twas wrong, when thousands called me back 103 To make that hopeless, ill-advised attack; All say, 'twas madness; nor dare I deny; Sure never fool so well deserved to die.' Could this deceive in others to be free, It ne'er, Vincenna, could deceive in thee! Whose conduct is a comment to thy tongue, So clear, the dullest cannot take thee wrong. Thou on one sleeve wilt thy revenues wear; And haunt the court, without a prospect there. Are these expedients for renown? Confess Thy little self, that I may scorn thee less. Be wise, Vincenna, and the court forsake; Our fortunes there, nor thou, nor I, shall make. Even men of merit, ere their point they gain, In hardy service make a long campaign; Most manfully besiege the patron's gate, And oft repulsed, as oft attack the great With painful art, and application warm. And take, at last, some little place by storm; Enough to keep two shoes on Sunday clean, And starve upon discreetly, in Sheer-Lane. Already this thy fortune can afford; Then starve without the favour of my lord. 'Tis true, great fortunes some great men confer, But often, even in doing right, they err: From caprice, not from choice, their favours come: They give, but think it toil to know to whom: The man that's nearest, yawning, they advance: 'Tis inhumanity to bless by chance. If merit sues, and greatness is so loth To break its downy trance, I pity both. Behold the masquerade's fantastic scene! The Legislature join'd with Drury-Lane! When Britain calls, th' embroider'd patriots run, And serve their country--if the dance is done. 'Are we not then allow'd to be polite?' Yes, doubtless; but first set your notions right. Worth, of politeness is the needful ground; Where that is wanting, this can ne'er be found. Triflers not even in trifles can excel; 104 'Tis solid bodies only polish well. Great, chosen prophet! for these latter days, To turn a willing world from righteous ways! Well, Heydegger, dost thou thy master serve; Well has he seen his servant should not starve, Thou to his name hast splendid temples raised In various forms of worship seen him prais'd, Gaudy devotion, like a Roman, shown, And sung sweet anthems in a tongue unknown. Inferior offerings to thy god of vice Are duly paid, in fiddles, cards, and dice; Thy sacrifice supreme, an hundred maids! That solemn rite of midnight masquerades! Though bold these truths, thou, Muse, with truths like these, Wilt none offend, whom 'tis a praise to please; Let others flatter to be flatter'd, thou Like just tribunals, bend an awful brow. How terrible it were to common-sense, To write a satire, which gave none offence! And, since from life I take the draughts you see. If men dislike them, do they censure me? The fool, and knave, 'tis glorious to offend, And Godlike an attempt the world to mend, The world, where lucky throws to blockheads fall, Knaves know the game, and honest men pay all. How hard for real worth to gain its price! A man shall make his fortune in a trice, If blest with pliant, though but slender, sense, Feign'd modesty, and real impudence: A supple knee, smooth tongue, an easy grace. A curse within, a smile upon his face; A beauteous sister, or convenient wife, Are prizes in the lottery of life; Genius and Virtue they will soon defeat, And lodge you in the bosom of the great. To merit, is but to provide a pain For men's refusing what you ought to gain. May, Dodington, this maxim fail in you, Whom my presaging thoughts already view 105 By Walpole's conduct fired, and friendship grac'd, Still higher in your Prince's favour plac'd: And lending, here, those awful councils aid, Which you, abroad, with such success obey'd! Bear this from one, who holds your friendship dear; What most we wish, with ease we fancy near. ~ Edward Young,

690:Locksley Hall Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed: When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see; Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.-In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 329 And she turn'd--her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs-All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes-Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong"; Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long." Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more! O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! Is it well to wish thee happy?--having known me--to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him, it is thy duty, kiss him, take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 330 He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand-Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand! Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool! Well--'t is well that I should bluster!--Hadst thou less unworthy proved-Would to God--for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? I remember one that perish'd; sweetly did she speak and move; Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? No--she never loved me truly; love is love for evermore. Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 331 Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry. 'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. "They were dangerous guides the feelings--she herself was not exempt-Truly, she herself had suffer'd"--Perish in thy self-contempt! Overlive it--lower yet--be happy! wherefore should I care? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy; what is that which I should do? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; 332 Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men: Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point: Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. 333 What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn: Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain-Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain: Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine-Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd,-I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit--there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree-Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 334 There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books-Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! Mated with a squalid savage--what to me were sun or clime? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time-I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day; Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun: Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 335 ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

691:An Essay On Man: Epistle Ii I. Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little, or too much: Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd; Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd: The glory, jest, and riddle of the world! Go, wondrous creature! mount where science guides, Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides; Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, Correct old time, and regulate the sun; Go, soar with Plato to th' empyreal sphere, To the first good, first perfect, and first fair; Or tread the mazy round his follow'rs trod, And quitting sense call imitating God; As Eastern priests in giddy circles run, And turn their heads to imitate the sun. Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule— Then drop into thyself, and be a fool! Superior beings, when of late they saw A mortal Man unfold all Nature's law, Admir'd such wisdom in an earthly shape, And showed a Newton as we shew an Ape. Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind, 35 Describe or fix one movement of his mind? Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend, Explain his own beginning, or his end? Alas what wonder! Man's superior part Uncheck'd may rise, and climb from art to art; But when his own great work is but begun, What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone. Trace science then, with modesty thy guide; First strip off all her equipage of pride; Deduct what is but vanity, or dress, Or learning's luxury, or idleness; Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain, Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain; Expunge the whole, or lop th' excrescent parts Of all our Vices have created Arts; Then see how little the remaining sum, Which serv'd the past, and must the times to come! II. Two principles in human nature reign; Self-love, to urge, and reason, to restrain; Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call, Each works its end, to move or govern all: And to their proper operation still, Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill. Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul; Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. Man, but for that, no action could attend, And but for this, were active to no end: Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot; Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, Destroying others, by himself destroy'd. Most strength the moving principle requires; Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. Sedate and quiet the comparing lies, Form'd but to check, delib'rate, and advise. Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh; 36 Reason's at distance, and in prospect lie: That sees immediate good by present sense; Reason, the future and the consequence. Thicker than arguments, temptations throng, At best more watchful this, but that more strong. The action of the stronger to suspend, Reason still use, to reason still attend. Attention, habit and experience gains; Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains. Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, More studious to divide than to unite, And grace and virtue, sense and reason split, With all the rash dexterity of wit: Wits, just like fools, at war about a name, Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. Self-love and reason to one end aspire, Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire; But greedy that its object would devour, This taste the honey, and not wound the flow'r: Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good. III. Modes of self-love the passions we may call: 'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all: But since not every good we can divide, And reason bids us for our own provide; Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair, List under reason, and deserve her care; Those, that imparted, court a nobler aim, Exalt their kind, and take some virtue's name. In lazy apathy let Stoics boast Their virtue fix'd, 'tis fix'd as in a frost; Contracted all, retiring to the breast; But strength of mind is exercise, not rest: The rising tempest puts in act the soul, Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale; 37 Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind. Passions, like elements, though born to fight, Yet, mix'd and soften'd, in his work unite: These 'tis enough to temper and employ; But what composes man, can man destroy? Suffice that reason keep to nature's road, Subject, compound them, follow her and God. Love, hope, and joy, fair pleasure's smiling train, Hate, fear, and grief, the family of pain, These mix'd with art, and to due bounds confin'd, Make and maintain the balance of the mind: The lights and shades, whose well accorded strife Gives all the strength and colour of our life. Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes, And when in act they cease, in prospect, rise: Present to grasp, and future still to find, The whole employ of body and of mind. All spread their charms, but charm not all alike; On diff'rent senses diff'rent objects strike; Hence diff'rent passions more or less inflame, As strong or weak, the organs of the frame; And hence one master passion in the breast, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath, Receives the lurking principle of death; The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength: So, cast and mingled with his very frame, The mind's disease, its ruling passion came; Each vital humour which should feed the whole, Soon flows to this, in body and in soul. Whatever warms the heart, or fills the head, As the mind opens, and its functions spread, Imagination plies her dang'rous art, And pours it all upon the peccant part. Nature its mother, habit is its nurse; Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse; 38 Reason itself but gives it edge and pow'r; As Heav'n's blest beam turns vinegar more sour. We, wretched subjects, though to lawful sway, In this weak queen some fav'rite still obey: Ah! if she lend not arms, as well as rules, What can she more than tell us we are fools? Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend, A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend! Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade The choice we make, or justify it made; Proud of an easy conquest all along, She but removes weak passions for the strong: So, when small humours gather to a gout, The doctor fancies he has driv'n them out. Yes, nature's road must ever be preferr'd; Reason is here no guide, but still a guard: 'Tis hers to rectify, not overthrow, And treat this passion more as friend than foe: A mightier pow'r the strong direction sends, And sev'ral men impels to sev'ral ends. Like varying winds, by other passions toss'd, This drives them constant to a certain coast. Let pow'r or knowledge, gold or glory, please, Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease; Through life 'tis followed, ev'n at life's expense; The merchant's toil, the sage's indolence, The monk's humility, the hero's pride, All, all alike, find reason on their side. Th' eternal art educing good from ill, Grafts on this passion our best principle: 'Tis thus the mercury of man is fix'd, Strong grows the virtue with his nature mix'd; The dross cements what else were too refin'd, And in one interest body acts with mind. As fruits, ungrateful to the planter's care, On savage stocks inserted, learn to bear; The surest virtues thus from passions shoot, Wild nature's vigor working at the root. What crops of wit and honesty appear 39 From spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear! See anger, zeal and fortitude supply; Ev'n av'rice, prudence; sloth, philosophy; Lust, through some certain strainers well refin'd, Is gentle love, and charms all womankind; Envy, to which th' ignoble mind's a slave, Is emulation in the learn'd or brave; Nor virtue, male or female, can we name, But what will grow on pride, or grow on shame. Thus nature gives us (let it check our pride) The virtue nearest to our vice allied: Reason the byass turns to good from ill, And Nero reigns a Titus, if he will. The fiery soul abhorr'd in Catiline, In Decius charms, in Curtius is divine: The same ambition can destroy or save, And make a patriot as it makes a knave. IV. This light and darkness in our chaos join'd, What shall divide? The God within the mind. Extremes in nature equal ends produce, In man they join to some mysterious use; Though each by turns the other's bound invade, As, in some well-wrought picture, light and shade, And oft so mix, the diff'rence is too nice Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice. Fools! who from hence into the notion fall, That vice or virtue there is none at all. If white and black blend, soften, and unite A thousand ways, is there no black or white? Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain; 'Tis to mistake them, costs the time and pain. V. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; 40 Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. But where th' extreme of vice, was ne'er agreed: Ask where's the North? at York, 'tis on the Tweed; In Scotland, at the Orcades; and there, At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where: No creature owns it in the first degree, But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he! Ev'n those who dwell beneath its very zone, Or never feel the rage, or never own; What happier natures shrink at with affright, The hard inhabitant contends is right. VI. Virtuous and vicious ev'ry man must be, Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree; The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise; And ev'n the best, by fits, what they despise. 'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill, For, vice or virtue, self directs it still; Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal; But heav'n's great view is one, and that the whole: That counterworks each folly and caprice; That disappoints th' effect of ev'ry vice; That, happy frailties to all ranks applied, Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, To kings presumption, and to crowds belief, That, virtue's ends from vanity can raise, Which seeks no int'rest, no reward but praise; And build on wants, and on defects of mind, The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind. Heav'n forming each on other to depend, A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call, 'Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all. Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common int'rest, or endear the tie: To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each home-felt joy that life inherits here; 41 Yet from the same we learn, in its decline, Those joys, those loves, those int'rests to resign; Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, To welcome death, and calmly pass away. Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, Not one will change his neighbour with himself. The learn'd is happy nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more; The rich is happy in the plenty giv'n, The poor contents him with the care of heav'n. See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic a king; The starving chemist in his golden views Supremely blest, the poet in his Muse. See some strange comfort ev'ry state attend, And pride bestow'd on all, a common friend; See some fit passion ev'ry age supply, Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. Behold the child, by nature's kindly law, Pleas'd with a rattle, tickl'd with a straw: Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite: Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, And beads and pray'r books are the toys of age: Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before; 'Till tir'd he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er! Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays Those painted clouds that beautify our days; Each want of happiness by hope supplied, And each vacuity of sense by Pride: These build as fast as knowledge can destroy; In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy; One prospect lost, another still we gain; And not a vanity is giv'n in vain; Ev'n mean self-love becomes, by force divine, The scale to measure others' wants by thine. See! and confess, one comfort still must rise, 'Tis this: Though man's a fool, yet God is wise. 42 ~ Alexander Pope,

692:All Is Vanity How vain is Life! which rightly we compare To flying Posts, that haste away; To Plants, that fade with the declining Day; To Clouds, that sail amidst the yielding Air; Till by Extention into that they flow, Or, scatt'ring on the World below, Are lost and gone, ere we can say they were; To Autumn-leaves, which every Wind can chace; To rising Bubbles, on the Waters Face; To fleeting Dreams, that will not stay, Nor in th' abused Fancy dance, When the returning Rays of Light, Resuming their alternate Right, Break on th' ill-order'd Scene on the fantastick Trance: As weak is Man, whilst Tenant to the Earth; As frail and as uncertain all his Ways, From the first moment of his weeping Birth, Down to the last and best of his few restless Days; When to the Land of Darkness he retires From disappointed Hopes, and frustrated Desires; Reaping no other Fruit of all his Pain Bestow'd whilst in the vale of Tears below, But this unhappy Truth, at last to know, That Vanity's our Lot, and all Mankind is Vain. II If past the hazard of his tendrest Years, Neither in thoughtless Sleep opprest, Nor poison'd with a tainted Breast, Loos'd from the infant Bands and female Cares, A studious Boy, advanc'd beyond his Age, Wastes the dim Lamp, and turns the restless Page; For some lov'd Book prevents the rising Day, And on it, stoln aside, bestows the Hours of Play; Him the observing Master do's design For search of darkned Truths and Mysteries Divine; 37 Bids him with unremitted Labour trace The Rise of Empires, and their various Fates, The several Tyrants o'er the several States, To Babel's lofty Towers, and warlike Nimrod's Race; Bids him in Paradice the Bank survey, Where Man, new-moulded from the temper'd Clay, (Till fir'd with Breath Divine) a helpless Figure lay: Could he be led thus far--What were the Boast, What the Reward of all the Toil it cost, What from that Land of ever-blooming Spring, For our Instruction could he bring, Unless, that having Humane Nature found Unseparated from its Parent Ground, (Howe'er we vaunt our Elevated Birth) The Epicure in soft Array, The lothsome Beggar, that before His rude unhospitable Door, Unpity'd but by Brutes, a broken Carcass lay, Were both alike deriv'd from the same common Earth? But ere the Child can to these Heights attain, Ere he can in the Learned Sphere arise; A guilding Star, attracting to the Skies, A fever, seizing the o'er labour'd Brain, Sends him, perhaps, to Death's concealing Shade; Where, in the Marble Tomb now silent laid, He better do's that useful Doctrine show, (Which all the sad Assistants ought to know, Who round the Grave his short continuance mourn) That first from Dust we came, and must to Dust return. III A bolder Youth, grown capable of Arms, Bellona courts with her prevailing Charms; Bids th' inchanting Trumpet sound, Loud as Triumph, soft as Love, Striking now the Poles above, Then descending from the Skies, Soften every falling Note; As the harmonious Lark that sings and flies, When near the Earth, contracts her narrow Throat, And warbles on the Ground: 38 Shews the proud Steed, impatient of the Check, 'Gainst the loudest Terrors Proof, Pawing the Valley with his steeled Hoof, With Lightning arm'd his Eyes, with Thunder cloth'd his Neck; Who on the th' advanced Foe, (the Signal giv'n) Flies, like a rushing Storm by mighty Whirlwinds driv'n; Lays open the Records of Fame, No glorious Deed omits, no Man of mighty Name; Their Stratagems, their Tempers she'll repeat, From Alexander's, (truly stil'd the GREAT) From Cæsar's on the World's Imperial Seat, To Turenne's Conduct, and to Conde's Heat. 'Tis done! and now th' ambitious Youth disdains The safe, but harder Labours of the Gown, The softer pleasures of the Courtly Town, The once lov'd rural Sports, and Chaces on the Plains; Does with the Soldier's Life the Garb assume, The gold Embroid'ries, and the graceful Plume; Walks haughty in a Coat of Scarlet Die, A Colour well contriv'd to cheat the Eye, Where richer Blood, alas! may undistinguisht lye. And oh! too near that wretched Fate attends; Hear it ye Parents, all ye weeping Friends! Thou fonder Maid! won by these gaudy Charms, (The destin'd Prize of his Victorious Arms) Now fainting Dye upon the mournful Sound, That speaks his hasty Death, and paints the fatal Wound! Trail all your Pikes, dispirit every Drum, March in a slow Procession from afar, Ye silent, ye dejected Men of War! Be still the Hautboys, and the Flute be dumb! Display no more, in vain, the lofty Banner; For see! where on the Bier before ye lies The pale, the fall'n, th' untimely Sacrifice To your mistaken Shrine, to your false Idol Honour! IV As Vain is Beauty, and as short her Power; Tho' in its proud, and transitory Sway, The coldest Hearts and wisest Heads obey That gay fantastick Tyrant of an Hour. 39 On Beauty's Charms, (altho' a Father's Right, Tho' grave Seleucus! to thy Royal Side By holy Vows fair Stratonice be ty'd) With anxious Joy, with dangerous Delight, Too often gazes thy unwary Son, Till past all Hopes, expiring and undone, A speaking Pulse the secret Cause impart; The only time, when the Physician's Art Could ease that lab'ring Grief, or heal a Lover's Smart. See Great Antonius now impatient stand, Expecting, with mistaken Pride, On Cydnus crowded Shore, on Cydnus fatal Strand, A Queen, at his Tribunal to be try'd, A Queen that arm'd in Beauty, shall deride His feeble Rage, and his whole Fate command: O'er the still Waves her burnisht Galley moves, Row'd by the Graces, whilst officious Loves To silken Cords their busie Hands apply, Or gathering all the gentle Gales that fly, To their fair Mistress with these Spoils repair, And from their purple Wings disperse the balmy Air. Hov'ring Perfumes ascend in od'rous Clouds, Curl o'er the Barque, and play among the Shrouds; Whilst gently dashing every Silver Oar, Guided by the Rules of Art, With tuneful Instruments design'd To soften, and subdue the stubborn Mind, A strangely pleasing and harmonious Part In equal Measures bore. Like a new Venus on her native Sea, In midst of the transporting Scene, (Which Pen or Pencil imitates in vain) On a resplendent and conspicuous Bed, With all the Pride of Persia loosely spread, The lovely Syrene lay. Which but discern'd from the yet distant Shore, Th' amazed Emperor could hate no more; No more a baffled Vengeance could pursue; But yielding still, still as she nearer drew, When Cleopatra anchor'd in the Bay, Where every Charm cou'd all its Force display, Like his own Statue stood, and gaz'd the World away. 40 Where ends alas! this Pageantry and State; Where end the Triumphs of this conqu'ring Face, Envy'd of Roman Wives, and all the Female Race? Oh swift Vicissitude of Beauty's Fate! Now in her Tomb withdrawn from publick Sight, From near Captivity and Shame, The vanquish'd, the abandon'd Dame Proffers the Arm, that held another's Right, To the destructive Snake's more just Embrace, And courts deforming Death, to mend his Leaden Pace. But Wit shall last (the vaunting Poet cries) Th' immortal Streams that from Parnassus flow, Shall make his never-fading Lawrels grow, Above this mouldring Earth to flourish in the Skies: 'And when his Body falls in Funeral Fire, When late revolving Ages shall consume The very Pillars, that support his Tomb, 'His name shall live, and his best Part aspire. Deluded Wretch! grasping at future Praise, Now planting, with mistaken Care, Round thy enchanted Palace in the Air, A Grove, which in thy Fancy time shall raise, A Grove of soaring Palms, and everlasting Bays; Could'st Thou alas! to such Reknown arrive, As thy Imagination wou'd contrive; Should numerous Cities, in a vain contest, Struggle for thy famous Birth; Should the sole Monarch of the conquer'd Earth, His wreathed Head upon thy Volume rest; Like Maro, could'st thou justly claim, Amongst th' inspired tuneful Race, The highest Room, the undisputed Place; And after near Two Thousand Years of Fame, Have thy proud Work to a new People shown; Th' unequal'd Poems made their own, In such a Dress, in such a perfect Stile As on his Labours Dryden now bestows, As now from Dryden's just Improvement flows, In every polish'd Verse throughout the British Isle; 41 What Benefit alas! would to thee grow? What Sense of Pleasure wou'dst thou know? What swelling Joy? what Pride? what Glory have, When in the Darkness of the abject Grave, Insensible, and Stupid laid below, No Atom of thy Heap, no Dust wou'd move, For all the airy Breath that form'd thy Praise above? VI True, says the Man to Luxury inclin'd; Without the Study of uncertain Art, Without much Labour of the Mind, Meer uninstructed Nature will impart, That Life too swiftly flies, and leaves all good behind. Sieze then, my Friends, (he cries) the present Hour; The Pleasure which to that belongs, The Feasts, th' o'erflowing Bowls, the Mirth, the Songs, The Orange-Bloom, that with such Sweetness blows, Anacreon's celebrated Rose, The Hyacinth, with every beauteous Flower, Which just this happy Moment shall disclose, Are out of Fortune's reach, and all within our Power. Such costly Garments let our Slaves prepare, As for the gay Demetrius were design'd; Where a new Sun of radiant Diamonds shin'd, Where the enamel'd Earth, and scarce-discerned Air, With a transparent Sea were seen, A Sea composed of the Em'rald's Green, And with a golden Shore encompass'd round; Where every Orient Shell, of wondrous shape was found. The whole Creation on his Shoulders hung, The whole Creation with his Wish comply'd, Did swiftly, for each Appetite provide, And fed them all when Young. No less, th' Assyrian Prince enjoy'd, Of Bliss too soon depriv'd, but never cloy'd, Whose Counsel let us still pursue, Whose Monument, did this Inscription shew To every Passenger, that trod the way, Where, with a slighting Hand, and scornful Smile The proud Effigies, on th' instructive Pile, 42 A great Example lay. I, here Entomb'd, did mighty Kingdoms sway, Two Cities rais'd in one prodigious Day: Thou wand'ring Traveller, no longer gaze, No longer dwell upon this useless Place; Go Feed, and Drink, in Sports consume thy Life; For All that else we gain's not worth a Moment's Strife. Thus! talks the Fool, whom no Restraint can bound, When now the Glass has gone a frequent round; When soaring Fancy lightly swims, Fancy, that keeps above, and dances o'er the Brims; Whilst weighty Reason sinks, and in the bottom's drown'd; Adds to his Own, an artificial Fire, Doubling ev'ry hot Desire, Till th' auxiliary Spirits, in a Flame, The Stomach's Magazine defy, That standing Pool, that helpless Moisture nigh, Thro' every Vital part impetuous fly, And quite consume the Frame; When to the Under-world despis'd he goes, A pamper'd Carcase on the Worms bestows, Who rioting on the unusual Chear, As good a Life enjoy, as he could boast of here. VII But hold my Muse! thy farther Flight restrain, Exhaust not thy declining Force, Nor in a long, pursu'd, and breathless Course, Attempt, with slacken'd speed, to run Through ev'ry Vanity beneath the Sun, Lest thy o'erweary'd Reader, should complain, That of all Vanities beside, Which thine, or his Experience e'er have try'd, Thou art, too tedious Muse, most frivolous and vain; Yet, tell the Man, of an aspiring Thought, Of an ambitious, restless Mind, That can no Ease, no Satisfaction find, Till neighb'ring States are to Subjection brought, Till Universal Awe, enslav'd Mankind is taught; That, should he lead an Army to the Field, For whose still necessary Use, 43 Th' extended Earth cou'd not enough produce, Nor Rivers to their Thirst a full Contentment yield; Yet, must their dark Reverse of Fate Roll round, within that Course of Years, Within the short, the swift, and fleeting Date Prescrib'd by Xerxes, when his falling Tears Bewail'd those Numbers, which his Sword employ'd, And false, Hyena-like, lamented and destroy'd. Tell Him, that does some stately Building raise, A Windsor or Versailles erect, And thorough all Posterity expect, With its unshaken Base, a firm unshaken Praise; Tell Him, Judea's Temple is no more, Upon whose Splendour, Thousands heretofore Spent the astonish'd Hours, forgetful to Adore: Tell him, into the Earth agen is hurl'd, That most stupendious Wonder of the World, Justly presiding o'er the boasted Seven, By humane Art and Industry design'd, This! the rich Draught of the Immortal Mind, The Architect of Heaven. Remember then, to fix thy Aim on High, Project, and build on t'other side the Sky, For, after all thy vain Expence below, Thou canst no Fame, no lasting Pleasure know; No Good, that shall not thy Embraces fly; Or thou from that be in a Moment caught, Thy Spirit to new Claims, new Int'rests brought, Whilst unconcern'd thy secret Ashes lye, Or stray about the Globe, O Man ordain'd to Dye! ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

693:VI - WITCHES' KITCHEN (Upon a low hearth stands a great caldron, under which a fire is burning. Various figures appear in the vapors which rise from the caldron. An ape sits beside it, skims it, and watches lest it boil over. The he-ape, with the young ones, sits near and warms himself. Ceiling and walls are covered with the most fantastic witch-implements.) FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST These crazy signs of witches' craft repel me! I shall recover, dost thou tell me, Through this insane, chaotic play? From an old hag shall I demand assistance? And will her foul mess take away Full thirty years from my existence? Woe's me, canst thou naught better find! Another baffled hope must be lamented: Has Nature, then, and has a noble mind Not any potent balsam yet invented? MEPHISTOPHELES Once more, my friend, thou talkest sensibly. There is, to make thee young, a simpler mode and apter; But in another book 'tis writ for thee, And is a most eccentric chapter. FAUST Yet will I know it. MEPHISTOPHELES Good! the method is revealed Without or gold or magic or physician. Betake thyself to yonder field, There hoe and dig, as thy condition; Restrain thyself, thy sense and will Within a narrow sphere to flourish; With unmixed food thy body nourish; Live with the ox as ox, and think it not a theft That thou manur'st the acre which thou reapest; That, trust me, is the best mode left, Whereby for eighty years thy youth thou keepest! FAUST I am not used to that; I cannot stoop to try it To take the spade in hand, and ply it. The narrow being suits me not at all. MEPHISTOPHELES Then to thine aid the witch must call. FAUST Wherefore the hag, and her alone? Canst thou thyself not brew the potion? MEPHISTOPHELES That were a charming sport, I own: I'd build a thousand bridges meanwhile, I've a notion. Not Art and Science serve, alone; Patience must in the work be shown. Long is the calm brain active in creation; Time, only, streng thens the fine fermentation. And all, belonging thereunto, Is rare and strange, howe'er you take it: The Devil taught the thing, 'tis true, And yet the Devil cannot make it. (Perceiving the Animals) See, what a delicate race they be! That is the maid! the man is he! (To the Animals) It seems the mistress has gone away? THE ANIMALS Carousing, to-day! Off and about, By the chimney out! MEPHISTOPHELES What time takes she for dissipating? THE ANIMALS While we to warm our paws are waiting. MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST) How findest thou the tender creatures? FAUST Absurder than I ever yet did see. MEPHISTOPHELES Why, just such talk as this, for me, Is that which has the most attractive features! (To the Animals) But tell me now, ye cursed puppets, Why do ye stir the porridge so? THE ANIMALS We're cooking watery soup for beggars. MEPHISTOPHELES Then a great public you can show. THE HE-APE (comes up and fawns on MEPHISTOPHELES) O cast thou the dice! Make me rich in a trice, Let me win in good season! Things are badly controlled, And had I but gold, So had I my reason. MEPHISTOPHELES How would the ape be sure his luck enhances. Could he but try the lottery's chances! (In the meantime the young apes have been playing with a large ball, which they now roll forward.) THE HE-APE The world's the ball: Doth rise and fall, And roll incessant: Like glass doth ring, A hollow thing, How soon will't spring, And drop, quiescent? Here bright it gleams, Here brighter seems: I live at present! Dear son, I say, Keep thou away! Thy doom is spoken! 'Tis made of clay, And will be broken. MEPHISTOPHELES What means the sieve? THE HE-APE (taking it down) Wert thou the thief, I'd know him and shame him. (He runs to the SHE-APE, and lets her look through it.) Look through the sieve! Know'st thou the thief, And darest not name him? MEPHISTOPHELES (approaching the fire) And what's this pot? HE-APE AND SHE-APE The fool knows it not! He knows not the pot, He knows not the kettle! MEPHISTOPHELES Impertinent beast! THE HE-APE Take the brush here, at least, And sit down on the settle! (He invites MEPHISTOPHELES to sit down.) FAUST (who during all this time has been standing before a mirror, now approaching and now retreating from it) What do I see? What heavenly form revealed Shows through the glass from Magic's fair dominions! O lend me, Love, the swiftest of thy pinions, And bear me to her beauteous field! Ah, if I leave this spot with fond designing, If I attempt to venture near, Dim, as through gathering mist, her charms appear! A woman's form, in beauty shining! Can woman, then, so lovely be? And must I find her body, there reclining, Of all the heavens the bright epitome? Can Earth with such a thing be mated? MEPHISTOPHELES Why, surely, if a God first plagues Himself six days, Then, self-contented, Bravo! says, Must something clever be created. This time, thine eyes be satiate! I'll yet detect thy sweetheart and ensnare her, And blest is he, who has the lucky fate, Some day, as bridegroom, home to bear her. (FAUST gazes continually in the mirror. MEPHISTOPHELES, stretching himself out on the settle, and playing with the brush, continues to speak.) So sit I, like the King upon his throne: I hold the sceptre, here, and lack the crown alone. THE ANIMALS (who up to this time have been making all kinds of fantastic movements together bring a crown to MEPHISTOPHELES with great noise.) O be thou so good With sweat and with blood The crown to belime! (They handle the crown awkwardly and break it into two pieces, with which they spring around.) 'Tis done, let it be! We speak and we see, We hear and we rhyme! FAUST (before the mirror) Woe's me! I fear to lose my wits. MEPHISTOPHELES (pointing to the Animals) My own head, now, is really nigh to sinking. THE ANIMALS If lucky our hits, And everything fits, 'Tis thoughts, and we're thinking! FAUST (as above) My bosom burns with that sweet vision; Let us, with speed, away from here! MEPHISTOPHELES (in the same attitude) One must, at least, make this admission They're poets, genuine and sincere. (The caldron, which the SHE-APE has up to this time neglected to watch, begins to boil over: there ensues a great flame, which blazes out the chimney. The WITCH comes careering down through the flame, with terrible cries.) THE WITCH Ow! ow! ow! ow! The damnd beast the cursd sow! To leave the kettle, and singe the Frau! Accursd fere! (Perceiving FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES.) What is that here? Who are you here? What want you thus? Who sneaks to us? The fire-pain Burn bone and brain! (She plunges the skimming-ladle into the caldron, and scatters flames towards FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, and the Animals. The Animals whimper.) MEPHISTOPHELES (reversing the brush, which he has been holding in his hand, and striding among the jars and glasses) In two! in two! There lies the brew! There lies the glass! The joke will pass, As time, foul ass! To the singing of thy crew. (As the WITCH starts back, full of wrath and horror) Ha! know'st thou me? Abomination, thou! Know'st thou, at last, thy Lord and Master? What hinders me from smiting now Thee and thy monkey-sprites with fell disaster? Hast for the scarlet coat no reverence? Dost recognize no more the tall cock's-feather? Have I concealed this countenance? Must tell my name, old face of leather? THE WITCH O pardon, Sir, the rough salute! Yet I perceive no cloven foot; And both your ravens, where are they now? MEPHISTOPHELES This time, I'll let thee 'scape the debt; For since we two together met, 'Tis verily full many a day now. Culture, which smooth the whole world licks, Also unto the Devil sticks. The days of that old Northern phantom now are over: Where canst thou horns and tail and claws discover? And, as regards the foot, which I can't spare, in truth, 'Twould only make the people shun me; Therefore I've worn, like many a spindly youth, False calves these many years upon me. THE WITCH (dancing) Reason and sense forsake my brain, Since I behold Squire Satan here again! MEPHISTOPHELES Woman, from such a name refrain! THE WITCH Why so? What has it done to thee? MEPHISTOPHELES It's long been written in the Book of Fable; Yet, therefore, no whit better men we see: The Evil One has left, the evil ones are stable. Sir Baron call me thou, then is the matter good; A cavalier am I, like others in my bearing. Thou hast no doubt about my noble blood: See, here's the coat-of-arms that I am wearing! (He makes an indecent gesture.) THE WITCH (laughs immoderately) Ha! ha! That's just your way, I know: A rogue you are, and you were always so. MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST) My friend, take proper heed, I pray! To manage witches, this is just the way. THE WITCH Wherein, Sirs, can I be of use? MEPHISTOPHELES Give us a goblet of the well-known juice! But, I must beg you, of the oldest brewage; The years a double strength produce. THE WITCH With all my heart! Now, here's a bottle, Wherefrom, sometimes, I wet my throttle, Which, also, not the slightest, stinks; And willingly a glass I'll fill him. (Whispering) Yet, if this man without due preparation drinks, As well thou know'st, within an hour 'twill kill him. MEPHISTOPHELES He is a friend of mine, with whom it will agree, And he deserves thy kitchen's best potation: Come, draw thy circle, speak thine adjuration, And fill thy goblet full and free! THE WITCH (with fantastic gestures draws a circle and places mysterious articles therein; meanwhile the glasses begin to ring, the caldron to sound, and make a musical accompaniment. Finally she brings a great book, and stations in the circle the Apes, who are obliged to serve as reading-desk, and to hold the torches. She then beckons FAUST to approach.) FAUST (to MEPHISTOPHELES) Now, what shall come of this? the creatures antic, The crazy stuff, the gestures frantic, All the repulsive cheats I view, Are known to me, and hated, too. MEPHISTOPHELES O, nonsense! That's a thing for laughter; Don't be so terribly severe! She juggles you as doctor now, that, after, The beverage may work the proper cheer. (He persuades FAUST to step into the circle.) THE WITCH (begins to declaim, with much emphasis, from the book) See, thus it's done! Make ten of one, And two let be, Make even three, And rich thou 'It be. Cast o'er the four! From five and six (The witch's tricks) Make seven and eight, 'Tis finished straight! And nine is one, And ten is none. This is the witch's once-one's-one! FAUST She talks like one who raves in fever. MEPHISTOPHELES Thou'lt hear much more before we leave her. 'Tis all the same: the book I can repeat, Such time I've squandered o'er the history: A contradiction thus complete Is always for the wise, no less than fools, a mystery. The art is old and new, for verily All ages have been taught the matter, By Three and One, and One and Three, Error instead of Truth to scatter. They prate and teach, and no one interferes; All from the fellowship of fools are shrinking. Man usually believes, if only words he hears, That also with them goes material for thinking! THE WITCH (continues) The lofty skill Of Science, still From all men deeply hidden! Who takes no thought, To him 'tis brought, 'Tis given unsought, unbidden! FAUST What nonsense she declaims before us! My head is nigh to split, I fear: It seems to me as if I hear A hundred thousand fools in chorus. MEPHISTOPHELES O Sibyl excellent, enough of adjuration! But hither bring us thy potation, And quickly fill the beaker to the brim! This drink will bring my friend no injuries: He is a man of manifold degrees, And many draughts are known to him. (The WITCH, with many ceremonies, pours the drink into a cup; as FAUST sets it to his lips, a light flame arises.) Down with it quickly! Drain it off! 'Twill warm thy heart with new desire: Art with the Devil hand and glove, And wilt thou be afraid of fire? (The WITCH breaks the circle: FAUST steps forth.) MEPHISTOPHELES And now, away! Thou dar'st not rest. THE WITCH And much good may the liquor do thee! MEPHISTOPHELES (to the WITCH) Thy wish be on Walpurgis Night expressed; What boon I have, shall then be given unto thee. THE WITCH Here is a song, which, if you sometimes sing, You'll find it of peculiar operation. MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST) Come, walk at once! A rapid occupation Must start the needful perspiration, And through thy frame the liquor's potence fling. The noble indolence I'll teach thee then to treasure, And soon thou'lt be aware, with keenest thrills of pleasure, How Cupid stirs and leaps, on light and restless wing. FAUST One rapid glance within the mirror give me, How beautiful that woman-form! MEPHISTOPHELES No, no! The paragon of all, believe me, Thou soon shalt see, alive and warm. (Aside) Thou'lt find, this drink thy blood compelling, Each woman beautiful as Helen! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, WITCHES KITCHEN ,

694:The Three Taverns When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns.—(Acts xxviii, 15) Herodion, Apelles, Amplias, And Andronicus? Is it you I see— At last? And is it you now that are gazing As if in doubt of me? Was I not saying That I should come to Rome? I did say that; And I said furthermore that I should go On westward, where the gateway of the world Lets in the central sea. I did say that, But I say only, now, that I am Paul— A prisoner of the Law, and of the Lord A voice made free. If there be time enough To live, I may have more to tell you then Of western matters. I go now to Rome, Where Cæsar waits for me, and I shall wait, And Cæsar knows how long. In Cæsarea There was a legend of Agrippa saying In a light way to Festus, having heard My deposition, that I might be free, Had I stayed free of Cæsar; but the word Of God would have it as you see it is— And here I am. The cup that I shall drink Is mine to drink—the moment or the place Not mine to say. If it be now in Rome, Be it now in Rome; and if your faith exceed The shadow cast of hope, say not of me Too surely or too soon that years and shipwreck, And all the many deserts I have crossed That are not named or regioned, have undone Beyond the brevities of our mortal healing The part of me that is the least of me. You see an older man than he who fell Prone to the earth when he was nigh Damascus, Where the great light came down; yet I am he That fell, and he that saw, and he that heard. And I am here, at last; and if at last 348 I give myself to make another crumb For this pernicious feast of time and men— Well, I have seen too much of time and men To fear the ravening or the wrath of either. Yes, it is Paul you see—the Saul of Tarsus That was a fiery Jew, and had men slain For saying Something was beyond the Law, And in ourselves. I fed my suffering soul Upon the Law till I went famishing, Not knowing that I starved. How should I know, More then than any, that the food I had— What else it may have been—was not for me? My fathers and their fathers and their fathers Had found it good, and said there was no other, And I was of the line. When Stephen fell, Among the stones that crushed his life away, There was no place alive that I could see For such a man. Why should a man be given To live beyond the Law? So I said then, As men say now to me. How then do I Persist in living? Is that what you ask? If so, let my appearance be for you No living answer; for Time writes of death On men before they die, and what you see Is not the man. The man that you see not— The man within the man—is most alive; Though hatred would have ended, long ago, The bane of his activities. I have lived, Because the faith within me that is life Endures to live, and shall, till soon or late, Death, like a friend unseen, shall say to me My toil is over and my work begun. How often, and how many a time again, Have I said I should be with you in Rome! He who is always coming never comes, Or comes too late, you may have told yourselves; And I may tell you now that after me, Whether I stay for little or for long, The wolves are coming. Have an eye for them, And a more careful ear for their confusion 349 Than you need have much longer for the sound Of what I tell you—should I live to say More than I say to Cæsar. What I know Is down for you to read in what is written; And if I cloud a little with my own Mortality the gleam that is immortal, I do it only because I am I— Being on earth and of it, in so far As time flays yet the remnant. This you know; And if I sting men, as I do sometimes, With a sharp word that hurts, it is because Man’s habit is to feel before he sees; And I am of a race that feels. Moreover, The world is here for what is not yet here For more than are a few; and even in Rome, Where men are so enamored of the Cross That fame has echoed, and increasingly, The music of your love and of your faith To foreign ears that are as far away As Antioch and Haran, yet I wonder How much of love you know, and if your faith Be the shut fruit of words. If so, remember Words are but shells unfilled. Jews have at least A Law to make them sorry they were born If they go long without it; and these Gentiles, For the first time in shrieking history, Have love and law together, if so they will, For their defense and their immunity In these last days. Rome, if I know the name, Will have anon a crown of thorns and fire Made ready for the wreathing of new masters, Of whom we are appointed, you and I,— And you are still to be when I am gone, Should I go presently. Let the word fall, Meanwhile, upon the dragon-ridden field Of circumstance, either to live or die; Concerning which there is a parable, Made easy for the comfort and attention Of those who preach, fearing they preach in vain. You are to plant, and then to plant again Where you have gathered, gathering as you go; For you are in the fields that are eternal, 350 And you have not the burden of the Lord Upon your mortal shoulders. What you have Is a light yoke, made lighter by the wearing, Till it shall have the wonder and the weight Of a clear jewel, shining with a light Wherein the sun and all the fiery stars May soon be fading. When Gamaliel said That if they be of men these things are nothing But if they be of God, they are for none To overthrow, he spoke as a good Jew, And one who stayed a Jew; and he said all. And you know, by the temper of your faith, How far the fire is in you that I felt Before I knew Damascus. A word here, Or there, or not there, or not anywhere, Is not the Word that lives and is the life; And you, therefore, need weary not yourselves With jealous aches of others. If the world Were not a world of aches and innovations, Attainment would have no more joy of it. There will be creeds and schisms, creeds in creeds, And schisms in schisms; myriads will be done To death because a farthing has two sides, And is at last a farthing. Telling you this, I, who bid men to live, appeal to Cæsar. Once I had said the ways of God were dark, Meaning by that the dark ways of the Law. Such is the Glory of our tribulations; For the Law kills the flesh that kills the Law, And we are then alive. We have eyes then; And we have then the Cross between two worlds— To guide us, or to blind us for a time, Till we have eyes indeed. The fire that smites A few on highways, changing all at once, Is not for all. The power that holds the world Away from God that holds himself away— Farther away than all your works and words Are like to fly without the wings of faith— Was not, nor ever shall be, a small hazard Enlivening the ways of easy leisure Or the cold road of knowledge. When our eyes Have wisdom, we see more than we remember; 351 And the old world of our captivities May then become a smitten glimpse of ruin, Like one where vanished hewers have had their day Of wrath on Lebanon. Before we see, Meanwhile, we suffer; and I come to you, At last, through many storms and through much night. Yet whatsoever I have undergone, My keepers in this instance are not hard. But for the chance of an ingratitude, I might indeed be curious of their mercy, And fearful of their leisure while I wait, A few leagues out of Rome. Men go to Rome, Not always to return—but not that now. Meanwhile, I seem to think you look at me With eyes that are at last more credulous Of my identity. You remark in me No sort of leaping giant, though some words Of mine to you from Corinth may have leapt A little through your eyes into your soul. I trust they were alive, and are alive Today; for there be none that shall indite So much of nothing as the man of words Who writes in the Lord’s name for his name’s sake And has not in his blood the fire of time To warm eternity. Let such a man— If once the light is in him and endures— Content himself to be the general man, Set free to sift the decencies and thereby To learn, except he be one set aside For sorrow, more of pleasure than of pain; Though if his light be not the light indeed, But a brief shine that never really was, And fails, leaving him worse than where he was, Then shall he be of all men destitute. And here were not an issue for much ink, Or much offending faction among scribes. The Kingdom is within us, we are told; And when I say to you that we possess it In such a measure as faith makes it ours, I say it with a sinner’s privilege 352 Of having seen and heard, and seen again, After a darkness; and if I affirm To the last hour that faith affords alone The Kingdom entrance and an entertainment, I do not see myself as one who says To man that he shall sit with folded hands Against the Coming. If I be anything, I move a driven agent among my kind, Establishing by the faith of Abraham, And by the grace of their necessities, The clamoring word that is the word of life Nearer than heretofore to the solution Of their tomb-serving doubts. If I have loosed A shaft of language that has flown sometimes A little higher than the hearts and heads Of nature’s minions, it will yet be heard, Like a new song that waits for distant ears. I cannot be the man that I am not; And while I own that earth is my affliction, I am a man of earth, who says not all To all alike. That were impossible. Even as it were so that He should plant A larger garden first. But you today Are for the larger sowing; and your seed, A little mixed, will have, as He foresaw, The foreign harvest of a wider growth, And one without an end. Many there are, And are to be, that shall partake of it, Though none may share it with an understanding That is not his alone. We are all alone; And yet we are all parcelled of one order— Jew, Gentile, or barbarian in the dark Of wildernesses that are not so much As names yet in a book. And there are many, Finding at last that words are not the Word, And finding only that, will flourish aloft, Like heads of captured Pharisees on pikes, Our contradictions and discrepancies; And there are many more will hang themselves Upon the letter, seeing not in the Word The friend of all who fail, and in their faith A sword of excellence to cut them down. 353 As long as there are glasses that are dark— And there are many—we see darkly through them; All which have I conceded and set down In words that have no shadow. What is dark Is dark, and we may not say otherwise; Yet what may be as dark as a lost fire For one of us, may still be for another A coming gleam across the gulf of ages, And a way home from shipwreck to the shore; And so, through pangs and ills and desperations, There may be light for all. There shall be light. As much as that, you know. You cannot say This woman or that man will be the next On whom it falls; you are not here for that. You ministration is to be for others The firing of a rush that may for them Be soon the fire itself. The few at first Are fighting for the multitude at last; Therefore remember what Gamaliel said Before you, when the sick were lying down In streets all night for Peter’s passing shadow. Fight, and say what you feel; say more than words. Give men to know that even their days of earth To come are more than ages that are gone. Say what you feel, while you have time to say it. Eternity will answer for itself, Without your intercession; yet the way For many is a long one, and as dark, Meanwhile, as dreams of hell. See not your toil Too much, and if I be away from you, Think of me as a brother to yourselves, Of many blemishes. Beware of stoics, And give your left hand to grammarians; And when you seem, as many a time you may, To have no other friend than hope, remember That you are not the first, or yet the last. The best of life, until we see beyond The shadows of ourselves (and they are less Than even the blindest of indignant eyes Would have them) is in what we do not know. 354 Make, then, for all your fears a place to sleep With all your faded sins; nor think yourselves Egregious and alone for your defects Of youth and yesterday. I was young once; And there’s a question if you played the fool With a more fervid and inherent zeal Than I have in my story to remember, Or gave your necks to folly’s conquering foot, Or flung yourselves with an unstudied aim, More frequently than I. Never mind that. Man’s little house of days will hold enough, Sometimes, to make him wish it were not his, But it will not hold all. Things that are dead Are best without it, and they own their death By virtue of their dying. Let them go,— But think you not the world is ashes yet, And you have all the fire. The world is here Today, and it may not be gone tomorrow; For there are millions, and there may be more, To make in turn a various estimation Of its old ills and ashes, and the traps Of its apparent wrath. Many with ears That hear not yet, shall have ears given to them, And then they shall hear strangely. Many with eyes That are incredulous of the Mystery Shall yet be driven to feel, and then to read Where language has an end and is a veil, Not woven of our words. Many that hate Their kind are soon to know that without love Their faith is but the perjured name of nothing. I that have done some hating in my time See now no time for hate; I that have left, Fading behind me like familiar lights That are to shine no more for my returning, Home, friends, and honors,—I that have lost all else For wisdom, and the wealth of it, say now To you that out of wisdom has come love, That measures and is of itself the measure Of works and hope and faith. Your longest hours Are not so long that you may torture them And harass not yourselves; and the last days Are on the way that you prepare for them, 355 And was prepared for you, here in a world Where you have sinned and suffered, striven and seen. If you be not so hot for counting them Before they come that you consume yourselves, Peace may attend you all in these last days— And me, as well as you. Yes, even in Rome. Well, I have talked and rested, though I fear My rest has not been yours; in which event, Forgive one who is only seven leagues From Cæsar. When I told you I should come, I did not see myself the criminal You contemplate, for seeing beyond the Law That which the Law saw not. But this, indeed, Was good of you, and I shall not forget; No, I shall not forget you came so far To meet a man so dangerous. Well, farewell. They come to tell me I am going now— With them. I hope that we shall meet again, But none may say what he shall find in Rome. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

695:The tavern-keeper Siduri who lives by the seashore, she lives the pot-stand was made for her, the golden fermenting vat was made for her. She is covered with a veil Gilgamesh was roving about wearing a skin, having the flesh of the gods in his body, but sadness deep within him, looking like one who has been traveling a long distance. The tavern-keeper was gazing off into the distance, puzzling to herself, she said, wondering to herself: "That fellow is surely a murderer(!)! Where is he heading!" As soon as the tavern-keeper saw him, she bolted her door, bolted her gate, bolted the lock. But at her noise Gilgamesh pricked up his ears, lifted his chin (to look about) and then laid his eyes on her. Gilgamesh spoke to the tavern-keeper, saying: "Tavern-keeper, what have you seen that made you bolt                your door, bolt your gate, bolt the lock! if you do not let me in I will break your door, and smash                 the lock! the wilderness." Gilgamesh The tavern-keeper Siduri who lives by the seashore, she lives the pot-stand was made for her, the golden fermenting vat was made                  for her. She is covered with a veil Gilgamesh was roving about wearing a skin, having the flesh of the gods in his body, but sadness deep within him, looking like one who has been traveling a long distance. The tavern-keeper was gazing off into the distance, puzzling to herself, she said, wondering to herself: "That fellow is surely a murderer(!)! Where is he heading!" As soon as the tavern-keeper saw him, she bolted her door, bolted her gate, bolted the lock. But at her noise Gilgamesh pricked up his ears, lifted his chin (to look about) and then laid his eyes on her. Gilgamesh spoke to the tavern-keeper, saying: "Tavern-keeper, what have you seen that made you bolt                your door, bolt your gate, bolt the lock! if you do not let me in I will break your door, and smash                 the lock! the wilderness." Gilgamesh gate Gilgamesh said to the tavern-keeper: "I am Gilgamesh, I killed the Guardian! I destroyed Humbaba who lived in the Cedar Forest, I slew lions in the mountain passes! I grappled with the Bull that came down from heaven, and                killed him." The tavern-keeper spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "lf you are Gilgamesh, who killed the Guardian, who destroyed Humbaba who lived in the Cedar Forest, who slew lions in the mountain passes, who grappled with the Bull that came down from heaven, and                killed him, why are your cheeks emaciated, your expression desolate! Why is your heart so wretched, your features so haggard! Why is there such sadness deep within you! Why do you look like one who has been traveling a long                  distance so that ice and heat have seared your face! you roam the wilderness!" Gilgamesh spoke to her, to the tavern-keeper he said: "Tavern-keeper, should not my cheeks be emaciated? Should my heart not be wretched, my features not haggard? Should there not be sadness deep within me! Should I not look like one who has been traveling a long                 distance, and should ice and heat not have seared my face! , should I not roam the wilderness? My friend, the wild **** who chased the wild donkey, panther of               the wilderness, Enkidu, the wild **** who chased the wild donkey, panther of                the wilderness, we joined together, and went up into the mountain. We grappled with and killed the Bull of Heaven, we destroyed Humbaba who lived in the Cedar Forest, we slew lions in the mountain passes! My friend, whom I love deeply, who went through every hard-              ship with me, Enkidu, whom I love deeply, who went through every hardship                with me, the fate of mankind has overtaken him. Six days and seven nights I mourned over him and would not allow him to be buried until a maggot fell out of his nose. I was terrified by his appearance(!), I began to fear death, and so roam the wilderness. The issue of my friend oppresses me, so I have been roaming long trails through the wilderness. The issue of Enkidu, my friend, oppresses me, so I have been roaming long roads through the wilderness. How can I stay silent, how can 1 be still! My friend whom I love has turned to clay. Am I not like him? Will I lie down, never to get up again?"' Gilgamesh spoke to the tavern-keeper, saying: "So now, tavern-keeper, what is the way to Utanapishtim! What are its markers Give them to me! Give me the markers! If possible, I will cross the sea; if not, I will roam through the wilderness." The tavern-keeper spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "There has never been, Gilgamesh, any passage whatever, there has never been anyone since days of yore who crossed                  the sea. The (only) one who crosses the sea is valiant Shamash, except             for him who can cross! The crossing is difficult, its ways are treacherous and in between are the Waters of Death that bar its approaches! And even if, Gilgamesh, you should cross the sea, when you reach the Waters of Death what would you do! Gilgamesh, over there is Urshanabi, the ferryman of Utanapishtim. 'The stone things' L are with him, he is in the woods picking                  mint( !). Go on, let him see your face. If possible, cross with him; if not, you should turn back." When Gilgamesh heard this he raised the axe in his hand, drew the dagger from his belt, and slipped stealthily away after them. Like an arrow he fell among them ("the stone things"). From the middle of the woods their noise could be heard. Urshanabi, the sharp-eyed, saw When he heard the axe, he ran toward it. He struck his head Gilgamesh.' He clapped his hands and his chest, while "the stone things" the boat Waters of Death broad sea in the Waters of Death to the river the boat on the shore. Gilgamesh spoke to Urshanabi (?), the ferryman,    you." Urshanabi spoke to Gilgamesh, saying:'    "Why are your cheeks emaciated, your expression desolate!    Why is your heart so wretched, your features so haggard?    Why is there such sadness deep within you!    Why do you look like one who has been traveling a long                   distance    so that ice and heat have seared your face!    Why you roam the wilderness!" Gilgamesh spoke to Urshanabi, saying:    "Urshanabi, should not my cheeks be emaciated, my expression                  desolate!    Should my heart not be wretched, my features not haggard    Should there not be sadness deep within me?    Should I not look like one who has been traveling a long                  distance, and should ice and heat not have seared my face!    should I not roam the wilderness?    My friend who chased wild asses in the mountain, the panther                of the wilderness,    Enkidu, my friend, who chased wild asses in the mountain, the             panther of the wilderness,    we joined together, and went up into the mountain.    We grappled with and killed the Bull of Heaven,    we destroyed Humbaba who dwelled in the Cedar Forest,    we slew lions in the mountain passes!    My friend, whom I love deeply, who went through every hard-                 ship with me,    Enkidu, my friend, whom I love deeply, who went through              every hardship with me,    the fate of mankind has overtaken him. Six days and seven nights I mourned over him    and would not allow him to be buried    until a maggot fell out of his nose.    I was terrified by his appearance(!),    I began to fear death, and so roam the wilderness.    The issue of my friend oppresses me,    so I have been roaming long trails through the wilderness.    The issue of Enkidu, my friend, oppresses me,    so 1 have been roaming long roads through the wilderness.    How can I stay silent, how can I be still!    My friend whom I love has turned to clay;    Enkidu, my friend whom I love, has turned to clay!    Am I not like him! Will I lie down, never to get up again!"   Gilgamesh spoke to Urshanabi, saying:    "Now, Urshanabi! What is the way to Utanapishtim?    What are its markers! Give them to me! Give me the markers!    If possible, I will cross the sea;    if not, I will roam through the wilderness!" Urshanabi spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "It is your hands, Gilgamesh, that prevent the crossing! You have smashed the stone things,' you have pulled out their              retaining ropes (?). 'The stone things' have been smashed, their retaining ropes (!)               pulled out! Gilgamesh, take the axe in your hand, go down into the woods, and cut down 300 punting poles each 60 cubits in length. Strip them, attach caps(?), and bring them to the boat!" When Gilgamesh heard this he took up the axe in his hand, drew the dagger from his belt, and went down into the woods, and cut 300 punting poles each 60 cubits in length. He stripped them and attached caps(!), and brought them to                  the boat. Gilgamesh and Urshanabi bearded the boat, Gilgamesh launched the magillu-boat' and they sailed away. By the third day they had traveled a stretch of a month and a                  half, and Urshanabi arrived at the Waters of Death. Urshanabi said to Gilgamesh: "Hold back, Gilgamesh, take a punting pole, but your hand must not pass over the Waters of Death ! Take a second, Gilgamesh, a third, and a fourth pole, take a fifth, Gilgamesh, a sixth, and a seventh pole, take an eighth, Gilgamesh, a ninth, and a tenth pole, take an eleventh, Gilgamesh, and a twelfth pole!" In twice 60 rods Gilgamesh had used up the punting poles. Then he loosened his waist-cloth(?) for Gilgamesh stripped off his garment and held it up on the mast(!) with his arms. Utanapishtim was gazing off into the distance, puzzling to himself he said, wondering to himself: "Why are 'the stone things' of the boat smashed to pieces! And why is someone not its master sailing on it? The one who is coming is not a man of mine, I keep looking but not I keep looking but not I keep looking" lines are missing here.] Utanapishtim said to Gilgamesh: "Why are your cheeks emaciated, your expression desolate! Why is your heart so wretched, your features so haggard! Why is there such sadness deep within you! Why do you look like one who has been traveling a long distance so that ice and heat have seared your face! you roam the wilderness!" Gilgamesh spoke to Utanapishtim saying: "Should not my cheeks be emaciated, my expression desolate! Should my heart not be wretched, my features not haggard! Should there not be sadness deep within me! Should I not look like one who has been traveling a long distance, and should ice and heat not have seared my face! should I not roam the wilderness) My friend who chased wild asses in the mountain, the panther              of the wilderness, Enkidu, my friend, who chased wild asses in the mountain, the            panther of the wilderness, we joined together, and went up into the mountain. We grappled with and killed the Bull of Heaven, we destroyed Humbaba who dwelled in the Cedar Forest, we slew lions in the mountain passes! My friend, whom I love deeply, who went through every hard-                shin with me Enkidu, my friend, whom I love deeply, who went through            every hardship with me, the fate of mankind has overtaken him. Six days and seven nights I mourned over him and would not allow him to be buried until a maggot fell out of his nose. I was terrified by his appearance(!), I began to fear death, and so roam the wilderness. The issue of my friend oppresses me, so I have been roaming long trails through the wilderness. The issue of Enkidu, my friend, oppresses me, so I have been roaming long roads through the wilderness. How can I stay silent, how can I be still! My friend whom I love has turned to clay; Enkidu, my friend whom I love, has turned to clay! Am I not like him! Will I lie down never to get up again!" Gilgamesh spoke to Utanapishtim, saying: "That is why (?) I must go on, to see Utanapishtim whom they              call 'The Faraway.'" I went circling through all the mountains, I traversed treacherous mountains, and crossed all the seas that is why (!) sweet sleep has not mellowed my face, through sleepless striving I am strained, my muscles are filled with pain. I had not yet reached the tavern-keeper's area before my              clothing gave out. I killed bear, hyena, lion, panther, tiger, stag, red-stag, and            beasts of the wilderness; I ate their meat and wrapped their skins around me.' The gate of grief must be bolted shut, sealed with pitch and                 bitumen ! As for me, dancing For me unfortunate(!) it(?) will root out" Utanapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Why, Gilgamesh, do you sadness? You who were created (!) from the flesh of gods and mankind who made like your father and mother? Have you ever Gilgamesh to the fool They placed a chair in the Assembly, But to the fool they gave beer dregs instead of butter, bran and cheap flour which like Clothed with a loincloth (!) like And in place of a sash, because he does not have does not have words of counsel Take care about it, Gilgamesh, their master Sin eclipse of the moon The gods are sleepless They are troubled, restless(!) Long ago it has been established You trouble yourself your help If Gilgamesh the temple of the gods the temple of the holy gods, the gods mankind, they took for his fate. You have toiled without cease, and what have you got! Through toil you wear yourself out, you fill your body with grief, your long lifetime you are bringing near (to a premature end)! Mankind, whose offshoot is snapped off like a reed in a               canebreak, the fine youth and lovely girl death. No one can see death, no one can see the face of death, no one can hear the voice of death, yet there is savage death that snaps off mankind. For how long do we build a household? For how long do we seal a document! For how long do brothers share the inheritance? For how long is there to be jealousy in the land(!)! For how long has the river risen and brought the overflowing                waters, so that dragonflies drift down the river!' The face that could gaze upon the face of the Sun has never existed ever. How alike are the sleeping(!) and the dead. The image of Death cannot be depicted. (Yes, you are a) human being, a man (?)! After Enlil had pronounced the blessing,'" the Anunnaki, the Great Gods, assembled. Mammetum, she who forms destiny, determined destiny with them. They established Death and Life, but they did not make known 'the days of death'". ~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet X ,

696:. Fast, in its prison-walls of earth, Awaits the mould of baked clay. Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth The bell that shall be born to-day! Who would honor obtain, With the sweat and the pain, The praise that man gives to the master must buy. But the blessing withal must descend from on high! And well an earnest word beseems The work the earnest hand prepares; Its load more light the labor deems, When sweet discourse the labor shares. So let us pondernor in vain What strength can work when labor wills; For who would not the fool disdain Who ne'er designs what he fulfils? And well it stamps our human race, And hence the gift to understand, That man within the heart should trace Whate'er he fashions with the hand. From the fir the fagot take, Keep it, heap it hard and dry, That the gathered flame may break Through the furnace, wroth and high. When the copper within Seeths and simmersthe tin, Pour quick, that the fluid that feeds the bell May flow in the right course glib and well. Deep hid within this nether cell, What force with fire is moulding thus, In yonder airy tower shall dwell, And witness wide and far of us! It shall, in later days, unfailing, Rouse many an ear to rapt emotion; Its solemn voice with sorrow wailing, Or choral chiming to devotion. Whatever fate to man may bring, Whatever weal or woe befall, That metal tongue shall backward ring, The warning moral drawn from all. See the silvery bubbles spring! Good! the mass is melting now! Let the salts we duly bring Purge the flood, and speed the flow. From the dross and the scum, Pure, the fusion must come; For perfect and pure we the metal must keep, That its voice may be perfect, and pure, and deep. That voice, with merry music rife, The cherished child shall welcome in; What time the rosy dreams of life, In the first slumber's arms begin. As yet, in Time's dark womb unwarning, Repose the days, or foul or fair; And watchful o'er that golden morning, The mother-love's untiring care! And swift the years like arrows fly No more with girls content to play, Bounds the proud boy upon his way, Storms through loud life's tumultuous pleasures, With pilgrim staff the wide world measures; And, wearied with the wish to roam, Again seeks, stranger-like, the father-home. And, lo, as some sweet vision breaks Out from its native morning skies With rosy shame on downcast cheeks, The virgin stands before his eyes. A nameless longing seizes him! From all his wild compassions flown; Tears, strange till then, his eyes bedim; He wanders all alone. Blushing, he glides where'er she move; Her greeting can transport him; To every mead to deck his love, The happy wild flowers court him! Sweet hopeand tender longingye The growth of life's first age of gold; When the heart, swelling, seems to see The gates of heaven unfold! O love, the beautiful and brief! O prime, Glory, and verdure, of life's summer time! Browning o'er, the pipes are simmering, Dip this wand of clay [45] within; If like glass the wand be glimmering, Then the casting may begin. Brisk, brisk now, and see If the fusion flow free; If(happy and welcome indeed were the sign!) If the hard and the ductile united combine. For still where the strong is betrothed to the weak, And the stern in sweet marriage is blent with the meek, Rings the concord harmonious, both tender and strong So be it with thee, if forever united, The heart to the heart flows in one, love-delighted; Illusion is brief, but repentance is long. Lovely, thither are they bringing. With the virgin wreath, the bride! To the love-feast clearly ringing, Tolls the church-bell far and wide! With that sweetest holiday, Must the May of life depart; With the cestus loosedaway Flies illusion from the heart! Yet love lingers lonely, When passion is mute, And the blossoms may only Give way to the fruit. The husband must enter The hostile life, With struggle and strife To plant or to watch. To snare or to snatch, To pray and importune, Must wager and venture And hunt down his fortune! Then flows in a current the gear and the gain, And the garners are filled with the gold of the grain, Now a yard to the court, now a wing to the centre! Within sits another, The thrifty housewife; The mild one, the mother Her home is her life. In its circle she rules, And the daughters she schools And she cautions the boys, With a bustling command, And a diligent hand Employed she employs; Gives order to store, And the much makes the more; Locks the chest and the wardrobe, with lavender smelling, And the hum of the spindle goes quick through the dwelling; And she hoards in the presses, well polished and full, The snow of the linen, the shine of the wool; Blends the sweet with the good, and from care and endeavor Rests never! Blithe the master (where the while From his roof he sees them smile) Eyes the lands, and counts the gain; There, the beams projecting far, And the laden storehouse are, And the granaries bowed beneath The blessed golden grain; There, in undulating motion, Wave the cornfields like an ocean. Proud the boast the proud lips breathe: "My house is built upon a rock, And sees unmoved the stormy shock Of waves that fret below!" What chain so strong, what girth so great, To bind the giant form of fate? Swift are the steps of woe. Now the casting may begin; See the breach indented there: Ere we run the fusion in, Haltand speed the pious prayer! Pull the bung out See around and about What vapor, what vaporGod help us!has risen? Ha! the flame like a torrent leaps forth from its prison! What friend is like the might of fire When man can watch and wield the ire? Whate'er we shape or work, we owe Still to that heaven-descended glow. But dread the heaven-descended glow, When from their chain its wild wings go, When, where it listeth, wide and wild Sweeps free Nature's free-born child. When the frantic one fleets, While no force can withstand, Through the populous streets Whirling ghastly the brand; For the element hates What man's labor creates, And the work of his hand! Impartially out from the cloud, Or the curse or the blessing may fall! Benignantly out from the cloud Come the dews, the revivers of all! Avengingly out from the cloud Come the levin, the bolt, and the ball! Harka wail from the steeple!aloud The bell shrills its voice to the crowd! Looklookred as blood All on high! It is not the daylight that fills with its flood The sky! What a clamor awaking Roars up through the street, What a hell-vapor breaking. Rolls on through the street, And higher and higher Aloft moves the column of fire! Through the vistas and rows Like a whirlwind it goes, And the air like the stream from the furnace glows. Beams are cracklingposts are shrinking Walls are sinkingwindows clinking Children crying Mothers flying And the beast (the black ruin yet smouldering under) Yells the howl of its pain and its ghastly wonder! Hurry and skurryawayaway, The face of the night is as clear as day! As the links in a chain, Again and again Flies the bucket from hand to hand; High in arches up-rushing The engines are gushing, And the flood, as a beast on the prey that it hounds With a roar on the breast of the element bounds. To the grain and the fruits, Through the rafters and beams, Through the barns and garners it crackles and streams! As if they would rend up the earth from its roots, Rush the flames to the sky Giant-high; And at length, Wearied out and despairing, man bows to their strength! With an idle gaze sees their wrath consume, And submits to his doom! Desolate The place, and dread For storms the barren bed. In the blank voids that cheerful casements were, Comes to and fro the melancholy air, And sits despair; And through the ruin, blackening in its shroud Peers, as it flits, the melancholy cloud. One human glance of grief upon the grave Of all that fortune gave The loiterer takesthen turns him to depart, And grasps the wanderer's staff and mans his heart Whatever else the element bereaves One blessing more than all it reftit leaves, The faces that he loves!He counts them o'er, Seenot one look is missing from that store! Now clasped the bell within the clay The mould the mingled metals fill Oh, may it, sparkling into day, Reward the labor and the skill! Alas! should it fail, For the mould may be frail And still with our hope must be mingled the fear And, ev'n now, while we speak, the mishap may be near! To the dark womb of sacred earth This labor of our hands is given, As seeds that wait the second birth, And turn to blessings watched by heaven! Ah, seeds, how dearer far than they, We bury in the dismal tomb, Where. hope and sorrow bend to pray That suns beyond the realm of day May warm them into bloom! From the steeple Tolls the bell, Deep and heavy, The death-knell! Guiding with dirge-notesolemn, sad, and slow, To the last home earth's weary wanderers know. It is that worshipped wife It is that faithful mother! Whom the dark prince of shadows leads benighted, From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted Far from those blithe companions, born Of her, and blooming in their morn; On whom, when couched her heart above, So often looked the mother-love! Ah! rent the sweet home's union-band, And never, never more to come She dwells within the shadowy land, Who was the mother of that home! How oft they miss that tender guide, The carethe watchthe facethe mother And where she sate the babes beside, Sits with unloving looksanother! While the mass is cooling now, Let the labor yield to leisure, As the bird upon the bough, Loose the travail to the pleasure. When the soft stars awaken, Each task be forsaken! And the vesper-bell lulling the earth into peace, If the master still toil, chimes the workman's release! Homeward from the tasks of day, Through the greenwood's welcome way Wends the wanderer, blithe and cheerly, To the cottage loved so dearly! And the eye and ear are meeting, Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating Now, the wonted shelter near, Lowing the lusty-fronted steer; Creaking now the heavy wain, Reels with the happy harvest grain. While with many-colored leaves, Glitters the garland on the sheaves; For the mower's work is done, And the young folks' dance begun! Desert street, and quiet mart; Silence is in the city's heart; And the social taper lighteth; Each dear face that home uniteth; While the gate the town before Heavily swings with sullen roar! Though darkness is spreading O'er earththe upright And the honest, undreading, Look safe on the night Which the evil man watches in awe, For the eye of the night is the law! Bliss-dowered! O daughter of the skies, Hail, holy order, whose employ Blends like to like in light and joy Builder of cities, who of old Called the wild man from waste and wold. And, in his hut thy presence stealing, Roused each familiar household feeling; And, best of all the happy ties, The centre of the social band, The instinct of the Fatherland! United thuseach helping each, Brisk work the countless hands forever; For naught its power to strength can teach, Like emulation and endeavor! Thus linked the master with the man, Each in his rights can each revere, And while they march in freedom's van, Scorn the lewd rout that dogs the rear! To freemen labor is renown! Who worksgives blessings and commands; Kings glory in the orb and crown Be ours the glory of our hands. Long in these wallslong may we greet Your footfalls, peace and concord sweet! Distant the day, oh! distant far, When the rude hordes of trampling war Shall scare the silent vale; And where, Now the sweet heaven, when day doth leave The air, Limns its soft rose-hues on the veil of eve; Shall the fierce war-brand tossing in the gale, From town and hamlet shake the horrent glare! Now, its destined task fulfilled, Asunder break the prison-mould; Let the goodly bell we build, Eye and heart alike behold. The hammer down heave, Till the cover it cleave: For not till we shatter the wall of its cell Can we lift from its darkness and bondage the bell. To break the mould, the master may, If skilled the hand and ripe the hour; But woe, when on its fiery way The metal seeks itself to pour. Frantic and blind, with thunder-knell, Exploding from its shattered home, And glaring forth, as from a hell, Behold the red destruction come! When rages strength that has no reason, There breaks the mould before the season; When numbers burst what bound before, Woe to the state that thrives no more! Yea, woe, when in the city's heart, The latent spark to flame is blown; And millions from their silence start, To claim, without a guide, their own! Discordant howls the warning bell, Proclaiming discord wide and far, And, born but things of peace to tell, Becomes the ghastliest voice of war: "Freedom! Equality!"to blood Rush the roused people at the sound! Through street, hall, palace, roars the flood, And banded murder closes round! The hyena-shapes (that women were!), Jest with the horrors they survey; They houndthey rendthey mangle there As panthers with their prey! Naught rests to hollowburst the ties Of life's sublime and reverent awe; Before the vice the virtue flies, And universal crime is law! Man fears the lion's kingly tread; Man fears the tiger's fangs of terror; And still the dreadliest of the dread, Is man himself in error! No torch, though lit from heaven, illumes The blind!Why place it in his hand? It lights not himit but consumes The city and the land! Rejoice and laud the prospering skies! The kernel bursts its huskbehold From the dull clay the metal rise, Pure-shining, as a star of gold! Neck and lip, but as one beam, It laughs like a sunbeam. And even the scutcheon, clear-graven, shall tell That the art of a master has fashioned the bell! Come income in My merry menwe'll form a ring The new-born labor christening; And "Concord" we will name her! To union may her heartfelt call In brother-love attune us all! May she the destined glory win For which the master sought to frame her Aloft(all earth's existence under), In blue-pavillioned heaven afar To dwellthe neighbor of the thunder, The borderer of the star! Be hers above a voice to rise Like those bright hosts in yonder sphere, Who, while they move, their Maker praise, And lead around the wreathed year! To solemn and eternal things We dedicate her lips sublime! As hourly, calmly, on she swings Fanned by the fleeting wings of time! No pulseno heartno feeling hers! She lends the warning voice to fate; And still companions, while she stirs, The changes of the human state! So may she teach us, as her tone But now so mighty, melts away That earth no life which earth has known From the last silence can delay! Slowly now the cords upheave her! From her earth-grave soars the bell; Mid the airs of heaven we leave her! In the music-realm to dwell! Upupwards yet raise She has risenshe sways. Fair bell to our city bode joy and increase, And oh, may thy first sound be hallowed to peace! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Lay Of The Bell ,

697:I WHEN the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones, Who speeds to the woodland walks? To birds and trees who talks? Csar of his leafy Rome, There the poet is at home. He goes to the river-side, Not hook nor line hath he; He stands in the meadows wide, Nor gun nor scythe to see. Sure some god his eye enchants: What he knows nobody wants. In the wood he travels glad, Without better fortune had, Melancholy without bad. Knowledge this man prizes best Seems fantastic to the rest: Pondering shadows, colors, clouds, Grass-buds and caterpillar-shrouds, Boughs on which the wild bees settle, Tints that spot the violet's petal, Why Nature loves the number five, And why the star-form she repeats: Lover of all things alive, Wonderer at all he meets, Wonderer chiefly at himself, Who can tell him what he is? Or how meet in human elf Coming and past eternities? 2 And such I knew, a forest seer, A minstrel of the natural year, Foreteller of the vernal ides, Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, A lover true, who knew by heart Each joy the mountain dales impart; It seemed that Nature could not raise A plant in any secret place, In quaking bog, on snowy hill, Beneath the grass that shades the rill, Under the snow, between the rocks, In damp fields known to bird and fox. But he would come in the very hour It opened in its virgin bower, As if a sunbeam showed the place, And tell its long-descended race. It seemed as if the breezes brought him, It seemed as if the sparrows taught him; As if by secret sight he knew Where, in far fields, the orchis grew. Many haps fall in the field Seldom seen by wishful eyes, But all her shows did Nature yield, To please and win this pilgrim wise. He saw the partridge drum in the woods; He heard the woodcock's evening hymn; He found the tawny thrushes' broods; And the shy hawk did wait for him; What others did at distance hear, And guessed within the thicket's gloom, Was shown to this philosopher, And at his bidding seemed to come. 3 In unploughed Maine he sought the lumberers' gang Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang; He trod the unplanted forest floor, whereon The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone; Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear, And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker. He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds, The slight Linna hang its twin-born heads, And blessed the monument of the man of flowers, Which breathes his sweet fame'through the northern bowers. He heard, when in the grove, at intervals, With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls, One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree, Declares the close of its green century. Low lies the plant to whose creation went Sweet influence from every element; Whose living towers the years conspired to build, Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild. Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed, He roamed, content alike with man and beast. Where darkness found him he lay glad at night; There the red morning touched him with its light. Three moons his great heart him a hermit made, So long he roved at will the boundless shade. The timid it concerns to ask their way, And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray, To make no step until the event is known, And ills to come as evils past bemoan. Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps To spy what danger on his pathway creeps; Go where he will, the wise man is at home, His hearth the earth,his hall the azure dome; Where his clear spirit leads him, there's his road By God's own light illumined and foreshowed. 4 'T was one of the charmd days When the genius of God doth flow; The wind may alter twenty ways, A tempest cannot blow; It may blow north, it still is warm; Or south, it still is clear; Or east, it smells like a clover-farm; Or west, no thunder fear. The musing peasant, lowly great, Beside the forest water sate; The rope-like pine-roots crosswise grown Composed the network of his throne; The wide lake, edged with sand and grass, Was burnished to a floor of glass, Painted with shadows green and proud Of the tree and of the cloud. He was the heart of all the scene; On him the sun looked more serene; To hill and cloud his face was known, It seemed the likeness of their own; They knew by secret sympathy The public child of earth and sky. 'You ask,' he said,'what guide Me through trackless thickets led, Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide. I found the water's bed. The watercourses were my guide; I travelled grateful by their side, Or through their channel dry; They led me through the thicket damp, Through brake and fern, the beavers' camp, Through beds of granite cut my road, And their resistless friendship showed. The falling waters led me, The foodful waters fed me, And brought me to the lowest land Unerring to the ocean sand. The moss upon the forest bark Was pole-star when the night was dark; The purple berries in the wood Supplied me necessary food; For Nature ever faithful is To such as trust her faithfulness. When the forest shall mislead me, When the night and morning lie, When sea and land refuse to feed me, 'T will be time enough to die; Then will yet my mother yield A pillow in her greenest field, Nor the June flowers scorn to cover The clay of their departed lover.' II As sunbeams stream through liberal space And nothing jostle or displace, So waved the pine-tree through my thought And fanned the dreams it never brought. 'Whether is better, the gift or the donor? Come to me,' Quoth the pine-tree, 'I am the giver of honor. My garden is the cloven rock, And my manure the snow; And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock, In summer's scorching glow. He is great who can live by me: The rough and bearded forester Is better than the lord; God fills the scrip and canister, Sin piles the loaded board. The lord is the peasant that was, The peasant the lord that shall be; The lord is hay, the peasant grass, One dry, and one the living tree. Who liveth by the ragged pine Foundeth a heroic line; Who liveth in the palace hall Waneth fast and spendeth all. He goes to my savage haunts, With his chariot and his care; My twilight realm he disenchants, And finds his prison there. 'What prizes the town and the tower? Only what the pine-tree yields; Sinew that subdued the fields; The wild-eyed boy, who in the woods Chants his hymn to hills and floods, Whom the city's poisoning spleen Made not pale, or fat, or lean; Whom the rain and the wind purgeth, Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth, In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth, In whose feet the lion rusheth, Iron arms, and iron mould, That know not fear, fatigue, or cold. I give my rafters to his boat, My billets to his boiler's throat, And I will swim the ancient sea To float my child to victory, And grant to dwellers with the pine Dominion o'er the palm and vine. Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend, Unnerves his strength, invites his end. Cut a bough from my parent stem, And dip it in thy porcelain vase; A little while each russet gem Will swell and rise with wonted grace; But when it seeks enlarged supplies, The orphan of the forest dies. Whoso walks in solitude And inhabiteth the wood, Choosing light, wave, rock and bird, Before the money-loving herd, Into that forester shall pass, From these companions, power and grace. Clean shall he be, without, within, From the old adhering sin, All ill dissolving in the light Of his triumphant piercing sight: Not vain, sour, nor frivolous; Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous; Grave, chaste, contented, though retired, And of all other men desired. On him the light of star and moon Shall fall with purer radiance down; All constellations of the sky Shed their virtue through his eye. Him Nature giveth for defence His formidable innocence; The mounting sap, the shells, the sea, All spheres, all stones, his helpers be; He shall meet the speeding year, Without wailing, without fear; He shall be happy in his love, Like to like shall joyful prove; He shall be happy whilst he wooes, Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse. But if with gold she bind her hair, And deck her breast with diamond, Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear, Though thou lie alone on the ground. ' Heed the old oracles, Ponder my spells; Song wakes in my pinnacles When the wind swells. Soundeth the prophetic wind, The shadows shake on the rock behind, And the countless leaves of the pine are strings Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings. Hearken! Hearken! If thou wouldst know the mystic song Chanted when the sphere was young. Aloft, abroad, the pan swells; O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells? O wise man! hear'st thou the least part? 'T is the chronicle of art. To the open ear it sings Sweet the genesis of things, Of tendency through endless ages, Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages, Of rounded worlds, of space and time, Of the old flood's subsiding slime, Of chemic matter, force and form, Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm: The rushing metamorphosis Dissolving all that fixture is, Melts things that be to things that seem, And solid nature to a dream. O, listen to the undersong, The ever old, the ever young; And, far within those cadent pauses, The chorus of the ancient Causes! Delights the dreadful Destiny To fling his voice into the tree, And shock thy weak ear with a note Breathed from the everlasting throat. In music he repeats the pang Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang. O mortal! thy ears are stones; These echoes are laden with tones Which only the pure can hear; Thou canst not catch what they recite Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right, Of man to come, of human life, Of Death and Fortune, Growth and Strife.' Once again the pine-tree sung: ' Speak not thy speech my boughs among: Put off thy years, wash in the breeze; My hours are peaceful centuries. Talk no more with feeble tongue; No more the fool of space and time, Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme. Only thy Americans Can read thy line, can meet thy glance, But the runes that I rehearse Understands the universe; The least breath my boughs which tossed Brings again the Pentecost; To every soul resounding clear In a voice of solemn cheer, "Am I not thine? Are not these thine?" And they reply, "Forever mine!" My branches speak Italian, English, German, Basque, Castilian, Mountain speech to Highlanders, Ocean tongues to islanders, To Fin and Lap and swart Malay, To each his bosom-secret say. 'Come learn with me the fatal song Which knits the world in music strong, Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes, Of things with things, of times with times, Primal chimes of sun and shade, Of sound and echo, man and maid, The land reflected in the flood, Body with shadow still pursued. For Nature beats in perfect tune, And rounds with rhyme her every rune, Whether she work in land or sea, Or hide underground her alchemy. Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, Or dip thy paddle in the lake, But it carves the bow of beauty there, And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. The wood is wiser far than thou; The wood and wave each other know Not unrelated, unaffied, But to each thought and thing allied, Is perfect Nature's every part, Rooted in the mighty Heart. But thou, poor child! unbound, unrhymed, Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed, Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded? Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded? Who thee divorced, deceived and left? Thee of thy faith who hath bereft, And torn the ensigns from thy brow, And sunk the immortal eye so low? Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender, Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender For royal man;they thee confess An exile from the wilderness, The hills where health with health agrees, And the wise soul expels disease. Hark! in thy ear I will tell the sign By which thy hurt thou may'st divine. 'When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff, Or see the wide shore from thy skiff, To thee the horizon shall express But emptiness on emptiness; There lives no man of Nature's worth In the circle of the earth; And to thine eye the vast skies fall, Dire and satirical, On clucking hens and prating fools, On thieves, on drudges and on dolls. And thou shalt say to the Most High, "Godhead! all this astronomy, And fate and practice and invention, Strong art and beautiful pretension, This radiant pomp of sun and star, Throes that were, and worlds that are, Behold! were in vain and in vain; It cannot be,I will look again. Surely now will the curtain rise, And earth's fit tenant me surprise; But the curtain doth not rise, And Nature has miscarried wholly Into failure, into folly." 'Alas! thine is the bankruptcy, Blessed Nature so to see. Come, lay thee in my soothing shade, And heal the hurts which sin has made. I see thee in the crowd alone; I will be thy companion. Quit thy friends as the dead in doom, And build to them a final tomb; Let the starred shade that nightly falls Still celebrate their funerals, And the bell of beetle and of bee Knell their melodious memory. Behind thee leave thy merchandise, Thy churches and thy charities; And leave thy peacock wit behind; Enough for thee the primal mind That flows in streams, that breathes in wind: Leave all thy pedant lore apart; God hid the whole world in thy heart. Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns, Gives all to them who all renounce. The rain comes when the wind calls; The river knows the way to the sea; Without a pilot it runs and falls, Blessing all lands with its charity; The sea tosses and foams to find Its way up to the cloud and wind; The shadow sits close to the flying ball; The date fails not on the palm-tree tall; And thou,go burn thy wormy pages, Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages. Oft didst thou thread the woods in vain To find what bird had piped the strain: Seek not, and the little eremite Flies gayly forth and sings in sight. 'Hearken once more! I will tell thee the mundane lore. Older am I than thy numbers wot, Change I may, but I pass not. Hitherto all things fast abide, And anchored in the tempest ride. Trenchant time behoves to hurry All to yean and all to bury: All the forms are fugitive, But the substances survive. Ever fresh the broad creation, A divine improvisation, From the heart of God proceeds, A single will, a million deeds. Once slept the world an egg of stone, And pulse, and sound, and light was none; And God said, "Throb!" and there was motion And the vast mass became vast ocean. Onward and on, the eternal Pan, Who layeth the world's incessant plan, Halteth never in one shape, But forever doth escape, Like wave or flame, into new forms Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms. I, that to-day am a pine, Yesterday was a bundle of grass. He is free and libertine, Pouring of his power the wine To every age, to every race;. Unto every race and age He emptieth the beverage; Unto each, and unto all, Maker and original. The world is the ring of his spells, And the play of his miracles. As he giveth to all to drink, Thus or thus they are and think. With one drop sheds form and feature; With the next a special nature; The third adds heat's indulgent spark; The fourth gives light which eats the dark; Into the fifth himself he flings, And conscious Law is King of kings. As the bee through the garden ranges, From world to world the godhead changes; As the sheep go feeding in the waste, From form to form He maketh haste; This vault which glows immense with light Is the inn where he lodges for a night. What reeks such Traveller if the bowers Which bloom and fade like meadow flowers A bunch of fragrant lilies be, Or the stars of eternity? Alike to him the better, the worse, The glowing angel, the outcast corse. Thou metest him by centuries, And lo! he passes like the breeze; Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy, He hides in pure transparency; Thou askest in fountains and in fires, He is the essence that inquires. He is the axis of the star; He is the sparkle of the spar; He is the heart of every creature; He is the meaning of each feature; And his mind is the sky. Than all it holds more deep, more high.' by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Woodnotes ,

698:The Duellist - Book Iii Ah me! what mighty perils wait The man who meddles with a state, Whether to strengthen, or oppose! False are his friends, and firm his foes: How must his soul, once ventured in, Plunge blindly on from sin to sin! What toils he suffers, what disgrace, To get, and then to keep, a place! How often, whether wrong or right, Must he in jest or earnest fight, Risking for those both life and limb Who would not risk one groat for him! Under the Temple lay a Cave, Made by some guilty, coward slave, Whose actions fear'd rebuke: a maze Of intricate and winding ways, Not to be found without a clue; One passage only, known to few, In paths direct led to a cell, Where Fraud in secret loved to dwell, With all her tools and slaves about her, Nor fear'd lest Honesty should rout her. In a dark corner, shunning sight Of man, and shrinking from the light, One dull, dim taper through the cell Glimmering, to make more horrible The face of darkness, she prepares, Working unseen, all kinds of snares, With curious, but destructive art: Here, through the eye to catch the heart, Gay stars their tinsel beams afford, Neat artifice to trap a lord; There, fit for all whom Folly bred, Wave plumes of feathers for the head; Garters the hag contrives to make, Which, as it seems, a babe might break, But which ambitious madmen feel More firm and sure than chains of steel; Which, slipp'd just underneath the knee, 153 Forbid a freeman to be free. Purses she knew, (did ever curse Travel more sure than in a purse?) Which, by some strange and magic bands, Enslave the soul, and tie the hands. Here Flattery, eldest-born of Guile, Weaves with rare skill the silken smile, The courtly cringe, the supple bow, The private squeeze, the levee vow, With which--no strange or recent case-Fools in, deceive fools out of place. Corruption, (who, in former times, Through fear or shame conceal'd her crimes, And what she did, contrived to do it So that the public might not view it) Presumptuous grown, unfit was held For their dark councils, and expell'd, Since in the day her business might Be done as safe as in the night. Her eye down-bending to the ground, Planning some dark and deadly wound, Holding a dagger, on which stood, All fresh and reeking, drops of blood, Bearing a lantern, which of yore, By Treason borrow'd, Guy Fawkes bore, By which, since they improved in trade, Excisemen have their lanterns made, Assassination, her whole mind Blood-thirsting, on her arm reclined; Death, grinning, at her elbow stood, And held forth instruments of blood,-Vile instruments, which cowards choose, But men of honour dare not use; Around, his Lordship and his Grace, Both qualified for such a place, With many a Forbes, and many a Dun, Each a resolved, and pious son, Wait her high bidding; each prepared, As she around her orders shared, Proof 'gainst remorse, to run, to fly, And bid the destined victim die, Posting on Villany's black wing, 154 Whether he patriot is, or king. Oppression,--willing to appear An object of our love, not fear, Or, at the most, a reverend awe To breed, usurp'd the garb of Law. A book she held, on which her eyes Were deeply fix'd, whence seem'd to rise Joy in her breast; a book, of might Most wonderful, which black to white Could turn, and without help of laws, Could make the worse the better cause. She read, by flattering hopes deceived; She wish'd, and what she wish'd, believed, To make that book for ever stand The rule of wrong through all the land; On the back, fair and worthy note, At large was Magna Charta wrote; But turn your eye within, and read, A bitter lesson, Norton's Creed. Ready, e'en with a look, to run, Fast as the coursers of the sun, To worry Virtue, at her hand Two half-starved greyhounds took their stand. A curious model, cut in wood, Of a most ancient castle stood Full in her view; the gates were barr'd, And soldiers on the watch kept guard; In the front, openly, in black Was wrote, The Tower: but on the back, Mark'd with a secretary's seal, In bloody letters, The Bastile. Around a table, fully bent On mischief of most black intent, Deeply determined that their reign Might longer last, to work the bane Of one firm patriot, whose heart, tied To Honour, all their power defied, And brought those actions into light They wish'd to have conceal'd in night, Begot, born, bred to infamy, A privy-council sat of three: Great were their names, of high repute 155 And favour through the land of Bute. The first (entitled to the place Of Honour both by gown and grace, Who never let occasion slip To take right-hand of fellowship, And was so proud, that should he meet The twelve apostles in the street, He'd turn his nose up at them all, And shove his Saviour from the wall! Who was so mean (Meanness and Pride Still go together side by side) That he would cringe, and creep, be civil, And hold a stirrup for the Devil; If in a journey to his mind, He'd let him mount and ride behind; Who basely fawn'd through all his life, For patrons first, then for a wife: Wrote Dedications which must make The heart of every Christian quake; Made one man equal to, or more Than God, then left him, as before His God he left, and, drawn by pride, Shifted about to t' other side) Was by his sire a parson made, Merely to give the boy a trade; But he himself was thereto drawn By some faint omens of the lawn, And on the truly Christian plan To make himself a gentleman,-A title in which Form array'd him, Though Fate ne'er thought on 't when she made him. The oaths he took, 'tis very true, But took them as all wise men do, With an intent, if things should turn, Rather to temporise, than burn; Gospel and loyalty were made To serve the purposes of trade; Religions are but paper ties, Which bind the fool, but which the wise, Such idle notions far above, Draw on and off, just like a glove; All gods, all kings (let his great aim 156 Be answer'd) were to him the same. A curate first, he read and read, And laid in, whilst he should have fed The souls of his neglected flock, Of reading such a mighty stock, That he o'ercharged the weary brain With more than she could well contain; More than she was with spirits fraught To turn and methodise to thought, And which, like ill-digested food, To humours turn'd, and not to blood. Brought up to London, from the plough And pulpit, how to make a bow He tried to learn; he grew polite, And was the poet's parasite. With wits conversing, (and wits then Were to be found 'mongst noblemen) He caught, or would have caught, the flame, And would be nothing, or the same. He drank with drunkards, lived with sinners, Herded with infidels for dinners; With such an emphasis and grace Blasphemed, that Potter kept not pace: He, in the highest reign of noon, Bawled bawdy songs to a psalm tune; Lived with men infamous and vile, Truck'd his salvation for a smile; To catch their humour caught their plan, And laugh'd at God to laugh with man; Praised them, when living, in each breath, And damn'd their memories after death. To prove his faith, which all admit Is at least equal to his wit, And make himself a man of note, He in defence of Scripture wrote: So long he wrote, and long about it, That e'en believers 'gan to doubt it: He wrote, too, of the inward light, Though no one knew how he came by 't, And of that influencing grace Which in his life ne'er found a place: He wrote, too, of the Holy Ghost, 157 Of whom no more than doth a post He knew; nor, should an angel show him, Would he, or know, or choose to know him. Next (for he knew 'twixt every science There was a natural alliance) He wrote, to advance his Maker's praise, Comments on rhymes, and notes on plays, And with an all-sufficient air Placed himself in the critic's chair; Usurp'd o'er Reason full dominion, And govern'd merely by Opinion. At length dethroned, and kept in awe By one plain simple man of law, He arm'd dead friends, to vengeance true, To abuse the man they never knew. Examine strictly all mankind, Most characters are mix'd, we find; And Vice and Virtue take their turn In the same breast to beat and burn. Our priest was an exception here, Nor did one spark of grace appear, Not one dull, dim spark in his soul; Vice, glorious Vice, possess'd the whole, And, in her service truly warm, He was in sin most uniform. Injurious Satire! own at least One snivelling virtue in the priest, One snivelling virtue, which is placed, They say, in or about the waist, Call'd Chastity; the prudish dame Knows it at large by Virtue's name. To this his wife (and in these days Wives seldom without reason praise) Bears evidence--then calls her child, And swears that Tom was vastly wild. Ripen'd by a long course of years, He great and perfect now appears. In shape scarce of the human kind, A man, without a manly mind; No husband, though he's truly wed; Though on his knees a child is bred, No father; injured, without end 158 A foe; and though obliged, no friend; A heart, which virtue ne'er disgraced; A head, where learning runs to waste; A gentleman well-bred, if breeding Rests in the article of reading; A man of this world, for the next Was ne'er included in his text; A judge of genius, though confess'd With not one spark of genius bless'd; Amongst the first of critics placed, Though free from every taint of taste; A Christian without faith or works, As he would be a Turk 'mongst Turks; A great divine, as lords agree, Without the least divinity; To crown all, in declining age, Inflamed with church and party rage, Behold him, full and perfect quite, A false saint, and true hypocrite. Next sat a lawyer, often tried In perilous extremes; when Pride And Power, all wild and trembling, stood, Nor dared to tempt the raging flood; This bold, bad man arose to view, And gave his hand to help them through: Steel'd 'gainst compassion, as they pass'd He saw poor Freedom breathe her last; He saw her struggle, heard her groan; He saw her helpless and alone, Whelm'd in that storm, which, fear'd and praised By slaves less bold, himself had raised. Bred to the law, he from the first Of all bad lawyers was the worst. Perfection (for bad men maintain In ill we may perfection gain) In others is a work of time, And they creep on from crime to crime; He, for a prodigy design'd, To spread amazement o'er mankind, Started full ripen'd all at once A perfect knave, and perfect dunce. Who will, for him, may boast of sense, 159 His better guard is impudence; His front, with tenfold plates of brass Secured, Shame never yet could pass, Nor on the surface of his skin Blush for that guilt which dwelt within. How often, in contempt of laws, To sound the bottom of a cause, To search out every rotten part, And worm into its very heart, Hath he ta'en briefs on false pretence, And undertaken the defence Of trusting fools, whom in the end He meant to ruin, not defend! How often, e'en in open court, Hath the wretch made his shame his sport, And laugh'd off, with a villain's ease, Throwing up briefs, and keeping fees! Such things as, though to roguery bred, Had struck a little villain dead! Causes, whatever their import, He undertakes, to serve a court; For he by art this rule had got, Power can effect what Law cannot. Fools he forgives, but rogues he fears; If Genius, yoked with Worth, appears, His weak soul sickens at the sight, And strives to plunge them down in night. So loud he talks, so very loud, He is an angel with the crowd; Whilst he makes Justice hang her head, And judges turn from pale to red. Bid all that Nature, on a plan Most intimate, makes dear to man, All that with grand and general ties Binds good and bad, the fool and wise, Knock at his heart; they knock in vain; No entrance there such suitors gain; Bid kneeling kings forsake the throne, Bid at his feet his country groan; Bid Liberty stretch out her hands, Religion plead her stronger bands; Bid parents, children, wife, and friends, 160 If they come 'thwart his private ends-Unmoved he hears the general call, And bravely tramples on them all. Who will, for him, may cant and whine, And let weak Conscience with her line Chalk out their ways; such starving rules Are only fit for coward fools; Fellows who credit what priests tell, And tremble at the thoughts of Hell; His spirit dares contend with Grace, And meets Damnation face to face. Such was our lawyer; by his side, In all bad qualities allied, In all bad counsels, sat a third, By birth a lord. Oh, sacred word! Oh, word most sacred! whence men get A privilege to run in debt; Whence they at large exemption claim From Satire, and her servant Shame; Whence they, deprived of all her force, Forbid bold Truth to hold her course. Consult his person, dress, and air, He seems, which strangers well might swear, The master, or, by courtesy, The captain of a colliery. Look at his visage, and agree Half-hang'd he seems, just from the tree Escaped; a rope may sometimes break, Or men be cut down by mistake. He hath not virtue (in the school Of Vice bred up) to live by rule, Nor hath he sense (which none can doubt Who know the man) to live without. His life is a continued scene Of all that's infamous and mean; He knows not change, unless, grown nice And delicate, from vice to vice; Nature design'd him, in a rage, To be the Wharton of his age; But, having given all the sin, Forgot to put the virtues in. To run a horse, to make a match, 161 To revel deep, to roar a catch, To knock a tottering watchman down, To sweat a woman of the town; By fits to keep the peace, or break it, In turn to give a pox, or take it; He is, in faith, most excellent, And, in the word's most full intent, A true choice spirit, we admit; With wits a fool, with fools a wit: Hear him but talk, and you would swear Obscenity herself was there, And that Profaneness had made choice, By way of trump, to use his voice; That, in all mean and low things great, He had been bred at Billingsgate; And that, ascending to the earth Before the season of his birth, Blasphemy, making way and room, Had mark'd him in his mother's womb. Too honest (for the worst of men In forms are honest, now and then) Not to have, in the usual way, His bills sent in; too great to pay: Too proud to speak to, if he meets The honest tradesman whom he cheats: Too infamous to have a friend; Too bad for bad men to commend, Or good to name; beneath whose weight Earth groans; who hath been spared by Fate Only to show, on Mercy's plan, How far and long God bears with man. Such were the three, who, mocking sleep, At midnight sat, in counsel deep, Plotting destruction 'gainst a head Whose wisdom could not be misled; Plotting destruction 'gainst a heart Which ne'er from honour would depart. 'Is he not rank'd amongst our foes? Hath not his spirit dared oppose Our dearest measures, made our name Stand forward on the roll of Shame Hath he not won the vulgar tribes, 162 By scorning menaces and bribes, And proving that his darling cause Is, of their liberties and laws To stand the champion? In a word, Nor need one argument be heard Beyond this to awake our zeal, To quicken our resolves, and steel Our steady souls to bloody bent, (Sure ruin to each dear intent, Each flattering hope) he, without fear, Hath dared to make the truth appear.' They said, and, by resentment taught, Each on revenge employ'd his thought; Each, bent on mischief, rack'd his brain To her full stretch, but rack'd in vain; Scheme after scheme they brought to view; All were examined; none would do: When Fraud, with pleasure in her face, Forth issued from her hiding-place, And at the table where they meet, First having bless'd them, took her seat. 'No trifling cause, my darling boys, Your present thoughts and cares employs; No common snare, no random blow, Can work the bane of such a foe: By nature cautious as he's brave, To Honour only he's a slave; In that weak part without defence, We must to honour make pretence; That lure shall to his ruin draw The wretch, who stands secure in law. Nor think that I have idly plann'd This full-ripe scheme; behold at hand, With three months' training on his head, An instrument, whom I have bred, Born of these bowels, far from sight Of Virtue's false but glaring light, My youngest-born, my dearest joy, Most like myself, my darling boy! He, never touch'd with vile remorse, Resolved and crafty in his course, Shall work our ends, complete our schemes, 163 Most mine, when most he Honour's seems; Nor can be found, at home, abroad, So firm and full a slave of Fraud.' She said, and from each envious son A discontented murmur run Around the table; all in place Thought his full praise their own disgrace, Wondering what stranger she had got, Who had one vice that they had not; When straight the portals open flew, And, clad in armour, to their view Martin, the Duellist, came forth. All knew, and all confess'd his worth; All justified, with smiles array'd, The happy choice their dam had made. ~ Charles Churchill,

699:SCENE I. A part of the Forest. Enter CONRAD and AURANTHE. Auranthe. Go no further; not a step more; thou art A master-plague in the midst of miseries. Go I fear thee. I tremble every limb, Who never shook before. There's moody death In thy resolved looks Yes, I could kneel To pray thee far away. Conrad, go, go There! yonder underneath the boughs I see Our horses! Conrad. Aye, and the man. Auranthe. Yes, he is there. Go, go, no blood, no blood; go, gentle Conrad! Conrad. Farewell! Auranthe. Farewell, for this Heaven pardon you. [Exit AURANTHE, Conrad. If he survive one hour, then may I die In unimagined tortures or breathe through A long life in the foulest sink of the world! He dies 'tis well she do not advertise The caitiff of the cold steel at his back. [Exit CONRAD. Enter LUDOLPH and PAGE. Ludolph. Miss'd the way, boy, say not that on your peril! Page. Indeed, indeed I cannot trace them further. Ludolph. Must I stop here? Here solitary die? Stifled beneath the thick oppressive shade Of these dull boughs, this oven of dark thickets, Silent, without revenge? pshaw! bitter end, A bitter death, a suffocating death, A gnawing silent deadly, quiet death! Escaped? fled? vanish'd? melted into air? She's gone! I cannot clutch her! no revenge! A muffled death, ensnar'd in horrid silence! Suck'd to my grave amid a dreamy calm! O, where is that illustrious noise of war, To smother up this sound of labouring breath, This rustle of the trees! [AURANTHE shrieks at a distance. Page. My Lord, a noise! This way hark! Ludolph. Yes, yes! A hope! A music! A glorious clamour! How I live again! [Exeunt. SCENE II. Another part of the Forest, Enter ALBERT (wounded). Albert. O for enough life to support me on To Otho's feet Enter LUDOLPH. Ludolph. Thrice villainous, stay there Tell me where that detested woman is Or this is through thee! Albert. My good Prince, with me The sword has done its worst; not without worst Done to another Conrad has it home I see you know it all Ludolph. Where is his sister? AURANTHE rushes in. Auranthe. Albert! Ludolph. Ha! There! there! He is the paramour I There hug him dying! O, thou innocence, Shrine him and comfort him at his last gasp, Kiss down his eyelids! Was he not thy love? Wilt thou forsake him at his latest hour? Keep fearful and aloof from his last gaze, His most uneasy moments, when cold death Stands with the door ajar to let him in? Albert. O that that door with hollow slam would close Upon me sudden, for I cannot meet, In all the unknown chambers of the dead, Such horrors Ludolph. Auranthe! what can he mean? What horrors? Is it not a joyous time? Am I not married to a paragon "Of personal beauty and untainted soul"? A blushing fair-eyed Purity! A Sylph, Whose snowy timid hand has never sin'd Beyond a flower pluck'd, white as itself? Albert, you do insult my Bride your Mistress To talk of horrors on our wedding night. Albert. Alas! poor Prince, I would you knew my heart. 'Tis not so guilty Ludolph. Hear you he pleads not guilty You are not? or if so what matters it? You have escap'd me, free as the dusk air Hid in the forest safe from my revenge; I cannot catch you--You should laugh at me, Poor cheated Ludolph, make the forest hiss With jeers at me You tremble; faint at once, You will come to again. O Cockatrice, I have you. Whither wander those fair eyes To entice the Devil to your help, that he May change you to a Spider, so to crawl Into some cranny to escape my wrath? Albert. Sometimes the counsel of a dying man Doth operate quietly when his breath is gone Disjoin those hands part--part, do not destroy Each other forget her our miseries Are equal shar'd, and mercy is Ludolph. A boon When one can compass it. Auranthe, try Your oratory your breath is not so hitch'd Aye, stare for help [ALBERT groans and dies. There goes a spotted soul Howling in vain along the hollow night Hear him he calls you Sweet Auranthe, come! Auranthe. Kill me. Ludolph. No! What? upon our Marriage-night! The earth would shudder at so foul a deed A fair Bride, a sweet Bride, an innocent Bride! No, we must revel it, as 'tis in use In times of delicate brilliant ceremony: Come, let me lead you to our halls again Nay, linger not make no resistance sweet Will you Ah wretch, thou canst not, for I have The strength of twenty lions 'gainst a lamb Now one adieu for Albert come away. [Exeunt. SCENE III. An inner Court of the Castle. Enter SIGIFRED, GONFRED, and THEODORE meeting. Theodore. Was ever such a night? Sigifred. What horrors more? Things unbeliev'd one hour, so strange they are, The next hour stamps with credit. Theodore. Your last news ? Gonfred. After the Page's story of the death Of Albert and Duke Conrad? Sigifred. And the return Of Ludolph with the Princess. Gonfred. No more save Prince Gersa's freeing Abbot Ethelbert, And the sweet lady, fair Erminia, From prison. Theodore. Where are they now? hast yet heard? Gonfred. With the sad Emperor they are closeted ; I saw the three pass slowly up the stairs, The lady weeping, the old Abbot cowl'd. Sigifred. What next? Thedore. I ache to think on't. Gonfred. Tis with fate. Theodore. One while these proud towers are hush'd as death. Gonfred. The next our poor Prince fills the arched rooms With ghastly ravings. Sigifred. I do fear his brain. Gonfred. I will see more. Bear you so stout a heart? [Exeunt into the Castle. SCENE IV. A Cabinet, opening towards a Terrace. OTHO, ERMINIA, ETHELBERT, and a Physician, discovered. Otho. O, my poor Boy! my Son! my Son! My Ludolph! Have ye no comfort for me, ye Physicians Of the weak Body and Soul? Ethelbert. Tis not the Medicine Either of heaven or earth can cure unless Fit time be chosen to administer Otho. A kind forbearance, holy Abbot come Erminia, here sit by me, gentle Girl; Give me thy hand hast thou forgiven me? Erminia. Would I were with the saints to pray for you! Otho. Why will ye keep me from my darling child? Physician. Forgive me, but he must not see thy face Otho. Is then a father's countenance a Gorgon? Hath it not comfort in it? Would it not Console my poor Boy, cheer him, heal his spirits? Let me embrace him, let me speak to him I will who hinders me? Who's Emperor? Physician. You may not, Sire 'twould overwhelm him quite, He is so full of grief and passionate wrath, Too heavy a sigh would kill him or do worse. He must be sav'd by fine contrivances And most especially we must keep clear Out of his sight a Father whom he loves His heart is full, it can contain no more, And do its ruddy office. Ethelbert. Sage advice; We must endeavour how to ease and slacken The tight-wound energies of his despair, Not make them tenser Otho. Enough! I hear, I hear. Yet you were about to advise more I listen. Ethelbert. This learned doctor will agree with me, That not in the smallest point should he be thwarted Or gainsaid by one word his very motions, Nods, becks and hints, should be obey'd with care, Even on the moment: so his troubled mind May cure itself Physician. There is no other means. Otho. Open the door: let's hear if all is quiet Physician. Beseech you, Sire, forbear. Erminia. Do, do. Otho. I command! Open it straight hush! quiet my lost Boy! My miserable Child! Ludolph (indistinctly without). Fill, fill my goblet, Here's a health! Erminia. O, close the door! Otho. Let, let me hear his voice; this cannot last And fain would I catch up his dying words Though my own knell they be this cannot last O let me catch his voice for lo! I hear This silence whisper me that he is dead! It is so. Gersa? Enter GERSA. Physician. Say, how fares the prince? Gersa. More calm his features are less wild and flushed Once he complain'd of weariness Physician. Indeed! 'Tis good 'tis good let him but fall asleep, That saves him. Otho. Gersa, watch him like a child Ward him from harm and bring me better news Physician. Humour him to the height. I fear to go; For should he catch a glimpse of my dull garb, It might affright him fill him with suspicion That we believe him sick, which must not be Gersa. I will invent what soothing means I can. [Exit GERSA. Physician. This should cheer up your Highness weariness Is a good symptom, and most favourable It gives me pleasant hopes. Please you walk forth Onto the Terrace; the refreshing air Will blow one half of your sad doubts away. [Exeunt. SCENE V. A Banqueting Hall, brilliantly illuminated, and set forth with all costly magnificence, with Supper-tables, laden with services of Gold and Silver. A door in the back scene, guarded by two Soldiers. Lords, Ladies, Knights, Gentlemen, &c., whispering sadly, and ranging themselves; part entering and part discovered. First Knight. Grievously are we tantaliz'd, one and all Sway'd here and there, commanded to and fro As though we were the shadows of a dream And link'd to a sleeping fancy. What do we here? Gonfred. I am no Seer you know we must obey The prince from A to Z though it should be To set the place in flames. I pray hast heard Where the most wicked Princess is? First Knight. There, Sir, In the next room have you remark'd those two Stout soldiers posted at the door? Gonfred. For what? [They whisper. First Lady. How ghast a train! Second Lady. Sure this should be some splendid burial. First Lady. What fearful whispering! See, see, Gersa there. Enter GERSA. Gersa. Put on your brightest looks; smile if you can; Behave as all were happy; keep your eyes From the least watch upon him ; if he speaks To any one, answer collectedly, Without surprise, his questions, howe'er strange. Do this to the utmost, though, alas! with me The remedy grows hopeless! Here he comes, Observe what I have said, show no surprise. Enter LUDOLPH, followed by SIGIFRED and Page. Ludolph. A splendid company! rare beauties here! I should have Orphean lips, and Plato's fancy, Amphion's utterance, toned with his lyre, Or the deep key of Jove's sonorous mouth, To give fit salutation. Methought I heard, As I came in, some whispers, what of that? 'Tis natural men should whisper; at the kiss Of Psyche given by Love, there was a buzz Among the gods! and silence is as natural. These draperies are fine, and, being a mortal, I should desire no better; yet, in truth, There must be some superiour costliness, Some wider-domed high magnificence! I would have, as a mortal I may not, Hanging of heaven's clouds, purple and gold, Slung from the spheres; gauzes of silver mist, Loop'd up with cords of twisted wreathed light, And tassell'd round with weeping meteors! These pendent lamps and chandeliers are bright As earthly fires from dull dross can be cleansed; Yet could my eyes drink up intenser beams Undazzled, this is darkness, when I close These lids, I see far fiercer brilliances, Skies full of splendid moons, and shooting stars, And spouting exhalations, diamond fires, And panting fountains quivering with deep glows! Yes this is dark is it not dark? Sigifred. My Lord, 'Tis late; the lights of festival are ever Quench'd in the morn. Ludolph. 'Tis not to-morrow then? Sigifred. Tis early dawn. Gersa. Indeed full time we slept; Say you so, Prince? Ludolph. I say I quarreled with you ; We did not tilt each other, that's a blessing, Good gods! no innocent blood upon my head! Sigifred. Retire, Gersa! Ludolph. There should be three more here: For two of them, they stay away perhaps, Being gloomy-minded, haters of fair revels, They know their own thoughts best. As for the third, Deep blue eyes semi-shaded in white lids, Finished with lashes fine for more soft shade, Completed by her twin-arch'd ebon brows White temples of exactest elegance, Of even mould felicitous and smooth Cheeks fashioned tenderly on either side, So perfect, so divine that our poor eyes Are dazzled with the sweet proportioning, And wonder that 'tis so, the magic chance! Her nostrils, small, fragrant, faery-delicate; Her lips -I swear no human bones e'er wore So taking a disguise you shall behold her! We'll have her presently; aye, you shall see her, And wonder at her, friends, she is so fair She is the world's chief Jewel, and by heaven She's mine by right of marriage she is mine! Patience, good people, in fit time I send A Summoner she will obey my call, Being a wife most mild and dutiful. First I would hear what music is prepared To herald and receive her let me hear! Sigifred. Bid the musicians soothe him tenderly. [A soft strain of Music. Ludolph. Ye have none better no I am content; 'Tis a rich sobbing melody, with reliefs Full and majestic; it is well enough, And will be sweeter, when ye see her pace Sweeping into this presence, glisten'd o'er With emptied caskets, and her train upheld By ladies, habited in robes of lawn, Sprinkled with golden crescents; (others bright In silks, with spangles shower'd,) and bow'd to By Duchesses and pearled Margravines Sad, that the fairest creature of the earth I pray you mind me not 'tis sad, I say, That the extremest beauty of the world Should so entrench herself away from me, Behind a barrier of engender 'd guilt! Second Lady. Ah! what a moan! First Knight. Most piteous indeed! Ludolph. She shall be brought before this company, And then then First Lady. He muses. Gersa. O, Fortune, where will this end? Sigifred. I guess his purpose! Indeed he must not have That pestilence brought in, that cannot be, There we must stop him. Gersa. I am lost! Hush, hushl He is about to rave again. Ludolph. A barrier of guilt! I was the fool. She was the cheater! Who's the cheater now, And who the fool? The entrapp'd, the caged fool, The bird-limy raven? She shall croak to death Secure! Methinks I have her in my fist, To crush her with my heel! Wait, wait! I marvel My father keeps away: good friend, ah! Sigifred! Do bring him to me and Erminia I fain would see before I sleep and Ethelbert, That he may bless me, as I know he will Though I have curs'd him. Sigifred. Rather suffer me To lead you to them Ludolph. No, excuse me, no The day is not quite done go bring them hither. [Exit SIGIFRED. Certes, a father's smile should, like sunlight,, Slant on my sheafed harvest of ripe bliss Besides, I thirst to pledge my lovely Bride In a deep goblet: let me see what wine? The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek? Or pale Calabrian? Or the Tuscan grape? Or of old tna's pulpy wine presses, Black stain'd with the fat vintage, as it were The purple slaughter-house, where Bacchus' self Prick'd his own swollen veins? Where is my Page? Page. Here, here! Ludolph. Be ready to obey me; anon thou shalt Bear a soft message for me for the hour Draws near when I must make a winding up Of bridal Mysteries a fine-spun vengeance! Carve it on my Tomb, that when I rest beneath Men shall confess This Prince was gulled and cheated, But from the ashes of disgrace he rose More than a fiery Phoenix and did burn His ignominy up in purging fires Did I not send, Sir, but a moment past, For my Father? Gersa. You did. Ludolph. Perhaps 'twould be Much better he came not. Gersa. He enters now! Enter OTHO, ERMINIA, ETHELBERT, SIGIFRED, and Physician. Ludolph. O thou good Man, against whose sacred head I was a mad conspirator, chiefly too For the sake of my fair newly wedded wife, Now to be punish'd, do not look so sad! Those charitable eyes will thaw my heart, Those tears will wash away a just resolve, A verdict ten times sworn! Awake awake Put on a judge's brow, and use a tongue Made iron-stern by habit! Thou shalt see A deed to be applauded, 'scribed in gold! Join a loud voice to mine, and so denounce What I alone will execute! Otho. Dear son, What is it? By your father's love, I sue That it be nothing merciless! Ludolph. To that demon? Not so! No! She is in temple-stall Being garnish'd for the sacrifice, and I, The Priest of Justice, will immolate her Upon the altar of wrath! She stings me through!- Even as the worm doth feed upon the nut, So she, a scorpion, preys upon my brain! I feel her gnawing here! Let her but vanish, Then, father, I will lead your legions forth, Compact in steeled squares, and speared files, And bid our trumpets speak a fell rebuke To nations drows'd in peace! Otho. To-morrow, Son, Be your word law forget to-day Ludolph. I will When I have finish 'd it now! now! I'm pight, Tight-footed for the deed! Erminia. Alas! Alas! Ludolph. What Angels voice is that? Erminia! Ah! gentlest creature, whose sweet innocence Was almost murder'd; I am penitent, Wilt thou forgive me? And thou, holy Man, Good Ethelbert, shall I die in peace with you? Erminia. Die, my lord! Ludolph. I feel it possible. Otho. Physician? Physician. I fear me he is past my skill. Otho. Not so! Ludolph. I see it, I see it I have been wandering Half-mad not right here I forget my purpose. Bestir, bestir, Auranthe! ha! ha! ha! Youngster! Page! go bid them drag her to me! Obey! This shall finish it! [Draws a dagger. Otho. O my Son! my Son! Sigifred. This must not be stop there! Ludolph. Am I obey'd? A little talk with her no harm haste ! haste ! [Exit Page. Set her before me never fear I can strike. Several Voices. My Lord! My Lord! Gersa. Good Prince! Ludolph. Why do ye trouble me? out-out-out away! There she is! take that! and that! no, no- That's not well done Where is she? The doors open. Enter Page. Several women are seen grouped about AURANTHE in the inner room. Page. Alas! My Lord, my Lord! they cannot move her! Her arms are stiff, her fingers clench'd and cold Ludolph. She's dead! [Staggers and jails into their arms. Ethelbert. Take away the dagger. Gersa. Softly; so! Otho. Thank God for that! Sigifred. I fear it could not harm him. Gersa. No! brief be his anguish! Ludolph. She's gone I am content Nobles, good night! We are all weary faint set ope the doors I will to bed! To-morrow [Dies. THE CURTAIN FALLS. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Otho The Great - Act V ,

700:The Author Accursed the man, whom Fate ordains, in spite, And cruel parents teach, to read and write! What need of letters? wherefore should we spell? Why write our names? A mark will do as well. Much are the precious hours of youth misspent, In climbing Learning's rugged, steep ascent; When to the top the bold adventurer's got, He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren spot; Whilst in the vale of Ignorance below, Folly and Vice to rank luxuriance grow; Honours and wealth pour in on every side, And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide. O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste, To cramp wild genius in the chains of taste, To bear the slavish drudgery of schools, And tamely stoop to every pedant's rules; For seven long years debarr'd of liberal ease, To plod in college trammels to degrees; Beneath the weight of solemn toys to groan, Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown; To praise each senior blockhead's threadbare tale, And laugh till reason blush, and spirits fail; Manhood with vile submission to disgrace, And cap the fool, whose merit is his place, Vice-Chancellors, whose knowledge is but small, And Chancellors, who nothing know at all: Ill-brook'd the generous spirit in those days When learning was the certain road to praise, When nobles, with a love of science bless'd, Approved in others what themselves possess'd. But now, when Dulness rears aloft her throne, When lordly vassals her wide empire own; When Wit, seduced by Envy, starts aside, And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride; What, now, should tempt us, by false hopes misled, Learning's unfashionable paths to tread; To bear those labours which our fathers bore, That crown withheld, which they in triumph wore? When with much pains this boasted learning's got, 98 'Tis an affront to those who have it not: In some it causes hate, in others fear, Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to sneer. With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool Forgets the little which he learn'd at school: The elder brother, to vast fortunes born, Looks on all science with an eye of scorn; Dependent brethren the same features wear, And younger sons are stupid as the heir. In senates, at the bar, in church and state, Genius is vile, and learning out of date. Is this--oh, death to think!--is this the land Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand? Where heroes, parent-like, the poet view'd, By whom they saw their glorious deeds renew'd? Where poets, true to honour, tuned their lays, And by their patrons sanctified their praise? Is this the land, where, on our Spenser's tongue, Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung? Where Jonson rigid Gravity beguiled, Whilst Reason through her critic fences smiled? Where Nature listening stood whilst Shakspeare play'd, And wonder'd at the work herself had made? Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large? Where, finding in our laws a sure defence, She mock'd at all restraints, but those of sense? Where, Health and Honour trooping by her side, She spread her sacred empire far and wide; Pointed the way, Affliction to beguile, And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile; Bade those, who dare obey the generous call, Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for all? Is this the land, where, in some tyrant's reign, When a weak, wicked, ministerial train, The tools of power, the slaves of interest, plann'd Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd Those wretches, who, ordain'd in Freedom's cause, Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws; When Power was taught by Meanness where to go, Nor dared to love the virtue of a foe; When, like a leprous plague, from the foul head 99 To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread; Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd; And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain, Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain? Is this the land, where, in those worst of times, The hardy poet raised his honest rhymes To dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speak In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek; Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe, And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not law? How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls, Whom Folly guides, and Prejudice controls; Who, one dull drowsy track of business trod, Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God; Who, breathing by one musty set of rules, Dote from their birth, and are by system fools; Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth, Lies of the day prefer to gospel truth; Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews, And lay out all their stock of faith in news; How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like these, Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please, Rail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime, And hold not truth, as truth, if told in rhyme! How do I laugh, when Publius, hoary grown In zeal for Scotland's welfare, and his own, By slow degrees, and course of office, drawn In mood and figure at the helm to yawn, Too mean (the worst of curses Heaven can send) To have a foe, too proud to have a friend; Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold, Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old, Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse Subjects more equal to her weakness choose; Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains, Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains; Bids her, indulging the poetic whim In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, Along the church-way path complain with Gray, Or dance with Mason on the first of May! 'All sacred is the name and power of kings; 100 All states and statesmen are those mighty things Which, howsoe'er they out of course may roll, Were never made for poets to control.' Peace, peace, thou dotard! nor thus vilely deem Of sacred numbers, and their power blaspheme. I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round, In earth, in heaven, no subject can be found: (Our God alone except) above whose height The poet cannot rise, and hold his state. The blessed saints above in numbers speak The praise of God, though there all praise is weak; In numbers here below the bard shall teach Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach; Shall tear his labouring lungs, strain his hoarse throat, And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note, Should an afflicted country, awed by men Of slavish principles, demand his pen. This is a great, a glorious point of view, Fit for an English poet to pursue; Undaunted to pursue, though, in return, His writings by the common hangman burn How do I laugh, when men, by fortune placed Above their betters, and by rank disgraced, Who found their pride on titles which they stain, And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain; Who would a bill of privilege prefer, And treat a poet like a creditor; The generous ardour of the Muse condemn, And curse the storm they know must break on them! 'What! shall a reptile bard, a wretch unknown, Without one badge of merit but his own, Great nobles lash, and lords, like common men, Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?' What's in this name of lord, that I should fear To bring their vices to the public ear? Flows not the honest blood of humble swains Quick as the tide which swells a monarch's veins? Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow, Cannot make virtues in succession flow. Wouldst thou, proud man! be safely placed above The censure of the Muse? Deserve her love: Act as thy birth demands, as nobles ought; 101 Look back, and, by thy worthy father taught, Who earn'd those honours thou wert born to wear, Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir. But if, regardless of the road to fame, You start aside, and tread the paths of shame; If such thy life, that should thy sire arise, The sight of such a son would blast his eyes, Would make him curse the hour which gave thee birth, Would drive him shuddering from the face of earth, Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead In endless night to hide his reverend head; If such thy life, though kings had made thee more Than ever king a scoundrel made before; Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring, Though God in vengeance had made thee a king, Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight, The Muse should drag thee, trembling, to the light, Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare To the keen question of the searching air. Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave, Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave, Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art Striving to hide the feelings of his heart! How do I laugh, when, with affected air, (Scarce able through despite to keep his chair, Whilst on his trembling lip pale Anger speaks, And the chafed blood flies mounting to his cheeks) He talks of Conscience, which good men secures From all those evil moments Guilt endures, And seems to laugh at those who pay regard To the wild ravings of a frantic bard. 'Satire, whilst envy and ill-humour sway The mind of man, must always make her way; Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught, Is all her malice worth a single thought. The wise have not the will, nor fools the power, To stop her headstrong course; within the hour, Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life. All things her prey, and every man her aim, I can no patent for exemption claim, Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart 102 Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart; Though pointed at myself, be Satire free; To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me.' Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school, And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There, unrebuked, these wild, vain doctrines preach. Lives there a man whom Satire cannot reach? Lives there a man who calmly can stand by, And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye? When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to Truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives. When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot, And e'en by friends thy memory be forgot, Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes, Live in her page, and stink to after-times. Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off pride, And own those passions which thou shalt not hide. Sandwich, who, from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on earth, Who never dared, nor wish'd, behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit, Those actions which he blush'd not to commit. Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame. But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course; Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd With courage, graced the science they profess'd; When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood, The bad to punish, and reward the good; When, to a flame by public virtue wrought, The foes of freedom they to justice brought, And dared expose those slaves who dared support A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Court? Ah! what are poets now? As slavish those Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose. Is there an Author, search the kingdom round, In whom true worth and real spirit's found? The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by Fate 103 To baser chains) vile pensioners of state; Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles proud Which Honour scorns, for slavery roar aloud; Others, half-palsied only, mutes become, And what makes Smollett write, makes Johnson dumb. Why turns yon villain pale? Why bends his eye Inward, abash'd, when Murphy passes by? Dost thou sage Murphy for a blockhead take, Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's sake? No, no, like other worldlings, you will find He shifts his sails and catches every wind. His soul the shock of Interest can't endure: Give him a pension then, and sin secure. With laurell'd wreaths the flatterer's brows adorn: Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn; Bid cowards thrive, put Honesty to flight, Murphy shall prove, or try to prove it right. Try, thou state-juggler, every paltry art; Ransack the inmost closet of my heart; Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make way Into my breast, and flatter to betray. Or, if those tricks are vain; if wholesome doubt Detects the fraud, and points the villain out; Bribe those who daily at my board are fed, And make them take my life who eat my bread. On Authors for defence, for praise depend; Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend: He, he shall ready stand with venal rhymes, To varnish guilt, and consecrate thy crimes; To make Corruption in false colours shine, And damn his own good name, to rescue thine. But, if thy niggard hands their gifts withhold, And Vice no longer rains down showers of gold, Expect no mercy; facts, well-grounded, teach, Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach. What though each man of nice and juster thought, Shunning his steps, decrees, by Honour taught, He ne'er can be a friend, who stoops so low To be the base betrayer of a foe? What though, with thine together link'd, his name Must be with thine transmitted down to shame? To every manly feeling callous grown, 104 Rather than not blast thine, he 'll blast his own. To ope the fountain whence sedition springs, To slander government, and libel kings; With Freedom's name to serve a present hour, Though born and bred to arbitrary power; To talk of William with insidious art, Whilst a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart; And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathsome head, Flattering the living, to abuse the dead, Where is Shebbeare? Oh, let not foul reproach, Travelling thither in a city-coach, The pillory dare to name: the whole intent Of that parade was fame, not punishment; And that old staunch Whig, Beardmore, standing by, Can in full court give that report the lie. With rude unnatural jargon to support, Half-Scotch, half-English, a declining court; To make most glaring contraries unite, And prove beyond dispute that black is white; To make firm Honour tamely league with Shame, Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name; To prove that chains and freedom are but one, That to be saved must mean to be undone, Is there not Guthrie? Who, like him, can call All opposites to proof, and conquer all? He calls forth living waters from the rock; He calls forth children from the barren stock; He, far beyond the springs of Nature led, Makes women bring forth after they are dead; He, on a curious, new, and happy plan, In wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man; And to complete the whole, most strange, but true, By some rare magic, makes them fruitful too; Whilst from their loins, in the due course of years, Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's 'English Peers.' Dost thou contrive some blacker deed of shame, Something which Nature shudders but to name, Something which makes the soul of man retreat, And the life-blood run backward to her seat? Dost thou contrive, for some base private end, Some selfish view, to hang a trusting friend; To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath, 105 And promise life, to work him surer death? Grown old in villany, and dead to grace, Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face, Behold, a parson at thy elbow stands, Lowering damnation, and with open hands, Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward, The Atheist chaplain of an Atheist lord! Bred to the church, and for the gown decreed, Ere it was known that I should learn to read; Though that was nothing, for my friends, who knew What mighty Dulness of itself could do, Never design'd me for a working priest, But hoped I should have been a Dean at least: Condemn'd, (like many more, and worthier men, To whom I pledge the service of my pen) Condemn'd (whilst proud and pamper'd sons of lawn, Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn) In pomp of reverend beggary to appear, To pray, and starve on forty pounds a-year: My friends, who never felt the galling load, Lament that I forsook the packhorse road, Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears, In throwing off that gown which Francis wears. What creature's that, so very pert and prim, So very full of foppery, and whim, So gentle, yet so brisk; so wondrous sweet, So fit to prattle at a lady's feet; Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod, And by his garb appears a man of God? Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show; The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd beau; That's an informer; what avails the name? Suffice it that the wretch from Sodom came. His tongue is deadly--from his presence run, Unless thy rage would wish to be undone. No ties can hold him, no affection bind, And fear alone restrains his coward mind; Free him from that, no monster is so fell, Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in Hell. His silken smiles, his hypocritic air, His meek demeanour, plausible and fair, Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way, 106 And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey. Attend his church--his plan of doctrine view-The preacher is a Christian, dull, but true; But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er, That plan of doctrine's never thought of more; Christ is laid by neglected on the shelf, And the vile priest is gospel to himself. By Cleland tutor'd, and with Blacow bred, (Blacow, whom, by a brave resentment led, Oxford, if Oxford had not sunk in fame, Ere this, had damn'd to everlasting shame) Their steps he follows, and their crimes partakes; To virtue lost, to vice alone he wakes, Most lusciously declaims 'gainst luscious themes, And whilst he rails at blasphemy, blasphemes. Are these the arts which policy supplies? Are these the steps by which grave churchmen rise? Forbid it, Heaven; or, should it turn out so, Let me and mine continue mean and low. Such be their arts whom interest controls; Kidgell and I have free and modest souls: We scorn preferment which is gain'd by sin, And will, though poor without, have peace within. ~ Charles Churchill,

701:The Apology ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS. Tristitiam et Metus.--HORACE. Laughs not the heart when giants, big with pride, Assume the pompous port, the martial stride; O'er arm Herculean heave the enormous shield, Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield; With the loud voice of thundering Jove defy, And dare to single combat--what?--A fly! And laugh we less when giant names, which shine Establish'd, as it were, by right divine; Critics, whom every captive art adores, To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores; Who high in letter'd reputation sit, And hold, Astraea-like, the scales of wit, With partial rage rush forth--oh! shame to tell!-To crush a bard just bursting from the shell? Great are his perils in this stormy time Who rashly ventures on a sea of rhyme: Around vast surges roll, winds envious blow, And jealous rocks and quicksands lurk below: Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends. Look through the world--in every other trade The same employment's cause of kindness made, At least appearance of good will creates, And every fool puffs off the fool he hates: Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night, And in the common cause e'en players unite; Authors alone, with more than savage rage, Unnatural war with brother authors wage. The pride of Nature would as soon admit Competitors in empire as in wit; Onward they rush, at Fame's imperious call, And, less than greatest, would not be at all. Smit with the love of honour,--or the pence,-O'errun with wit, and destitute of sense, Should any novice in the rhyming trade 87 With lawless pen the realms of verse invade, Forth from the court, where sceptred sages sit, Abused with praise, and flatter'd into wit, Where in lethargic majesty they reign, And what they won by dulness, still maintain, Legions of factious authors throng at once, Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce. To 'Hamilton's the ready lies repair-Ne'er was lie made which was not welcome there-Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought, The polish'd falsehood's into public brought. Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; And reputation bleeds in every word. A critic was of old a glorious name, Whose sanction handed merit up to fame; Beauties as well as faults he brought to view; His judgment great, and great his candour too; No servile rules drew sickly taste aside; Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide. But now--oh! strange reverse!--our critics bawl In praise of candour with a heart of gall; Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light, They lurk enshrouded in the vale of night; Safe from detection, seize the unwary prey, And stab, like bravoes, all who come that way. When first my Muse, perhaps more bold than wise, Bade the rude trifle into light arise, Little she thought such tempests would ensue; Less, that those tempests would be raised by you. The thunder's fury rends the towering oak, Rosciads, like shrubs, might 'scape the fatal stroke. Vain thought! a critic's fury knows no bound; Drawcansir-like, he deals destruction round; Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare, Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire. Unhappy Genius! placed by partial Fate With a free spirit in a slavish state; Where the reluctant Muse, oppress'd by kings, Or droops in silence, or in fetters sings! In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn. Why didst thou safe from home-bred dangers steer, 88 Reserved to perish more ignobly here? Thus, when, the Julian tyrant's pride to swell, Rome with her Pompey at Pharsalia fell, The vanquish'd chief escaped from Caesar's hand, To die by ruffians in a foreign land. How could these self-elected monarchs raise So large an empire on so small a base? In what retreat, inglorious and unknown, Did Genius sleep when Dulness seized the throne? Whence, absolute now grown, and free from awe, She to the subject world dispenses law. Without her licence not a letter stirs, And all the captive criss-cross-row is hers. The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew, Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too. Our great Dictators take a shorter way-Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say? Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason, In such a state as theirs, is downright treason. True judgment now with them alone can dwell; Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible. Dull superstitious readers they deceive, Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve, And knowing nothing, everything believe! But why repine we that these puny elves Shoot into giants?--we may thank ourselves: Fools that we are, like Israel's fools of yore, The calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore. But let true Reason once resume her reign, This god shall dwindle to a calf again. Founded on arts which shun the face of day, By the same arts they still maintain their sway. Wrapp'd in mysterious secrecy they rise, And, as they are unknown, are safe and wise. At whomsoever aim'd, howe'er severe, The envenom'd slander flies, no names appear: Prudence forbids that step;--then all might know, And on more equal terms engage the foe. But now, what Quixote of the age would care To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air? By interest join'd, the expert confederates stand, And play the game into each other's hand: 89 The vile abuse, in turn by all denied, Is bandied up and down, from side to side: It flies--hey!--presto!--like a juggler's ball, Till it belongs to nobody at all. All men and things they know, themselves unknown, And publish every name--except their own. Nor think this strange,--secure from vulgar eyes, The nameless author passes in disguise; But veteran critics are not so deceived, If veteran critics are to be believed. Once seen, they know an author evermore, Nay, swear to hands they never saw before. Thus in 'The Rosciad,' beyond chance or doubt, They by the writing found the writers out: That's Lloyd's--his manner there you plainly trace, And all the Actor stares you in the face. By Colman that was written--on my life, The strongest symptoms of the 'Jealous Wife.' That little disingenuous piece of spite, Churchill--a wretch unknown!--perhaps might write. How doth it make judicious readers smile, When authors are detected by their style; Though every one who knows this author, knows He shifts his style much oftener than his clothes! Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen, The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean? What had I done, that angry Heaven should send The bitterest foe where most I wish'd a friend? Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name, And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame. For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground, So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound; From Livy's temples tear the historic crown, Which with more justice blooms upon thine own. Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb, But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb. Who ever read 'The Regicide,' but swore The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before? Others for plots and under-plots may call, Here's the right method--have no plot at all. Who can so often in his cause engage The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage, 90 Whilst horrors rise, and tears spontaneous flow At tragic Ha! and no less tragic Oh! To praise his nervous weakness all agree; And then for sweetness, who so sweet as he! Too big for utterance when sorrows swell, The too big sorrows flowing tears must tell; But when those flowing tears shall cease to flow, Why--then the voice must speak again, you know. Rude and unskilful in the poet's trade, I kept no Naiads by me ready made; Ne'er did I colours high in air advance, Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France; No flimsy linsey-woolsey scenes I wrote, With patches here and there, like Joseph's coat. Me humbler themes befit: secure, for me, Let play-wrights smuggle nonsense duty free; Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins! bound, And frisk and frolic o'er the fairy ground. Secure, for me, thou pretty little fawn! Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flowery lawn; Uncensured let the gentle breezes rove Through the green umbrage of the enchanted grove: Secure, for me, let foppish Nature smile, And play the coxcomb in the 'Desert Isle.' The stage I chose--a subject fair and free-'Tis yours--'tis mine--'tis public property. All common exhibitions open lie, For praise or censure, to the common eye. Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed; Hence Monthly Critics earn their daily bread. This is a general tax which all must pay, From those who scribble, down to those who play. Actors, a venal crew, receive support From public bounty for the public sport. To clap or hiss all have an equal claim, The cobbler's and his lordship's right's the same. All join for their subsistence; all expect Free leave to praise their worth, their faults correct. When active Pickle Smithfield stage ascends, The three days' wonder of his laughing friends, Each, or as judgment or as fancy guides, The lively witling praises or derides. 91 And where's the mighty difference, tell me where, Betwixt a Merry Andrew and a player? The strolling tribe--a despicable race!-Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place. Vagrants by law, to justice open laid, They tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid, And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life To Madam Mayoress, or his Worship's wife. The mighty monarch, in theatric sack, Carries his whole regalia at his back; His royal consort heads the female band, And leads the heir apparent in her hand; The pannier'd ass creeps on with conscious pride, Bearing a future prince on either side. No choice musicians in this troop are found, To varnish nonsense with the charms of sound; No swords, no daggers, not one poison'd bowl; No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll; No guards to swell the monarch's train are shown; The monarch here must be a host alone: No solemn pomp, no slow processions here; No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier. By need compell'd to prostitute his art, The varied actor flies from part to part; And--strange disgrace to all theatric pride!-His character is shifted with his side. Question and answer he by turns must be, Like that small wit in modern tragedy, Who, to patch up his fame--or fill his purse-Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse; Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own. In shabby state they strut, and tatter'd robe, The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe: No high conceits their moderate wishes raise, Content with humble profit, humble praise. Let dowdies simper, and let bumpkins stare, The strolling pageant hero treads in air: Pleased, for his hour he to mankind gives law, And snores the next out on a truss of straw. But if kind Fortune, who sometimes, we know, Can take a hero from a puppet-show, 92 In mood propitious should her favourite call, On royal stage in royal pomp to bawl, Forgetful of himself, he rears the head, And scorns the dunghill where he first was bred; Conversing now with well dress'd kings and queens, With gods and goddesses behind the scenes, He sweats beneath the terror-nodding plume, Taught by mock honours real pride to assume. On this great stage, the world, no monarch e'er Was half so haughty as a monarch player. Doth it more move our anger or our mirth To see these things, the lowest sons of earth, Presume, with self-sufficient knowledge graced, To rule in letters, and preside in taste? The town's decisions they no more admit, Themselves alone the arbiters of wit; And scorn the jurisdiction of that court To which they owe their being and support. Actors, like monks of old, now sacred grown, Must be attack'd by no fools but their own. Let the vain tyrant sit amidst his guards, His puny green-room wits and venal bards, Who meanly tremble at the puppet's frown, And for a playhouse-freedom lose their own; In spite of new-made laws, and new-made kings, The free-born Muse with liberal spirit sings. Bow down, ye slaves! before these idols fall; Let Genius stoop to them who've none at all: Ne'er will I flatter, cringe, or bend the knee To those who, slaves to all, are slaves to me. Actors, as actors, are a lawful game, The poet's right, and who shall bar his claim? And if, o'erweening of their little skill, When they have left the stage, they're actors still; If to the subject world they still give laws, With paper crowns, and sceptres made of straws; If they in cellar or in garret roar, And, kings one night, are kings for evermore; Shall not bold Truth, e'en there, pursue her theme, And wake the coxcomb from his golden dream? Or if, well worthy of a better fate, They rise superior to their present state; 93 If, with each social virtue graced, they blend The gay companion and the faithful friend; If they, like Pritchard, join in private life The tender parent and the virtuous wife; Shall not our verse their praise with pleasure speak, Though Mimics bark, and Envy split her cheek? No honest worth's beneath the Muse's praise; No greatness can above her censure raise; Station and wealth to her are trifling things; She stoops to actors, and she soars to kings. Is there a man, in vice and folly bred, To sense of honour as to virtue dead, Whom ties, nor human, nor divine can bind, Alien from God, and foe to all mankind; Who spares no character; whose every word, Bitter as gall, and sharper than the sword, Cuts to the quick; whose thoughts with rancour swell; Whose tongue, on earth, performs the work of hell? If there be such a monster, the Reviews Shall find him holding forth against abuse: Attack profession!--'tis a deadly breach! The Christian laws another lesson teach:-Unto the end shall Charity endure, And Candour hide those faults it cannot cure. Thus Candour's maxims flow from Rancour's throat, As devils, to serve their purpose, Scripture quote. The Muse's office was by Heaven design'd To please, improve, instruct, reform mankind; To make dejected Virtue nobly rise Above the towering pitch of splendid Vice; To make pale Vice, abash'd, her head hang down, And, trembling, crouch at Virtue's awful frown. Now arm'd with wrath, she bids eternal shame, With strictest justice, brand the villain's name; Now in the milder garb of ridicule She sports, and pleases while she wounds the fool. Her shape is often varied; but her aim, To prop the cause of Virtue, still the same. In praise of Mercy let the guilty bawl; When Vice and Folly for correction call, Silence the mark of weakness justly bears, And is partaker of the crimes it spares. 94 But if the Muse, too cruel in her mirth, With harsh reflections wounds the man of worth; If wantonly she deviates from her plan, And quits the actor to expose the man; Ashamed, she marks that passage with a blot, And hates the line where candour was forgot. But what is candour, what is humour's vein, Though judgment join to consecrate the strain, If curious numbers will not aid afford, Nor choicest music play in every word? Verses must run, to charm a modern ear, From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear. Soft let them breathe, as Zephyr's balmy breeze, Smooth let their current flow, as summer seas; Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense A happy tuneful vacancy of sense. Italian fathers thus, with barbarous rage, Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage; Deaf to the calls of pity, Nature wound, And mangle vigour for the sake of sound. Henceforth farewell, then, feverish thirst of fame; Farewell the longings for a poet's name; Perish my Muse--a wish 'bove all severe To him who ever held the Muses dear-If e'er her labours weaken to refine The generous roughness of a nervous line. Others affect the stiff and swelling phrase; Their Muse must walk in stilts, and strut in stays; The sense they murder, and the words transpose, Lest poetry approach too near to prose. See tortured Reason how they pare and trim, And, like Procrustes, stretch, or lop the limb. Waller! whose praise succeeding bards rehearse, Parent of harmony in English verse, Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows, In couplets first taught straggling sense to close. In polish'd numbers and majestic sound, Where shall thy rival, Pope! be ever found? But whilst each line with equal beauty flows. E'en excellence, unvaried, tedious grows. Nature, through all her works, in great degree, Borrows a blessing from variety. 95 Music itself her needful aid requires To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires. Still in one key, the nightingale would tease; Still in one key, not Brent would always please. Here let me bend, great Dryden! at thy shrine, Thou dearest name to all the Tuneful Nine! What if some dull lines in cold order creep, And with his theme the poet seems to sleep? Still, when his subject rises proud to view, With equal strength the poet rises too: With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught, Thought still springs up and rises out of thought; Numbers ennobling numbers in their course, In varied sweetness flow, in varied force; The powers of genius and of judgment join, And the whole Art of Poetry is thine. But what are numbers, what are bards to me, Forbid to tread the paths of poesy? A sacred Muse should consecrate her pen-Priests must not hear nor see like other men-Far higher themes should her ambition claim: Behold where Sternhold points the way to fame! Whilst with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn, Let Reason for a moment take her turn. When coffee-sages hold discourse with kings, And blindly walk in paper leading-strings, What if a man delight to pass his time In spinning reason into harmless rhyme, Or sometimes boldly venture to the play? Say, where's the crime, great man of prudence, say? No two on earth in all things can agree; All have some darling singularity: Women and men, as well as girls and boys, In gew-gaws take delight, and sigh for toys. Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things, Are but a better kind of toys for kings. In things indifferent Reason bids us choose, Whether the whim's a monkey or a Muse. What the grave triflers on this busy scene, When they make use of this word Reason, mean, I know not; but according to my plan, 'Tis Lord Chief-Justice in the court of man; 96 Equally form'd to rule in age or youth, The friend of virtue and the guide to truth; To her I bow, whose sacred power I feel; To her decision make my last appeal; Condemn'd by her, applauding worlds in vain Should tempt me to take up the pen again; By her absolved, my course I'll still pursue: If Reason's for me, God is for me too. ~ Charles Churchill,

702:The Ghost - Book I With eager search to dart the soul, Curiously vain, from pole to pole, And from the planets' wandering spheres To extort the number of our years, And whether all those years shall flow Serenely smooth, and free from woe, Or rude misfortune shall deform Our life with one continual storm; Or if the scene shall motley be. Alternate joy and misery, Is a desire which, more or less. All men must feel, though few confess. Hence, every place and every age Affords subsistence to the sage, Who, free from this world and its cares, Holds an acquaintance with the stars, From whom he gains intelligence Of things to come some ages hence, Which unto friends, at easy rates. He readily communicates. At its first rise, which all agree on, This noble science was Chaldean; That ancient people, as they fed Their flocks upon the mountain's head, Gazed on the stars, observed their motions, And suck'd in astrologic notions, Which they so eagerly pursue, As folks are apt whate'er is new, That things below at random rove, Whilst they're consulting things above; And when they now so poor were grown, That they'd no houses of their own, They made bold with their friends the stars, And prudently made use of theirs. To Egypt from Chaldee it travell'd, And Fate at Memphis was unravell'd: The exotic science soon struck root, And flourish'd into high repute. Each learned priest, oh strange to tell! 177 Could circles make, and cast a spell; Could read and write, and taught the nation The holy art of divination. Nobles themselves, for at that time Knowledge in nobles was no crime, Could talk as learned as the priest, And prophesy as much, at least. Hence all the fortune-telling crew, Whose crafty skill mars Nature's hue, Who, in vile tatters, with smirch'd face, Run up and down from place to place, To gratify their friends' desires, From Bampfield Carew, to Moll Squires, Are rightly term'd Egyptians all; Whom we, mistaking, Gypsies call. The Grecian sages borrow'd this, As they did other sciences, From fertile Egypt, though the loan They had not honesty to own. Dodona's oaks, inspired by Jove, A learned and prophetic grove, Turn'd vegetable necromancers, And to all comers gave their answers. At Delphos, to Apollo dear, All men the voice of Fate might hear; Each subtle priest on three-legg'd stool, To take in wise men, play'd the fool. A mystery, so made for gain, E'en now in fashion must remain; Enthusiasts never will let drop What brings such business to their shop; And that great saint we Whitefield call, Keeps up the humbug spiritual. Among the Romans, not a bird Without a prophecy was heard; Fortunes of empires often hung On the magician magpie's tongue, And every crow was to the state A sure interpreter of Fate. Prophets, embodied in a college (Time out of mind your seat of knowledge; For genius never fruit can bear 178 Unless it first is planted there, And solid learning never falls Without the verge of college walls) Infallible accounts would keep When it was best to watch or sleep, To eat or drink, to go or stay, And when to fight or run away; When matters were for action ripe, By looking at a double tripe; When emperors would live or die, They in an ass's skull could spy; When generals would their station keep, Or turn their backs, in hearts of sheep. In matters, whether small or great, In private families or state As amongst us, the holy seer Officiously would interfere; With pious arts and reverend skill Would bend lay bigots to his will; Would help or injure foes or friends, Just as it served his private ends. Whether in honest way of trade Traps for virginity were laid; Or if, to make their party great, Designs were form'd against the state, Regardless of the common weal, By interest led, which they call zeal, Into the scale was always thrown The will of Heaven to back their own. England--a happy land we know, Where follies naturally grow, Where without culture they arise And tower above the common size; England, a fortune-telling host, As numerous as the stars, could boast,-Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea, Who, versed in every modest lore, Can a lost maidenhead restore, Or, if their pupils rather choose it, Can show the readiest way to lose it; Gypsies, who every ill can cure, 179 Except the ill of being poor, Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell, Who can in hen-roost set a spell, Prepared by arts, to them best known, To catch all feet except their own, Who, as to fortune, can unlock it As easily as pick a pocket; Scotchmen, who, in their country's right, Possess the gift of second-sight, Who (when their barren heaths they quit, Sure argument of prudent wit, Which reputation to maintain, They never venture back again) By lies prophetic heap up riches, And boast the luxury of breeches. Amongst the rest, in former years, Campbell (illustrious name!) appears, Great hero of futurity, Who, blind, could every thing foresee, Who, dumb, could every thing foretell, Who, Fate with equity to sell, Always dealt out the will of Heaven According to what price was given. Of Scottish race, in Highlands born, Possess'd with native pride and scorn, He hither came, by custom led, To curse the hands which gave him bread. With want of truth, and want of sense, Amply made up by impudence (A succedaneum, which we find In common use with all mankind); Caress'd and favour'd too by those Whose heart with patriot feelings glows, Who foolishly, where'er dispersed, Still place their native country first; (For Englishmen alone have sense To give a stranger preference, Whilst modest merit of their own Is left in poverty to groan) Campbell foretold just what he would, And left the stars to make it good, On whom he had impress'd such awe, 180 His dictates current pass'd for law; Submissive, all his empire own'd; No star durst smile, when Campbell frown'd. This sage deceased,--for all must die, And Campbell's no more safe than I, No more than I can guard the heart, When Death shall hurl the fatal dart,-Succeeded, ripe in art and years, Another favourite of the spheres; Another and another came, Of equal skill, and equal fame; As white each wand, as black each gown, As long each beard, as wise each frown, In every thing so like, you'd swear Campbell himself was sitting there: To all the happy art was known, To tell our fortunes, make their own. Seated in garret,--for, you know, The nearer to the stars we go The greater we esteem his art,-Fools, curious, flock'd from every part; The rich, the poor, the maid, the married, And those who could not walk, were carried. The butler, hanging down his head, By chambermaid, or cookmaid led, Inquires, if from his friend the Moon He has advice of pilfer'd spoon. The court-bred woman of condition, (Who, to approve her disposition As much superior as her birth To those composed of common earth, With double spirit must engage In every folly of the age) The honourable arts would buy, To pack the cards, and cog a die. The hero--who, for brawn and face, May claim right honourable place Amongst the chiefs of Butcher-row: Who might, some thirty years ago, If we may be allow'd to guess At his employment by his dress, Put medicines off from cart or stage, 181 The grand Toscano of the age; Or might about the country go High-steward of a puppet-show,-Steward and stewardship most meet, For all know puppets never eat: Who would be thought (though, save the mark! That point is something in the dark) The man of honour, one like those Renown'd in story, who loved blows Better than victuals, and would fight, Merely for sport, from morn to night: Who treads like Mavors firm, whose tongue Is with the triple thunder hung, Who cries to Fear, 'Stand off--aloof,' And talks as he were cannon-proof; Would be deem'd ready, when you list, With sword and pistol, stick and fist, Careless of points, balls, bruises, knocks, At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box, But at the same time bears about, Within himself, some touch of doubt, Of prudent doubt, which hints--that fame Is nothing but an empty name; That life is rightly understood By all to be a real good; That, even in a hero's heart, Discretion is the better part; That this same honour may be won, And yet no kind of danger run-Like Drugger comes, that magic powers May ascertain his lucky hours; For at some hours the fickle dame, Whom Fortune properly we name, Who ne'er considers wrong or right, When wanted most, plays least in sight, And, like a modern court-bred jilt, Leaves her chief favourites in a tilt. Some hours there are, when from the heart Courage into some other part, No matter wherefore, makes retreat, And Fear usurps the vacant seat; Whence, planet-struck, we often find 182 Stuarts and Sackvilles of mankind. Farther, he'd know (and by his art A conjurer can that impart) Whether politer it is reckon'd To have, or not to have, a second; To drag the friends in, or alone To make the danger all their own; Whether repletion is not bad, And fighters with full stomachs mad; Whether, before he seeks the plain, It were not well to breathe a vein; Whether a gentle salivation, Consistently with reputation, Might not of precious use be found, Not to prevent, indeed, a wound, But to prevent the consequence Which oftentimes arises thence, Those fevers, which the patient urge on To gates of death, by help of surgeon; Whether a wind at east or west Is for green wounds accounted best; Whether (was he to choose) his mouth Should point towards the north or south; Whether more safely he might use, On these occasions, pumps or shoes; Whether it better is to fight By sunshine or by candlelight; Or, lest a candle should appear Too mean to shine in such a sphere, For who could of a candle tell To light a hero into hell; And, lest the sun should partial rise To dazzle one or t'other's eyes, Or one or t'other's brains to scorch, Might not Dame Luna hold a torch? These points with dignity discuss'd, And gravely fix'd,--a task which must Require no little time and pains, To make our hearts friends with our brains,-The man of war would next engage The kind assistance of the sage, Some previous method to direct, 183 Which should make these of none effect. Could he not, from the mystic school Of Art, produce some sacred rule, By which a knowledge might be got Whether men valiant were, or not; So he that challenges might write Only to those who would not fight? Or could he not some way dispense By help of which (without offence To Honour, whose nice nature's such She scarce endures the slightest touch) When he, for want of t'other rule, Mistakes his man, and, like a fool, With some vain fighting blade gets in, He fairly may get out again? Or should some demon lay a scheme To drive him to the last extreme, So that he must confess his fears, In mercy to his nose and ears, And like a prudent recreant knight, Rather do anything than fight, Could he not some expedient buy To keep his shame from public eye? For well he held,--and, men review, Nine in ten hold the maxim too,-That honour's like a maidenhead, Which, if in private brought to bed, Is none the worse, but walks the town, Ne'er lost, until the loss be known. The parson, too, (for now and then Parsons are just like other men, And here and there a grave divine Has passions such as yours and mine) Burning with holy lust to know When Fate preferment will bestow, 'Fraid of detection, not of sin, With circumspection sneaking in To conjurer, as he does to whore, Through some bye-alley or back-door, With the same caution orthodox Consults the stars, and gets a pox. The citizen, in fraud grown old, 184 Who knows no deity but gold, Worn out, and gasping now for breath, A medicine wants to keep off death; Would know, if that he cannot have, What coins are current in the grave; If, when the stocks (which, by his power, Would rise or fall in half an hour; For, though unthought of and unseen, He work'd the springs behind the screen) By his directions came about, And rose to par, he should sell out; Whether he safely might, or no, Replace it in the funds below? By all address'd, believed, and paid, Many pursued the thriving trade, And, great in reputation grown, Successive held the magic throne. Favour'd by every darling passion, The love of novelty and fashion, Ambition, avarice, lust, and pride, Riches pour'd in on every side. But when the prudent laws thought fit To curb this insolence of wit; When senates wisely had provided, Decreed, enacted, and decided, That no such vile and upstart elves Should have more knowledge than themselves; When fines and penalties were laid To stop the progress of the trade, And stars no longer could dispense, With honour, further influence; And wizards (which must be confess'd Was of more force than all the rest) No certain way to tell had got Which were informers, and which not; Affrighted sages were, perforce, Obliged to steer some other course. By various ways, these sons of Chance Their fortunes labour'd to advance, Well knowing, by unerring rules, Knaves starve not in the land of fools. Some, with high titles and degrees, 185 Which wise men borrow when they please, Without or trouble, or expense, Physicians instantly commence, And proudly boast an Equal skill With those who claim the right to kill. Others about the country roam, (For not one thought of going home) With pistol and adopted leg, Prepared at once to rob or beg. Some, the more subtle of their race, (Who felt some touch of coward grace, Who Tyburn to avoid had wit, But never fear'd deserving it) Came to their brother Smollett's aid, And carried on the critic trade. Attach'd to letters and the Muse, Some verses wrote, and some wrote news; Those each revolving month are seen, The heroes of a magazine; These, every morning, great appear In Ledger, or in Gazetteer, Spreading the falsehoods of the day, By turns for Faden and for Say. Like Swiss, their force is always laid On that side where they best are paid: Hence mighty prodigies arise, And daily monsters strike our eyes; Wonders, to propagate the trade, More strange than ever Baker made, Are hawk'd about from street to street, And fools believe, whilst liars eat. Now armies in the air engage, To fright a superstitious age; Now comets through the ether range, In governments portending change; Now rivers to the ocean fly So quick, they leave their channels dry; Now monstrous whales on Lambeth shore Drink the Thames dry, and thirst for more; And every now and then appears An Irish savage, numbering years More than those happy sages could 186 Who drew their breath before the flood; Now, to the wonder of all people, A church is left without a steeple; A steeple now is left in lurch, And mourns departure of the church, Which, borne on wings of mighty wind, Removed a furlong off we find; Now, wrath on cattle to discharge, Hailstones as deadly fall, and large, As those which were on Egypt sent, At once their crime and punishment; Or those which, as the prophet writes, Fell on the necks of Amorites, When, struck with wonder and amaze, The sun, suspended, stay'd to gaze, And, from her duty longer kept, In Ajalon his sister slept. But if such things no more engage The taste of a politer age, To help them out in time of need Another Tofts must rabbits breed: Each pregnant female trembling hears, And, overcome with spleen and fears, Consults her faithful glass no more, But, madly bounding o'er the floor, Feels hairs all o'er her body grow, By Fancy turn'd into a doe. Now, to promote their private ends, Nature her usual course suspends, And varies from the stated plan Observed e'er since the world began. Bodies--which foolishly we thought, By Custom's servile maxims taught, Needed a regular supply, And without nourishment must die-With craving appetites, and sense Of hunger easily dispense, And, pliant to their wondrous skill, Are taught, like watches, to stand still, Uninjured, for a month or more, Then go on as they did before. The novel takes, the tale succeeds, 187 Amply supplies its author's needs, And Betty Canning is at least, With Gascoyne's help, a six months' feast. Whilst, in contempt of all our pains, The tyrant Superstition reigns Imperious in the heart of man, And warps his thoughts from Nature's plan; Whilst fond Credulity, who ne'er The weight of wholesome doubts could bear, To Reason and herself unjust, Takes all things blindly upon trust; Whilst Curiosity, whose rage No mercy shows to sex or age, Must be indulged at the expense Of judgment, truth, and common sense, Impostures cannot but prevail; And when old miracles grow stale, Jugglers will still the art pursue, And entertain the world with new. For them, obedient to their will, And trembling at their mighty skill, Sad spirits, summon'd from the tomb, Glide, glaring ghastly, through the gloom; In all the usual pomp of storms, In horrid customary forms, A wolf, a bear, a horse, an ape, As Fear and Fancy give them shape, Tormented with despair and pain, They roar, they yell, and clank the chain. Folly and Guilt (for Guilt, howe'er The face of Courage it may wear, Is still a coward at the heart) At fear-created phantoms start. The priest--that very word implies That he's both innocent and wise-Yet fears to travel in the dark, Unless escorted by his clerk. But let not every bungler deem Too lightly of so deep a scheme; For reputation of the art, Each ghost must act a proper part, Observe Decorum's needful grace, 188 And keep the laws of Time and Place; Must change, with happy variation, His manners with his situation; What in the country might pass down, Would be impertinent in town. No spirit of discretion here Can think of breeding awe and fear; 'Twill serve the purpose more by half To make the congregation laugh. We want no ensigns of surprise, Locks stiff with gore, and saucer eyes; Give us an entertaining sprite, Gentle, familiar, and polite, One who appears in such a form As might an holy hermit warm, Or who on former schemes refines, And only talks by sounds and signs, Who will not to the eye appear, But pays her visits to the ear, And knocks so gently, 't would not fright A lady in the darkest night. Such is our Fanny, whose good-will, Which cannot in the grave lie still, Brings her on earth to entertain Her friends and lovers in Cock-lane. ~ Charles Churchill,

703:The Farewell _P_. Farewell to Europe, and at once farewell To all the follies which in Europe dwell; To Eastern India now, a richer clime, Richer, alas! in everything but rhyme, The Muses steer their course; and, fond of change, At large, in other worlds, desire to range; Resolved, at least, since they the fool must play, To do it in a different place, and way. _F_. What whim is this, what error of the brain, What madness worse than in the dog-star's reign? Why into foreign countries would you roam, Are there not knaves and fools enough at home? If satire be thy object--and thy lays As yet have shown no talents fit for praise-If satire be thy object, search all round, Nor to thy purpose can one spot be found Like England, where, to rampant vigour grown, Vice chokes up every virtue; where, self-sown, The seeds of folly shoot forth rank and bold, And every seed brings forth a hundredfold. _P_. No more of this--though Truth, (the more our shame, The more our guilt) though Truth perhaps may claim, And justify her part in this, yet here, For the first time, e'en Truth offends my ear; Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn, Take up the theme anew, when day's new-born, I hear, and hate--be England what she will, With all her faults, she is my country still. _F_. Thy country! and what then? Is that mere word Against the voice of Reason to be heard? Are prejudices, deep imbibed in youth, To counteract, and make thee hate the truth? 'Tis sure the symptom of a narrow soul To draw its grand attachment from the whole, And take up with a part; men, not confined Within such paltry limits, men design'd Their nature to exalt, where'er they go, Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow, Where'er the blessed sun, placed in the sky 165 To watch this subject world, can dart his eye, Are still the same, and, prejudice outgrown, Consider every country as their own; At one grand view they take in Nature's plan, Not more at home in England than Japan. _P_. My good, grave Sir of Theory, whose wit, Grasping at shadows, ne'er caught substance yet, 'Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine On vain refinements vainly to refine, To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign, To boast of apathy when out of pain, And in each sentence, worthy of the schools, Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules Most fit for practice, but for one poor fault That into practice they can ne'er be brought. At home, and sitting in your elbow-chair, You praise Japan, though you was never there: But was the ship this moment under sail, Would not your mind be changed, your spirits fail? Would you not cast one longing eye to shore, And vow to deal in such wild schemes no more? Howe'er our pride may tempt us to conceal Those passions which we cannot choose but feel, There's a strange something, which, without a brain, Fools feel, and which e'en wise men can't explain, Planted in man to bind him to that earth, In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth. If Honour calls, where'er she points the way The sons of Honour follow, and obey; If need compels, wherever we are sent 'Tis want of courage not to be content; But, if we have the liberty of choice, And all depends on our own single voice, To deem of every country as the same Is rank rebellion 'gainst the lawful claim Of Nature, and such dull indifference May be philosophy, but can't be sense. _F_. Weak and unjust distinction, strange design, Most peevish, most perverse, to undermine Philosophy, and throw her empire down By means of Sense, from whom she holds her crown, Divine Philosophy! to thee we owe 166 All that is worth possessing here below; Virtue and wisdom consecrate thy reign, Doubled each joy, and pain no longer pain. When, like a garden, where, for want of toil And wholesome discipline, the rich, rank soil Teems with incumbrances; where all around, Herbs, noxious in their nature, make the ground, Like the good mother of a thankless son, Curse her own womb, by fruitfulness undone; Like such a garden, when the human soul, Uncultured, wild, impatient of control, Brings forth those passions of luxuriant race, Which spread, and stifle every herb of grace; Whilst Virtue, check'd by the cold hand of Scorn, Seems withering on the bed where she was born, Philosophy steps in; with steady hand, She brings her aid, she clears the encumber'd land; Too virtuous to spare Vice one stroke, too wise One moment to attend to Pity's cries-See with what godlike, what relentless power She roots up every weed! _P_. And every flower. Philosophy, a name of meek degree, Embraced, in token of humility, By the proud sage, who, whilst he strove to hide, In that vain artifice reveal'd his pride; Philosophy, whom Nature had design'd To purge all errors from the human mind, Herself misled by the philosopher, At once her priest and master, made us err: Pride, pride, like leaven in a mass of flour, Tainted her laws, and made e'en Virtue sour. Had she, content within her proper sphere, Taught lessons suited to the human ear, Which might fair Virtue's genuine fruits produce, Made not for ornament, but real use, The heart of man, unrivall'd, she had sway'd, Praised by the good, and by the bad obey'd; But when she, overturning Reason's throne, Strove proudly in its place to plant her own; When she with apathy the breast would steel, And teach us, deeply feeling, not to feel; 167 When she would wildly all her force employ, Not to correct our passions, but destroy; When, not content our nature to restore, As made by God, she made it all new o'er; When, with a strange and criminal excess, To make us more than men, she made us less; The good her dwindled power with pity saw, The bad with joy, and none but fools with awe. Truth, with a simple and unvarnish'd tale, E'en from the mouth of Norton might prevail, Could she get there; but Falsehood's sugar'd strain Should pour her fatal blandishments in vain, Nor make one convert, though the Siren hung, Where she too often hangs, on Mansfield's tongue. Should all the Sophs, whom in his course the sun Hath seen, or past, or present, rise in one; Should he, whilst pleasure in each sentence flows, Like Plato, give us poetry in prose; Should he, full orator, at once impart The Athenian's genius with the Roman's art; Genius and Art should in this instance fail, Nor Rome, though join'd with Athens, here prevail. 'Tis not in man, 'tis not in more than man, To make me find one fault in Nature's plan. Placed low ourselves, we censure those above, And, wanting judgment, think that she wants love; Blame, where we ought in reason to commend, And think her most a foe when most a friend. Such be philosophers--their specious art, Though Friendship pleads, shall never warp my heart, Ne'er make me from this breast one passion tear, Which Nature, my best friend, hath planted there. _F_. Forgiving as a friend, what, whilst I live, As a philosopher I can't forgive, In this one point at last I join with you, To Nature pay all that is Nature's due; But let not clouded Reason sink so low, To fancy debts she does not, cannot owe: Bear, to full manhood grown, those shackles bear, Which Nature meant us for a time to wear, As we wear leading-strings, which, useless grown, Are laid aside, when we can walk alone; 168 But on thyself, by peevish humour sway'd, Wilt thou lay burdens Nature never laid? Wilt thou make faults, whilst Judgment weakly errs, And then defend, mistaking them for hers? Darest thou to say, in our enlighten'd age, That this grand master passion, this brave rage, Which flames out for thy country, was impress'd And fix'd by Nature in the human breast? If you prefer the place where you were born, And hold all others in contempt and scorn, On fair comparison; if on that land With liberal, and a more than equal hand, Her gifts, as in profusion, Plenty sends; If Virtue meets with more and better friends; If Science finds a patron 'mongst the great; If Honesty is minister of state; If Power, the guardian of our rights design'd, Is to that great, that only end, confined; If riches are employ'd to bless the poor; If Law is sacred, Liberty secure; Let but these facts depend on proofs of weight, Reason declares thy love can't be too great, And, in this light could he our country view, A very Hottentot must love it too. But if, by Fate's decrees, you owe your birth To some most barren and penurious earth, Where, every comfort of this life denied, Her real wants are scantily supplied; Where Power is Reason, Liberty a joke, Laws never made, or made but to be broke; To fix thy love on such a wretched spot, Because in Lust's wild fever there begot; Because, thy weight no longer fit to bear, By chance, not choice, thy mother dropp'd thee there, Is folly, which admits not of defence; It can't be Nature, for it is not sense. By the same argument which here you hold, (When Falsehood's insolent, let Truth be told) If Propagation can in torments dwell, A devil must, if born there, love his Hell. _P_. Had Fate, to whose decrees I lowly bend, And e'en in punishment confess a friend, 169 Ordain'd my birth in some place yet untried, On purpose made to mortify my pride, Where the sun never gave one glimpse of day, Where Science never yet could dart one ray, Had I been born on some bleak, blasted plain Of barren Scotland, in a Stuart's reign, Or in some kingdom, where men, weak, or worse, Turn'd Nature's every blessing to a curse; Where crowns of freedom, by the fathers won, Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degenerate son; In spite of all the wisdom you display, All you have said, and yet may have to say, My weakness here, if weakness I confess, I, as my country, had not loved her less. Whether strict Reason bears me out in this, Let those who, always seeking, always miss The ways of Reason, doubt with precious zeal; Theirs be the praise to argue, mine to feel. Wish we to trace this passion to the root, We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit; From its rich stem ten thousand virtues spring, Ten thousand blessings on its branches cling; Yet in the circle of revolving years Not one misfortune, not one vice, appears. Hence, then, and what you Reason call, adore; This, if not Reason, must be something more. But (for I wish not others to confine; Be their opinions unrestrain'd as mine) Whether this love's of good or evil growth, A vice, a virtue, or a spice of both, Let men of nicer argument decide; If it is virtuous, soothe an honest pride With liberal praise; if vicious, be content, It is a vice I never can repent; A vice which, weigh'd in Heaven, shall more avail Than ten cold virtues in the other scale. _F_. This wild, untemper'd zeal (which, after all, We, candour unimpeach'd, might madness call) Is it a virtue? That you scarce pretend; Or can it be a vice, like Virtue's friend, Which draws us off from and dissolves the force Of private ties, nay, stops us in our course 170 To that grand object of the human soul, That nobler love which comprehends the whole? Coop'd in the limits of this petty isle, This nook, which scarce deserves a frown or smile, Weigh'd with Creation, you, by whim undone, Give all your thoughts to what is scarce worth one. The generous soul, by Nature taught to soar, Her strength confirm'd in philosophic lore, At one grand view takes in a world with ease, And, seeing all mankind, loves all she sees. _P_. Was it most sure, which yet a doubt endures, Not found in Reason's creed, though found in yours, That these two services, like what we're told, And know, of God's and Mammon's, cannot hold And draw together; that, however both, We neither serve, attempting to serve both, I could not doubt a moment which to choose, And which in common reason to refuse. Invented oft for purposes of art, Born of the head, though father'd on the heart, This grand love of the world must be confess'd A barren speculation at the best. Not one man in a thousand, should he live Beyond the usual term of life, could give, So rare occasion comes, and to so few, Proof whether his regards are feign'd, or true. The love we bear our country is a root Which never fails to bring forth golden fruit; 'Tis in the mind an everlasting spring Of glorious actions, which become a king, Nor less become a subject; 'tis a debt Which bad men, though they pay not, can't forget; A duty, which the good delight to pay, And every man can practise every day. Nor, for my life (so very dim my eye, Or dull your argument) can I descry What you with faith assert, how that dear love, Which binds me to my country, can remove, And make me of necessity forego, That general love which to the world I owe. Those ties of private nature, small extent, In which the mind of narrow cast is pent, 171 Are only steps on which the generous soul Mounts by degrees till she includes the whole. That spring of love, which, in the human mind, Founded on self, flows narrow and confined, Enlarges as it rolls, and comprehends The social charities of blood and friends, Till, smaller streams included, not o'erpast, It rises to our country's love at last; And he, with liberal and enlarged mind, Who loves his country, cannot hate mankind. _F_. Friend, as you would appear, to Common Sense, Tell me, or think no more of a defence, Is it a proof of love by choice to run A vagrant from your country? _P_. Can the son (Shame, shame on all such sons!) with ruthless eye, And heart more patient than the flint, stand by, And by some ruffian, from all shame divorced, All virtue, see his honour'd mother forced? Then--no, by Him that made me! not e'en then, Could I with patience, by the worst of men, Behold my country plunder'd, beggar'd, lost Beyond redemption, all her glories cross'd, E'en when occasion made them ripe, her fame Fled like a dream, while she awakes to shame. _F_. Is it not more the office of a friend, The office of a patron, to defend Her sinking state, than basely to decline So great a cause, and in despair resign? _P_. Beyond my reach, alas! the grievance lies, And, whilst more able patriots doubt, she dies. From a foul source, more deep than we suppose, Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows. 'Tis not that peace our glorious hopes defeats: 'Tis not the voice of Faction in the streets; 'Tis not a gross attack on Freedom made; Tis not the arm of Privilege display'd, Against the subject, whilst she wears no sting To disappoint the purpose of a king; These are no ills, or trifles, if compared With those which are contrived, though not declared. Tell me, Philosopher, is it a crime 172 To pry into the secret womb of Time; Or, born in ignorance, must we despair To reach events, and read the future there? Why, be it so--still 'tis the right of man, Imparted by his Maker, where he can, To former times and men his eye to cast, And judge of what's to come, by what is past. Should there be found, in some not distant year, (Oh, how I wish to be no prophet here!) Amongst our British Lords should there be found Some great in power, in principles unsound, Who look on Freedom with an evil eye, In whom the springs of Loyalty are dry; Who wish to soar on wild Ambition's wings, Who hate the Commons, and who love not Kings; Who would divide the people and the throne, To set up separate interests of their own; Who hate whatever aids their wholesome growth, And only join with, to destroy them both; Should there be found such men in after-times, May Heaven, in mercy to our grievous crimes, Allot some milder vengeance, nor to them, And to their rage, this wretched land condemn, Thou God above, on whom all states depend, Who knowest from the first their rise, and end, If there's a day mark'd in the book of Fate, When ruin must involve our equal state; When law, alas! must be no more, and we, To freedom born, must be no longer free; Let not a mob of tyrants seize the helm, Nor titled upstarts league to rob the realm; Let not, whatever other ills assail, A damned aristocracy prevail. If, all too short, our course of freedom run, 'Tis thy good pleasure we should be undone, Let us, some comfort in our griefs to bring, Be slaves to one, and be that one a king. _F_. Poets, accustom'd by their trade to feign, Oft substitute creations of the brain For real substance, and, themselves deceived, Would have the fiction by mankind believed. Such is your case--but grant, to soothe your pride, 173 That you know more than all the world beside, Why deal in hints, why make a moment's doubt? Resolved, and like a man, at once speak out; Show us our danger, tell us where it lies, And, to ensure our safety, make us wise. _P_. Rather than bear the pain of thought, fools stray; The proud will rather lose than ask their way: To men of sense what needs it to unfold, And tell a tale which they must know untold? In the bad, interest warps the canker'd heart, The good are hoodwink'd by the tricks of art; And, whilst arch, subtle hypocrites contrive To keep the flames of discontent alive; Whilst they, with arts to honest men unknown, Breed doubts between the people and the throne, Making us fear, where Reason never yet Allow'd one fear, or could one doubt admit, Themselves pass unsuspected in disguise, And 'gainst our real danger seal our eyes. _F_. Mark them, and let their names recorded stand On Shame's black roll, and stink through all the land. _P_. That might some courage, but no prudence be; No hurt to them, and jeopardy to me. _F_. Leave out their names. _P_. For that kind caution, thanks; But may not judges sometimes fill up blanks? _F_. Your country's laws in doubt then you reject? _P_. The laws I love, the lawyers I suspect. Amongst twelve judges may not one be found (On bare, bare possibility I ground This wholesome doubt) who may enlarge, retrench, Create, and uncreate, and from the bench, With winks, smiles, nods, and such like paltry arts, May work and worm into a jury's hearts? Or, baffled there, may, turbulent of soul, Cramp their high office, and their rights control; Who may, though judge, turn advocate at large, And deal replies out by the way of charge, Making Interpretation all the way, In spite of facts, his wicked will obey, And, leaving Law without the least defence, May damn his conscience to approve his sense? 174 _F_. Whilst, the true guardians of this charter'd land, In full and perfect vigour, juries stand, A judge in vain shall awe, cajole, perplex. _P_. Suppose I should be tried in Middlesex? _F_. To pack a jury they will never dare. _P_. There's no occasion to pack juries there. _F_. 'Gainst prejudice all arguments are weak; Reason herself without effect must speak. Fly then thy country, like a coward fly, Renounce her interest, and her laws defy. But why, bewitch'd, to India turn thine eyes? Cannot our Europe thy vast wrath suffice? Cannot thy misbegotten Muse lay bare Her brawny arm, and play the butcher there? _P_. Thy counsel taken, what should Satire do? Where could she find an object that is new? Those travell'd youths, whom tender mothers wean, And send abroad to see, and to be seen; With whom, lest they should fornicate, or worse, A tutor's sent by way of a dry nurse; Each of whom just enough of spirit bears To show our follies, and to bring home theirs, Have made all Europe's vices so well known, They seem almost as natural as our own. _F_. Will India for thy purpose better do? _P_. In one respect, at least--there's something new. _F_. A harmless people, in whom Nature speaks Free and untainted,'mongst whom Satire seeks, But vainly seeks, so simply plain their hearts, One bosom where to lodge her poison'd darts. _P_. From knowledge speak you this? or, doubt on doubt Weigh'd and resolved, hath Reason found it out? Neither from knowledge, nor by Reason taught, You have faith every where, but where you ought. India or Europe--what's there in a name? Propensity to vice in both the same, Nature alike in both works for man's good, Alike in both by man himself withstood. Nabobs, as well as those who hunt them down, Deserve a cord much better than a crown, And a Mogul can thrones as much debase As any polish'd prince of Christian race. 175 _F_. Could you,--a task more hard than you suppose,-Could you, in ridicule whilst Satire glows, Make all their follies to the life appear, 'Tis ten to one you gain no credit here; Howe'er well drawn, the picture, after all, Because we know not the original, Would not find favour in the public eye. _P_. That, having your good leave, I mean to try: And if your observations sterling hold, If the piece should be heavy, tame, and cold, To make it to the side of Nature lean, And meaning nothing, something seem to mean: To make the whole in lively colours glow, To bring before us something that we know, And from all honest men applause to win, I'll group the Company, and put them in. _F_. Be that ungenerous thought by shame suppress'd, Add not distress to those too much distress'd; Have they not, by blind zeal misled, laid bare Those sores which never might endure the air? Have they not brought their mysteries so low, That what the wise suspected not, fools know? From their first rise e'en to the present hour, Have they not proved their own abuse of power, Made it impossible, if fairly view'd, Ever to have that dangerous power renew'd, Whilst, unseduced by ministers, the throne Regards our interests, and knows its own? _P_. Should every other subject chance to fail, Those who have sail'd, and those who wish'd to sail In the last fleet, afford an ample field, Which must beyond my hopes a harvest yield. _F_. On such vile food Satire can never thrive. _P_. She cannot starve, if there was only Clive. ~ Charles Churchill,

704:Tamerton Church-Tower, Or, First Love I. We left the Church at Tamerton In gloomy western air; To greet the day we gallop'd on, A merry-minded pair. The hazy East hot noon did bode; Our horses sniff'd the dawn; We made ten Cornish miles of road Before the dew was gone. We clomb the hill where Lanson's Keep Fronts Dartmoor's distant ridge; Thence trotted South; walk'd down the steep That slants to Gresson Bridge; And paused awhile, where Tamar waits, In many a shining coil, And teeming Devon separates From Cornwall's sorry soil. II. Our English skies contain'd, that Spring, A Caribbean sun; The singing birds forgot to sing, The rivulets to run. For three noons past, the skies had frown'd, Obscured with blighting shades That only mock'd the thirsty ground And unrejoicing glades. To-day, before the noon was nigh, Bright-skirted vapours grew, And on the sky hung languidly; The sky was languid too. Our horses dropp'd their necks, and nosed The dusty wayside grass, Whilst we beneath still boughs reposed And watch'd the water pass. We spoke of plighted Bertha: Frank Shot pebbles in the stream; And I lay by him on the bank, 43 But dreamt no lover's dream. She was a blythe and bashful maid, Much blushing in her glee; Yet gracing all she did and said With sweet sufficiency. ‘Is Blanche as fair?’ ask'd I, who yearn'd To feel my life complete; To taste unselfish pleasures earn'd By service strict and sweet. ‘Well, some say fairer: she'll surprise Your heart with crimson lips; Fat underlids, that hold bright eyes In laughing half-eclipse; Alluring locks, done up with taste Behind her dainty ears; And manners full of wayward haste, Tho' facile as the deer's.’ III. ‘You paint a leaflet, here and there; And not the blossom: tell What mysteries of good and fair These blazon'd letters spell.’ IV. ‘Her mouth and teeth, by Cupid's bow! Are letters spelling 'kiss;' And, witchingly withdrawn below Twin worlds of baby-bliss, Her waist, so soft and small, may mean, 'O, when will some one come To make me catch my breath between His finger and his thumb!'’ V. My life, 'twas like a land of dreams, Where nothing noble throve: Dull seem'd it as to maiden seems The verse that's not of love. 44 ‘See where,’ sigh'd I, ‘the water dim Repeats, with leaden hue, The fervid sun, the cloud's hot rim, The gap of dazzling blue!’ Quoth Frank, ‘I do, and hence foresee And all too plainly scan Some sentimental homily On Duty, Death, or Man.’ ‘'Tis this;’ said I, ‘our senses mar, Ev'n so, sweet Nature's face, Unless by love revived they are, Or lit by heavenly grace. Below the hazel talks the rill; My heart speaks not again; The solemn cloud, the stately hill, I look on each in vain. Sure he for whom no Power shall strike This darkness into day—’ ‘Is damn'd,’ said Frank, who morall'd like The Fool in an old Play. ‘That's true!’ cried I, ‘yet, as the worm That sickens ere it change—’ ‘Or as the pup that nears the term At which pups have the mange— Pooh! Come, Man, let us on,’ he said, ‘For now the storm is nigh!’ And whilst we rode quaint sense we read Within the changing sky. Above us bent a prophet wild, Pointing to hidden harm; Beyond, a magic woman smiled, And wove some wondrous charm; Past that, a censer jetted smoke: Black convolutions roll'd Sunwards, and caught the light, and broke In crowns of shining gold. VI. The gaps of blue shrank fast in span; The long-forgotten breeze, 45 By lazy starts and fits, began To stir the higher trees. At noon, we came to Tavistock; And sunshine still was there, But gloomy Dartmoor seem'd to mock Its weak and yellow glare. The swallows, in the wrathful light, Were pitching up and down; A string of rooks made rapid flight, Due southward, o'er the town, Where, baiting at the Tiger-Inn, We talk'd by windows wide, Of Blanche and all my unseen kin, Who did our coming bide. VII. The heavy sign-board swung and shriek'd, In dark air whirl'd the vane, Blinds flapp'd, dust rose, and, straining, creak'd The shaken window-pane; And, just o'erhead, a huge cloud flung, For earnest of its stores, A few calm drops, that struck among The light-leaved sycamores. Hot to be gone, Frank rose and eyed Dark cloud and swinging branch; But less long'd he to greet his Bride Than I to look on Blanche. Her name, pair'd still with praise at home, Would make my pulses start; The hills between us were become A weight upon my heart. ‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the storm comes not; The northern heavens grow fair.’ ‘Look South,’ said Frank, ‘'tis one wide blot Of thunder-threatening air.’ The string of rooks had travell'd on, Against the southern shroud, And, like some snaky skeleton, Lay twisted in the cloud. 46 ‘No storm to-day!’ said I, ‘for, see, Yon black thing travels south.’ We follow'd soon; our spirits free, Our bodies slaked from drouth. I rode in silence; Frank, with tongue Made lax by too much port, Soliloquising, said or sung After this tipsy sort: ‘Yea, nerves they are the Devil's mesh, And pups begin quite blind, And health is ofttimes in the flesh, And measles in the mind! ‘Foolish and fair was Joan without; Foolish and foul within; High as a hunted pig his snout, She carried a foolish chin. ‘The Boy beheld, and brisk rose he At this badly painted fly: That boys less wise than fish will be Makes many a man to sigh.’ VIII. On, on we toil'd, amidst the blaze From Dartmoor's ridges bare; Beneath the hush'd and scorching haze, And through the twinkling air; Along the endless mountain-side, That seem'd with us to move; Past dreary mine-mouths, far and wide; Huge dross-heap, wheel, and groove; Dark towns by disembowell'd hills, Where swarthy tribes abode, Who, in hard rocks with harder wills, Pursued the crooked lode; Up heights, that seem'd against us match'd; Until, from table-land, Before the teasing midge was hatch'd, We hail'd the southern strand. Then pleasantly, on level ground And through the lighter air, 47 We paced along and breathed around, A merry-minded pair. A western night of even cloud Suck'd in the sultry disk; Bright racks look'd on, a fiery crowd, To seamen boding risk; The late crow wing'd his silent way Across the shadowy East; The gnat danced out his little day, His ceaseless singing ceased; Along the dim horizon round Fled faint electric fires; Blue glow-worms lit the fresher ground By moisture-harbouring briers; Far northward twinkled lonely lights, The peopled vales among; In front, between the gaping heights, The mystic ocean hung. IX. Our weary spirits flagg'd beneath The still and loaded air; We left behind the freër heath, A moody-minded pair. With senses slack and sick of mirth, Tho' near the happy goal, I murmur'd, fearing nought on earth Could quite content the soul: ‘Suppose your love prove such a light As yonder glow-worm's lamp, That gleams, at distance, strong and bright, Approach'd, burns weak and damp. Perchance, by much of bliss aroused, Your heart will pant for more; And then the worm of want lies housed Within the sweet fruit's core! Far worse, if, led by fancy blind, But undeceiv'd by use—’ ‘I dream,’ yawn'd Frank, ‘and wake to find My Goddess a green goose!’ 48 ‘Vain, vain,’ said I, ‘is worldly weal: We faint, within the heart, For good which all we see and feel Foreshadows but in part.’ Frank answer'd, ‘What you faint for, win! Faint not, but forward press. Heav'n proffers all: 'twere grievous sin To live content in less. The Sun rolls by us every day; And it and all things speak To the sinking heart of man, and say, 'Tis wicked to be weak. We would not hear the hated sound; But, by the Lord, we must: If not, the heavy world goes round, And grinds us into dust.’ With each a moral in his mouth, We rein'd our sweating nags, Where quiet Ocean, on the South, Kiss'd Edgecumb's ruddy crags. II I. So subtly love within me wrought, So excellent she seem'd, Daily of Blanche was all my thought, Nightly of Blanche I dream'd; And this was all my wish, and all The work now left for life, To make this Wonder mine, to call This laughing Blanche my Wife. II. I courted her till hope grew bold; Then sought her in her place, And all my passion freely told, Before her blushing face. I kiss'd her twice, I kiss'd her thrice, Thro' tresses and thro' tears; I kiss'd her lips, I kiss'd her eyes, 49 And calm'd her joys and fears. So woo'd I Blanche, and so I sped, And so, with small delay, I and the patient Frank were wed Upon the self-same day. And friends all round kiss'd either Bride, I Frank's, Frank mine; and he Laugh'd as for once we thus defied Love's sweet monopoly. And then we drove by garth and grove; And soon forgot the place Where all the world had look'd shy Love So rudely in the face. III I. The noon was hot and close and still, When, steadying Blanche's hand, I led her down the southern hill, And row'd with her from land. Ere summer's prime that year the wasp Lay gorged within the peach; The tide, as though the sea did gasp, Fell lax upon the beach. Quietly dipp'd the dripping scull, And all beside was calm; But o'er the strange and weary lull No angel waved his palm. The sun was rayless, pale the sky, The distance thick with light: We glided past the fort and by The war-ship's sleeping might. Her paddle stirr'd: without a breeze, A mimic tempest boil'd: The sailors on the silent seas With storm-tuned voices toil'd. I could not toil; I seldom pray'd: What was to do or ask? Love's purple glory round me play'd, Unfed by prayer or task. All perfect my contentment was, 50 For Blanche was all my care; And heaven seem'd only heaven because My goddess would be there. No wafted breeze the ships did strike, No wish unwon moved me; The peace within my soul was like The peace upon the sea. At times, when action sleeps, unstirr'd By any motive gale, A mystic wind, with warning heard, Ruffles life's idle sail. The fancy, then, a fear divines, And, borne on gloomy wings, Sees threats and formidable signs In simply natural things. It smote my heart, how, yesternight, The moon rose in eclipse, And how her maim'd and shapeless light O'erhung the senseless ships. The passion pass'd, as, lightning-lit, Red cloud-scenes shew and close; And soon came wonder at the fit, And smiles and full repose. Again I turn'd me, all devote, To my sweet Idol's shrine; Again I gazed where, on the boat, Her shadow mix'd with mine. II. Cried Frank, who, with his Wife, was there, ‘We dream! sing each a song.’ And he sang first an old, brave air, And pull'd the boat along: ‘Sir Pelles woo'd, in scorn's despite; He cherish'd love's sweet smart; Ettarde proved light; then, like a Knight, He turn'd her from his heart. ‘O, the remorse with which we pay For duties done too well! But conscience gay does grief allay; As all true knights can tell.’ 51 III. ‘Alas, poor Knight!’ cried Blanche, ‘Nay, hear,’ Said Frank, ‘the saddest half!’ And drearily he troll'd, while clear Rose Blanche's puzzled laugh. ‘Sir Lob was drunk; the stars were bright. Within an empty ditch, Sir Lob all night lay right and tight As a Saint within his niche. ‘Now, well, quoth he, goes life with me; I've liquor and to spare; I hate the herd that vulgar be; And, O, the stars are fair! ‘The mill-dam burst: Sir Lob lay sunk In that celestial swound: The mill-stream found the knight dead drunk, And the Jury found him drown'd.’ IV. ‘The tunes are good; the words,’ said I, ‘Are hard to understand.’ And soon I prefaced with a sigh This pagan love-song grand: ‘When Love's bright Ichor fills the veins, Love's Amaranth lights the brow, The Past grows dark, the Future wanes, Before the golden Now. ‘Marc Antony the war-flags furl'd, For Egypt's Queen said, 'Stay: He reck'd not of the worthless world, Well lost by that delay. ‘Quoth Antony, Here set I up My everlasting rest: Leave me to drain Joy's magic cup, To dream on Egypt's breast.’ V. Frank smiled, and said my note was wrong; 52 'Twas neither Man's nor Boy's; And Blanche sang next, some modern song, Of ‘Flowers’ and ‘Fairy Joys.’ As bright disparted skies that break To let a cherub through, So seem'd her mouth: my sight did ache, Glitt'ring with fiery dew; And, in the laugh of her brown eye, My heart, contented so, Lay like the honey-thirsty fly Drows'd in the cactus' glow. Nor heeded I what sang my Saint, Such magic had the sound. The myrtle in her breath made faint The air that hearken'd round. VI. ‘Now, Wife,’ said Frank, ‘to shame our lays, Try you in turn your power; And sing your little song in praise Of Love's selectest flower.’ Her hand felt his: thus sang she then, Submitted to his rule, Tho' shyer than the water-hen On Tamar's shadiest pool. ‘The Myrtle sates with scent the air That flows by Grecian hills; Its fervid leaflets glisten fair By warm Italian rills. The North too has its Lover's-Flower, The glad Forget-me-not; Too bold thro' sunshine, wind, and shower, Too blue to be forgot.’ VII. Pointing far East, Frank said, ‘Do you see Yon porpoise-droves at play?’ We gazed, and saw, with failing glee, Bright lines of spotted spray. Once more the boded terror shook 53 My heart, and made me dumb. ‘To land! to land!’ cried Frank, ‘for, look, The storm, at last, is come!’ Above us, heated fields of mist Precipitated cloud; For shore we pull'd; the swift keel hiss'd; Above us grew the shroud. The pale gull flapp'd the stagnant air; The thunder-drop fell straight; The first wind lifted Blanche's hair; Looking to me she sate. Across the boundless mirror crept, In dark'ning blasts, the squall; And round our terror lightly leapt Mad wavelets, many and small. The oars cast by, convuls'd outflew Our perilous hope the sail. None spoke; all watch'd the waves, that grew Under the splashing hail. With urgent hearts and useless hands, We sate and saw them rise, Coursing to shore in gloomy bands, Below the appalling skies. The wrathful thunder scared the deeps, And where, upon our wake, The sea got up in ghastly heaps, White lines of lightning strake. On, on, with fainting hope we fled, Hard-hunted by the grave; Slow seem'd it, though like wind we sped Over the shouldering wave; In front swift rose the crags, where still A storm of sunshine pour'd; At last, beneath the southern hill, The pitiless breakers roar'd. O, bolt foreseen before it burst! O, chastening hard to bear! O, cup of sweetness quite revers'd, And turn'd to void despair! Blanche in fear swooning, I let go The helm; we struck the ground; The sea fell in from stern to prow, 54 And Blanche, my Bride, was drown'd. What guilt was hers? But God is great, And all that may be known To each of any other's fate Is, that it helps his own. IV I. In a swift vortex go the years, Each swifter than the last, And seasons four their set careers Pursued, and somehow pass'd. The spirit of Spring, this year, was quench'd With clouds and wind and rain; All night the gust-blown torrent drench'd The gloomy window-pane; Against the pane the flapping blind Flapp'd ever, dismally; And ever, above the rain and wind, Sounded the dismal sea. The billows, like some guilty crew Devour'd by vain remorse, Dash'd up the beach, sighing withdrew, And mix'd, with murmurs hoarse. The morning was a cheerless sight, Amongst the turbid skies; But sweet was the relief of light Within my restless eyes; For then I rose to prayer and toil, Forgat the ocean's moan, Or faced the dizzy crash and coil That drown'd its mournfuller tone. But never, when the tide drew back, Trod I the weltering strand; For horribly my single track Pursued me in the sand. II. One morn I watch'd the rain subside; And then fared singly forth, 55 Below the clouds, till eve to ride From Edgecumb to the North. Once, only once, I paused upon The sea-transcending height, And turn'd to gaze: far breakers shone, Slow gleams of silent light. Into my horse I struck the spur; Sad was the soul in me; Sore were my lids with tears for her Who slept beneath the sea. But soon I sooth'd my startled horse, And check'd that sudden grief, And look'd abroad on crag and gorse And Dartmoor's cloudy reef. Far forth the air was dark and clear, The crags acute and large, The clouds uneven, black, and near, And ragged at the marge. The spider, in his rainy mesh, Shook not, but, as I rode, The opposing air, sweet, sharp, and fresh, Against my hot lids flow'd. Peat-cutters pass'd me, carrying tools; Hawks glimmer'd on the wing; The ground was glad with grassy pools, And brooklets galloping; And sparrows chirp'd, with feathers spread, And dipp'd and drank their fill, Where, down its sandy channel, fled The lessening road-side rill. III. I cross'd the furze-grown table-land, And near'd the northern vales, That lay perspicuously plann'd In lesser hills and dales. Then rearward, in a slow review, Fell Dartmoor's jagged lines; Around were dross-heaps, red and blue, Old shafts of gutted mines, Impetuous currents copper-stain'd, 56 Wheels stream-urged with a roar, Sluice-guiding grooves, strong works that strain'd With freight of upheaved ore. And then, the train, with shock on shock, Swift rush and birth-scream dire, Grew from the bosom of the rock, And pass'd in noise and fire. With brazen throb, with vital stroke, It went, far heard, far seen, Setting a track of shining smoke Against the pastoral green. Then, bright drops, lodged in budding trees, Were loos'd in sudden showers, Touch'd by the novel western breeze, Friend of the backward flowers. Then rose the Church at Tavistock, The rain still falling there; But sunny Dartmoor seem'd to mock The gloom with cheerful glare. About the West the gilt vane reel'd And pois'd; and, with sweet art, The sudden, jangling changes peal'd Until, around my heart, Conceits of brighter times, of times The brighter for past storms, Clung thick as bees, when brazen chimes Call down the hiveless swarms. IV. I rested at the Tiger Inn, There half-way on my ride, And mused with joy of friends and kin Who did my coming bide. The Vicar, in his sombre wear That shone about the knees, Before me stood, his aspect fair With godly memories. I heard again his kind ‘Good-bye: Christ speed and keep thee still From frantic passions, for they die And leave a frantic will.’ 57 My fond, old Tutor, learn'd and meek! A soul, in strangest truth, As wide as Asia and as weak; Not like his daughter Ruth. A Girl of fullest heart she was; Her spirit's lovely flame Nor dazzled nor surprised, because It always burn'd the same; And in the maiden path she trod Fair was the wife foreshown, A Mary in the house of God, A Martha in her own. Charms for the sight she had; but these Were tranquil, grave, and chaste, And all too beautiful to please A rash, untutor'd taste. V. In love with home, I rose and eyed The rainy North; but there The distant hill-top, in its pride, Adorn'd the brilliant air: And, as I pass'd from Tavistock, The scatter'd dwellings white, The Church, the golden weather-cock, Were whelm'd in happy light; The children 'gan the sun to greet, With song and senseless shout; The lambs to skip, their dams to bleat; In Tavy leapt the trout; Across a fleeting eastern cloud, The splendid rainbow sprang, And larks, invisible and loud, Within its zenith sang. VI. So lay the Earth that saw the skies Grow clear and bright above, As the repentant spirit lies In God's forgiving love. 58 The lark forsook the waning day, And all loud songs did cease; The Robin, from a wither'd spray, Sang like a soul at peace. Far to the South, in sunset glow'd The peaks of Dartmoor ridge, And Tamar, full and tranquil, flow'd Beneath the Gresson Bridge. There, conscious of the numerous noise Of rain-awaken'd rills, And gathering deep and sober joys From the heart-enlarging hills, I sat, until the first white star Appear'd, with dewy rays, And the fair moon began to bar With shadows all the ways. O, well is thee, whate'er thou art, And happy shalt thou be, If thou hast known, within thy heart, The peace that came to me. O, well is thee, if aught shall win Thy spirit to confess, God proffers all, 'twere grievous sin To live content in less! VII. I mounted, now, my patient nag; And scaled the easy steep; And soon beheld the quiet flag On Lanson's solemn Keep. And now, whenas the waking lights Bespake the valley'd Town, A child o'ertook me, on the heights, In cap and russet gown. It was an alms-taught scholar trim, Who, on her happy way, Sang to herself the morrow's hymn; For this was Saturday. ‘Saint Stephen, stoned, nor grieved nor groan'd: 'Twas all for his good gain; 59 For Christ him blest, till he confess'd A sweet content in pain. ‘Then Christ His cross is no way loss, But even a present boon: Of His dear blood fair shines a flood On heaven's eternal noon.’ VIII. My sight, once more, was dim for her Who slept beneath the sea, As on I sped, without the spur, By homestead, heath, and lea. Beside my path the moon kept pace, In meek and brilliant power, And lit, ere long, the eastern face Of Tamerton Church-tower. ~ Coventry Patmore,

705:The Kalevala - Rune Xx THE BREWING OF BEER. Now we sing the wondrous legends, Songs of wedding-feasts and dances, Sing the melodies of wedlock, Sing the songs of old tradition; Sing of Ilmarinen's marriage To the Maiden of the Rainbow, Fairest daughter of the Northland, Sing the drinking-songs of Pohya. Long prepared they for the wedding In Pohyola's halls and chambers, In the courts of Sariola; Many things that Louhi ordered, Great indeed the preparations For the marriage of the daughter, For the feasting of the heroes, For the drinking of the strangers, For the feeding of the poor-folk, For the people's entertainment. Grew an ox in far Karjala, Not the largest, nor the smallest, Was the ox that grew in Suomi; But his size was all-sufficient, For his tail was sweeping Jamen, And his head was over Kemi, Horns in length a hundred fathoms, Longer than the horns his mouth was; Seven days it took a weasel To encircle neck and shoulders; One whole day a swallow journeyed From one horn-tip to the other, Did not stop between for resting. Thirty days the squirrel travelled From the tail to reach the shoulders, But he could not gain the horn-tip Till the Moon had long passed over. This young ox of huge dimensions, 335 This great calf of distant Suomi, Was conducted from Karjala To the meadows of Pohyola; At each horn a hundred heroes, At his head and neck a thousand. When the mighty ox was lassoed, Led away to Northland pastures, Peacefully the monster journeyed By the bays of Sariola, Ate the pasture on the borders; To the clouds arose his shoulders, And his horns to highest heaven. Not in all of Sariola Could a butcher be discovered That could kill the ox for Louhi, None of all the sons of Northland, In her hosts of giant people, In her rising generation, In the hosts of those grown older. Came a hero from a distance, Wirokannas from Karelen, And these words the gray-beard uttered: 'Wait, O wait, thou ox of Suomi, Till I bring my ancient war-club; Then I'll smite thee on thy forehead, Break thy skull, thou willing victim! Nevermore wilt thou in summer Browse the woods of Sariola, Bare our pastures, fields, and forests; Thou, O ox, wilt feed no longer Through the length and breadth of Northland, On the borders of this ocean!' When the ancient Wirokannas Started out the ox to slaughter, When Palwoinen swung his war-club, Quick the victim turned his forehead, Flashed his flaming eyes upon him; To the fir-tree leaped the hero, In the thicket hid Palwoinen, Hid the gray-haired Wirokannas. Everywhere they seek a butcher, One to kill the ox of Suomi, 336 In the country of Karelen, And among the Suomi-giants, In the quiet fields of Ehstland, On the battle-fields of Sweden, Mid the mountaineers of Lapland, In the magic fens of Turya; Seek him in Tuoni's empire, In the death-courts of Manala. Long the search, and unsuccessful, On the blue back of the ocean, On the far-outstretching pastures. There arose from out the sea-waves, Rose a hero from the waters, On the white-capped, roaring breakers, From the water's broad expanses; Nor belonged he to the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest; Made his bed within a sea-shell, Stood erect beneath a flour-sieve, Hero old, with hands of iron, And his face was copper-colored; Quick the hero full unfolded, Like the full corn from the kernel. On his head a hat of flint-stone, On his feet were sandstone-sandals, In his hand a golden cleaver, And the blade was copper-handled. Thus at last they found a butcher, Found the magic ox a slayer. Nothing has been found so mighty That it has not found a master. As the sea-god saw his booty, Quickly rushed he on his victim, Hurled him to his knees before him, Quickly felled the calf of Suomi, Felled the young ox of Karelen. Bountifully meat was furnished; Filled at least a thousand hogsheads Of his blood were seven boatfuls, And a thousand weight of suet, For the banquet of Pohyola, For the marriage-feast of Northland. 337 In Pohyola was a guest-room, Ample was the hall of Louhi, Was in length a hundred furlongs, And in breadth was nearly fifty; When upon the roof a rooster Crowed at break of early morning, No one on the earth could hear him; When the dog barked at one entrance, None could hear him at the other. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Hastens to the hall and court-room, In the centre speaks as follows: 'Whence indeed will come the liquor, Who will brew me beer from barley, Who will make the mead abundant, For the people of the Northland, Coming to my daughter's marriage, To her drinking-feast and nuptials? Cannot comprehend the malting, Never have I learned the secret, Nor the origin of brewing.' Spake an old man from his corner: 'Beer arises from the barley, Comes from barley, hops, and water, And the fire gives no assistance. Hop-vine was the son of Remu, Small the seed in earth was planted, Cultivated in the loose soil, Scattered like the evil serpents On the brink of Kalew-waters, On the Osmo-fields and borders. There the young plant grew and flourished, There arose the climbing hop-vine, Clinging to the rocks and alders. 'Man of good-luck sowed the barley On the Osmo hills and lowlands, And the barley grew and flourished, Grew and spread in rich abundance, Fed upon the air and water, On the Osmo plains and highlands, On the fields of Kalew-heroes. 'Time had travelled little distance, 338 Ere the hops in trees were humming, Barley in the fields was singing, And from Kalew's well the water, This the language of the trio: 'Let us join our triple forces, Join to each the other's powers; Sad alone to live and struggle, Little use in working singly, Better we should toil together.' 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Brewer of the drink refreshing, Takes the golden grains of barley, Taking six of barley-kernels, Taking seven tips of hop-fruit, Filling seven cups with water, On the fire she sets the caldron, Boils the barley, hops, and water, Lets them steep, and seethe, and bubble Brewing thus the beer delicious, In the hottest days of summer, On the foggy promontory, On the island forest-covered; Poured it into birch-wood barrels, Into hogsheads made of oak-wood. 'Thus did Osmotar of Kalew Brew together hops and barley, Could not generate the ferment. Thinking long and long debating, Thus she spake in troubled accents: 'What will bring the effervescence, Who will add the needed factor, That the beer may foam and sparkle, May ferment and be delightful?' Kalevatar, magic maiden, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Swiftly moving, lightly stepping, In her trimly-buckled sandals, Steps upon the birch-wood bottom, Turns one way, and then another, In the centre of the caldron; Finds within a splinter lying From the bottom lifts the fragment, 339 Turns it in her fingers, musing: 'What may come of this I know not, In the hands of magic maidens, In the virgin hands of Kapo, Snowy virgin of the Northland!' 'Kalevatar took the splinter To the magic virgin, Kapo, Who by unknown force and insight. Rubbed her hands and knees together, And produced a snow-white squirrel; Thus instructed she her creature, Gave the squirrel these directions: 'Snow-white squirrel, mountain-jewel, Flower of the field and forest, Haste thee whither I would send thee, Into Metsola's wide limits, Into Tapio's seat of wisdom; Hasten through the heavy tree-tops, Wisely through the thickest branches, That the eagle may not seize thee, Thus escape the bird of heaven. Bring me ripe cones from the fir-tree, From the pine-tree bring me seedlings, Bring them to the hands of Kapo, For the beer of Osmo's daughter.' Quickly hastened forth the squirrel, Quickly sped the nimble broad-tail, Swiftly hopping on its journey From one thicket to another, From the birch-tree to the aspen, From the pine-tree to the willow, From the sorb-tree to the alder, Jumping here and there with method, Crossed the eagle-woods in safety, Into Metsola's wide limits, Into Tapio's seat of wisdom; There perceived three magic pine-trees, There perceived three smaller fir-trees, Quickly climbed the dark-green branches, Was not captured by the eagle, Was not mangled in his talons; Broke the young cones from the fir-tree, 340 Cut the shoots of pine-tree branches, Hid the cones within his pouches, Wrapped them in his fur-grown mittens Brought them to the hands of Kapo, To the magic virgin's fingers. Kapo took the cones selected, Laid them in the beer for ferment, But it brought no effervescence, And the beer was cold and lifeless. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Kapo, brewer of the liquor, Deeply thought and long considered: 'What will bring the effervescence, Who will lend me aid efficient, That the beer may foam and sparkle, May ferment and be refreshing?' 'Kalevatar, sparkling maiden, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Softly moving, lightly stepping, In her trimly-buckled sandals, Steps again upon the bottom, Turns one way and then another, In the centre of the caldron, Sees a chip upon the bottom, Takes it from its place of resting, Looks upon the chip and muses 'What may come of this I know not, In the hands of mystic maidens, In the hands of magic Kapo, In the virgin's snow-white fingers.' 'Kalevatar took the birch-chip To the magic maiden, Kapo, Gave it to the white-faced maiden. Kapo, by the aid of magic, Rubbed her hands and knees together, And produced a magic marten, And the marten, golden-breasted; Thus instructed she her creature, Gave the marten these directions. 'Thou, my golden-breasted marten, Thou my son of golden color, Haste thou whither I may send thee, 341 To the bear-dens of the mountain, To the grottoes of the growler, Gather yeast upon thy fingers, Gather foam from lips of anger, From the lips of bears in battle, Bring it to the hands of Kapo, To the hands of Osmo's daughter.' 'Then the marten golden-breasted, Full consenting, hastened onward, Quickly bounding on his journey, Lightly leaping through the distance Leaping o'er the widest rivers, Leaping over rocky fissures, To the bear-dens of the mountain, To the grottoes of the growler, Where the wild-bears fight each other, Where they pass a dread existence, Iron rocks, their softest pillows, In the fastnesses of mountains; From their lips the foam was dripping, From their tongues the froth of anger; This the marten deftly gathered, Brought it to the maiden, Kapo, Laid it in her dainty fingers. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Brewer of the beer of barley, Used the beer-foam as a ferment; But it brought no effervescence, Did not make the liquor sparkle. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Thought again, and long debated: 'Who or what will bring the ferment, Th at my beer may not be lifeless?' 'Kalevatar, magic maiden, Grace and beauty in her fingers, Softly moving, lightly stepping, In her trimly-buckled sandals, Steps again upon the bottom, Turns one way and then another, In the centre of the caldron, Sees a pod upon the bottom, Lifts it in her snow-white fingers, 342 Turns it o'er and o'er, and muses: 'What may come of this I know not, In the hands of magic maidens, In the hands of mystic Kapo, In the snowy virgin's fingers?' 'Kalevatar, sparkling maiden, Gave the pod to magic Kapo; Kapo, by the aid of magic, Rubbed the pod upon her knee-cap, And a honey-bee came flying From the pod within her fingers, Kapo thus addressed her birdling: 'Little bee with honeyed winglets, King of all the fragrant flowers, Fly thou whither I direct thee, To the islands in the ocean, To the water-cliffs and grottoes, Where asleep a maid has fallen, Girdled with a belt of copper By her side are honey-grasses, By her lips are fragrant flowers, Herbs and flowers honey-laden; Gather there the sweetened juices, Gather honey on thy winglets, From the calyces of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, Bring it to the hands of Kapo, To the hands of Osmo's daughter.' 'Then the bee, the swift-winged birdling, Flew away with lightning-swiftness On his journey to the islands, O'er the high waves of the ocean; Journeyed one day, then a second, Journeyed all the next day onward, Till the third day evening brought him To the islands in the ocean, To the water-cliffs and grottoes; Found the maiden sweetly sleeping, In her silver-tinselled raiment, Girdled with a belt of copper, In a nameless meadow, sleeping, In the honey-fields of magic; 343 By her side were honeyed grasses, By her lips were fragrant flowers, Silver stalks with golden petals; Dipped its winglets in the honey, Dipped its fingers in the juices Of the sweetest of the flowers, Brought the honey back to Kapo, To the mystic maiden's fingers. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Placed the honey in the liquor; Kapo mixed the beer and honey, And the wedding-beer fermented; Rose the live beer upward, upward, From the bottom of the vessels, Upward in the tubs of birch-wood, Foaming higher, higher, higher, Till it touched the oaken handles, Overflowing all the caldrons; To the ground it foamed and sparkled, Sank away in sand and gravel. 'Time had gone but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, Ere the heroes came in numbers To the foaming beer of Northland, Rushed to drink the sparkling liquor. Ere all others Lemminkainen Drank, and grew intoxicated On the beer of Osmo's daughter, On the honey-drink of Kalew. 'Osmotar, the beer-preparer, Kapo, brewer of the barley, Spake these words in saddened accents: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated, Badly have I brewed the liquor, Have not brewed the beer in wisdom, Will not live within its vessels, Overflows and fills Pohyola!' 'From a tree-top sings the redbreast, From the aspen calls the robin: 'Do not grieve, thy beer is worthy, Put it into oaken vessels, Into strong and willing barrels 344 Firmly bound with hoops of copper.' 'Thus was brewed the beer or Northland, At the hands of Osmo's daughter; This the origin of brewing Beer from Kalew-hops and barley; Great indeed the reputation Of the ancient beer of Kalew, Said to make the feeble hardy, Famed to dry the tears of women, Famed to cheer the broken-hearted, Make the aged young and supple, Make the timid brave and mighty, Make the brave men ever braver, Fill the heart with joy and gladness, Fill the mind with wisdom-sayings, Fill the tongue with ancient legends, Only makes the fool more foolish.' When the hostess of Pohyola Heard how beer was first fermented, Heard the origin of brewing, Straightway did she fill with water Many oaken tubs and barrels; Filled but half the largest vessels, Mixed the barley with the water, Added also hops abundant; Well she mixed the triple forces In her tubs of oak and birch-wood, Heated stones for months succeeding, Thus to boil the magic mixture, Steeped it through the days of summer, Burned the wood of many forests, Emptied all the, springs of Pohya; Daily did the, forests lesson, And the wells gave up their waters, Thus to aid the hostess, Louhi, In the brewing of the liquors, From the water, hops, and barley, And from honey of the islands, For the wedding-feast of Northland, For Pohyola's great carousal And rejoicings at the marriage Of the Malden of the Rainbow 345 To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Metal-worker of Wainola. Smoke is seen upon the island, Fire, upon the promontory, Black smoke rising to the heavens From the fire upon the island; Fills with clouds the half of Pohya, Fills Karelen's many hamlets; All the people look and wonder, This the chorus of the women: 'Whence are rising all these smoke-clouds, Why this dreadful fire in Northland? Is not like the smoke of camp-fires, Is too large for fires of shepherds!' Lemminkainen's ancient mother Journeyed in the early morning For some water to the fountain, Saw the smoke arise to heaven, In the region of Pohyola, These the words the mother uttered: ''Tis the smoke of battle-heroes, From the beat of warring armies!' Even Ahti, island-hero, Ancient wizard, Lemminkainen, Also known as Kaukomieli, Looked upon the scene in wonder, Thought awhile and spake as follows: 'I would like to see this nearer, Learn the cause of all this trouble, Whence this smoke and great confusion, Whether smoke from heat of battle, Or the bonfires of the shepherds.' Kaukomieli gazed and pondered, Studied long the rising smoke-clouds; Came not from the heat of battle, Came not from the shepherd bonfires; Heard they were the fires of Louhi Brewing beer in Sariola, On Pohyola's promontory; Long and oft looked Lemminkainen, Strained in eagerness his vision, Stared, and peered, and thought, and wondered, 346 Looked abashed and envy-swollen, 'O beloved, second mother, Northland's well-intentioned hostess, Brew thy beer of honey-flavor, Make thy liquors foam and sparkle, For thy many friends invited, Brew it well for Lemminkainen, For his marriage in Pohyola With the Maiden of the Rainbow.' Finally the beer was ready, Beverage of noble heroes, Stored away in casks and barrels, There to rest awhile in silence, In the cellars of the Northland, In the copper-banded vessels, In the magic oaken hogsheads, Plugs and faucets made of copper. Then the hostess of Pohyola Skilfully prepared the dishes, Laid them all with careful fingers In the boiling-pans and kettles, Ordered countless loaves of barley, Ordered many liquid dishes, All the delicacies of Northland, For the feasting of her people, For their richest entertainment, For the nuptial songs and dances, At the marriage of her daughter With the blacksmith, Ilmarinen. When the loaves were baked and ready. When the dishes all were seasoned, Time had gone but little distance, Scarce a moment had passed over, Ere the beer, in casks imprisoned, Loudly rapped, and sang, and murmured: 'Come, ye heroes, come and take me, Come and let me cheer your spirits, Make you sing the songs of wisdom, That with honor ye may praise me, Sing the songs of beer immortal!' Straightway Louhi sought a minstrel, Magic bard and artist-singer, 347 That the beer might well be lauded, Might be praised in song and honor. First as bard they brought a salmon, Also brought a pike from ocean, But the salmon had no talent, And the pike had little wisdom; Teeth of pike and gills of salmon Were not made for singing legends. Then again they sought a singer, Magic minstrel, beer-enchanter, Thus to praise the drink of heroes, Sing the songs of joy and gladness; And a boy was brought for singing; But the boy had little knowledge, Could not praise the beer in honor; Children's tongues are filled with questions, Children cannot speak in wisdom, Cannot sing the ancient legends. Stronger grew the beer imprisoned In the copper-banded vessels, Locked behind the copper faucets, Boiled, and foamed, and sang, and murmured: 'If ye do not bring a singer, That will sing my worth immortal, That will sing my praise deserving, I will burst these bands of copper, Burst the heads of all these barrels; Will not serve the best of heroes Till he sings my many virtues.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Called a trusted maiden-servant, Sent her to invite the people To the marriage of her daughter, These the words that Louhi uttered: 'O my trusted, truthful maiden, Servant-maid to me belonging, Call together all my people, Call the heroes to my banquet, Ask the rich, and ask the needy, Ask the blind and deaf, and crippled, Ask the young, and ask the aged; Go thou to the hills, and hedges, 348 To the highways, and the by-ways, Urge them to my daughter's wedding; Bring the blind, and sorely troubled, In my boats upon the waters, In my sledges bring the halting, With the old, and sick, and needy; Ask the whole of Sariola, Ask the people of Karelen, Ask the ancient Wainamoinen, Famous bard and wisdom-singer; But I give command explicit Not to ask wild Lemminkainen, Not the island-dweller, Ahti!' This the question of the servant: 'Why not ask wild Lemminkainen, Ancient islander and minstrel?' Louhi gave this simple answer: 'Good the reasons that I give thee Why the wizard, Lemminkainen, Must not have an invitation To my daughter's feast and marriage Ahti courts the heat of battle, Lemminkainen fosters trouble, Skilful fighter of the virtues; Evil thinking, acting evil, He would bring but pain and sorrow, He would jest and jeer at maidens In their trimly buckled raiment, Cannot ask the evil-minded!' Thus again the servant questions: 'Tell me how to know this Ahti, Also known as Lemminkainen, That I may not ask him hither; Do not know the isle of Ahti, Nor the home of Kaukomieli Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Easy 'tis to know the wizard, Easy find the Ahti-dwelling: Ahti lives on yonder island, On that point dwells Lemminkainen, In his mansion near the water, Far at sea his home and dwelling.' 349 Thereupon the trusted maiden Spread the wedding-invitations To the people of Pohyola, To the tribes of Kalevala; Asked the friendless, asked the homeless Asked the laborers and shepherds, Asked the fishermen and hunters, Asked the deaf, the dumb, the crippled, Asked the young, and asked the aged, Asked the rich, and asked the needy; Did not give an invitation To the reckless Lemminkainen, Island-dweller of the ocean. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

706:The Watch At Midnight Dead stars, beneath the midnight's granite cope and round your dungeon-gulf that blindly grope and fall not, since no lower than any place needs when the wing is dash'd and foil'd the face: is this your shadow on the watcher's thought imposed, or rather hath his anguish taught the dumb and suffering dark to send you out, reptile, the doubles of his lurking doubt, in coasts of night that well might be supposed the exiled hall of chaos late-deposed, to haunt across this hour's desuetude, immense, that whelms in monumental mood the broad waste of his spirit, stonily strewn with the wreck of his eternity? The plumes of night, unfurl'd and eyed with fire, are whirl'd slowly above this watch, funereal: the vast is wide, and yet no way lies open; set no bar, but the flat deep rises, a placid wall. Some throne thou think'st to win or pride of thy far kin; this incomplete and dusty hour to achieve: know that the hour is one, eternally begun, eternally deferr'd, thy grasp a Danaid sieve. O weary realm, O height the which exhausted flight familiar finds, home of its prompting ill! here, there, or there, or there, even the same despair; rest in thy place, O fool, the heart eludes thee still. Rest — and a new abyss suddenly yawns, of this the moment sole, and yet the counterpart: and thou must house it, thou, within thy fleshy Now, thyself the abyss that shrinks, the unbounded hermit-heart: 70 the mightier heart untold whose paining depths enfold all loneliness, all height, all vision'd shores; and the abyss uncrown'd, blank failure thro' each bound from the consummate point thy broken hope implores. The trees that thro' the tuneful morn had made bride-dusk for beams that pierce the melting shade, or thro' the opulent afternoon had stood lordly, absorb'd in hieratic mood, — now stricken with misgiving of the night rise black and ominous, as who invite some fearful coming whose foreblown wind shall bow, convuls'd and shuddering, each dishevell'd brow: the garden that had sparkled thro' its sheen all day, a self-sufficing gem serene, hiding in emerald depths the vision'd white of limbs that follow their own clear delight, exhales towards the inaccessible skies, commencing, failing, broken, scents or sighs: O mother, only, where that thou hidest thee, crown for the lonely brow, bosom for the spent wanderer, or balm for ache: O mother, nightly — undiscoverable — O heart too vast to find, whelming our little desire: we wander and fail — But on the zenith, mass'd, a glittering throng, the distant stars dropt a disdainful song: They said, because their parcel-thought might nor her shadowy vast embrace, nor be refurl'd within that nought which is the hid heart of all place, they said: She is not anywhere! have we not sought her and not seen? 71 nor is there found in earth or air a sign to tell if she hath been! — O fools and blind, not to have found! is her desire not as your own? stirs she not in the arms that round a hopeless clasp, lone with the lone! And the tense lips towards her bliss in secret cells of anguish'd prayer might know her in the broken kiss she prompts nor, prompting, fails to share. We drift from age to age nor waste our strenuous song's exultant tone, disdaining or to rest or haste: because each place is still our throne. The anguish'd doubt broods over Eden; night hangs her rent banners thro' the viewless height; trophies and glories whence a trouble streams of lamentable valour in old dreams: out of its blank the watcher's soul is stirr'd to take unto itself some olden word: O thou that achest, pulse o' the unwed vast, now in the distant centre of my brain dizzily narrow'd, now beyond the last calm circle widening of the starry plain, where, on the scatter'd edge of my surmise, the twilit dreams fail off and rule is spent vainly on vagrant bands the gulfs invite to break away to the dark: they, backward sent, tho' dumb, with dire infection in their eyes, startle the central seat: — O pulse of night, passing the hard throb of sun-smitten blood when the noon-world is fused in fire and blent with my then unattained hero-mood; what will with me the imperious instinct that hounds the gulfs together on that place vanishing utterly out of mortal trace, the citadel where I would seem distinct — if not thou ween'st a vanity, my deep unlighted still, the which thy refluent sweep intolerably dilates, a tide that draws 72 with lunatic desire, distraught and fond, to some dark moon of vastness, hung beyond our little limits of familiar cause, as tho' the tense and tortured voids should dash ruining amorously together, a clash portentous with some rose of thinnest flame, secret, exhaled in the annull'd abyss, that, with this soul, passes in that fell kiss and to the soft-sprung flush all sanctity surrenders, centring in the blossom'd Name, as the dark wings of silence lovingly hover above the adventurous song that fares forth to the void and finds no lip that shares its rapture, just the great wings spreading wide. O mother thou or sister or my bride, inevitable, whom this hour in me declares, were thine of old such rhythmic pangs that bore my shivering soul, wind-waif upon the shore that is a wavering twilight, thence astray beneath the empty plainness of the day? me thy first want conceived to some dim end, that my unwelcom'd love might henceward tend to the dumb home that draws it in thy breast and the veil'd couch of some divine incest, where thou didst wait some hour of sharp delight to wither up in splendour the stark night and haggard shame that ceremented thy dearth, with purest diamond-blaze, some overbirth of the dark fire thy foresight did enmesh within this hither and thither harried flesh? Ay, yet obscurely stirs, a monstrous worm in the rear cavern of my dazzled thought, a memory that wavers, formless form of superhuman nuptials, clasp'd and caught unto the breast that is our loathed tomb: then, issuing from the violated womb, tremendous birth of dreadful prodigies begotten on the apocalyptic skies: one moment's hope, one thrill alone was given of pinions beating up the parting heaven; but straight thereon the spectral mirk was riven 73 by shapes of snaky horror, grisly jaw, cold fear, and scaly fold, and endless maw. What terror clutch'd me, even as ecstasy smote dire across transfigured mystery? and whose the sin that doom'd thee to disgrace, to haunt the shapeless dark, a burning face, eyes that would cling to mine and lips that seek some baffled kiss, some word they may not speak, condemn'd to yearn where the worn foam is hoar and vain against the unshaken nightly shore. Nightly thy tempting comes, when the dark breeze scatters my thought among the unquiet trees and sweeps it, with dead leaves, o'er widow'd lands and kingdoms conquer'd by no human hands; nightly thou wouldst exalt me in the deep, crown'd with the morn that shines beyond our sleep, nightly renew those nuptials, and re-win virginity, and shed the doubtful sin: but I am born into dividual life and I have ta'en the woman for my wife, a flowery pasture fenced and soft with streams, fill'd with slow ease and fresh with eastern beams of coolest silver on the sliding wave: such refuge the derisive morning gave, shaped featly in thy similitude, to attract earthward the gusty soul thy temptings rack'd. I sicken with the long unsatisfied waiting: the sombre gulfs of night divide: no dawn is shown that keeps its grace nor soon degraded not to brutal fires of noon; and heavy on my soul the tyrant lays his hand, and dazzles with his common blaze eyes that are fain, when evening brings the dew, to cool them in the grasses: few, how few are now the hours that thou mayst claim as thine! — And shall I not take heart? if no divine revealment star me with the diadem hermetic, magian, alchemic gem, shall I not feel the earth with firmer tread if abdicating to the viewless dead 74 the invaluable round of nothingness? Kingdom awaits me, homage, swords, liesse, battle, broad fame in fable, song: shall I confide all hope to scanty shapes that fly in dreams, whom even if they be all I know not, or fore-runners of the One? I go, shaking them from my spirit, to rule and mould in mine own shape the gods that shall be old. — Nay, not thus lightly, heart the winds have mock'd! wings of fierce winds that o'er the star-strown height sweep, and adown the wide world-ways unlock'd feign for thy trouble a last conclusive fight: O heart wherethro' these insolent powers stray, pass and repass, and thou dost foolish hold aught else inspires them than their cynic play, the aimless idle sport they plann'd of old to while the waste hours of their tedious state and shall pursue when thou art seal'd in dust, thou latest toy, framed for this silly fate, to watch their pastime turning, tremble and trust some deathless gain for thee should issue of it imblazed in stars on some thy kindred's brow; O thou, all laughable for thy short wit, not lightly thus shalt thou put off their slight and steady thee to build in their despite secure, some seat, and hold thy being safe, joying in this at last that thou art thou, distinct, no longer in wilful tides a waif: O heart the winds have emptied of all clear and natural impulse, O wasted brain and spirit expent with straining from thy sphere, turn thee to earth, if that be not a cheat, and, childlike, lay thee in her torpid lap, there to reflush these flaccid veins with sap from spilth of sleep, where herbs of drowsy bane spring in slow shade and death is sprinkled sweet, with promis'd coolness dark — perchance a lure.. Thou sleep, at least, receive and wrap me sure in midmost of thy softness, that no flare, disastrous, from some rending of the veil, nor dawn from springs beyond thy precincts, rare 75 with revelation, risen, or dewy-pale exhaled from fields of death, disturb that full absorption of robustness, and I wake in placid large content, replete and dull, fast-grown to earth, whom winds no longer shake. Thick sleep, with error of the tangled wood, and vapour from the evening marsh of sense, and smoothness of the glide of Lethe, would inaugurate his dullard innocence, cool'd of his calenture, elaborate brute: but, all deceitful of his craven hope, the devious and covert ways of dream shall lead him out upon no temper'd beam or thick-grass'd ease, where herbs of soothing shoot in asphodel, but on the shuddering scope and the chill touch of endless distances still thronging on the wingless soul that flees along the self-pursuing path, to find the naked night before it and behind. What night is this, made denser, in his breast or round him, suddenly or first confest after its gradual thickening complete? as tho' the mighty current, bearing fleet the unresting stars, had here devolved its lees, stagnant, contempt, on recreant destinies; as tho' a settling of tremendous pens, above the desolate dream, had shed immense addition to the incumbence of despair downward, across this crypt of stirless air, from some henceforth infrangible attitude, upon his breast, that knows no dawn renew'd, builded enormously, each brazen stage, with rigor of his hope in hopeless age mummied, and look that turns his thew to stone: even hers, that is his strangling sphinx, made known with, on her breast, his fore-erected tomb, engraven deep, the letters of his doom. Terrible, if he will not have me else, I lurk to seize and strangle, in the cells where he hath made a dusk round his delight: 76 whether he woo the bride's incarnate bright and natural rose to shimmer thro' the dense of odour-motes whereby the brooding sense flows forth beyond its aching bounds and lies, full-brimm'd and sombre, around her clear disguise that saturates the dusk with secret gold; or the miraculous rose of Heaven to unfold out from its heart of ruby fire and rain unceasing drift of petals, and maintain a tabernacle about the little hour where his eternity hath phantom power: and terrible I am moulded in the stone that clamps for ever, rigid, stark, alone, round nought but absence of the man he was, some cell of that cold space against whose laws he seeks a refuge in his inner deep of love, and soften'd fire, and quicken'd sleep, tho' knowing that I, the bride his sin dethroned and exiled to the wastes that lie disown'd, can bring that icy want even to the heart of his most secret bliss, that he shall start aghast, to see its burning centre fade and know his hope, the impious, vain, unmade. Lo now, beneath the watch of knitted boughs he lies, close-folded to his newer spouse, creature of morn, that hath ordain'd its fresh dew and cool glimmer in her crystal flesh sweetly be mix'd, with quicken'd breath of leaves and the still charm the spotless dawning weaves. But I have set my hand upon his soul and moulded it to my unseen control; and he hath slept within my shadowy hair and guards a memory how in my far lair the forces of tremendous passion stir: my spectral face shall come between his eyes and the soft face of her, my name shall rise, unutter'd, in each thought that goes to her; and in the quiet waters of her gaze shall lurk a siren-lure that beckons him down halls of death and sinful chambers dim: he shall not know her nor her gentle ways 77 nor rest, content, by her sufficing source, but, under stress of the veil'd stars, shall force her simple bloom to perilous delight adulterate with pain, some nameless night stain'd with miasm of flesh become a tomb: then baffled hope, some torch o' the blood to illume and flush the jewel hid beyond all height, and sombre rage that burst the holy bourne of garden-joy, murdering innocence, and the distraught desire to bring a kiss unto the fleeting centre of the abyss, discovering the eternal lack, shall spurn even that sun-god's garden of pure sense, not wisely wasted with insensate will. I am his bride and was and shall be still, tho' infamous as devil's dam, a fear to wives that watch the cradle-side and hear how I devour the newling flesh, and none shall void my claim upon his latest son, because the father fell beneath my harm, not god invented late, nor anxious charm; tho' with the chemic mind he holds in trust to show me gem, he celebrate the dust; dumb earth, in garb of borrow'd beauty dight by the fond day that curtains him in light; green pleasaunces, whose smiling would attest his heart true-born of her untroubled breast and leaves that beckon on the woodland ways of the stream-side, where expectation strays of water-brides, swift blight to them that see, because the waters are to mirror me:— of these his hunted thought, seeking retreat in narrow light, and some sure bosom-heat to cherish him, and friendly face of kin, shall mould him fancied ancestors, to win some certitude that he is in his home rescued from any doom that bids him roam, and him the blossom of the day presume, unheeding that its roots are in my womb nor song may breathe a magic unconfest of the anterior silence of my breast: 78 but I shall lurk within the sightless stare of his impassive idols, housing there an unknown that allures and makes him fain to perish for his creatures' fancied gain; and they shall gaze and see not while his brood befouls their stony presence with much blood, their children's, and their captive enemies', stretch'd out, exenterate, on those callous knees, and, last, their own, ere some ill-fortuned field drink all of it, since faith forbids them yield and brings to learn in full, the fool's just trade, the gratitude of gods themselves have made. Last, since a pinch of dust may quench the eyes that took the azure curve of stainless skies and still the fiercest heart, he seeks to whelm infinite yearning with a little realm, beating together with ungentle hands, enslaved, the trembling spawn of generous lands, whom he shall force, a busy swarm, to raise, last bulwarks of his whelming discontent, heaven-threatening Babels, iron Ninevehs square-thought with rigid will, a monument of stony rage in high defiant stones eternized with blasphemous intent, and carve the mountain-cone to hide his bones, a wonder to blank tribes of shrunken days: but in that cave before his upstart gates where elder night endures unshaken, waits that foe of settled peace, the smiling sphinx, or foul Echidna's mass'd insidious links, reminding him that all is vanities; and when, at last, o'er his nine roods he lies, stretch'd in the sarcophage whereover grief makes way before one huge gust of relief, not the wing-blast of his vain shade shall drive his wizen'd captives from their dungeon-hive, and make a solitude about his bed; nor the chill thought petrific his low head exudes in rays of darkness, that beyond this perturb'd sphere congeal, an orb of dread: I, Lilith, on his tomb immensely throned, 79 with viewless face and viewless vans outspread; in the wide waste of his unhallow'd work, calm coils of fear, my serpent-brood shall lurk; and I shall muse above the little dust that was the flesh that held my word in trust. Warrior and prince and poet, thou that fain over some tract of lapsing years wouldst reign nor know'st the crown that all thy wants confess is Lilith's own, the round of nothingness: warrior, whose witless game is but to feel thyself authentic thro' the wielded steel and give thy ghost assurance that thou art, what aimless endless wars shall make thy heart arena for the wheeling of their play! king, that wast mighty in the easy way of thy desire, what time these thews were young, how bitter is the wisdom on thy tongue in the late season, when a westering sun shows thee thy work, that it is evil done! O priest and poet, thou that makest God, woe, when the path of thine illusion, trod even to the end, reveals thee thy worn face, eternal hermit of the unhallow'd place! O man, the coward hope of thy despair to be confounded with the driven air, the grass that grows and knows not, the kind herds that are not wrought with dreams nor any words, to hollow out some refuge sunk as deep as that was high thou hadst not sense to keep, and here thy vexing shade to obliterate ensuring that it rise not, soon or late, thou knowing I claim thee whole when that thou art dead. Go forth: be great, O nothing. I have said. Thus in her hour of wrath, o'er Adam's head Lilith, then first reveal'd, a name of dread, thus in her hour of sorrow: and the rage, that drove the giant-hunters in that age since whelm'd beneath the weltering cataclysm, was the mad flight from her instant abysm and iron sadness and unsatisfied 80 despair of kings that by Euphrates' side rein the wing'd steer or grasp the stony mane of lions dared, if so they might obtain surcease of lingering unnamed distress. And if she kept the word forgetfulness absorb'd, sole ear of sunken sleep, it is to them that wander thro' Persepolis, Ekbatan, or where else o'er arrow'd bricks her snakes make the dry noise of trodden sticks, known and well-known how that revolt was dash'd and cruel keeps with lustral silence wash'd. A name of dread reveal'd: and tho' forgot in strenuous times to whom the lyre was not, yet, when her hour awoke, the peoples heard her coming and the winds no more deferr'd that sweep along the expected day of wrath, and rear'd the soaring aisles along her path to house the massive gloom where she might dwell, conjectured, hovering, impenetrable, while o'er the mortal terror crouch'd beneath the shuddering organ pour'd black wave of death; when man withheld his hand from life, in fear to find her, temptress, in the flesh most dear or on the lowliest ways of simple peace — vain-weening he that thus their feud might cease: ay, and the cynic days that thought them blest to know this earth a plunder-ground confest and calm within them of the glutted beast knew her, the emptiness that, when the feast hath quench'd its lamps, makes, in the invaded hall, stray'd steps, reverberated from the wall, sound on the ear like some portentous stride, companion's fixt, to mock our tread, beside, nor near and show his apprehended guise familiar, ease to our intended eyes. Lilith, a name of dread: yet was her pain and loving to her chosen ones not vain hinted, who know what weight of gelid tears afflicts the widow'd uplands of the spheres, and whence the enrapturing breaths are sent that bring a perfume of the secular flowering 81 of the far-bleeding rose of Paradise, that mortal hearts in censer-fume arise unto the heart that were an ardent peace, and whence the sibyl-hints of song, that cease in pale and thrilling silence, lest they wrong her beauty, whose love bade live their fleeting throng, even hers, who is the silence of our thought, as he that sleeps in hush'd Valvins hath taught. She is the night: all horror is of her heap'd, shapeless, on the unclaim'd chaotic marsh or huddled on the looming sepulchre where the incult and scanty herb is harsh. She is the night: all terror is of her when the distemper'd dark begins to boil with wavering face of larve and oily blur of pallor on her suffocating coil. Or majesty is hers, when marble gloom supports her, calm, with glittering signs severe and grandeur of metallic roof of doom, far in the windows of our broken sphere. Or she can be all pale, under no moon or star, with veiling of the glamour cloud, all pale, as were the fainting secret soon to be exhaled, bride-robed in clinging shroud. For she is night, and knows each wooing mood: and her warm breasts are near in the charm'd air of summer eve, and lovingly delude the aching brow that craves their tender care. The wooing night: all nuptials are of her; and she the musky golden cloud that hangs on maiden blood that burns, a boding stir shot thro' with flashes of alluring pangs, far off, in creeks that slept unvisited or moved so smoothly that no ripple creas'd their mirror'd slip of blue, till that sweet dread melted the air and soft sighs stole, releas'd; and she the shame of brides, veiling the white of bosoms that for sharp fulfilment yearn; she is the obscure centre of delight and steals the kiss, the kiss she would return 82 deepen'd with all the abysm that under speech moves shudderingly, or as that gulf is known to set the astonied spouses each from each across the futile sea of sighs, alone. All mystery, and all love, beyond our ken, she woos us, mournful till we find her fair: and gods and stars and songs and souls of men are the sparse jewels in her scatter'd hair. This rose, the lips that kiss, and the young breast they kindle, flush'd throughout its waking snows; and this, that tremulous on the morning blows, heart's youth some golden dew of dream hath blest; auroras, grace and sooth! no tragic west shed splendid the red anger of your close: how soon within this wandering barrow grows the canker'd heap of petals once caress'd! Old odours of the rose are sickening; night, hasten above the corpse of old delight, if in decay the heart cherish some heat, to breed new spice within the charnel-mould, that eyes unseal'd with living dew may greet the morning of the deathless rose of gold. ~ Christopher John Brennan,

707:My fancies are fireflies, Specks of living light twinkling in the dark. he voice of wayside pansies, that do not attract the careless glance, murmurs in these desultory lines. In the drowsy dark caves of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan. Spring scatters the petals of flowers that are not for the fruits of the future, but for the moment's whim. Joy freed from the bond of earth's slumber rushes into numberless leaves, and dances in the air for a day. My words that are slight my lightly dance upon time's waves when my works havy with import have gone down. Mind's underground moths grow filmy wings and take a farewell flight in the sunset sky. The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. My thoughts, like spark, ride on winged surprises, carrying a single laughter. The tree gazes in love at its own beautiful shadow which yet it never can grasp. Let my love, like sunlight, surround you and yet give you illumined freedom. Days are coloured vbubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless night. My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance, and therefore you may remember them. Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song. April, like a child, writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers, wipes them away and forgets. Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past. From the solemn gloom of the temple children run out to sit in the dust, God watches them play and forgets the priest. My mind starts up at some flash on the flow of its thoughts like a brook at a sudden liquid note of its own that is never repeated. In the mountain, stillness surges up to explore its own height; in the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth. The departing night's one kiss on the closed eyes of morning glows in the star of dawn. Maiden, thy beauty is like a fruit which is yet to mature, tense with an unyielding secret. Sorrow that has lost its memory is like the dumb dark hours that have no bird songs but only the cricket's chirp. Bigotry tries to keep turth safe in its hand with a grip that kills it. Wishing to hearten a timid lamp great night lights all her stars. Though he holds in his arms the earth-bride, the sky is ever immensely away. God seeks comrades and claims love, the Devil seeks slaves and claims obedience. The soil in return for her service keeps the tree tied to her, the sky asks nothing and leaves it free. Jewel-like immortal does not boast of its length of years but of the scintillating point of its moment. The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time, unobscured by the dust of history. Alight laughter in the steps of creation carries it swiftly across time. One who was distant came near to me in the morning, and still nearer when taken away by night. White and pink oleanders meet and make merry in different dialects. When peace is active swepping its dirt, it is storm. The lake lies low by the hill, a tearful entreaty of love at the foot of the inflexible. There smiles the Divine Child among his playthings of unmeaning clouds and ephemeral lights and shadows. The breeze whispers to the lotus, "What is thy secret?" "It is myself," says the lotus, "Steal it and I disappear!" The freedom of the storm and the bondage of the stem join hands in the dance of swaying branches. The jasmine's lisping of love to the sun is her flowers. The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom and yet to keep it for himself. Gods, tired of their paradise, envy man. Clouds are hills in vapour, hills are clouds in stone, a phantasy in time's dream. While God waits for His temple to be built of love, men bring stones. I touch God in my song as the hill touches the far-away sea with its waterfall. Light finds her treasure of colours through the antagonism of clouds. My heart to-day smiles at its past night of tears like a wet tree glistening in the sun after the rain is over. I have thanked the trees that have made my life fruitflul, but have failed to remember the grass that has ever kept it green. The one without second is emptiness, the other one makes it true. Life's errors cry for the merciful beauty that can modulate their isolation into a harmony with the whole. They expect thanks for the banished nest because their cage is shapely and secure. In love I pay my endless debt to thee for what thou art. The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies, and the sun says, they are good. Your calumny against the great is impious, it hurts yourself; against the small it is mean, for it hurts the victim. The first flower that blossomed on this earth was an invitation to the unborn song. Dawnthe many-coloured flowerfades, and then the simple light-fruit, the sun appears. The muscle that has a doubt if its wisdom throttles the voice that would cry. The wind tries to take the flame by storm only to blow it out. Life's play is swift, Life's playthings fall behind one by one and are forgotten. My flower, seek not thy paradise in a fool's buttonhole. Thou hast risen late, my crescent moon, but my night bird is still awake to greet thee. Darkness is the veiled bride silently waiting for the errant light to return to her bosom. Trees are the earth's endless effort to speak to the listening heaven. The burden of self is lightened when I laugh at myself. The weak can be terrible because they try furiously to appear strong. The wind of heaven blows, The anchor desperately clutches the mud, and my boat is beating its breast against the chain. The spirit of death is one, the spirit of life is many, Whe God is dead religion becomes one. The blue of the sky longs for the earth's green, the wind between them sighs, "Alas." Day's pain muffled by its own glare, burns among stars in the night. The stars crowd round the virgin night in silent awe at her loneliness that can never be touched. The cloud gives all its gold to the departing sun and greets the rising moon with only a pale smile. He who does good comes to the temple gate, he who loves reaches the shrine. Flower, have pity for the worm, it is not a bee, its love is a blunder and a burden. With the ruins of terror's triumph children build their doll's house. The lamp waits through the long day of neglect for the flame's kiss in the night. Feathers in the dust lying lazily content have forgotten their sky. The flowers which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous. The world suffers most from the disinterested tyranny of its well-wisher. We gain freedom whrn we have paid the full price for our right to live. Your careless gifts of a moment, like the meteors of an autumn night, catch fire in the depth of my being. The faith waiting in the heart of a seed promises a miracle of life which it cannot prove at once. Spring hesitates at winter's door, but the mango blossom rashly runs our to him before her time and meets her doom. The world is the ever-changing foam thet floats on the surface of a sea of silence. The two separated shores mingle their voices in a song of unfathomed tears. As a river in the sea, work finds its fulfilment in the depth of leisure. I lingered on my way till thy cherry tree lost ist bossom, but the azalea brins to me, my love, thy forgiveness. Thy shy little pomegranate bud, blushing to-day behind her veil, will burst into a passionate flower to-morrow when I am away. The clumsiness of power spoils the key, and uses the pickaxe. Birth is from the mystery of night into the grerater mystery of day. These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not to reach any destination. Migratory songs wing from my heart and seek their nests in your voice of love. The sea of danger, doubt and denial around man's little island of certainty challenges him to dare the unknown. Love punishes when it forgives, and injured beauty by its awful silence. You live alone and unrecompensed because they are afraid of your great worth. The same sun is newly born in new lands in a ring of endless dawns. God is world is ever renewed by death, a Titan's ever crushed by its own existence. The glow-worm while exploring the dust never knows that stars are in the sky. The tree is of to-day, the flower is old, it brings with it the message of the immemorial seed. Each rose that comes brings me greetings from the Rose of an eternal spring. God honours me when I work, He loves me when I sing. My love of to-day finds no home in the nest deserted by yesterday's love. The fire of pain tracse for my soul a luminous path across her sorrow. The grass survives the hill through its resurrections from countless deaths. Thou hast vanished from my reach leaving an impalpable touch in the blue of the sky, an invisible image in the wind moving among the shadows. In pity for the desolate branch spring leaves to it a kiss that fluttered in a lonely leaf. The shy shadow in the farden loves the sun in silence, Flowers guess the secret, and mile, while the leaves whisper. I leave no trace of wings in the air, but I am glad I have had my flight. The fireflies, twinkling among leaves, make the stars wonder. The mountain remains unmoved at its seeming defeat by the mist. While the rose said to the sun, "I shall ever remember thee," her petals fell to the dust. Hills are the earth's gesture of despair for the unreachable. Though the thorn in thy flower pricked me, O Beauty, I am grateful. The world knows that the few are more than the many. Let not my love be a burden on you, my friend, know that it pays itself. Dawn plays her lute before the gate of darkness, and is content to vanish when the sun comes out. Beauty is truth's smile when she beholds her own face in a perfect mirror. The dew-drop knows the sun only within its own tiny orb. Forlorn thoughts from the forsaken hives of all ages, swarming in the air, hum round my heart and seek my voice. The desert is imprisoned in the wall of its unbounded barrenness. In the thrill of little leaves I see the air's invisible dance, and in their glimmering the secret heart-beats of the sky. You are like a flowering tree, amazed when I praise you for your gifts. The earth's sacrifical fire flames up in her trees, scattering sparks in flowers. Foretsts, the clouds of earth, hold up to the sky their silence, and clouds from above come down in resonant showers. The world speaks to me in pictures, my soul answers in music. The sky tells its beads all night on the countless stars in memory of the sun. The darkness of night, like pain, is dumb, the darkness of dawn, like peace, is silent. Pride engraves his frowns in stones, loe offers her surrender in flowers. The obsequious brush curtails truth in diference to the canvas which is narrow. The hill in its longing for the far-away sky wishes to be like the cloud with its endless urge of seeking. To justify their own spilling of ink they spell the day as night. Profit smiles on goodness when the good is profitable. In its swelling pride the bubble doubts the turth of the sea, and laughs and bursts into emptiness. Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain its. My clouds, sorrowing in the dark, forget that they themselves have hidden the sun. Man discovers his own wealth when God comes to ask gifts of him. You leave your memory as a flame to my lonely lamp of separation. I came to offer thee a flower, but thou must have all my garden, It is thine. The picturea memory of light treasured by the shadow. It is easy to make faces at the sun, He is exposed by his own light in all directions. History slowly smothers its truth, but hastily struggles to revive it in the terrible penance of pain. My work is rewarded in daily wages, I wait for my final value in love. Beauty knows to say, "Enough," barbarism clamours for still more. God loves to see in me, not his servant, but himself who serves all. The darkness of night is in harmony with day, the morning of mist is discordant. In the bounteous time of roses love is wine, it is food in the famished hour when their petals are shed. An unknown flower in a strange land speaks to the poet: "Are we not of the same soil, my lover?" I am able to love my God because He gives me freedom to deny Him. My untuned strings beg for music in their anguished cry of shame. The worm thinks it strange and foolish that man does not eat his books. The clouded sky to-day bears the visior of the shadow of a divine sadness on the forehead of brooding eternity. The shade of my tree is for passers-by, its fruit for the one for whom I wait. Flushed with the glow of sunset earth seems like a ripe fruit ready to be harvested by night. Light accepts darkness for his spouse for the sake of creation. The reed waits for his master's breath, the Master goes seeking for his reed. To the blind pen the hand that writes is unreal, its writing unmeaning. The sea smites his own barren breast because he has no flowers to offer to the moon. The greed for fruit misses the flower. God in His temple of stars waits for man to bring him his lamp. The fire restrained in the tree fashions flowers. Released from bonds, the shameless flame dies in barren ashes. The sky sets no snare to capture the moon, it is her own freedom which binds her. The light that fills the sky seeks its limit in a dew-drop on the grass. Wealth is the burden of bigness, Welfare the fulness of being. The razor-blade is proud of its keenness when it sneers at the sun. The butterfly has leisure to love the lotus, not the bee busily storing honey. Child, thou bringest to my heart the babble of the wind and the water, the flower's speechless secrets, the clouds' dreams, the mute gaze of wonder of the morning sky. The rainbow among the clouds may be great but the little butterfly among the bushes is greater. The mist weaves her net round the morning, captivates him, and makes him blind. The Morning Star whispers to Dawn, "Tell me that you are only for me." "Yes," she answers, "And also only for that nameless flower." The sky remains infinitely vacant for earth there to build its heaven with dreams. Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection. Let the evening forgive the mistakes of the day and thus win peace for herself. Beauty smiles in the confinement of the bud, in the heart of a sweet incompleteness. Your flitting love lightly brushed with its wings my sun-flower and never asked if it was ready to surrender its honey. Leaves are silences around flowers which are their words. The tree bears its thousand years as one large majestic moment. My offerings are not for the temple at the end of the road, but for the wayside shrines that surprise me at every bend. Hour smile, my love, like the smell of a strange flower, is simple and inexplicable. Death laughs when the merit of the dead is exaggerated for it swells his store with more than he can claim. The sigh of the shore follows in vain the breeze that hastens the ship across the sea. Truth loves its limits, for there it meets the beautiful. Between the shores of Me and Thee there is the loud ocean, my own surging self, which I long to cross. The right to possess boasts foolishly of its right to enjoy. The rose is a great deal more than a blushing apology for the thorn. Day offers to the silence of stars his golden lute to be tuned for the endless life. The wise know how to teach, the fool how to smite. The centre is still and silent in the heart of an enternal dance of circles. The judge thinks that he is just when he compares The oil of another's lamp with the light of his own. The captive flower in the King's wreath smiles bitterly when the meadow-flower envies her. Its store of snow is the hill's own burden, its outpouring if streams is borne by all the world. Listen to the prayer of the forest for its freedom in flowers. Let your love see me even through the barrier of nearness. The spirit of work in creation is there to carry and help the spirit of play. To carry the burden of the insturment, count the cost of its material, and never to know that it is for music, is the tragedy of deaf life. Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark. I bring to thee, night, my day's empty cup, to be cleansed with thy cool darkness for a new morning's festival. The mountain fir, in its rustling, modulates the memory of its fights with the storm into a hymn of peace. God honoured me with his fight when I was rebellious, He ignored me when I was languid. The sectarina thinks that he has the sea ladled into his private pond. In the shady depth of life are the lonely nests of memories that shrink from words. Let my love find its strength in the service of day, its peace in the union of night. Life sends up in blades of grass its silent hymn of praise to the unnamed Light. The stars of night are to me the memorials of my day's faded flowers. Open thy door to that which must go, for the loss becomes unseemly when obstructed. True end is not in the reaching of the limit, but in a completion which is limitless. The shore whispers to the sea: "Write to me what thy waves struggle to say." The sea writes in foam again and again and wipes off the lines in a boisterous despair. Let the touch ofthy finger thrill my life's strings and make the music thine and mine. The inner world rounded in my life like a fruit, matured in joy and sorrow, will drop into the darkness of the orogonal soil for some further course of creation. Form is in Matter, rhythm in Force, meaning in the Person. There are seekers of wisdom and seekers of wealth, I seek thy company so that I may sing. As the tree its leaves, I shed my words on the earth, let my thoughts unuttered flower in thy silence. My faith in truth, my vision of the perfect, help thee, Master, in thy creation. All the delights that I have felt in life's fruits and flowers let me offer to thee at the end of the feast, in a perfect union of love. Some have thought deeply and explored the meaning of thy truth, and they are great; I have listened to catch the music of thy play, and I am glad. The tree is a winged spirit released from the bondage of seed, pursuing its adventure of life across the unknown. The lotus offers its beauty to the heaven, the grass its service to the earth. The sun's kiss mellows into abandonment the miserliness of the green fruit clinging to its stem. The flame met the earthen lamp in me, and what a great marvel of light! Mistakes live in the neighbourhood of truth and therefore delude us. The cloud laughed at the rainbow saying that is was an upstart gaudy in its emptiness. The rainbow calmly answered, "I am as inevitably real as tha sun himself." Let me not grope in vain in the dark but keep my mind still in the faith that the day will break and truth will appear in its simplicity. Through the silent night I hear the returning vagrant hopes of the morning knock at my heart. My new love comes bringing to me the eternal wealth of the old. The earth gazes at the moon and wonders that she sould have all her music in her smile. Day with its glare of curiosity puts the stars to flight. My mind has itstrue union with thee, O sky, at the window which is mine own, and not in the open where thou hast thy sole kingdom. Man claims God's flowers as his own when he weaves them in a garland. The buried city, laid bare to the sun of a new age, is ashamed that is has lost all its song. Like my heart's pain that has long missed its meaning, the sun's rays robed in dark hide themselves under the ground. Like my heart'spain at love's sudden touch, they change their veil at the spring's call and come out in the carnival of colours, in flowers and leaves. My life's empty flute waits for its final music like the primal darkness before the stars came out. Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree. The tapestry of life's story is woven with the threads of life's ties ever joining and breaking. Those thoughts of mine that are never captured by words perch upon my song and dance. My soul to-night loses itself in the silent heart of a tree standing alone among the whispers of immensity. Pearl shells cast up by the sea on death's barren beach, a magnificent wastefulness of creative life. The sunlight opens for me the word's gate, love's light its terasure. My life like the reed with ist stops, has its play od colours through the gaps in its hopes and gains. Let not my thanks to thee rob my silence of its fuller homage. Life's aspirations come in the guise of children. The faded flower sighs that the spring has vanished for ever. In my life's garden my wealth has been of the shadows and lights that are never gathered and stored. The fruit that I Have gained for ever is thet which thou hast accepted. The jasmine knows the sun to be her brother in the heaven. Light is young, the ancient light; shadows are of the moment, they are born old. I feel that the ferry of my songs at the day's end will brong me across to the other shore from where I shall see. The butterfly flitting from flower to flower ever remains mine, I lose the one that is netted by me. Your voice, free bird, reaches my sleeping nest, and my drowsy wings dream of a voyage to the light above the clouds. I miss the meaning of my own part in the play of life because I know not of the parts that others play. The flower sheds all its petals and finds the fruit. I leave my songs behind me to the bloom of the ever-returning honeysuckles and the joy of the wind from the south. Dead leaves when they lose themselves in soil take part in the life of the forest. The mind ever seeks its words from its sounds and silence as the sky from its darkness and light. The unseen dark plays on his flute and the rhythm of light eddies into stars and suns, into thoughts and reams. My songs are to sing that I have loved Thy singing. When the voice of the Silent touches my words I know him and therefore I know myself. My last salutations are to them who knew me imperfect and loved me. Love's gift cannot be given, it waits to be accepted. When death comes and whispers to me, "Thy days are ended," let me say to him, "I have lived in love and not in mere time." He will ask, "Will thy songs remain?" I shall say, "I know not, but this I know that often when I sang I found my eternity." "Let me light my lamp," say the star, 'and never debate if it will help to remove the darkness." Before the end of my journey may I reach within myself the one which is the all, leaving the outer shell to float away with the drifting multitude upon the current of chance and change. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Fireflies ,

708:Ballad Of Jesus Of Nazareth I. It matters not what place he drew At first life's mortal breath, Some say it was in Bethlehem, And some in Nazareth. But shame and sorrow were his lot And shameful was his death. The angels sang, and o'er the barn Wherein the infant lay, They hung a star, for they foresaw The sad world's better day, But well God knew what thyme and rue Were planted by his way. The children of the Pharisees In hymn and orison Worshipped the prophets, whom their sires To cruel death had done, And said, 'had we been there their death We had not looked upon.' While the star shone the angels saw The tombs these children built For those the world had driven out, And smitten to the hilt, God knew these wretched sons would bear The self-same bloody guilt. Always had he who strives for men But done some other thing, If he had not led a hermit life, Or had not had his fling, We would have followed him, they say, And made him lord and King. For John was clothed in camel's hair And lived among the brutes; 26 But Jesus fared where the feast was spread To the sound of shawms and lutes, Where gathered knaves and publicans And hapless prostitutes. Like children in the market place Who sullen sat and heard, With John they would not mourn, nor yet Rejoice at Jesus' word; Had Jesus mourned, or John rejoiced, He had been King and lord. II. From Bethlehem until the day He came up to the feast We hear no word, we only know In wisdom he increased, We know the marvelous boy did awe The Pharisee and priest. For wearied men wake to admire A genius in the bud; Before the passion of the world Flows through him like a flood; Ere he becomes a scourge to those Who drink of mankind's blood. Perhaps in him they saw an arm To keep the people still; And fool the meek and slay the weak And give the King his will; And put a wall for armZd men 'Round every pleasant hill. And this is why in after years The Galilean wept; The cup of youth was sweet with truth But a green worm in it crept; And that was dullness clothed in power, And hate which never slept. 27 Through twenty years he drove the plane, And shaped with ax and saw; And dreamed upon the Hebrew writ Unto a day of awe, When he felt the world fit to his grasp As by a mighty law. He looked upon the sunny sky, And 'round the flowering earth; He heard the poor man's groan of woe, And the prince's song of mirth; Then Jesus vowed the life of man Should have another birth. And this is why the Son of Man Wept when he knew the loss, The toil and sacrifice to cleanse A little earthly dross; And that a god to save twelve men Must die upon the cross. III. 'Twas on a pleasant day in June Beneath an azure sky That 'round him stood the multitude And saw within his eye The light that from nor sun nor star Ever was known to fly. And some came out to scoff and laugh, And some to lay a snare; The rhetorician gaped to see: The learnZd carpenter. The money changer, judge and priest, And statesman all were there. Some thought the Galilean mad; Some asked, is he sincere? Some said he played the demagogue To gain the people's ear, And raise a foe against the law 28 That lawful men should fear. But all the while did C¾sar's might Grow big with blood and lust; And no one brooked his tyrant arm, For the statesman said the crust That paupers gnaw is by the law, And that the law is just. From hunger's hovel, from the streets; From horror's blackened niche Earth's mourners came and hands were stretched To touch him from the ditch. Then rose a Scribe and said he turned The poor against the rich. And those who hated C¾sar's rule, Albeit sowed the lie That Jesus stirred sedition up That he might profit by A revolution, which should clothe Himself in monarchy. Through twice a thousand years the world Has missed the words he taught; To forms and creeds and empty show Christ never gave a thought, But wrongs that men do unto men They were the wrongs he fought. He did not eat with washen hands, Nor keep the Sabbath day; He did not to the Synagogue Repair to sing and pray. Nor for to-morrow take a thought, To mar life's pleasant way. He saw that all of human woe Takes root in hate and greed; He saw until men love their kind The human heart must bleed. And that nor hymn nor sacrifice 29 Meets any human need. And this is why he scourged the rich And lashed the Pharisee, And stripped from every pious face The mask hypocrisy; And so laced Mary Magdalene, Caught in adultery. And this is why with grievous fire He smote the lawyer's lore. And every wile of cunning guile Which made the burden more Upon the backs of wretched men, Who heavy burdens bore. Therefore when that the hour was come For him to die, they blent Of many things a lying charge, But at last the argument They killed him with was that he stirred The people's discontent. From thence the world has gone its way Of this truth, deaf and blind, And every man who struck the law Has felt the halter bind, Until his words were choked in death Uttered for human kind. Now did the dreams of Galilee Awake as from a sleep, Fly up from earth, and Life unmasked Life's promise did not keep, And Jesus saw the face of Life, And all who see it weep. God's spirit fled the damnZd earth And left the earth forlorn. No more did Jesus walk the fields, And pluck the ripened corn; Nor muse beside the silent sea, 30 Upon a summer's morn. Before the heart of Christ was pierced With agony divine, He sat him down in a merry mood With loving friends to dine. And once in Cana he did turn The water into wine. Now put from shore, swept far to sea His shallop caught the tide, Arched o'er him was eternity 'Twixt starless wastes and wide. God's spirit seemed withdrawn that once Walked hourly at his side. IV. Gladly the common people heard And called upon his name. But yet he knew what they would do, Christ Jesus knew their frame, And that he should be left alone Upon a day of shame. Sharper than thorns upon the brow, Or nails spiked through the hand Is when the people fly for fear And cannot understand; And let their saviors die the death As creatures contraband. For wrongs that flourish by a lie Are hard enough to bear; But wrongs that take their root in truth Shade every brow with care; And this is why Gethsemane Was shadowed with despair. In dark and drear Gethsemane Hell's devils laughed and raved, When Jesus torn by fear and doubt 31 Reprieve from sorrow craved; For who would lose his life, unless Another's life he saved? V. In youth when all the world appeared As fresh as any flower, Satan besought the Son of Man, New-clothed in godly power, And took him to behold the world Upon a lofty tower. To every man of god-like might Comes Satan once to give The crown, the crosier and the sword And bid him laugh and live, While Hope hides in the wilderness, A hunted fugitive. But neither gold nor kingly crown Tempted the Son of Man He hoped as many souls have hoped, Ever since time began, That love itself can overcome, Hate's foul leviathan Some fix their faith to heaven's grace, And some to saintly bones; Some think that water doth contain A virtue which atones; And some believe that men are saved By penitential groans. But of all faith that ever fired A spirit with its glow That is supreme which thinks that truth No power can overthrow; And he believes who takes and cleaves To the thorny way of woe! For life is sweet, and sweet it is 32 With jeweled sandals shod To trip where happy blossoms shoot Up from the fragrant sod; And what sustains the souls that pass Alway beneath the rod? The book of worldly lore he closed And bound it with a hasp; And in the hour of danger came No king with friendly clasp. It was the hand of love against The anger of the asp. Since Jesus died the lust of kings Has linked the cross and crown; And slaughtered millions whom to save From heaven he came down; And all to tame the mind of man To his divine renown. But whether he were man or god This thing at least is true; He hated with a lordly hate The Gentile and the Jew, Who robbed the poor and wronged the weak, And kept the widow's due. And those all clothed in raiment soft, Who in kings' houses dwell; And those who compass sea and land Their proselytes to swell; And when they make one he is made Two-fold the child of hell. And those who tithe of anise give, But sharpen beak and claw; And those who plait the web of hate The heart of man to flaw; And hungry lawyers who pile up The burdens of the law. I wonder not they slew the Christ 33 And put upon his brow The cruel crown of thorns, I know The world would do it now; And none shall live who on himself Shall take the self-same vow. And none shall live who tries to balk The heavy hand of greed; And he who hopes for human help Against his hour of need Will find the souls he tried to save Ready to make him bleed. For he who flays the hypocrite, And scourges with a thong The money changer, soon will find The money changer strong; And even the people will incline To think his mission wrong. And pious souls will say he is At best a castaway; Some will remember he blasphemed And broke the Sabbath day. And the coward friend will fool his heart And then he will betray. At last the Scribe and Pharisee No longer could abide The tumult which his words stirred up In every country side; And so they made a sign, which meant He must be crucified. For him no sword was raised, no king Came forward for his sake; And every son of mammon laughed To see death overtake The fool who fastened to the truth And made his life the stake. VI. 34 Upon a day when Jesus' soul Like an angel's voice did quire, The heart of all the people burned With a white and holy fire; And they did sweep to make him king Over the world's empire. His kingdom was not of this world, But this they would not own; And he to save themselves did go To a mountain place alone, And there did pray that holy Truth Might find somewhere a throne. When Henry was by Francis sought To make him emperor, They walked upon a cloth of gold, As sovereign lords of war. And trumpets blew and banners flew About the royal car. When Caesar back to Rome returned With all the world subdued, The soldiers and the priests did shout, And cried the multitude; For he had slain his country's foes, And drenched their land with blood. But all the triumph of the Christ That ever came to pass Was when he rode amidst a mob Upon a borrowed ass; And this is all the worldly pomp A genius ever has. His cloth of gold were branches cut And strewn upon the ground; And every money-changer laughed, And the judges looked and frowned; But no one saw a flag unfurled, Or heard a bugle sound. 35 To-day whene'er a coxcomb king Visits a foreign shore, The simple people deck themselves And all the cannon roar. But it would not do such grace to show To a soul of lordly lore. VII. Of all sad suppers ever spread For broken hearts to eat, That was the saddest where the Christ Did serve the bread and meat; And, ere he served them, washed with care Each worn disciple's feet. And who would hold in memory That supper, let him call His loved friends about his board And serve them one and all; And with a loving spirit crown The simple festival. For this I hold to be the truth, And Jesus said the same; That men who meet as brothers, they Are gathered in his name; And only for its evil deeds A soul he will disclaim. Through climes of sun and climes of snow Full many a wretched knight, The holy grail, without avail Did make his life's delight, And lo! the thing it symbolized Was ever in their sight. The cup whereof Christ Jesus drank Was wholly without grace; And whether made of stone or wood Was lost or broke apace. 36 And no one thought to keep a cup While looking in his face. They kept no cup, their only thought Was for the morrow morn. And as he passed the wine and bread With pallid hands and worn, Peter did swear he would not leave His stricken lord forlorn. John, the beloved, on his breast, Wept while the hour did pass. Judas did groan when Jesus struck Behind his soul's arras. All trembled for the bitter hate, And power of Caiaphas. But for that simple, farewell feast In Holland, France and Spain, Ten million men as true as John Were racked and burnt and slain, As if they held remembrance of The farewell feast of Cain. Had Jesus known what fratricide Over his words would fall I think he would have gone straightway Up to the judgment hall, And never broken bread or drunk The cup his friends withal. Though a good tree brings forth good fruit, What good bears naught but good? What sum of saintly life contains No grain of devil's food? What purest truth when past its youth Is not its own falsehood? And every rod wherewith the wise Have cleft each barrier sea, That men might walk across and reach The land of liberty, 37 In hands of kings were snakes whose stings Were worse than slavery. VIII. The rulers thought it best to wait Till Jesus were alone; They had forgot the coward crowd Never protects its own, But leaves its leaders to the whim Of wrong upon a throne. Had malcontents for Pilate sought To do a treasonous thing, Ten thousand loyal fishermen Had made the traitors swing; For they are taught they cannot live Unless they have a king. But soldiers came with swords and staves To sieze one helpless man. And only Peter had a sword To smite the craven clan And only Peter stood his ground, And all the people ran. I wish, since Jesus by the world Is held to be divine, That he had lived to give to men A perfect anodyne, And raise to human liberty A world compelling shrine. A shrine 'round which should lie to-day The world's discarded crowns, And swords and guns and gilded gawds And monkish beads and gowns; But, as it is, upon these things, They say, he never frowns. And only by an argument Can any being show 38 That Jesus would chop out and burn These monstrous roots of woe. And so these roots are living yet, And still the roots do grow. Unto this day in divers lands Pilate is singled out For curses that he did not save Christ from the rabble's shout; But they forget he was a judge, And had a judge's doubt. The sickly fear of the rulers' sneer Clutches the judge's heart. And to hide behind a hoary lie Is the judge's highest art; And the judgment hall has a door that leads To the room of the money mart. The laws wherewith men murder men Are dark with skeptic slime; They are not stars that point the way To truth in every clime. Wherefore was Jesus crucified, For what was not a crime. When Pilate questioned what is truth He did not mean to jest; He meant to show when life's at stake How difficult the quest Through hollow rules and empty forms To truth's ingenuous test. And Pilate might have pardoned him Had not the lawyers said, The Galilean strove to put A crown upon his head. And how could Jesus be a king, Who blood had never shed? The trial of Jesus long ago Was cursed in solemn rhyme; 39 For the judgment hall was but farcical And the trial a pantomime. Save that it led to a felon's death For what was not a crime. The common people on that day Had enough black-bread to eat. And what to them was another's woe Before the judgment seat? They were content that day to keep From pit-falls their own feet. Had Herod stood, whate'er the charge, Before the people's bar The sophists would have cut it down With reason's scimitar, And called the peasants to enforce The judgment near and far. And had they failed to save their king From every foul mischance The banded Anarchs of the world Had held them in durance, As afterward the crownZd heads Did punish recreant France. IX. So it fell out amid the rout Of captain, lord and priest, They bound his hands with felon bands And they flogged him like a beast. And Pilate washed his hands, and then For them a thief released. And only women solaced him, And one mad courtesan, 'Save thou thyself,' the elders cried, 'Who came to rescue man.' Where were the common people then? The common people ran. 40 Between two thieves upon a hill The terror to proclaim They racked his body on a cross Till his thirst was like a flame; And they mocked his woe and they wagged their heads, And they spat upon his name. God thought a picture like to this, Fire-limned against the sky, Once seen, would never fade away From the world's careless eye; And that the lesson that it taught No soul could wander by. God thought the shadow of this cross, Athwart the mad world's ken, Would stay with shame the hands that kill The men who die for men, And that no soul for love of truth Need ever die again. Many a man the valley of death With fearless step hath trod; The prophet is a phoenix soul, And the wretch is a sullen clod. But Jesus in his death became Liker unto a god Liker unto a god he grew Who walked through heaven and hell; He died as he forgave the mob That 'round the cross did yell. They knew not what they did, and this Jesus, the god, knew well. For hate is spawned of ignorance And ignorance of hate. And all the fangZd shapes that creep From their incestuous state Enter the gardens of the world, And cursZd keep their fate. 41 Near Gadara did Jesus drive By an occult power and sign The unclean devils from a loon Into a herd of swine. But the swinish devils entered the Scribes, And slew a soul divine. Christ healed the blind, but could not ope The eyes of ignorance, Nor turn to wands of peace and love Hate's bloody sword and lance; But the swinish fiends who took his life Received a pardoning glance. And Jesus raised the dead to life, And he cured the lame and halt But he could not heal a hateful soul, And keep it free from fault; Nor bring the savour back again To the world's trampled salt. X. After his death the rulers slept, And the judges were at ease; For they had killed a rebel soul And strewed his devotees; But the imp of time is a thing perverse, And laughs at men's decrees. For it is vain to kill a man, His life to stigmatize; Herein the wisdom of the world Is folly to the wise; For those the world doth kill, the world Will surely canonize. To look upon a lovZd face By the Gorgon Death made stone, Will make the heart leap up with fear And the soul with sorrow groan; 42 Alas! who knows what thing he knew Ere the light of life was flown? Who knows what tears did start to well, But were frozen at their source? Who knows his ashen grief who felt That iron hand of force? Or what black thing he saw before He grew a lifeless corse? And, much of hope, but more of woe Falls with the chastening rod, As the living think of an orphan soul That the spectral ways may trod, And how that orphan soul must cry In its new world after God. So the fisherman did sigh at night, For a dream-face haunted them. By day they hid as branded men Within Jerusalem. And the common people, safe at home, Did breathe a requiem. But where he lay, one fearless soul, Mad Magdalene, from whom Christ cast the seven devils out, Came in the morning's gloom, And thence arose the burning faith That Christ rose from the tomb But all do know the mind of man Mixes the false and true, And deifies each Son of God That ever hatred slew; And weaves him magic tales to tell Of what the man could do. The legends grow, as grow they must The wonder to equip. And ere they write the legends out, They pass from lip to lip, 43 Till a simple life becomes a theme For studied scholarship. But this I know that after Christ Did die on Calvary, He never more did preach to men, Nor scourge the Pharisee; Else it was vain to still his voice And nail him to a tree. Nor scribe nor priest were ever more By him disquieted. And little did it mean to them That he rose from the dead. For greed can sleep when it has killed The thing that it did dread. And never a king or satrap knew That Christ the tomb had rent; He might have lived a second life, With every lord's consent, If never more he sought to stir The people's discontent. He might have risen from the dead And gone to Galilee; And there paced out a hundred years In a sorrowed revery, If he but never preached again The creed humanity. XI. To distant lands did Jesus' words, Like sparks that burst in flame, Fly forth to light the ways of dole, And blind the eyes of shame, Till subtle kings, to staunch their wounds, Did conjure with his name. When kings did pilfer Jesus' might, His words of love were turned 44 To swords and goads and heavy loads, And rods and brands that burned; And never had the world before So piteously mourned. Of peasant Mary they did make A statue all of gold; And placed a crown upon her head With jewels manifold. And Jesus' words were strained and drawn This horror to uphold. They robed a rebel royally, And placed within his hand A scepter, that himself should be One of their murderous band. And it is tragical that men Can never understand. For Herod crowned the carpenter With woven thorns of hate. And put a reed within his hand A king to imitate. Now kings have made a rebel soul The patron of the state. And kingcraft never hatched a lie, This falsehood to surpass. For Jesus' only hour of pomp Was what a genius has; He rode amidst a howling mob Upon a borrowed ass. Though his cloth of gold were branches cut And strewed upon the ground; And though the money-changers laughed, While the judges looked and frowned; To-day for him the flag is flown, And all the bugles sound. To-day where'er the treacherous sword Takes lord-ship in the world, 45 The bloody rag they call the flag, In his name is unfurled. And round the standard of the cross Is greed, the python, curled. For wrongs that have the show of truth Are hard enough to bear, But wrongs that flourish by a lie, Shade wisdom's brow with care. And still in dark Gethsemane There lurks the fiend Despair. And still in drear Gethsemane, Hell's devils laugh and rave, Because the Prince of Peace hath failed The wayward world to save. For every word he spoke is made A shackle to enslave. Man's wingd hopes are white at dawn, But the hand of malice smuts. O, angel voices drowned and lost Amid the growl of guts! O spirit hands that strain to draw A dead world from the ruts! God made a stage of Palestine, And the drama played was Life; And the Eye of Heaven sat and watched The true and false at strife; While a masque o' the World did play the pimp, And take a whore to wife. I wonder not they slew the Christ, And put upon his brow A mocking crown of thorns, I know The world would do it now; And none shall live who on himself Shall take the self-same vow. And none shall live who tries to balk The heavy hand of greed. 46 And who betakes him to the task, That heart will surely bleed. But a little truth, somehow is saved Out of each dead man's creed. Out of the life of him who scourged The Scribe and Pharisee, A willing world can take to heart The creed humanity; And all the wonder tales of Christ Are naught to you and me. And it matters not what place he drew, At first life's mortal breath, Nor how it was his spirit rose And triumphed over death, But good it is to hear and do The word that Jesus saith. Until the perfect truth shall lie Treasured and set apart; One whole, harmonious truth to set A seal upon each heart; And none may ever from that truth In any wise depart. ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

709:The Prophecy Of Famine A SCOTS PASTORAL INSCRIBED TO JOHN WILKES, ESQ. Nos patriam fugimus.--VIRGIL. When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye, The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens, Receives the wound, and wonders what it means; His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire; Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views, And fain would speak, but can't--without a Muse. So to the sacred mount he takes his way, Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay, His oaten reed to rural ditties frames, To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims, In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains, The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains. Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore, In rustic weeds--a cook-maid now no more-Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies-Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies. From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale Steals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale. The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays, Fast by her side his amorous descant plays. Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream, And the full chorus dies a-down the stream: The streams, with music freighted, as they pass Present the fair Lardella with a glass; And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan, Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan. But when maturer Judgment takes the lead, These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed; Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe, Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law; Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears, And founds his merit on our servile fears; Then we discard the workings of the heart, 244 And nature's banish'd by mechanic art; Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown; Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown: Then Ostentation marches to our aid, And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade; Beneath their care behold the work refine, Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line; Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear The robes of ancients with a modern air; Nonsense with classic ornaments is graced, And passes current with the stamp of taste. Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er, And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore; Sicilian Muses on our mountains roam, Easy and free as if they were at home; Nymphs, naiads, nereids, dryads, satyrs, fauns, Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns; Flowers which once flourish'd fair in Greece and Rome, More fair revive in England's meads to bloom; Skies without cloud, exotic suns adorn, And roses blush, but blush without a thorn; Landscapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, rise, And new creations strike our wondering eyes. For bards like these, who neither sing nor say, Grave without thought, and without feeling gay, Whose numbers in one even tenor flow, Attuned to pleasure, and attuned to woe; Who, if plain Common-Sense her visit pays, And mars one couplet in their happy lays, As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare, And ask the meaning of her coming there: For bards like these a wreath shall Mason bring, Lined with the softest down of Folly's wing; In Love's pagoda shall they ever doze, And Gisbal kindly rock them to repose; My Lord ----, to letters as to faith most true-At once their patron and example too-Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams, Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping streams; Curious in grief (for real grief, we know, Is curious to dress up the tale of woe), From the green umbrage of some Druid's seat 245 Shall his own works, in his own way, repeat. Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires, No judgment tempers when rash genius fires; Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme, Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time; Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads, By prattling streams, o'er flower-empurpled meads; Who often, but without success, have pray'd For apt Alliteration's artful aid; Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill, Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill: Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit For pacing poesy, and ambling wit, Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race. Thou, Nature, art my goddess--to thy law Myself I dedicate! Hence, slavish awe! Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules Imposed at first, and since observed by fools; Hence those vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue, And bring the sober matron forth to view, With all that artificial tawdry glare Which virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear! Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that waste Of toil, which critics now mistake for taste; Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease, Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please; By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdued, However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude, To northern climes my happier course I steer, Climes where the goddess reigns throughout the year; Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan, She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan. To that rare soil, where virtues clustering grow, What mighty blessings doth not England owe! What waggon-loads of courage, wealth, and sense, Doth each revolving day import from thence? To us she gives, disinterested friend! Faith without fraud, and Stuarts without end. When we prosperity's rich trappings wear, Come not her generous sons and take a share? And if, by some disastrous turn of fate, 246 Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state, Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground, Such refuge as the holy martyr found? Nor less our debt in science, though denied By the weak slaves of prejudice and pride. Thence came the Ramsays, names of worthy note, Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote; Thence, Home, disbanded from the sons of prayer For loving plays, though no dull Dean was there; Thence issued forth, at great Macpherson's call, That old, new, epic pastoral, Fingal; Thence Malloch, friend alike to Church and State, Of Christ and Liberty, by grateful Fate Raised to rewards, which, in a pious reign, All daring infidels should seek in vain; Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught, To this wise town by simple patrons brought, In simple manner utter simple lays, And take, with simple pensions, simple praise. Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream, Where all the little Loves and Graces dream; Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep, And seem themselves to own the power of sleep; Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims; There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs, As once a Syrian bathed in Jordan's flood-Wash off my native stains, correct that blood Which mutinies at call of English pride, And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide. From solemn thought which overhangs the brow Of patriot care, when things are--God knows how; From nice trim points, where Honour, slave to Rule, In compliment to Folly, plays the fool; From those gay scenes, where Mirth exalts his power, And easy Humour wings the laughing hour; From those soft better moments, when desire Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire; When mutual ardours of the melting fair More than repay us for whole years of care, At Friendship's summons will my Wilkes retreat, And see, once seen before, that ancient seat, 247 That ancient seat, where majesty display'd Her ensigns, long before the world was made! Mean narrow maxims, which enslave mankind, Ne'er from its bias warp thy settled mind: Not duped by party, nor opinion's slave, Those faculties which bounteous nature gave, Thy honest spirit into practice brings, Nor courts the smile, nor dreads the frown of kings. Let rude licentious Englishmen comply With tumult's voice, and curse--they know not why; Unwilling to condemn, thy soul disdains To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains, And strictly weighs, in apprehension clear, Things as they are, and not as they appear. With thee good humour tempers lively wit; Enthroned with Judgment, Candour loves to sit; And nature gave thee, open to distress, A heart to pity, and a hand to bless. Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot Of the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot, Who, might calm reason credit idle tales, By rancour forged where prejudice prevails, Or starves at home, or practises, through fear Of starving, arts which damn all conscience here. When scribblers, to the charge by interest led, The fierce North Briton foaming at their head, Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call, And, injured by one alien, rail at all; On northern Pisgah when they take their stand, To mark the weakness of that Holy Land, With needless truths their libels to adorn, And hang a nation up to public scorn, Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage, And hates the faithful, but ill-natured page. The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride; True is the charge, nor by themselves denied. Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear, Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here? If, by low supple arts successful grown, They sapp'd our vigour to increase their own; If, mean in want, and insolent in power, They only fawn'd more surely to devour, 248 Roused by such wrongs, should Reason take alarm, And e'en the Muse for public safety arm? But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway, And follow where true honour points the way, If they revere the hand by which they're fed, And bless the donors for their daily bread, Or, by vast debts of higher import bound, Are always humble, always grateful found: If they, directed by Paul's holy pen, Become discreetly all things to all men, That all men may become all things to them, Envy may hate, but Justice can't condemn. Into our places, states, and beds they creep; They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep. Once--be the hour accursed, accursed the place!-I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race. Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid, By specious arts unwarily betray'd, Madly I leagued against that sacred earth, Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth: But shall I meanly error's path pursue, When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue? Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in? To make the oath, was rash: to keep it, sin. Backward I tread the paths I trod before, And calm reflection hates what passion swore. Converted, (blessed are the souls which know Those pleasures which from true conversion flow, Whether to reason, who now rules my breast, Or to pure faith, like Lyttelton and West), Past crimes to expiate, be my present aim To raise new trophies to the Scottish name; To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?) E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore; To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes, In fullest tide roll down to latest times. Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like thine, An English Muse, the meanest of the Nine, Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strain Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane? Should he from toils of government retire, And for a moment fan the poet's fire; 249 Should he, of sciences the moral friend, Each curious, each important search suspend, Leave unassisted Hill of herbs to tell, And all the wonders of a cockleshell; Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes, Would not the Home step forth and gain the prize? Or if this wreath of honour might adorn The humble brows of one in England born, Presumptuous still thy daring must appear; Vain all thy towering hopes whilst I am here. Thus spake a form, by silken smile and tone, Dull and unvaried, for the Laureate known, Folly's chief friend, Decorum's eldest son, In every party found, and yet of none. This airy substance, this substantial shade, Abash'd I heard, and with respect obey'd. From themes too lofty for a bard so mean, Discretion beckons to an humbler scene; The restless fever of ambition laid, Calm I retire, and seek the sylvan shade. Now be the Muse disrobed of all her pride, Be all the glare of verse by truth supplied. And if plain nature pours a simple strain, Which Bute may praise, and Ossian not disdain,-Ossian, sublimest, simplest bard of all, Whom English infidels Macpherson call,-Then round my head shall Honour's ensigns wave, And pensions mark me for a willing slave. Two boys, whose birth, beyond all question, springs From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings-Shepherds, of Scottish lineage, born and bred On the same bleak and barren mountain's head; By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks; Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist, The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd, Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose; Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes; Where, from their youth inured to winter-skies, Dress and her vain refinements they despise. Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown, With freckles spotted, flamed the golden down, 250 With meikle art could on the bagpipes play, E'en from the rising to the setting day; Sawney as long without remorse could bawl Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal: Oft at his strains, all natural though rude, The Highland lass forgot her want of food; And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest, Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's breast. Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen; Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green: The plague of locusts they secure defy, For in three hours a grasshopper must die: No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there, But the cameleon, who can feast on air. No birds, except as birds of passage, flew; No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo: No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear, Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here: Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran, Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan: No flowers embalm'd the air, but one white rose, Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows; By instinct blows at morn, and when the shades Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. One, and but one poor solitary cave, Too sparing of her favours, nature gave; That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!) Shelter at once for man and beast supplied. There snares without, entangling briars spread, And thistles, arm'd against the invader's head, Stood in close ranks, all entrance to oppose; Thistles now held more precious than the rose. All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan, Were formed to loathe and to be loathed by man, Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite, Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight; Creatures which, when admitted in the ark, Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark, Found place within: marking her noisome road With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad; There webs were spread of more than common size, And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies; 251 In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl; Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall: The cave around with hissing serpents rung; On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung; And Famine, by her children always known, As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne. Here, for the sullen sky was overcast, And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast-A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain, Beat unrelenting on the naked swain, The boys for shelter made; behind, the sheep, Of which those shepherds every day _take keep_, Sickly crept on, and, with complainings rude, On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food. JOCKEY. _Sith_ to this cave by tempest we're confined, And within _ken_ our flocks, under the wind, Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm, Are laid _emong_ yon thistles, dry and warm, What, Sawney, if by shepherds' art we try To mock the rigour of this cruel sky? What if we tune some merry roundelay? Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play. SAWNEY. Ah! Jockey, ill advisest thou, _I wis_, To think of songs at such a time as this: Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks, Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks, Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south, And we forget to live from hand to mouth, Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart The songs of gladness with an aching heart. JOCKEY. Still have I known thee for a silly swain; Of things past help, what boots it to complain? Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite; 252 No sky is heavy, if the heart be light: Patience is sorrow's salve: what can't be cured, So Donald right areads, must be endured. SAWNEY. Full silly swain, _I wot_, is Jockey now. How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood? How, When with a foreign loon she stole away, Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay? Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I Applied those proverbs which you now apply? JOCKEY. Oh, she was _bonny_! All the Highlands round Was there a rival to my Maggy found? More precious (though that precious is to all) Than the rare medicine which we Brimstone call, Or that choice plant, so grateful to the nose, Which, in I know not what far country, grows, Was Maggy unto me: dear do I rue A lass so fair should ever prove untrue. SAWNEY. Whether with pipe or song to charm the ear, Through all the land did Jamie find a peer? Cursed be that year by every honest Scot, And in the shepherd's calendar forgot, That fatal year when Jamie, hapless swain! In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain: Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled, Was seized, and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead. JOCKEY. Full sorely may we all lament that day, For all were losers in the deadly fray. Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains, Well dost thou know were none more hopeful swains; Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride; 253 Two in the field, and three on gibbets died. Ah, silly swains! to follow war's alarms; Ah! what hath shepherds' life to do with arms? SAWNEY. Mention it not--there saw I strangers clad In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid; Saw the Ferrara, too, our nation's pride, Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side. There fell our choicest youth, and from that day _Mote_ never Sawney tune the merry lay; Bless'd those which fell! cursed those which still survive, To mourn Fifteen renew'd in Forty-five! Thus plain'd the boys, when, from her throne of turf, With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf, Vile humours which, in life's corrupted well Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell, Pale Famine rear'd the head; her eager eyes, Where hunger e'en to madness seem'd to rise, Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart, Strain'd to get loose, and from their orbs to start: Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-sunk cell, Where wretchedness and horror loved to dwell; With double rows of useless teeth supplied, Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide, Which, when for want of food her entrails pined, She oped, and, cursing, swallow'd nought but wind: All shrivell'd was her skin; and here and there, Making their way by force, her bones lay bare: Such filthy sight to hide from human view, O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid she threw. Cease, cried the goddess, cease, despairing swains! And from a parent hear what Jove ordains. Pent in this barren corner of the isle, Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile; Like nature's bastards, reaping for our share What was rejected by the lawful heir; Unknown amongst the nations of the earth, Or only known to raise contempt and mirth; Long free, because the race of Roman braves 254 Thought it not worth their while to make us slaves; Then into bondage by that nation brought, Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought; Whom still with unslaked hate we view, and still, The power of mischief lost, retain the will; Consider'd as the refuse of mankind, A mass till the last moment left behind, Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay, Whether to stamp with life or throw away; Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this nook, But never enter'd in Creation's book; Branded as traitors who, for love of gold, Would sell their God, as once their king they sold,-Long have we borne this mighty weight of ill, These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still. But times of happier note are now at hand, And the full promise of a better land: There, like the sons of Israel, having trod, For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God, A barren desert, we shall seize rich plains, Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns: With some few natives join'd, some pliant few, Who worship Interest and our track pursue; There shall we, though the wretched people grieve, Ravage at large, nor ask the owners' leave. For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase; For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece; Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our own, And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown: For our advantage shall their harvests grow, And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow: For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill; For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil. When to our wishes Nature cannot rise, Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies; His brawny arm shall drudging Labour strain, And for our pleasure suffer daily pain: Trade shall for us exert her utmost powers, Hers all the toil, and all the profit ours: For us, the oak shall from his native steep Descend, and fearless travel through the deep: The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd, 255 Shall waft the treasures of each distant world: For us, sublimer heights shall science reach; For us, their statesman plot, their churchmen preach: Their noblest limbs of council we'll disjoint, And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint. Devouring War, imprison'd in the North, Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth, And when, his chariot-wheels with thunder hung, Fell Discord braying with her brazen tongue, Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and Fear, And Desolation stalking in the rear, Revenge, by Justice guided, in his train, He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain, Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey, And to meek, gentle, generous Peace give way. Think not, my sons, that this so bless'd estate Stands at a distance on the roll of fate; Already big with hopes of future sway, E'en from this cave I scent my destined prey. Think not that this dominion o'er a race, Whose former deeds shall time's last annals grace, In the rough face of peril must be sought, And with the lives of thousands dearly bought: No--fool'd by cunning, by that happy art Which laughs to scorn the blundering hero's heart, Into the snare shall our kind neighbours fall With open eyes, and fondly give us all. When Rome, to prop her sinking empire, bore Their choicest levies to a foreign shore, What if we seized, like a destroying flood, Their widow'd plains, and fill'd the realm with blood; Gave an unbounded loose to manly rage, And, scorning mercy, spared nor sex, nor age? When, for our interest too mighty grown, Monarchs of warlike bent possessed the throne, What if we strove divisions to foment, And spread the flames of civil discontent, Assisted those who 'gainst their king made head, And gave the traitors refuge when they fled? When restless Glory bade her sons advance, And pitch'd her standard in the fields of France, What if, disdaining oaths,--an empty sound, 256 By which our nation never shall be bound,-Bravely we taught unmuzzled War to roam, Through the weak land, and brought cheap laurels home? When the bold traitors, leagued for the defence Of law, religion, liberty, and sense, When they against their lawful monarch rose, And dared the Lord's anointed to oppose, What if we still revered the banish'd race, And strove the royal vagrants to replace; With fierce rebellions shook the unsettled state, And greatly dared, though cross'd by partial fate? These facts, which might, where wisdom held the sway, Awake the very stones to bar our way, There shall be nothing, nor one trace remain In the dull region of an English brain; Bless'd with that faith which mountains can remove, First they shall dupes, next saints, last martyrs, prove. Already is this game of Fate begun Under the sanction of my darling son; That son, of nature royal as his name, Is destined to redeem our race from shame: His boundless power, beyond example great, Shall make the rough way smooth, the crooked straight; Shall for our ease the raging floods restrain, And sink the mountain level to the plain. Discord, whom in a cavern under ground With massy fetters their late patriot bound; Where her own flesh the furious hag might tear, And vent her curses to the vacant air; Where, that she never might be heard of more, He planted Loyalty to guard the door, For better purpose shall our chief release, Disguise her for a time, and call her Peace. Lured by that name--fine engine of deceit!-Shall the weak English help themselves to cheat; To gain our love, with honours shall they grace The old adherents of the Stuart race, Who, pointed out no matter by what name, Tories or Jacobites, are still the same; To soothe our rage the temporising brood Shall break the ties of truth and gratitude, Against their saviour venom'd falsehoods frame, 257 And brand with calumny their William's name: To win our grace, (rare argument of wit!) To our untainted faith shall they commit (Our faith, which, in extremest perils tried, Disdain'd, and still disdains, to change her side) That sacred Majesty they all approve, Who most enjoys, and best deserves their love. ~ Charles Churchill,

710:Independence Happy the bard (though few such bards we find) Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind; Dares, unabash'd, in every place appear, And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear: Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead To be the slave of Greatness, to strike sail When, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail, Quality in full plumage passes by; He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye, And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state, And is above conversing with the great. Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill, Who have conspired to seize that sacred hill Where the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain, And sunk the mountain level with the plain; Who, with mean, private views, and servile art, No spark of virtue living in their heart, Have basely turn'd apostates; have debased Their dignity of office; have disgraced, Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand, And caused their name to stink through all the land; Have stoop'd to prostitute their venal pen For the support of great, but guilty men; Have made the bard, of their own vile accord, Inferior to that thing we call a lord. What is a lord? Doth that plain simple word Contain some magic spell? As soon as heard, Like an alarum bell on Night's dull ear, Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear Than other words? Whether we will or no, Through Reason's court doth it unquestion'd go E'en on the mention, and of course transmit Notions of something excellent; of wit Pleasing, though keen; of humour free, though chaste; Of sterling genius, with sound judgment graced; Of virtue far above temptation's reach, And honour, which not malice can impeach? Believe it not--'twas Nature's first intent, 71 Before their rank became their punishment, They should have pass'd for men, nor blush'd to prize The blessings she bestow'd; she gave them eyes, And they could see; she gave them ears--they heard; The instruments of stirring, and they stirr'd; Like us, they were design'd to eat, to drink, To talk, and (every now and then) to think; Till they, by Pride corrupted, for the sake Of singularity, disclaim'd that make; Till they, disdaining Nature's vulgar mode, Flew off, and struck into another road, More fitting Quality, and to our view Came forth a species altogether new, Something we had not known, and could not know, Like nothing of God's making here below; Nature exclaim'd with wonder--'Lords are things, Which, never made by me, were made by kings.' A lord (nor let the honest and the brave, The true old noble, with the fool and knave Here mix his fame; cursed be that thought of mine, Which with a B---- and E---- should Grafton join), A lord (nor here let Censure rashly call My just contempt of some, abuse of all, And, as of late, when Sodom was my theme, Slander my purpose, and my Muse blaspheme, Because she stops not, rapid in her song, To make exceptions as she goes along, Though well she hopes to find, another year, A whole minority exceptions here), A mere, mere lord, with nothing but the name, Wealth all his worth, and title all his fame, Lives on another man, himself a blank, Thankless he lives, or must some grandsire thank For smuggled honours, and ill-gotten pelf; A bard owes all to Nature, and himself. Gods! how my soul is burnt up with disdain, When I see men, whom Phoebus in his train Might view with pride, lackey the heels of those Whom Genius ranks among her greatest foes! And what's the cause? Why, these same sons of Scorn, No thanks to them, were to a title born, And could not help it; by chance hither sent, 72 And only deities by accident. Had Fortune on our getting chanced to shine, Their birthright honours had been yours or mine, 'Twas a mere random stroke; and should the Throne Eye thee with favour, proud and lordly grown, Thou, though a bard, might'st be their fellow yet: But Felix never can be made a wit. No, in good faith--that's one of those few things Which Fate hath placed beyond the reach of kings: Bards may be lords, but 'tis not in the cards, Play how we will, to turn lords into bards. A bard!--a lord!--why, let them, hand in hand, Go forth as friends, and travel through the land; Observe which word the people can digest Most readily, which goes to market best, Which gets most credit, whether men will trust A bard, because they think he may be just, Or on a lord will chose to risk their gains, Though privilege in that point still remains. A bard!--a lord!--let Reason take her scales, And fairly weigh those words, see which prevails, Which in the balance lightly kicks the beam, And which, by sinking, we the victor deem. 'Tis done, and Hermes, by command of Jove, Summons a synod in the sacred grove, Gods throng with gods to take their chairs on high, And sit in state, the senate of the sky, Whilst, in a kind of parliament below, Men stare at those above, and want to know What they're transacting: Reason takes her stand Just in the midst, a balance in her hand, Which o'er and o'er she tries, and finds it true: From either side, conducted full in view, A man comes forth, of figure strange and queer; We now and then see something like them here. The first was meagre, flimsy, void of strength, But Nature kindly had made up in length What she in breadth denied; erect and proud, A head and shoulders taller than the crowd, He deem'd them pigmies all; loose hung his skin O'er his bare bones; his face so very thin, So very narrow, and so much beat out, 73 That physiognomists have made a doubt, Proportion lost, expression quite forgot, Whether it could be call'd a face or not; At end of it, howe'er, unbless'd with beard, Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd; With legs, which we might well conceive that Fate Meant only to support a spider's weight, Firmly he strove to tread, and with a stride, Which show'd at once his weakness and his pride, Shaking himself to pieces, seem'd to cry, 'Observe, good people, how I shake the sky.' In his right hand a paper did he hold, On which, at large, in characters of gold, Distinct, and plain for those who run to see, Saint Archibald had wrote L, O, R, D. This, with an air of scorn, he from afar Twirl'd into Reason's scales, and on that bar, Which from his soul he hated, yet admired, Quick turn'd his back, and, as he came, retired. The judge to all around his name declared; Each goddess titter'd, each god laugh'd, Jove stared, And the whole people cried, with one accord, 'Good Heaven bless us all, is that a Lord!' Such was the first--the second was a man Whom Nature built on quite a different plan; A bear, whom, from the moment he was born, His dam despised, and left unlick'd in scorn; A Babel, which, the power of Art outdone, She could not finish when she had begun; An utter Chaos, out of which no might, But that of God, could strike one spark of light. Broad were his shoulders, and from blade to blade A H---- might at full length have laid; Vast were his bones, his muscles twisted strong; His face was short, but broader than 'twas long; His features, though by Nature they were large, Contentment had contrived to overcharge, And bury meaning, save that we might spy Sense lowering on the penthouse of his eye; His arms were two twin oaks; his legs so stout That they might bear a Mansion-house about; Nor were they, look but at his body there, 74 Design'd by Fate a much less weight to bear. O'er a brown cassock, which had once been black, Which hung in tatters on his brawny back, A sight most strange, and awkward to behold, He threw a covering of blue and gold. Just at that time of life, when man, by rule, The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool, He started up a fop, and, fond of show, Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau, A subject met with only now and then, Much fitter for the pencil than the pen; Hogarth would draw him (Envy must allow) E'en to the life, was Hogarth living now. With such accoutrements, with such a form, Much like a porpoise just before a storm, Onward he roll'd; a laugh prevail'd around; E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound (Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youth Himself he studied by the glass of Truth) He joined their mirth; nor shall the gods condemn, If, whilst they laugh at him, he laugh'd at them. Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace, Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face, And, from his hand received, with fair regard Placed in her other scale the name of Bard. Then, (for she did as judges ought to do, She nothing of the case beforehand knew, Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws, Nor, basely to anticipate a cause, Compell'd solicitors, no longer free, To show those briefs she had no right to see) Then she with equal hand her scales held out, Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt; She held her scales out fair to public view, The Lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew, More light than air, deceitful in the weight; The Bard, preponderating, kept his state; Reason approved, and with a voice, whose sound Shook earth, shook heaven, on the clearest ground Pronouncing for the Bards a full decree, Cried--'Those must honour them, who honour me; They from this present day, where'er I reign, 75 In their own right, precedence shall obtain; Merit rules here: be it enough that Birth Intoxicates, and sways the fools of earth.' Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord, I've forged a tale, or alter'd a record; Search when you will, (I am not now in sport) You'll find it register'd in Reason's court. Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre, That I depreciate what I most admire, And look on titles with an eye of scorn, Because I was not to a title born. By Him that made me, I am much more proud, More inly satisfied to have a crowd Point at me as I pass, and cry--'That's he-A poor but honest bard, who dares be free Amidst corruption,' than to have a train Of flickering levee slaves, to make me vain Of things I ought to blush for; to run, fly, And live but in the motion of my eye; When I am less than man, my faults to adore, And make me think that I am something more. Recall past times, bring back the days of old, When the great noble bore his honours bold, And in the face of peril, when he dared Things which his legal bastard, if declared, Might well discredit; faithful to his trust, In the extremest points of justice, just, Well knowing all, and loved by all he knew, True to his king, and to his country true; Honest at court, above the baits of gain, Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain; Moderate in wealth, generous, but not profuse, Well worthy riches, for he knew their use; Possessing much, and yet deserving more, Deserving those high honours which he wore With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame Which all men paid, because he did not claim. When the grim war was placed in dread array, Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey, Or lioness of royal whelps foredone; In peace, as mild as the departing sun, A general blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd, 76 Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd; Ever awake at Pity's tender call, A father of the poor, a friend to all; Recall such times, and from the grave bring back A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack, My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim, And every Muse conspire to swell his fame, Till Envy shall to him that praise allow Which she cannot deny to Temple now. This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget, Delighted with the task, to pay that debt, To pay it like a man, and in his lays, Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise. But let not pride and prejudice misdeem, And think that empty titles are my theme; Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth; I reverence virtue, but I laugh at birth. Give me a lord that's honest, frank, and brave, I am his friend, but cannot be his slave; Though none, indeed, but blockheads would pretend To make a slave, where they may make a friend; I love his virtues, and will make them known, Confess his rank, but can't forget my own. Give me a lord, who, to a title born, Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn. What! shall my pride (and pride is virtue here) Tamely make way if such a wretch appear? Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee To such a shadow of nobility, A shred, a remnant? he might rot unknown For any real merit of his own, And never had come forth to public note Had he not worn, by chance, his father's coat. To think a M---- worth my least regards, Is treason to the majesty of bards. By Nature form'd (when, for her honour's sake, She something more than common strove to make, When, overlooking each minute defect, And all too eager to be quite correct, In her full heat and vigour she impress'd Her stamp most strongly on the favour'd breast) The bard, (nor think too lightly that I mean 77 Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage, The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age, Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measured prose, which they call verse) The real bard, whom native genius fires, Whom every maid of Castaly inspires, Let him consider wherefore he was meant, Let him but answer Nature's great intent, And fairly weigh himself with other men, Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen, Would in full state, like a true monarch, live, Nor bate one inch of his prerogative. Methinks I see old Wingate frowning here, (Wingate may in the season be a peer, Though now, against his will, of figures sick, He's forced to diet on arithmetic, E'en whilst he envies every Jew he meets, Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets) Methinks (his mind with future honours big, His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig) I hear him cry--'What doth this jargon mean? Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen? Majesty!--Bard!--Prerogative!--Disdain Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain: To Bethlem with him--give him whips and straw-I'm very sensible he's mad in law. A saucy groom, who trades in reason, thus To set himself upon a par with us; If this _here's_ suffered, and if that _there_ fool, May, when he pleases, send us all to school, Why, then our only business is outright To take our caps, and bid the world good night. I've kept a bard myself this twenty years, But nothing of this kind in him appears; He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel, licks The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks; He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes, Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse; A creature of the right chameleon hue, He wears my colours, yellow or true blue, Just as I wear them: 'tis all one to him 78 Whether I change through conscience, or through whim. Now this is something like; on such a plan A bard may find a friend in a great man; But this proud coxcomb--zounds, I thought that all Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul.' Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue On which the vile insinuation hung, The heart where 'twas engender'd; cursed be those, Those bards, who not themselves alone expose, But me, but all, and make the very name By which they're call'd a standing mark of shame. Talk not of custom--'tis the coward's plea, Current with fools, but passes not with me; An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried By numbers to o'erpower the better side. Why tell me then that from the birth of Rhyme, No matter when, down to the present time, As by the original decree of Fate, Bards have protection sought amongst the great; Conscious of weakness, have applied to them As vines to elms, and, twining round their stem, Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd support E'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court? As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed, But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need, From which it rose; had bards but truly known That strength, which is most properly their own, Without a lord, unpropp'd they might have stood, And overtopp'd those giants of the wood. But why, when present times my care engage, Must I go back to the Augustan age? Why, anxious for the living, am I led Into the mansions of the ancient dead? Can they find patrons nowhere but at Rome, And must I seek Maecenas in the tomb? Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note Start up, and from report Maecenas quote; Under his colours lords are proud to fight, Forgetting that Maecenas was a knight: They mention him, as if to use his name Was, in some measure, to partake his fame, Though Virgil, was he living, in the street 79 Might rot for them, or perish in the Fleet. See how they redden, and the charge disclaim-Virgil, and in the Fleet!--forbid it, Shame! Hence, ye vain boasters! to the Fleet repair, And ask, with blushes ask, if Lloyd is there! Patrons in days of yore were men of sense, Were men of taste, and had a fair pretence To rule in letters--some of them were heard To read off-hand, and never spell a word; Some of them, too, to such a monstrous height Was learning risen, for themselves could write, And kept their secretaries, as the great Do many other foolish things, for state. Our patrons are of quite a different strain, With neither sense nor taste; against the grain They patronise for Fashion's sake--no more-And keep a bard, just as they keep a whore. Melcombe (on such occasions I am loth To name the dead) was a rare proof of both. Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read, Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed; Others can write, but such a Pagan hand, A Willes should always at our elbow stand: Many, if begg'd, a Chancellor, of right, Would order into keeping at first sight. Those who stand fairest to the public view Take to themselves the praise to others due, They rob the very spital, and make free With those, alas! who've least to spare. We see ---- hath not had a word to say, Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech away. Patrons, in days of yore, like patrons now, Expected that the bard should make his bow At coming in, and every now and then Hint to the world that they were more than men; But, like the patrons of the present day, They never bilk'd the poet of his pay. Virgil loved rural ease, and, far from harm, Maecenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm, Where he might, free from trouble, pass his days In his own way, and pay his rent in praise. Horace loved wine, and, through his friend at court, 80 Could buy it off the quay in every port: Horace loved mirth, Maecenas loved it too; They met, they laugh'd, as Goy and I may do, Nor in those moments paid the least regard To which was minister, and which was bard. Not so our patrons--grave as grave can be, They know themselves, they keep up dignity; Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit That men of fortune rank with men of wit: Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength-'Tis best to keep her weak, and at arm's length. 'Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give, From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live. Such is their language, and their practice such; They promise little, and they give not much. Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain, Praise that proud Scot whom all good men disdain; What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone, He may obtain a patent for the run Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time, With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme; Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace) May at the second table get a place; With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine, And play at crambo o'er his gill of wine. And are there bards, who, on creation's file, Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle The air of freedom, with so little gall, So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fall Before these idols, and without a groan Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone? Better, and much more noble, to abjure The sight of men, and in some cave, secure From all the outrages of Pride, to feast On Nature's salads, and be free at least. Better, (though that, to say the truth, is worse Than almost any other modern curse) Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse, Critics commence, and write in the Reviews; Write without tremor, Griffiths cannot read; No fool can fail, where Langhorne can succeed. But (not to make a brave and honest pride 81 Try those means first, she must disdain when tried) There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts, By which, and fairly, men of real parts May gain a living, gain what Nature craves; Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves. Our real wants in a small compass lie, But lawless appetite, with eager eye, Kept in a constant fever, more requires, And we are burnt up with our own desires. Hence our dependence, hence our slavery springs; Bards, if contented, are as great as kings. Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill; We may be independent, if we will. The man who suits his spirit to his state Stands on an equal footing with the great; Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he Who rules the English nation, not more free. Chains were not forged more durable and strong For bards than others, but they've worn them long, And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgot What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not. Could they, though in their sleep, could they but know The blessings which from Independence flow; Could they but have a short and transient gleam Of Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream, They would no more in bondage bend their knee, But, once made freemen, would be always free. The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains, Can nevermore submit to sing in chains. Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng, The bird repays his keeper with his song; But if some playful child sets wide the door, Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more, With love of liberty begins to burn, And rather starves than to his cage return. Hail, Independence!--by true reason taught, How few have known, and prized thee as they ought! Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys, Resign thee, in their childish moods, for toys; Ambition some, some avarice, misleads, And in both cases Independence bleeds. Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam, 82 Nor know they had thee in their reach at home; Some, though about their paths, their beds about, Have never had the sense to find thee out: Others, who know of what they are possess'd, Like fearful misers, lock thee in a chest, Nor have the resolution to produce, In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use. Hail, Independence!--though thy name's scarce known, Though thou, alas! art out of fashion grown, Though all despise thee, I will not despise, Nor live one moment longer than I prize Thy presence, and enjoy: by angry Fate Bow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam'st, though late, Thou cam'st upon me, like a second birth, And made me know what life was truly worth. Hail, Independence!--never may my cot, Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot: Thither, oh! thither, oftentimes repair; Cotes, whom thou lovest too, shall meet thee there. All thoughts but what arise from joy give o'er, Peace dwells within, and law shall guard the door. O'erweening Bard! Law guard thy door! What law? The law of England. To control and awe Those saucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb, Behold, in state, Administration come! Why, let her come, in all her terrors too; I dare to suffer all she dares to do. I know her malice well, and know her pride, I know her strength, but will not change my side. This melting mass of flesh she may control With iron ribs--she cannot chain my soul. No--to the last resolved her worst to bear, I'm still at large, and independent there. Where is this minister? where is the band Of ready slaves, who at his elbow stand To hear, and to perform his wicked will? Why, for the first time, are they slow to ill? When some grand act 'gainst law is to be done, Doth ---- sleep; doth blood-hound ---- run To L----, and worry those small deer, When he might do more precious mischief here? Doth Webb turn tail? doth he refuse to draw 83 Illegal warrants, and to call them law? Doth ----, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford run, With that cold lump of unbaked dough, his son, And, his more honest rival Ketch to cheat, Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet? Believe it not; ---- is ---- still, And never sleeps, when he should wake to ill: ---- doth lesser mischiefs by the by, The great ones till the term in _petto_ lie: ---- lives, and, to the strictest justice true, Scorns to defraud the hangman of his due. O my poor Country!--weak, and overpower'd By thine own sons--ate to the bone--devour'd By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred, Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed, With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see, And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee. I grieve, but can't despair--for, lo! at hand Freedom presents a choice, but faithful band Of loyal patriots; men who greatly dare In such a noble cause; men fit to bear The weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and Sense, Virtue and Knowledge, leagued with Eloquence, March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile Approves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek, As 'twere by stealth, (her heart too full to speak) One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear, And seems to say, Why is not Granby here?' O ye brave few, in whom we still may find A love of virtue, freedom, and mankind! Go forth--in majesty of woe array'd, See at your feet your Country kneels for aid, And, (many of her children traitors grown) Kneels to those sons she still can call her own; Seeming to breathe her last in every breath, She kneels for freedom, or she begs for death-Fly, then, each duteous son, each English chief, And to your drooping parent bring relief. Go forth--nor let the siren voice of Ease Tempt ye to sleep, whilst tempests swell the seas; Go forth--nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongue 84 With many a fair, false, fatal art is hung, Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way, When your great errand brooks not of delay; Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets, Trembling and pale, 'A lion in the streets,' Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright, Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight: Be as one man--concord success ensures-There's not an English heart but what is yours. Go forth--and Virtue, ever in your sight, Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night-Go forth--the champions of your native land, And may the battle prosper in your hand-It may, it must--ye cannot be withstood-Be your hearts honest, as your cause is good! ~ Charles Churchill,

711:Gotham - Book Ii How much mistaken are the men who think That all who will, without restraint may drink, May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst, Pleading no right but merely that of thirst, At the pure waters of the living well, Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell! Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy, A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy May play untaught, whilst, without art or force, Make it but jingle, music comes of course. Little do such men know the toil, the pains, The daily, nightly racking of the brains, To range the thoughts, the matter to digest, To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest; To know the times when Humour on the cheek Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak, And when be silent; when to use the powers Of ornament, and how to place the flowers, So that they neither give a tawdry glare, 'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;' To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one, One critic in an age, can find when done) To form a plan, to strike a grand outline, To fill it up, and make the picture shine A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time; To make proud Sense against her nature bend, And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend. Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe, Who make it all their business to describe, No matter whether in or out of place; Studious of finery, and fond of lace, Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings, The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings. Let dull Propriety in state preside O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide; Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense, Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime 38 Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time. Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon, With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon; Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore, Let streams meander, and let torrents roar; Let them breed up the melancholy breeze, To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees; Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tinged With various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed, They have their wish; like idle monarch boys, Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys; Give them the crown, the sceptre, and the robe, Who will may take the power, and rule the globe. Others there are, who, in one solemn pace, With as much zeal as Quakers rail at lace, Railing at needful ornament, depend On Sense to bring them to their journey's end: They would not (Heaven forbid!) their course delay, Nor for a moment step out of the way, To make the barren road those graces wear Which Nature would, if pleased, have planted there. Vain men! who, blindly thwarting Nature's plan, Ne'er find a passage to the heart of man; Who, bred 'mongst fogs in academic land, Scorn every thing they do not understand; Who, destitute of humour, wit, and taste, Let all their little knowledge run to waste, And frustrate each good purpose, whilst they wear The robes of Learning with a sloven's air. Though solid reasoning arms each sterling line, Though Truth declares aloud, 'This work is mine,' Vice, whilst from page to page dull morals creep, Throws by the book, and Virtue falls asleep. Sense, mere dull, formal Sense, in this gay town, Must have some vehicle to pass her down; Nor can she for an hour insure her reign, Unless she brings fair Pleasure in her train. Let her from day to day, from year to year, In all her grave solemnities appear, And with the voice of trumpets, through the streets, Deal lectures out to every one she meets; Half who pass by are deaf, and t' other half 39 Can hear indeed, but only hear to laugh. Quit then, ye graver sons of letter'd Pride! Taking for once Experience as a guide, Quit this grand error, this dull college mode; Be your pursuits the same, but change the road; Write, or at least appear to write, with ease, 'And if you mean to profit, learn to please.' In vain for such mistakes they pardon claim, Because they wield the pen in Virtue's name: Thrice sacred is that name, thrice bless'd the man Who thinks, speaks, writes, and lives on such a plan! This, in himself, himself of course must bless, But cannot with the world promote success. He may be strong, but, with effect to speak, Should recollect his readers may be weak; Plain, rigid truths, which saints with comfort bear, Will make the sinner tremble and despair. True Virtue acts from love, and the great end At which she nobly aims is to amend. How then do those mistake who arm her laws With rigour not their own, and hurt the cause They mean to help, whilst with a zealot rage They make that goddess, whom they'd have engage Our dearest love, in hideous terror rise! Such may be honest, but they can't be wise. In her own full and perfect blaze of light, Virtue breaks forth too strong for human sight; The dazzled eye, that nice but weaker sense, Shuts herself up in darkness for defence: But to make strong conviction deeper sink, To make the callous feel, the thoughtless think, Like God, made man, she lays her glory by, And beams mild comfort on the ravish'd eye: In earnest most, when most she seems in jest, She worms into, and winds around, the breast, To conquer Vice, of Vice appears the friend, And seems unlike herself to gain her end. The sons of Sin, to while away the time Which lingers on their hands, of each black crime To hush the painful memory, and keep The tyrant Conscience in delusive sleep, Read on at random, nor suspect the dart 40 Until they find it rooted in their heart. 'Gainst vice they give their vote, nor know at first That, cursing that, themselves too they have cursed; They see not, till they fall into the snares, Deluded into virtue unawares. Thus the shrewd doctor, in the spleen-struck mind, When pregnant horror sits, and broods o'er wind, Discarding drugs, and striving how to please, Lures on insensibly, by slow degrees, The patient to those manly sports which bind The slacken'd sinews, and relieve the mind; The patient feels a change as wrought by stealth, And wonders on demand to find it health. Some few, whom Fate ordain'd to deal in rhymes In other lands, and here, in other times, Whom, waiting at their birth, the midwife Muse Sprinkled all over with Castalian dews, To whom true Genius gave his magic pen, Whom Art by just degrees led up to men; Some few, extremes well shunn'd, have steer'd between These dangerous rocks, and held the golden mean; Sense in their works maintains her proper state, But never sleeps, or labours with her weight; Grace makes the whole look elegant and gay, But never dares from Sense to run astray: So nice the master's touch, so great his care, The colours boldly glow, not idly glare; Mutually giving and receiving aid, They set each other off, like light and shade, And, as by stealth, with so much softness blend, 'Tis hard to say where they begin or end: Both give us charms, and neither gives offence; Sense perfects Grace, and Grace enlivens Sense. Peace to the men who these high honours claim, Health to their souls, and to their memories fame! Be it my task, and no mean task, to teach A reverence for that worth I cannot reach: Let me at distance, with a steady eye, Observe and mark their passage to the sky; From envy free, applaud such rising worth, And praise their heaven, though pinion'd down to earth! Had I the power, I could not have the time, 41 Whilst spirits flow, and life is in her prime, Without a sin 'gainst Pleasure, to design A plan, to methodise each thought, each line Highly to finish, and make every grace, In itself charming, take new charms from place. Nothing of books, and little known of men, When the mad fit comes on, I seize the pen, Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down. Rough as they run, discharge them on the town. Hence rude, unfinish'd brats, before their time, Are born into this idle world of Rhyme, And the poor slattern Muse is brought to bed 'With all her imperfections on her head.' Some, as no life appears, no pulses play Through the dull dubious mass, no breath makes way, Doubt, greatly doubt, till for a glass they call, Whether the child can be baptized at all; Others, on other grounds, objections frame, And, granting that the child may have a name, Doubt, as the sex might well a midwife pose, Whether they should baptize it Verse or Prose. E'en what my masters please; bards, mild, meek men, In love to critics, stumble now and then. Something I do myself, and something too, If they can do it, leave for them to do. In the small compass of my careless page Critics may find employment for an age: Without my blunders, they were all undone; I twenty feed, where Mason can feed one. When Satire stoops, unmindful of her state, To praise the man I love, curse him I hate; When Sense, in tides of passion borne along, Sinking to prose, degrades the name of song, The censor smiles, and, whilst my credit bleeds, With as high relish on the carrion feeds As the proud earl fed at a turtle feast, Who, turn'd by gluttony to worse than beast, Ate till his bowels gush'd upon the floor, Yet still ate on, and dying call'd for more. When loose Digression, like a colt unbroke, Spurning Connexion and her formal yoke, Bounds through the forest, wanders far astray 42 From the known path, and loves to lose her way, 'Tis a full feast to all the mongrel pack To run the rambler down, and bring her back. When gay Description, Fancy's fairy child, Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild, Waking with Nature at the morning hour To the lark's call, walks o'er the opening flower Which largely drank all night of heaven's fresh dew, And, like a mountain nymph of Dian's crew, So lightly walks, she not one mark imprints, Nor brushes off the dews, nor soils the tints; When thus Description sports, even at the time That drums should beat, and cannons roar in rhyme, Critics can live on such a fault as that From one month to the other, and grow fat. Ye mighty Monthly Judges! in a dearth Of letter'd blockheads, conscious of the worth Of my materials, which against your will Oft you've confess'd, and shall confess it still; Materials rich, though rude, inflamed with thought, Though more by Fancy than by Judgment wrought Take, use them as your own, a work begin Which suits your genius well, and weave them in, Framed for the critic loom, with critic art, Till, thread on thread depending, part on part, Colour with colour mingling, light with shade, To your dull taste a formal work is made, And, having wrought them into one grand piece, Swear it surpasses Rome, and rivals Greece. Nor think this much, for at one single word, Soon as the mighty critic fiat's heard, Science attends their call; their power is own'd; Order takes place, and Genius is dethroned: Letters dance into books, defiance hurl'd At means, as atoms danced into a world. Me higher business calls, a greater plan, Worthy man's whole employ, the good of man, The good of man committed to my charge: If idle Fancy rambles forth at large, Careless of such a trust, these harmless lays May Friendship envy, and may Folly praise. The crown of Gotham may some Scot assume, 43 And vagrant Stuarts reign in Churchill's room! O my poor People! O thou wretched Earth! To whose dear love, though not engaged by birth, My heart is fix'd, my service deeply sworn, How, (by thy father can that thought be borne?-For monarchs, would they all but think like me, Are only fathers in the best degree) How must thy glories fade, in every land Thy name be laugh'd to scorn, thy mighty hand Be shorten'd, and thy zeal, by foes confess'd, Bless'd in thyself, to make thy neighbours bless'd, Be robb'd of vigour; how must Freedom's pile, The boast of ages, which adorns the isle And makes it great and glorious, fear'd abroad, Happy at home, secure from force and fraud; How must that pile, by ancient Wisdom raised On a firm rock, by friends admired and praised, Envied by foes, and wonder'd at by all, In one short moment into ruins fall, Should any slip of Stuart's tyrant race, Or bastard or legitimate, disgrace Thy royal seat of empire! But what care, What sorrow must be mine, what deep despair And self-reproaches, should that hated line Admittance gain through any fault of mine! Cursed be the cause whence Gotham's evils spring, Though that cursed cause be found in Gotham's king. Let War, with all his needy ruffian band, In pomp of horror stalk through Gotham's land Knee-deep in blood; let all her stately towers Sink in the dust; that court which now is ours Become a den, where beasts may, if they can, A lodging find, nor fear rebuke from man; Where yellow harvests rise, be brambles found; Where vines now creep, let thistles curse the ground; Dry in her thousand valleys be the rills; Barren the cattle on her thousand hills; Where Power is placed, let tigers prowl for prey; Where Justice lodges, let wild asses bray; Let cormorants in churches make their nest, And on the sails of Commerce bitterns rest; Be all, though princes in the earth before, 44 Her merchants bankrupts, and her marts no more; Much rather would I, might the will of Fate Give me to choose, see Gotham's ruin'd state By ills on ills thus to the earth weigh'd down, Than live to see a Stuart wear a crown. Let Heaven in vengeance arm all Nature's host, Those servants who their Maker know, who boast Obedience as their glory, and fulfil, Unquestion'd, their great Master's sacred will; Let raging winds root up the boiling deep, And, with Destruction big, o'er Gotham sweep; Let rains rush down, till Faith, with doubtful eye, Looks for the sign of mercy in the sky; Let Pestilence in all her horrors rise; Where'er I turn, let Famine blast my eyes; Let the earth yawn, and, ere they've time to think, In the deep gulf let all my subjects sink Before my eyes, whilst on the verge I reel; Feeling, but as a monarch ought to feel, Not for myself, but them, I'll kiss the rod, And, having own'd the justice of my God, Myself with firmness to the ruin give, And die with those for whom I wish to live. This, (but may Heaven's more merciful decrees Ne'er tempt his servant with such ills as these!) This, or my soul deceives me, I could bear; But that the Stuart race my crown should wear, That crown, where, highly cherish'd, Freedom shone Bright as the glories of the midday sun; Born and bred slaves, that they, with proud misrule, Should make brave freeborn men, like boys at school, To the whip crouch and tremble--Oh, that thought! The labouring brain is e'en to madness brought By the dread vision; at the mere surmise The thronging spirits, as in tumult, rise; My heart, as for a passage, loudly beats, And, turn me where I will, distraction meets. O my brave fellows! great in arts and arms, The wonder of the earth, whom glory warms To high achievements; can your spirits bend, Through base control (ye never can descend So low by choice) to wear a tyrant's chain, 45 Or let, in Freedom's seat, a Stuart reign? If Fame, who hath for ages, far and wide, Spread in all realms the cowardice, the pride, The tyranny and falsehood of those lords, Contents you not, search England's fair records; England, where first the breath of life I drew, Where, next to Gotham, my best love is due; There once they ruled, though crush'd by William's hand, They rule no more, to curse that happy land. The first, who, from his native soil removed, Held England's sceptre, a tame tyrant proved: Virtue he lack'd, cursed with those thoughts which spring In souls of vulgar stamp, to be a king; Spirit he had not, though he laugh'd at laws. To play the bold-faced tyrant with applause; On practices most mean he raised his pride, And Craft oft gave what Wisdom oft denied. Ne'er could he feel how truly man is blest In blessing those around him; in his breast, Crowded with follies, Honour found no room; Mark'd for a coward in his mother's womb, He was too proud without affronts to live, Too timorous to punish or forgive. To gain a crown which had, in course of time, By fair descent, been his without a crime, He bore a mother's exile; to secure A greater crown, he basely could endure The spilling of her blood by foreign knife, Nor dared revenge her death who gave him life: Nay, by fond Pear, and fond Ambition led, Struck hands with those by whom her blood was shed. Call'd up to power, scarce warm on England's throne, He fill'd her court with beggars from his own: Turn where you would, the eye with Scots was caught, Or English knaves, who would be Scotsmen thought. To vain expense unbounded loose he gave, The dupe of minions, and of slaves the slave; On false pretences mighty sums he raised, And damn'd those senates rich, whom poor he praised; From empire thrown, and doom'd to beg her bread, On foreign bounty whilst a daughter fed, He lavish'd sums, for her received, on men 46 Whose names would fix dishonour on my pen. Lies were his playthings, parliaments his sport; Book-worms and catamites engross'd the court: Vain of the scholar, like all Scotsmen since, The pedant scholar, he forgot the prince; And having with some trifles stored his brain, Ne'er learn'd, nor wish'd to learn, the art to reign. Enough he knew, to make him vain and proud, Mock'd by the wise, the wonder of the crowd; False friend, false son, false father, and false king, False wit, false statesman, and false everything, When he should act, he idly chose to prate, And pamphlets wrote, when he should save the state. Religious, if religion holds in whim; To talk with all, he let all talk with him; Not on God's honour, but his own intent, Not for religion's sake, but argument; More vain if some sly, artful High-Dutch slave, Or, from the Jesuit school, some precious knave Conviction feign'd, than if, to peace restored By his full soldiership, worlds hail'd him lord. Power was his wish, unbounded as his will, The power, without control, of doing ill; But what he wish'd, what he made bishops preach, And statesmen warrant, hung within his reach He dared not seize; Fear gave, to gall his pride, That freedom to the realm his will denied. Of treaties fond, o'erweening of his parts, In every treaty of his own mean arts He fell the dupe; peace was his coward care, E'en at a time when Justice call'd for war: His pen he'd draw to prove his lack of wit, But rather than unsheath the sword, submit. Truth fairly must record; and, pleased to live In league with Mercy, Justice may forgive Kingdoms betray'd, and worlds resign'd to Spain, But never can forgive a Raleigh slain. At length, (with white let Freedom mark that year) Not fear'd by those whom most he wish'd to fear, Not loved by those whom most he wish'd to love, He went to answer for his faults above; To answer to that God, from whom alone 47 He claim'd to hold, and to abuse the throne; Leaving behind, a curse to all his line, The bloody legacy of Right Divine. With many virtues which a radiance fling Round private men; with few which grace a king, And speak the monarch; at that time of life When Passion holds with Reason doubtful strife, Succeeded Charles, by a mean sire undone, Who envied virtue even in a son. His youth was froward, turbulent, and wild; He took the Man up ere he left the Child; His soul was eager for imperial sway, Ere he had learn'd the lesson to obey. Surrounded by a fawning, flattering throng, Judgment each day grew weak, and humour strong; Wisdom was treated as a noisome weed, And all his follies left to run to seed. What ills from such beginnings needs must spring! What ills to such a land from such a king! What could she hope! what had she not to fear! Base Buckingham possess'd his youthful ear; Strafford and Laud, when mounted on the throne, Engross'd his love, and made him all their own; Strafford and Laud, who boldly dared avow The traitorous doctrine taught by Tories now; Each strove to undo him in his turn and hour, The first with pleasure, and the last with power. Thinking (vain thought, disgraceful to the throne!) That all mankind were made for kings alone; That subjects were but slaves; and what was whim, Or worse, in common men, was law in him; Drunk with Prerogative, which Fate decreed To guard good kings, and tyrants to mislead; Which in a fair proportion to deny Allegiance dares not; which to hold too high, No good can wish, no coward king can dare, And, held too high, no English subject bear; Besieged by men of deep and subtle arts, Men void of principle, and damn'd with parts, Who saw his weakness, made their king their tool, Then most a slave, when most he seem'd to rule; Taking all public steps for private ends, 48 Deceived by favourites, whom he called friends, He had not strength enough of soul to find That monarchs, meant as blessings to mankind, Sink their great state, and stamp their fame undone, When what was meant for all, they give to one. Listening uxorious whilst a woman's prate Modell'd the church, and parcell'd out the state, Whilst (in the state not more than women read) High-churchmen preach'd, and turn'd his pious head; Tutor'd to see with ministerial eyes; Forbid to hear a loyal nation's cries; Made to believe (what can't a favourite do?) He heard a nation, hearing one or two; Taught by state-quacks himself secure to think, And out of danger e'en on danger's brink; Whilst power was daily crumbling from his hand, Whilst murmurs ran through an insulted land, As if to sanction tyrants Heaven was bound, He proudly sought the ruin which he found. Twelve years, twelve tedious and inglorious years, Did England, crush'd by power, and awed by fears, Whilst proud Oppression struck at Freedom's root, Lament her senates lost, her Hampden mute. Illegal taxes and oppressive loans, In spite of all her pride, call'd forth her groans; Patience was heard her griefs aloud to tell, And Loyalty was tempted to rebel. Each day new acts of outrage shook the state, New courts were raised to give new doctrines weight; State inquisitions kept the realm in awe, And cursed Star-Chambers made or ruled the law; Juries were pack'd, and judges were unsound; Through the whole kingdom not one Pratt was found. From the first moments of his giddy youth He hated senates, for they told him truth. At length, against his will compell'd to treat, Those whom he could not fright, he strove to cheat; With base dissembling every grievance heard, And, often giving, often broke his word. Oh, where shall hapless Truth for refuge fly, If kings, who should protect her, dare to lie? Those who, the general good their real aim, 49 Sought in their country's good their monarch's fame; Those who were anxious for his safety; those Who were induced by duty to oppose, Their truth suspected, and their worth unknown, He held as foes and traitors to his throne; Nor found his fatal error till the hour Of saving him was gone and past; till power Had shifted hands, to blast his hapless reign, Making their faith and his repentance vain. Hence (be that curse confined to Gotham's foes!) War, dread to mention, Civil War arose; All acts of outrage, and all acts of shame, Stalk'd forth at large, disguised with Honour's name; Rebellion, raising high her bloody hand, Spread universal havoc through the land; With zeal for party, and with passion drunk, In public rage all private love was sunk; Friend against friend, brother 'gainst brother stood, And the son's weapon drank the father's blood; Nature, aghast, and fearful lest her reign Should last no longer, bled in every vein. Unhappy Stuart! harshly though that name Grates on my ear, I should have died with shame To see my king before his subjects stand, And at their bar hold up his royal hand; At their commands to hear the monarch plead, By their decrees to see that monarch bleed. What though thy faults were many and were great? What though they shook the basis of the state? In royalty secure thy person stood, And sacred was the fountain of thy blood. Vile ministers, who dared abuse their trust, Who dared seduce a king to be unjust, Vengeance, with Justice leagued, with Power made strong, Had nobly crush'd--'The king could do no wrong.' Yet grieve not, Charles! nor thy hard fortunes blame; They took thy life, but they secured thy fame. Their greatest crimes made thine like specks appear, From which the sun in glory is not clear. Hadst thou in peace and years resign'd thy breath At Nature's call; hadst thou laid down in death As in a sleep, thy name, by Justice borne 50 On the four winds, had been in pieces torn. Pity, the virtue of a generous soul, Sometimes the vice, hath made thy memory whole. Misfortunes gave what Virtue could not give, And bade, the tyrant slain, the martyr live. Ye Princes of the earth! ye mighty few! Who, worlds subduing, can't yourselves subdue; Who, goodness scorn'd, wish only to be great; Whose breath is blasting, and whose voice is fate; Who own no law, no reason, but your will, And scorn restraint, though 'tis from doing ill; Who of all passions groan beneath the worst, Then only bless'd when they make others cursed; Think not, for wrongs like these, unscourged to live; Long may ye sin, and long may Heaven forgive; But when ye least expect, in sorrow's day, Vengeance shall fall more heavy for delay; Nor think that vengeance heap'd on you alone Shall (poor amends!) for injured worlds atone; No, like some base distemper, which remains, Transmitted from the tainted father's veins, In the son's blood, such broad and general crimes Shall call down vengeance e'en to latest times, Call vengeance down on all who bear your name, And make their portion bitterness and shame. From land to land for years compell'd to roam, Whilst Usurpation lorded it at home, Of majesty unmindful, forced to fly, Not daring, like a king, to reign or die, Recall'd to repossess his lawful throne, More at his people's seeking than his own, Another Charles succeeded. In the school Of Travel he had learn'd to play the fool; And, like pert pupils with dull tutors sent To shame their country on the Continent, From love of England by long absence wean'd, From every court he every folly glean'd, And was--so close do evil habits cling-Till crown'd, a beggar; and when crown'd, no king. Those grand and general powers, which Heaven design'd, An instance of his mercy to mankind, Were lost, in storms of dissipation hurl'd, 51 Nor would he give one hour to bless a world; Lighter than levity which strides the blast, And, of the present fond, forgets the past, He changed and changed, but, every hope to curse, Changed only from one folly to a worse: State he resign'd to those whom state could please; Careless of majesty, his wish was ease; Pleasure, and pleasure only, was his aim; Kings of less wit might hunt the bubble Fame; Dignity through his reign was made a sport, Nor dared Decorum show her face at court; Morality was held a standing jest, And Faith a necessary fraud at best. Courtiers, their monarch ever in their view, Possess'd great talents, and abused them too; Whate'er was light, impertinent, and vain, Whate'er was loose, indecent, and profane, (So ripe was Folly, Folly to acquit) Stood all absolved in that poor bauble, Wit. In gratitude, alas! but little read, He let his father's servants beg their bread-His father's faithful servants, and his own, To place the foes of both around his throne. Bad counsels he embraced through indolence, Through love of ease, and not through want of sense; He saw them wrong, but rather let them go As right, than take the pains to make them so. Women ruled all, and ministers of state Were for commands at toilets forced to wait: Women, who have, as monarchs, graced the land, But never govern'd well at second-hand. To make all other errors slight appear, In memory fix'd, stand Dunkirk and Tangier; In memory fix'd so deep, that Time in vain Shall strive to wipe those records from the brain, Amboyna stands--Gods! that a king could hold In such high estimate vile paltry gold, And of his duty be so careless found, That when the blood of subjects from the ground For vengeance call'd, he should reject their cry, And, bribed from honour, lay his thunders by, Give Holland peace, whilst English victims groan'd, 52 And butcher'd subjects wander'd unatoned! Oh, dear, deep injury to England's fame, To them, to us, to all! to him deep shame! Of all the passions which from frailty spring, Avarice is that which least becomes a king. To crown the whole, scorning the public good, Which through his reign he little understood, Or little heeded, with too narrow aim He reassumed a bigot brother's claim, And having made time-serving senates bow, Suddenly died--that brother best knew how. No matter how--he slept amongst the dead, And James his brother reigned in his stead: But such a reign--so glaring an offence In every step 'gainst freedom, law, and sense, 'Gainst all the rights of Nature's general plan, 'Gainst all which constitutes an Englishman, That the relation would mere fiction seem, The mock creation of a poet's dream; And the poor bards would, in this sceptic age, Appear as false as _their_ historian's page. Ambitious Folly seized the seat of Wit, Christians were forced by bigots to submit; Pride without sense, without religion Zeal, Made daring inroads on the Commonweal; Stern Persecution raised her iron rod, And call'd the pride of kings, the power of God; Conscience and Fame were sacrificed to Rome, And England wept at Freedom's sacred tomb. Her laws despised, her constitution wrench'd From its due natural frame, her rights retrench'd Beyond a coward's sufferance, conscience forced, And healing Justice from the Crown divorced, Each moment pregnant with vile acts of power, Her patriot Bishops sentenced to the Tower, Her Oxford (who yet loves the Stuart name) Branded with arbitrary marks of shame, She wept--but wept not long: to arms she flew, At Honour's call the avenging sword she drew, Turn'd all her terrors on the tyrant's head, And sent him in despair to beg his bread; Whilst she, (may every State in such distress 53 Dare with such zeal, and meet with such success!) Whilst she, (may Gotham, should my abject mind Choose to enslave rather than free mankind, Pursue her steps, tear the proud tyrant down, Nor let me wear if I abuse the crown!) Whilst she, (through every age, in every land, Written in gold, let Revolution stand!) Whilst she, secured in liberty and law, Found what she sought, a saviour in Nassau. ~ Charles Churchill,

712:Scene. Colmar in Alsatia: an Inn. 1528. Paracelsus, Festus. Paracelsus [to Johannes Oporinus, his Secretary]. Sic itur ad astra! Dear Von Visenburg Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralysed, And every honest soul that Basil holds Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say, Just as though Liechtenfels had never set So true a value on his sorry carcass, And learned Ptter had not frowned us dumb. We live; and shall as surely start to morrow For Nuremberg, as we drink speedy scathe To Basil in this mantling wine, suffused A delicate blush, no fainter tinge is born I' the shut heart of a bud. Pledge me, good John "Basil; a hot plague ravage it, and Ptter "Oppose the plague!" Even so? Do you too share Their panic, the reptiles? Ha, ha; faint through these, Desist for these! They manage matters so At Basil, 't is like: but others may find means To bring the stoutest braggart of the tribe Once more to crouch in silencemeans to breed A stupid wonder in each fool again, Now big with admiration at the skill Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes: And, that done,means to brand each slavish brow So deeply, surely, ineffaceably, That henceforth flattery shall not pucker it Out of the furrow; there that stamp shall stay To show the next they fawn on, what they are, This Basil with its magnates,fill my cup, Whom I curse soul and limb. And now despatch, Despatch, my trusty John; and what remains To do, whate'er arrangements for our trip Are yet to be completed, see you hasten This night; we'll weather the storm at least: to-morrow For Nuremberg! Now leave us; this grave clerk Has divers weighty matters for my ear: [Oporinus goes out. And spare my lungs. At last, my gallant Festus, I am rid of this arch-knave that dogs my heels As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep; at last May give a loose to my delight. How kind, How very kind, my first best only friend! Why, this looks like fidelity. Embrace me! Not a hair silvered yet? Right! you shall live Till I am worth your love; you shall be pround, And Ibut let time show! Did you not wonder? I sent to you because our compact weighed Upon my conscience(you recall the night At Basil, which the gods confound!)because Once more I aspire. I call you to my side: You come. You thought my message strange? Festus.                       So strange That I must hope, indeed, your messenger Has mingled his own fancies with the words Purporting to be yours. Paracelsus.             He said no more, 'T is probable, than the precious folk I leave Said fiftyfold more roughly. Well-a-day, 'T is true! poor Paracelsus is exposed At last; a most egregious quack he proves: And those he overreached must spit their hate On one who, utterly beneath contempt, Could yet deceive their topping wits. You heard Bare truth; and at my bidding you come here To speed me on my enterprise, as once Your lavish wishes sped me, my own friend! Festus. What is your purpose, Aureole? Paracelsus.                 Oh, for purpose, There is no lack of precedents in a case Like mine; at least, if not precisely mine, The case of men cast off by those they sought To benefit. Festus.      They really cast you off? I only heard a vague tale of some priest, Cured by your skill, who wrangled at your claim, Knowing his life's worth best; and how the judge The matter was referred to, saw no cause To interfere, nor you to hide your full Contempt of him; nor he, again, to smother His wrath thereat, which raised so fierce a flame That Basil soon was made no place for you. Paracelsus. The affair of Liechtenfels? the shallowest fable, The last and silliest outragemere pretence! I knew it, I foretold it from the first, How soon the stupid wonder you mistook For genuine loyaltya cheering promise Of better things to comewould pall and pass; And every word comes true. Saul is among The prophets! Just so long as I was pleased To play off the mere antics of my art, Fantastic gambols leading to no end, I got huge praise: but one can ne'er keep down Our foolish nature's weakness. There they flocked, Poor devils, jostling, swearing and perspiring, Till the walls rang again; and all for me! I had a kindness for them, which was right; But then I stopped not till I tacked to that A trust in them and a respecta sort Of sympathy for them; I must needs begin To teach them, not amaze them, "to impart "The spirit which should instigate the search "Of truth," just what you bade me! I spoke out. Forthwith a mighty squadron, in disgust, Filed off"the sifted chaff of the sack," I said, Redoubling my endeavours to secure The rest. When lo! one man had tarried so long Only to ascertain if I supported This tenet of his, or that; another loved To hear impartially before he judged, And having heard, now judged; this bland disciple Passed for my dupe, but all along, it seems, Spied error where his neighbours marvelled most; That fiery doctor who had hailed me friend, Did it because my by-paths, once proved wrong And beaconed properly, would commend again The good old ways our sires jogged safely o'er, Though not their squeamish sons; the other worthy Discovered divers verses of St. John, Which, read successively, refreshed the soul, But, muttered backwards, cured the gout, the stone, The colic and what not. Quid multa? The end Was a clear class-room, and a quiet leer From grave folk, and a sour reproachful glance From those in chief who, cap in hand, installed The new professor scarce a year before; And a vast flourish about patient merit Obscured awhile by flashy tricks, but sure Sooner or later to emerge in splendour Of which the example was some luckless wight Whom my arrival had discomfited, But now, it seems, the general voice recalled To fill my chair and so efface the stain Basil had long incurred. I sought no better, Only a quiet dismissal from my post, And from my heart I wished them better suited And better served. Good night to Basil, then! But fast as I proposed to rid the tribe Of my obnoxious back, I could not spare them The pleasure of a parting kick. Festus.                  You smile: Despise them as they merit! Paracelsus.                If I smile, 'T is with as very contempt as ever turned Flesh into stone. This courteous recompense, This grateful . . . Festus, were your nature fit To be defiled, your eyes the eyes to ache At gangrene-blotches, eating poison-blains, The ulcerous barky scurf of leprosy Which findsa man, and leavesa hideous thing That cannot but be mended by hell fire, I would lay bare to you the human heart Which God cursed long ago, and devils make since Their pet nest and their never-tiring home. Oh, sages have discovered we are born For various endsto love, to know: has ever One stumbled, in his search, on any signs Of a nature in us formed to hate? To hate? If that be our true object which evokes Our powers in fullest strength, be sure 't is hate! Yet men have doubted if the best and bravest Of spirits can nourish him with hate alone. I had not the monopoly of fools, It seems, at Basil. Festus.           But your plans, your plans! I have yet to learn your purpose, Aureole! Paracelsus. Whether to sink beneath such ponderous shame, To shrink up like a crushed snail, undergo In silence and desist from further toil, and so subside into a monument Of one their censure blasted? or to bow Cheerfully as submissively, to lower My old pretensions even as Basil dictates, To drop into the rank her wits assign me And live as they prescribe, and make that use Of my poor knowledge which their rules allow, Proud to be patted now and then, and careful To practise the true posture for receiving The amplest benefit from their hoofs' appliance When they shall condescend to tutor me? Then, one may feel resentment like a flame Within, and deck false systems in truth's garb, And tangle and entwine mankind with error, And give them darkness for a dower and falsehood For a possession, ages: or one may mope Into a shade through thinking, or else drowse Into a dreamless sleep and so die off. But I,now Festus shall divine!but I Am merely setting out once more, embracing My earliest aims again! What thinks he now? Festus. Your aims? the aims?to Know? and where is found The early trust . . . Paracelsus.            Nay, not so fast; I say, The aimsnot the old means. You know they made me A laughing-stock; I was a fool; you know The when and the how: hardly those means again! Not but they had their beauty; who should know Their passing beauty, if not I? Still, dreams They were, so let them vanish, yet in beauty If that may be. Stay: thus they pass in song! [He sings. Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain. And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, With mothed and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young. Mine, every word! And on such pile shall die My lovely fancies, with fair perished things, Themselves fair and forgotten; yes, forgotten, Or why abjure them? So, I made this rhyme That fitting dignity might be preserved; No little proud was I; though the list of drugs Smacks of my old vocation, and the verse Halts like the best of Luther's psalms. Festus.                      But, Aureole, Talk not thus wildly and madly. I am here Did you know all! I have travelled far, indeed, To learn your wishes. Be yourself again! For in this mood I recognize you less Than in the horrible despondency I witnessed last. You may account this, joy; But rather let me gaze on that despair Than hear these incoherent words and see This flushed cheek and intensely-sparkling eye. Paracelsus. Why, man, I was light-hearted in my prime I am light-hearted now; what would you have? Aprile was a poet, I make songs 'T is the very augury of success I want! Why should I not be joyous now as then? Festus. Joyous! and how? and what remains for joy? You have declared the ends (which I am sick Of naming) are impracticable. Paracelsus.                Ay, Pursued as I pursued themthe arch-fool! Listen: my plan will please you not, 't is like, But you are little versed in the world's ways. This is my plan(first drinking its good luck) I will accept all helps; all I despised So rashly at the outset, equally With early impulses, late years have quenched: I have tried each way singly: now for both! All helps! no one sort shall exclude the rest. I seek to know and to enjoy at once, Not one without the other as before. Suppose my labour should seem God's own cause Once more, as first I dreamed,it shall not baulk me Of the meanest earthliest sensualest delight That may be snatched; for every joy is gain, And gain is gain, however small. My soul Can die then, nor be taunted"what was gained?" Nor, on the other hand, should pleasure follow As though I had not spurned her hitherto, Shall she o'ercloud my spirit's rapt communion With the tumultuous past, the teeming future, Glorious with visions of a full success. Festus. Success! Paracelsus.     And wherefore not? Why not prefer Results obtained in my best state of being, To those derived alone from seasons dark As the thoughts they bred? When I was best, my youth Unwasted, seemed success not surest too? It is the nature of darkness to obscure. I am a wanderer: I remember well One journey, how I feared the track was missed, So long the city I desired to reach Lay hid; when suddenly its spires afar Flashed through the circling clouds; you may conceive My transport. Soon the vapours closed again, But I had seen the city, and one such glance No darkness could obscure: nor shall the present A few dull hours, a passing shame or two, Destroy the vivid memories of the past. I will fight the battle out; a little spent Perhaps, but still an able combatant. You look at my grey hair and furrowed brow? But I can turn even weakness to account: Of many tricks I know, 't is not the least To push the ruins of my frame, whereon The fire of vigour trembles scarce alive, Into a heap, and send the flame aloft. What should I do with age? So, sickness lends An aid; it being, I fear, the source of all We boast of: mind is nothing but disease, And natural health is ignorance. Festus.                  I see But one good symptom in this notable scheme. I feared your sudden journey had in view To wreak immediate vengeance on your foes 'T is not so: I am glad. Paracelsus.              And if I please To spit on them, to trample them, what then? 'T is sorry warfare truly, but the fools Provoke it. I would spare their self-conceit But if they must provoke me, cannot suffer Forbearance on my part, if I may keep No quality in the shade, must needs put forth Power to match power, my strength against their strength, And teach them their own game with their own arms Why, be it so and let them take their chance! I am above them like a god, there's no Hiding the fact: what idle scruples, then, Were those that ever bade me soften it, Communicate it gently to the world, Instead of proving my supremacy, Taking my natural station o'er their head, Then owning all the glory was a man's! And in my elevation man's would be. But live and learn, though life's short, learning, hard! And therefore, though the wreck of my past self, I fear, dear Ptter, that your lecture-room Must wait awhile for its best ornament, The penitent empiric, who set up For somebody, but soon was taught his place; Now, but too happy to be let confess His error, snuff the candles, and illustrate (Fiat experientia corpore vili) Your medicine's soundness in his person. Wait, Good Ptter! Festus.       He who sneers thus, is a god!       Paracelsus. Ay, ay, laugh at me! I am very glad You are not gulled by all this swaggering; you Can see the root of the matter!how I strive To put a good face on the overthrow I have experienced, and to bury and hide My degradation in its length and breadth; How the mean motives I would make you think Just mingle as is due with nobler aims, The appetites I modestly allow May influence me as being mortal still Do goad me, drive me on, and fast supplant My youth's desires. You are no stupid dupe: You find me out! Yes, I had sent for you To palm these childish lies upon you, Festus! Laughyou shall laugh at me! Festus.                The past, then, Aureole, Proves nothing? Is our interchange of love Yet to begin? Have I to swear I mean No flattery in this speech or that? For you, Whate'er you say, there is no degradation; These low thoughts are no inmates of your mind, Or wherefore this disorder? You are vexed As much by the intrusion of base views, Familiar to your adversaries, as they Were troubled should your qualities alight Amid their murky souls; not otherwise, A stray wolf which the winter forces down From our bleak hills, suffices to affright A village in the valeswhile foresters Sleep calm, though all night long the famished troop Snuff round and scratch against their crazy huts. These evil thoughts are monsters, and will flee. Paracelsus. May you be happy, Festus, my own friend! Festus. Nay, further; the delights you fain would think The superseders of your nobler aims, Though ordinary and harmless stimulants, Will ne'er content you. . . . Paracelsus.                Hush! I once despised them, But that soon passes. We are high at first In our demand, nor will abate a jot Of toil's strict value; but time passes o'er, And humbler spirits accept what we refuse: In short, when some such comfort is doled out As these delights, we cannot long retain Bitter contempt which urges us at first To hurl it back, but hug it to our breast And thankfully retire. This life of mine Must be lived out and a grave thoroughly earned: I am just fit for that and nought beside. I told you once, I cannot now enjoy, Unless I deem my knowledge gains through joy; Nor can I know, but straight warm tears reveal My need of linking also joy to knowledge: So, on I drive, enjoying all I can, And knowing all I can. I speak, of course, Confusedly; this will better explainfeel here! Quick beating, is it not?a fire of the heart To work off some way, this as well as any. So, Festus sees me fairly launched; his calm Compassionate look might have disturbed me once, But now, far from rejecting, I invite What bids me press the closer, lay myself Open before him, and be soothed with pity; I hope, if he command hope, and believe As he directs mesatiating myself With his enduring love. And Festus quits me To give place to some credulous disciple Who holds that God is wise, but Paracelsus Has his peculiar merits: I suck in That homage, chuckle o'er that admiration, And then dismiss the fool; for night is come. And I betake myself to study again, Till patient searchings after hidden lore Half wring some bright truth from its prison; my frame Trembles, my forehead's veins swell out, my hair Tingles for triumph. Slow and sure the morn Shall break on my pent room and dwindling lamp And furnace dead, and scattered earths and ores; When, with a failing heart and throbbing brow, I must review my captured truth, sum up Its value, trace what ends to what begins, Its present power with its eventual bearings, Latent affinities, the views it opens, And its full length in perfecting my scheme. I view it sternly circumscribed, cast down From the high place my fond hopes yielded it, Proved worthlesswhich, in getting, yet had cost Another wrench to this fast-falling frame. Then, quick, the cup to quaff, that chases sorrow! I lapse back into youth, and take again My fluttering pulse for evidence that God Means good to me, will make my cause his own. See! I have cast off this remorseless care Which clogged a spirit born to soar so free, And my dim chamber has become a tent, Festus is sitting by me, and his Michal . . . Why do you start? I say, she listening here, (For yonderWrzburg through the orchard-bough!) Motions as though such ardent words should find No echo in a maiden's quiet soul, But her pure bosom heaves, her eyes fill fast With tears, her sweet lips tremble all the while! Ha, ha! Festus.    It seems, then, you expect to reap No unreal joy from this your present course, But rather . . . Paracelsus.          Death! To die! I owe that much To what, at least, I was. I should be sad To live contented after such a fall, To thrive and fatten after such reverse! The whole plan is a makeshift, but will last My time. Festus.     And you have never mused and said, "I had a noble purpose, and the strength "To compass it; but I have stopped half-way, "And wrongly given the first-fruits of my toil "To objects little worthy of the gift. "Why linger round them still? why clench my fault? "Why seek for consolation in defeat, "In vain endeavours to derive a beauty "From ugliness? why seek to make the most "Of what no power can change, nor strive instead "With mighty effort to redeem the past "And, gathering up the treasures thus cast down, "To hold a steadfast course till I arrive "At their fit destination and my own?" You have never pondered thus? Paracelsus.                Have I, you ask? Often at midnight, when most fancies come, Would some such airy project visit me: But ever at the end . . . or will you hear The same thing in a tale, a parable? You and I, wandering over the world wide, Chance to set foot upon a desert coast. Just as we cry, "No human voice before "Broke the inveterate silence of these rocks!" Their querulous echo startles us; we turn: What ravaged structure still looks o'er the sea? Some characters remain, too! While we read, The sharp salt wind, impatient for the last Of even this record, wistfully comes and goes, Or sings what we recover, mocking it. This is the record; and my voice, the wind's. [He sings. Over the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave, A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nailed all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows' game: So, each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view, But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning drooped the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor starshine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretched along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast. Now, one morn, land appeareda speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky: "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check "The shout, restrain the eager eye!" But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; So, we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statute bright was on every deck! We shouted, every man of us, And steered right into the harbour thus, With pomp and pan glorious. A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for every one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done. When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders! "Our isles are just at hand," they cried, "Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping "Our temple-gates are opened wide, "Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping "For these majestic forms"they cried. Oh, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we called out"Depart! "Our gifts, once given, must here abide. "Our work is done; we have no heart "To mar our work,"we cried. Festus. In truth? Paracelsus.      Nay, wait: all this in tracings faint On rugged stones strewn here and there, but piled In order once: then followsmark what follows! "The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung "To their first fault, and withered in their pride." Festus. Come back then, Aureole; as you fear God, come! This is foul sin; come back! Renounce the past, Forswear the future; look for joy no more, But wait death's summons amid holy sights, And trust me for the eventpeace, if not joy. Return with me to Einsiedeln, dear Aureole! Paracelsus. No way, no way! it would not turn to good. A spotless child sleeps on the flowering moss 'T is well for him; but when a sinful man, Envying such slumber, may desire to put His guilt away, shall he return at once To rest by lying there? Our sires knew well (Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons) The fitting course for such: dark cells, dim lamps, A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm: No mossy pillow blue with violets! Festus. I see no symptom of these absolute And tyrannous passions. You are calmer now. This verse-making can purge you well enough Without the terrible penance you describe. You love me still: the lusts you fear will never Outrage your friend. To Einsiedeln, once more! Say but the word! Paracelsus.          No, no; those lusts forbid: They crouch, I know, cowering with half-shut eye Beside you; 't is their nature. Thrust yourself Between them and their prey; let some fool style me Or king or quack, it matters notthen try Your wisdom, urge them to forego their treat! No, no; learn better and look deeper, Festus! If you knew how a devil sneers within me While you are talking now of this, now that, As though we differed scarcely save in trifles! Festus. Do we so differ? True, change must proceed, Whether for good or ill; keep from me, which! Do not confide all secrets: I was born To hope, and you . . . Paracelsus.            To trust: you know the fruits!            Festus. Listen: I do believe, what you call trust Was self-delusion at the best: for, see! So long as God would kindly pioneer A path for you, and screen you from the world, Procure you full exemption from man's lot, Man's common hopes and fears, on the mere pretext Of your engagement in his serviceyield you A limitless licence, make you God, in fact, And turn your slaveyou were content to say Most courtly praises! What is it, at last, But selfishness without example? None Could trace God's will so plain as you, while yours Remained implied in it; but now you fail, And we, who prate about that will, are fools! In short, God's service is established here As he determines fit, and not your way, And this you cannot brook. Such discontent Is weak. Renounce all creatureship at once! Affirm an absolute right to have and use Your energies; as though the rivers should say "We rush to the ocean; what have we to do "With feeding streamlets, lingering in the vales, "Sleeping in lazy pools?" Set up that plea, That will be bold at least! Paracelsus.                'T is like enough. The serviceable spirits are those, no doubt, The East produces: lo, the master bids, They wake, raise terraces and garden-grounds In one night's space; and, this done, straight begin Another century's sleep, to the great praise Of him that framed them wise and beautiful, Till a lamp's rubbing, or some chance akin, Wake them again. I am of different mould. I would have soothed my lord, and slaved for him And done him service past my narrow bond, And thus I get rewarded for my pains! Beside, 't is vain to talk of forwarding God's glory otherwise; this is alone The sphere of its increase, as far as men Increase it; why, then, look beyond this sphere? We are his glory; and if we be glorious, Is not the thing achieved? Festus.               Shall one like me Judge hearts like yours? Though years have changed you much, And you have left your first love, and retain Its empty shade to veil your crooked ways, Yet I still hold that you have honoured God. And who shall call your course without reward? For, wherefore this repining at defeat Had triumph ne'er inured you to high hopes? I urge you to forsake the life you curse, And what success attends me?simply talk Of passion, weakness and remorse; in short, Anything but the naked truthyou choose This so-despised career, and cheaply hold My happiness, or rather other men's. Once more, return! Paracelsus.          And quickly. John the thief Has pilfered half my secrets by this time: And we depart by daybreak. I am weary, I know not how; not even the wine-cup soothes My brain to-night . . . Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus? No flattery! One like you needs not be told We live and breathe deceiving and deceived. Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts, Me and my cant, each petty subterfuge, My rhymes and all this frothy shower of words, My glozing self-deceit, my outward crust Of lies which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfair Wrapt the sound flesh?so, see you flatter not! Even God flatters: but my friend, at least, Is true. I would depart, secure henceforth Against all further insult, hate and wrong From puny foes; my one friend's scorn shall brand me: No fear of sinking deeper! Festus.               No, dear Aureole! No, no; I came to counsel faithfully. There are old rules, made long ere we were born, By which I judge you. I, so fallible, So infinitely low beside your mighty Majestic spirit!even I can see You own some higher law than ours which call Sin, what is no sinweakness, what is strength. But I have only these, such as they are, To guide me; and I blame you where they bid, Only so long as blaming promises To win peace for your soul: the more, that sorrow Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me So that I faint not under my distress. But wherefore should I scruple to avow In spite of all, as brother judging brother, Your fate is most inexplicable to me? And should you perish without recompense And satisfaction yettoo hastily I have relied on love: you may have sinned, But you have loved. As a mere human matter As I would have God deal with fragile men In the endI say that you will triumph yet! Paracelsus. Have you felt sorrow, Festus?'t is because You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours! Well thought on: never let her know this last Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared Insult meme she loved:so, grieve her not! Festus. Your ill success can little grieve her now. Paracelsus. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze! Festus. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus! Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof I cannot bear those eyes. Paracelsus.              Nay, really dead?              Festus. 'T is scarce a month. Paracelsus.            Stone dead!then you have laid her Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, I can reveal a secret which shall comfort Even you. I have no julep, as men think, To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. Know, then, you did not ill to trust your love To the cold earth: I have thought much of it: For I believe we do not wholly die. Festus. Aureole! Paracelsus.     Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason For what I say: I think the soul can never Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see, Very unfit to put so strange a thought In an intelligible dress of words; But take it as my trust, she is not dead. Festus. But not on this account alone? you surely, Aureole, you have believed this all along? Paracelsus. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, As though it mattered how the farce plays out, So it be quickly played. Away, away! Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize, Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats And leave a clear arena for the brave About to perish for your sport!Behold! ~ Robert Browning, Paracelsus - Part IV - Paracelsus Aspires ,

713: Book II: The Book of the Statesman Now from his cycle sleepless and vast round the dance of the earth-globe Gold Hyperion rose in the wake of the dawn like the eyeball Flaming of God revealed by his uplifted luminous eyelid. Troy he beheld and he viewed the transient labour of mortals. All her marble beauty and pomp were laid bare to the heavens. Sunlight streamed into Ilion waking the voice of her gardens, Amorous seized on her ways, lived glad in her plains and her pastures, Kissed her leaves into brightness of green. As a lover the last time Yearns to the beauty desired that again shall not wake to his kisses, So over Ilion doomed leaned the yearning immense of the sunrise. She like a wordless marble memory dreaming for ever Lifted the gaze of her perishable immortality sunwards. All her human past aspired in the clearness eternal, Temples of Phryx and Dardanus touched with the gold of the morning, Columns triumphant of Ilus, domes of their greatness enamoured, Stones that intended to live; and her citadel climbed up to heaven White like the soul of the Titan Laomedon claiming his kingdoms, Watched with alarm by the gods as he came. Her bosom maternal Thrilled to the steps of her sons and a murmur began in her high-roads. Life renewed its ways which death and sleep cannot alter, Life that pursuing her boundless march to a goal which we know not, Ever her own law obeys, not our hopes, who are slaves of her heart-beats. Then as now men walked in the round which the gods have decreed them Eagerly turning their eyes to the lure and the tool and the labour. Chained is their gaze to the span in front, to the gulfs they are blinded Meant for their steps. The seller opened his shop and the craftsman Bent oer his instruments handling the work he never would finish, Busy as if their lives were for ever, today in its evening Sure of tomorrow. The hammers clanged and the voice of the markets Waking desired its daily rumour. Nor only the craftsman, Only the hopes of the earth, but the hearts of her votaries kneeling Came to her marble shrines and upraised to our helpers eternal Missioned the prayer and the hymn or silent, subtly adoring Ventured upwards in incense. Loud too the clash of the cymbals Filled all the temples of Troy with the cry of our souls to the azure. Prayers breathed in vain and a cry that fell back with Fate for its answer! Children laughed in her doorways; joyous they played, by their mothers Smiled on still, but their tender bodies unknowing awaited Grecian spearpoints sharpened by Fate for their unripe bosoms, Tasks of the slave in Greece. Like bees round their honey-filled dwellings Murmuring swarmed to the well-heads the large-eyed daughters of Troya, Deep-bosomed, limbed like the gods,glad faces of old that were sentient Rapturous flowers of the soul, bright bodies that lived under darkness Nobly massed of their locks like day under night made resplendent, Daughters divine of the earth in the ages when heaven was our father. They round Troys well-heads flowerlike satisfied morn with their beauty Or in the river baring their knees to the embrace of the coolness Dipped their white feet in the clutch of his streams, in the haste of Scamander, Lingering this last time with laughter and talk of the day and the morrow Leaned to the hurrying flood. All his swiftnesses raced down to meet them, Crowding his channel with dancing billows and turbulent murmurs. Xanthus primaeval met these waves of our life in its passing Even as of old he had played with Troys ancient fair generations Mingling his deathless voice with the laughter and joy of their ages, Laughter of dawns that are dead and a joy that the earth has rejected. Still his whispering trees remembered their bygone voices. Hast thou forgotten, O river of Troy? Still, still we can hear them Now, if we listen long in our souls, the bygone voices. Earth in her fibres remembers, the breezes are stored with our echoes. Over the stone-hewn steps for their limpid orient waters Joyous they leaned and they knew not yet of the wells of Mycenae, Drew not yet from Eurotas the jar for an alien master, Mixed not Peneus yet with their tears. From the clasp of the current Now in their groups they arose and dispersed through the streets and the byways, Turned from the freedom of earth to the works and the joy of the hearthside, Lightly they rose and returned through the lanes of the wind-haunted city Swaying with rhythmical steps while the anklets jangled and murmured. Silent temples saw them passing; you too, O houses Built with such hopes by mortal man for his transient lodging; Fragrant the gardens strewed on dark tresses their white-smiling jasmines Dropped like a silent boon of purity soft from the branches: Flowers by the wayside were budding, cries flew winged round the tree-tops. Bright was the glory of life in Ilion city of Priam. Thrice to the city the doom-blast published its solemn alarum; Blast of the trumpets that call to assembly clamoured through Troya Thrice and were still. From garden and highway, from palace and temple Turned like a steed to the trumpet, rejoicing in war and ambition, Gathered alert to the call the democracy hated of heaven. First in their ranks upbearing their age as Atlas his heavens, Eagle-crested, with hoary hair like the snow upon Ida, Ilions senators paced, Antenor and wide-browed Anchises, Athamas famous for ships and the war of the waters, Tryas Still whose name was remembered by Oxus the orient river, Astyoches and Ucalegon, dateless Pallachus, Aetor, Aspetus who of the secrets divine knew all and was silent, Ascanus, Iliones, Alcesiphron, Orus, Aretes. Next from the citadel came with the voice of the heralds before him Priam and Priams sons, Aeneas leonine striding, Followed by the heart of a nation adoring her Penthesilea. All that was noble in Troy attended the regal procession Marching in front and behind and the tramp of their feet was a rhythm Tuned to the arrogant fortunes of Ilion ruled by incarnate Demigods, Ilus and Phryx and Dardanus, Tros of the conquests, Tros and far-ruling Laomedon who to his souls strong labour Drew down the sons of the skies and was served by the ageless immortals. Into the agora vast and aspirant besieged by its columns Bathed and anointed they came like gods in their beauty and grandeur. Last like the roar of the winds came trampling the surge of the people. Clamorous led by a force obscure to its ultimate fatal Session of wrath the violent mighty democracy hastened; Thousands of ardent lives with the heart yet unslain in their bosoms Lifted to heaven the voice of man and his far-spreading rumour. Singing the young men with banners marched in their joyous processions, Trod in martial measure or dancing with lyrical paces Chanted the glory of Troy and the wonderful deeds of their fathers. Into the columned assembly where Ilus had gathered his people, Thousands on thousands the tramp and the murmur poured; in their armoured Glittering tribes they were ranked, an untameable high-hearted nation Waiting the voice of its chiefs. Some gazed on the greatness of Priam Ancient, remote from their days, the last of the gods who were passing, Left like a soul uncompanioned in worlds where his strength shall not conquer: Sole like a column gigantic alone on a desolate hill-side Older than mortals he seemed and mightier. Many in anger Aimed their hostile looks where calm though by heaven abandoned, Left to his soul and his lucid mind and its thoughts unavailing, Leading the age-chilled few whom the might of their hearts had not blinded, Famous Antenor was seated, the fallen unpopular statesman, Wisest of speakers in Troy but rejected, stoned and dishonoured. Silent, aloof from the people he sat, a heart full of ruins. Low was the rumour that swelled like the hum of the bees in a meadow When with the thirst of the honey they swarm on the thyme and the linden, Hundreds humming and flitting till all that place is a murmur. Then from his seat like a tower arising Priam the monarch Slowly erect in his vast tranquillity silenced the people: Lonely, august he stood like one whom death has forgotten, Reared like a column of might and of silence over the assembly. So Olympus rises alone with his snows into heaven. Crowned were his heights by the locks that swept like the mass of the snow-swathe Clothing his giant shoulders; his eyes of deep meditation, Eyes that beheld now the end and accepted it like the beginning Gazed on the throng of the people as on a pomp that is painted: Slowly he spoke like one who is far from the scenes where he sojourns. Leader of Ilion, hero Deiphobus, thou who hast summoned Troy in her people, arise; say wherefore thou callest us. Evil Speak thou or good, thou canst speak that only: Necessity fashions All that the unseen eye has beheld. Speak then to the Trojans; Say on this dawn of her making what issue of death or of triumph Fate in her suddenness puts to the unseeing, what summons to perish Send to this nation men who revolt and gods who are hostile. Rising Deiphobus spoke, in stature less than his father, Less in his build, yet the mightiest man and tallest whom coursers Bore or his feet to the fight since Ajax fell by the Xanthus. People of Ilion, long have you fought with the gods and the Argives Slaying and slain, but the years persist and the struggle is endless. Fainting your helpers cease from the battle, the nations forsake you. Asia weary of strenuous greatness, ease-enamoured Suffers the foot of the Greek to tread on the beaches of Troas. Yet have we striven for Troy and for Asia, men who desert us. Not for ourselves alone have we fought, for our life of a moment! Once if the Greeks were triumphant, once if their nations were marshalled Under some far-seeing chief, Odysseus, Peleus, Achilles, Not on the banks of Scamander and skirts of the azure Aegean Fainting would cease the audacious emprise, the Titanic endeavour; Tigris would flee from their tread and Indus be drunk by their coursers. Now in these days when each sun goes marvelling down that Troy stands yet Suffering, smiting, alive, though doomed to all eyes that behold her, Flinging back Death from her walls and bronze to the shock and the clamour, Driven by a thought that has risen in the dawn from the tents on the beaches Grey Talthybius chariot waits in the Ilian portals, Voice of the Hellene demigod challenges timeless Troya. Thus has he said to us: Know you not Doom when she walks in your heavens? Feelst thou not then thy set, O sun who illuminedst Nature? Stripped of helpers you stand alone against Doom and Achilles, Left by the earth that served you, by heaven that helped you rejected: Death insists at your gates and the flame and the sword are impatient. None can escape the wheel of the gods and its vast revolutions! Fate demands the joy and pride of the earth for the Argive, Asias wealth for the lust of the young barbarian nations. City divine, whose fame overroofed like heaven the nations, Sink eclipsed in the circle vast of my radiance; Troya, Joined to my northern realms deliver the East to the Hellene; Ilion, to Hellas be yoked; wide Asia, fringe thou Peneus. Lay down golden Helen, a sacrifice lovely and priceless Cast by your weakness and fall on immense Necessitys altar; Yield to my longing Polyxena, Hecubas deep-bosomed daughter, Her whom my heart desires. She shall leave with you peace and her healing Joy of mornings secure and death repulsed from your hearthsides. Yield these and live, else I leap on you, Fate in front, Hades behind me. Bound to the gods by an oath I return not again from the battle Till from high Ida my shadow extends to the Mede and Euphrates. Let not your victories deceive you, steps that defeat has imagined; Hear not the voice of your heroes; their fame is a trumpet in Hades: Only they conquer while yet my horses champ free in their stables. Earth cannot long resist the man whom Heaven has chosen; Gods with him walk; his chariot is led; his arm is assisted. High rings the Hellene challenge, earth waits for the Ilian answer. Always mans Fate hangs poised on the flitting breath of a moment; Called by some word, by some gesture it leaps, then tis graven, tis granite. Speak! by what gesture high shall the stern gods recognise Troya? Sons of the ancients, race of the gods, inviolate city, Firmer my spear shall I grasp or cast from my hand and for ever? Search in your hearts if your fathers still dwell in them, children of Teucer. So Deiphobus spoke and the nation heard him in silence, Awed by the shadow vast of doom, indignant with Fortune. Calm from his seat Antenor arose as a wrestler arises, Tamer of beasts in the cage of the lions, eyeing the monsters Brilliant, tawny of mane, and he knows if his courage waver, Falter his eye or his nerve be surprised by the gods that are hostile, Death will leap on him there in the crowded helpless arena. Fearless Antenor arose, and a murmur swelled in the meeting Cruel and threatening, hoarse like the voice of the sea upon boulders; Hisses thrilled through the roar and one man cried to another, Lo he will speak of peace who has swallowed the gold of Achaia! Surely the people of Troy are eunuchs who suffer Antenor Rising unharmed in the agora. Are there not stones in the city? Surely the steel grows dear in the land when a traitor can flourish. Calm like a god or a summit Antenor stood in the uproar. But as he gazed on his soul came memory dimming the vision; For he beheld his past and the agora crowded and cheering, Passionate, full of delight while Antenor spoke to the people, Troy that he loved and his fatherl and proud of her eloquent statesman. Tears to his eyes came thick and he gripped at the staff he was holding. Mounting his eyes met fully the tumult, mournful and thrilling, Conquering mens hearts with a note of doom in its sorrowful sweetness. People of Ilion, blood of my blood, O race of Antenor, Once will I speak though you slay me; for who would shrink from destruction Knowing that soon of his city and nation, his house and his dear ones All that remains will be a couch of trampled ashes? Athene, Slain today may I join the victorious souls of our fathers, Not for the anguish be kept and the irremediable weeping. Loud will I speak the word that the gods have breathed in my spirit, Strive this last time to save the death-destined. Who are these clamour Hear him not, gold of the Greeks bought his words and his throat is accursd? Troy whom my counsels made great, hast thou heard this roar of their frenzy Tearing thy ancient bosom? Is it thy voice, heaven-abandoned, my mother? O my country, O my creatress, earth of my longings! Earth where our fathers lie in their sacred ashes undying, Memoried temples shelter the shrines of our gods and the altars Pure where we worshipped, the beautiful children smile on us passing, Women divine and the men of our nation! O land where our childhood Played at a mothers feet mid the trees and the hills of our country, Hoping our manhood toiled and our youth had its seekings for godhead, Thou for our age keepst repose mid the love and the honour of kinsmen, Silent our relics shall lie with the city guarding our ashes! Earth who hast fostered our parents, earth who hast given us our offspring, Soil that created our race where fed from the bosom of Nature Happy our children shall dwell in the storied homes of their fathers, Souls that our souls have stamped, sweet forms of ourselves when we perish! Once even then have they seen thee in their hearts, or dreamed of thee ever Who from thy spirit revolt and only thy name make an idol Hating thy faithful sons and the cult of thy ancient ideal! Wake, O my mother divine, remember thy gods and thy wisdom, Silence the tongues that degrade thee, prophets profane of thy godhead. Madmen, to think that a man who has offered his life for his country, Served her with words and deeds and adored with victories and triumphs Ever could think of enslaving her breast to the heel of a foeman! Surely Antenors halls are empty, he begs from the stranger Leading his sons and his childrens sons by the hand in the market Showing his rags since his need is so bitter of gold from the Argives! You who demand a reply when Laocoon lessens Antenor, Hush then your feeble roar and your ear to the past and the distance Turn. You fields that are famous for ever, reply for me calling, Fields of the mighty mown by my swords edge, Chersonese conquered, Thrace and her snows where we fought on the frozen streams and were victors Then when they were unborn who are now your delight and your leaders. Answer return, you columns of Ilus, here where my counsels Made Troy mightier guiding her safe through the shocks of her foemen. Gold! I have heaped it up high, I am rich with the spoils of your haters. It was your fathers dead who gave me that wealth as my guerdon, Now my reproach, your fathers who saw not the Greeks round their ramparts: They were not cooped by an upstart race in the walls of Apollo, Saw not Hector slain and Troilus dragged by his coursers. Far over wrathful Jaxartes they rode; the shaken Achaian Prostrate adored your strength who now shouts at your portals and conquers Then when Antenor guided Troy, this old man, this traitor, Not Laocoon, nay, not even Paris nor Hector. But I have changed, I have grown a niggard of blood and of treasure, Selfish, chilled as old men seem to the young and the headstrong, Counselling safety and ease, not the ardour of noble decisions. Come to my house and behold, my house that was filled once with voices. Sons whom the high gods envied me crowded the halls that are silent. Where are they now? They are dead, their voices are silent in Hades, Fallen slaying the foe in a war between sin and the Furies. Silent they went to the battle to die unmourned for their country, Die as they knew in vain. Do I keep now the last ones remaining, Sparing their blood that my house may endure? Is there any in Troya Speeds to the front of the mellay outstripping the sons of Antenor? Let him arise and speak and proclaim it and bid me be silent. Heavy is this war that you love on my heart and I hold you as madmen Doomed by the gods, abandoned by Pallas, by Hera afflicted. Who would not hate to behold his work undone by the foolish? Who would not weep if he saw Laocoon ruining Troya, Paris doomed in his beauty, Aeneas slain by his valour? Still you need to be taught that the high gods see and remember, Dream that they care not if justice be done on the earth or oppression! Happy to live, aspire while you violate man and the immortals! Vainly the sands of Time have been strewn with the ruins of empires, Signs that the gods had left, but in vain. For they look for a nation, One that can conquer itself having conquered the world, but they find none. None has been able to hold all the gods in his bosom unstaggered, All have grown drunken with force and have gone down to Hell and to Ate. All have been thrust from their heights, say the fools; we shall live and for ever. We are the people at last, the children, the favourites; all things Only to us are permitted. They too descend to the silence, Death receives their hopes and the void their stirrings of action. Eviller fate there is none than life too long among mortals. I have conversed with the great who have gone, I have fought in their war-cars; Tros I have seen, Laomedons hand has dwelt on my temples. Now I behold Laocoon, now our greatest is Paris. First when Phryx by the Hellespont reared to the cry of the ocean Hewing her stones as vast as his thoughts his high-seated fortress, Planned he a lair for a beast of prey, for a pantheress dire-souled Crouched in the hills for her bound or self-gathered against the avenger? Dardanus shepherded Asias coasts and her sapphire-girt islands. Mild was his rule like the blessing of rain upon fields in the summer. Gladly the harried coasts reposed confessing the Phrygian, Caria, Lycias kings and the Paphlagon, strength of the Mysian; Minos Crete recovered the sceptre of old Rhadamanthus. Ilus and Tros had strength in the fight like a far-striding Titans: Troy triumphant following the urge of their souls to the vastness, Helmeted, crowned like a queen of the gods with the fates for her coursers Rode through the driving sleet of the spears to Indus and Oxus. Then twice over she conquered the vanquished, with peace as in battle; There where discord had clashed, sweet Peace sat girded with plenty, There where tyranny counted her blows, came the hands of a father. Neither had Teucer a soul like your chiefs who refounded this nation. Such was the antique and noble tradition of Troy in her founders, Builders of power that endured; but it perishes lost to their offspring, Trampled, scorned by an arrogant age, by a violent nation. Strong Anchises trod it down trampling victorious onwards Stern as his sword and hard as the silent bronze of his armour. More than another I praise the man who is mighty and steadfast, Even as Ida the mountain I praise, a refuge for lions; But in the council I laud him not, he who a god for his kindred, Lives for the rest without bowels of pity or fellowship, lone-souled, Scorning the world that he rules, who untamed by the weight of an empire Holds allies as subjects, subjects as slaves and drives to the battle Careless more of their wills than the coursers yoked to his war-car. Therefore they fought while they feared, but gladly abandon us falling. Yet had they gathered to Teucer in the evil days of our nation. Where are they now? Do they gather then to the dreaded Anchises? Or has Aeneas helped with his counsels hateful to wisdom? Hateful is this, abhorred of the gods, imagined by Ate When against subjects murmuring discord and faction appointed Scatter unblest gold, the heart of a people is poisoned, Virtue pursued and baseness triumphs tongued like a harlot, Brother against brother arrayed that the rule may endure of a stranger. Yes, but it lasts! For its hour. The high gods watch in their silence, Mute they endure for a while that the doom may be swifter and greater. Hast thou then lasted, O Troy? Lo, the Greeks at thy gates and Achilles. Dream, when Virtue departs, that Wisdom will linger, her sister! Wisdom has turned from your hearts; shall Fortune dwell with the foolish? Fatal oracles came to you great-tongued, vaunting of empires Stretched from the risen sun to his rest in the occident waters, Dreams of a city throned on the hills with her foot on the nations. Meanwhile the sword was prepared for our breasts and the flame for our housetops. Wake, awake, O my people! the fire-brand mounts up your doorsteps; Gods who deceived to slay, press swords on your childrens bosoms. See, O ye blind, ere death in pale countries open your eyelids! Hear, O ye deaf, the sounds in your ears and the voices of evening! Young men who vaunt in your strength! when the voice of this aged Antenor Governed your fathers youth, all the Orient was joined to our banners. Macedon leaned to the East and her princes yearned to the victor, Scythians worshipped in Ilions shrines, the Phoenician trader Bartered her tokens, Babylons wise men paused at our thresholds; Fair-haired sons of the snows came rapt towards golden Troya Drawn by the song and the glory. Strymon sang hymns unto Ida, Hoarse Chalcidice, dim Chersonesus married their waters Under the oerarching yoke of Troy twixt the term-posts of Ocean. Meanwhile far through the world your fortunes led by my counsels Followed their lure like women snared by a magical tempter: High was their chant as they paced and it came from continents distant. Turn now and hear! what voice approaches? what glitter of armies? Loud upon Trojan beaches the tread and the murmur of Hellas! Hark! tis the Achaians paean rings oer the Pergaman waters! So wake the dreams of Aeneas; reaped is Laocoons harvest. Artisans new of your destiny fashioned this far-spreading downfall, Counsellors blind who scattered your strength to the hooves of the Scythian, Barren victories, trophies of skin-clad Illyrian pastors. Who but the fool and improvident, who but the dreamer and madman Leaves for the far and ungrasped earths close and provident labour? Children of earth, our mother gives tokens, she lays down her signposts, Step by step to advance on her bosom, to grow by her seasons, Order our works by her patience and limit our thought by her spaces. But you had chiefs who were demigods, souls of an earth-scorning stature, Minds that saw vaster than life and strengths that Gods hour could not limit! These men seized upon Troy as the tool of their giant visions, Dreaming of Africas suns and bright Hesperian orchards, Carthage our mart and our feet on the sunset hills of the Latins. Ilions hinds in the dream ploughed Libya, sowed Italys cornfields, Troy stretched to Gades; even the gods and the Fates had grown Trojan. So are the natures of men uplifted by Heaven in its satire. Scorning the bit of the gods, despisers of justice and measure, Zeus is denied and adored some shadow huge of their natures Losing the shape of man in a dream that is splendid and monstrous. Titans, vaunting they stride and the world resounds with their footsteps; Titans, clanging they fall and the world is full of their ruin. Children, you dreamed with them, heard the roar of the Atlantic breakers Welcome your keels and the Isles of the Blest grew your wonderful gardens. Lulled in the dream, you saw not the black-drifting march of the storm-rack, Heard not the galloping wolves of the doom and the howl of their hunger. Greece in her peril united her jarring clans; you suffered Patient, preparing the north, the wisdom and silence of Peleus, Atreus craft and the Argives gathered to King Agamemnon. But there were prophecies, Pythian oracles, mutterings from Delphi. How shall they prosper who haste after auguries, oracles, whispers, Dreams that walk in the night and voices obscure of the silence? Touches are these from the gods that bewilder the brain to its ruin. One sole oracle helps, still armoured in courage and prudence Patient and heedful to toil at the work that is near in the daylight. Leave to the night its phantoms, leave to the future its curtain! Only today Heaven gave to mortal man for his labour. If thou hadst bowed not thy mane, O Troy, to the child and the dreamer, Hadst thou been faithful to Wisdom the counsellor seated and ancient, Then would the hour not have dawned when Paris lingered in Sparta Led by the goddess fatal and beautiful, white Aphrodite. Man, shun the impulses dire that spring armed from thy natures abysms! Dread the dusk rose of the gods, flee the honey that tempts from its petals! Therefore the black deed was done and the hearth that welcomed was sullied. Sin-called the Fury uplifted her tresses of gloom oer the nations Maddening the earth with the scream of her blood-thirst, bowelless, stone-eyed, Claiming her victims from God and bestriding the hate and the clamour. Yet midst the stroke and the wail when mens eyes were blind with the blood-mist, Still had the high gods mercy recalling Teucer and Ilus. Just was the heart of their anger. Discord flaming from Ida, Hundred-voiced glared from the ships through the camp of the victor Achaians, Love to that discord added her flowerlike lips of Briseis; Faltering lids of Polyxena conquered the strength of Pelides. Vainly the gods who pity open the gates of salvation! Vainly the winds of their mercy brea the on our fevered existence! Man his passions prefers to the voice that guides from the heavens. These too were here whom Hera had chosen to ruin this nation: Charioteers cracking the whips of their speed on the paths of destruction, Demigods they! they have come down from Heaven glad to that labour, Deaf is the world with the fame of their wheels as they race down to Hades. O that alone they could reach it! O that pity could soften Harsh Necessitys dealings, sparing our innocent children, Saving the Trojan women and aged from bonds and the sword-edge! These had not sinned whom you slay in your madness! Ruthless, O mortals, Must you be then to yourselves when the gods even faltering with pity Turn from the grief that must come and the agony vast and the weeping? Say not the road of escape sinks too low for your arrogant treading. Pride is not for our clay; the earth, not heaven was our mother And we are even as the ant in our toil and the beast in our dying; Only who cling to the hands of the gods can rise up from the earth-mire. Children, lie prone to their scourge, that your hearts may revive in their sunshine. This is our lot! when the anger of heaven has passed then the mortal Raises his head; soon he heals his heart and forgets he has suffered. Yet if resurgence from weakness and shame were withheld from the creature, Every fall without morrow, who then would counsel submission? But since the height of mortal fortune ascending must stumble, Fallen, again ascend, since death like birth is our portion, Ripening, mowed, to be sown again like corn by the farmer, Let us be patient still with the gods accepting their purpose. Deem not defeat I welcome. Think not to Hellas submitting Death of proud hope I would seal. Not this have I counselled, O nation, But to be even as your high-crested forefa thers, greatest of mortals. Troya of old enringed by the hooves of Cimmerian armies Flamed to the heavens from her plains and her smoke-blackened citadel sheltered Mutely the joyless rest of her sons and the wreck of her greatness. Courage and wisdom survived in that fall and a stern-eyed prudence Helped her to live; disguised from her mightiness Troy crouched waiting. Teucer descended whose genius worked at this kingdom and nation, Patient, scrupulous, wise, like a craftsman carefully toiling Over a helmet or over a breastplate, testing it always, Toiled in the eye of the Masters of all and had heed of its labour. So in the end they would not release him like souls that are common; They out of Ida sent into Ilion Pallas Athene; Secret she came and he went with her into the luminous silence. Teucers children after their sire completed his labour. Now too, O people, front adversity self-gathered, silent. Veil thyself, leonine mighty Ilion, hiding thy greatness! Be as thy father Teucer; be as a cavern for lions; Be as a Fate that crouches! Wordless and stern for your vengeance Self-gathered work in the night and secrecy shrouding your bosoms. Let not the dire heavens know of it; let not the foe seize a whisper! Ripen the hour of your stroke, while your words drip sweeter than honey. Sure am I, friends, you will turn from death at my voice, you will hear me! Some day yet I shall gaze on the ruins of haughty Mycenae. Is this not better than Ilion cast to the sword of her haters, Is this not happier than Troya captured and wretchedly burning, Time to await in his stride when the southern and northern Achaians Gazing with dull distaste now over their severing isthmus Hate-filled shall move to the shock by the spur of the gods in them driven, Pelops march upon Attica, Thebes descend on the Spartan? Then shall the hour now kept in heaven for us ripen to dawning, Then shall Victory cry to our banners over the Ocean Calling our sons with her voice immortal. Children of Ilus, Then shall Troy rise in her strength and stride over Greece up to Gades. So Antenor spoke and the mind of the hostile assembly Moved and swayed with his words like the waters ruled by Poseidon. Even as the billows rebellious lashed by the whips of the tempest Curvet and rear their crests like the hooded wrath of a serpent, Green-eyed under their cowls sublime,unwilling they journey, Foam-bannered, hoarse-voiced, shepherded, forced by the wind to the margin Meant for their rest and can turn not at all, though they rage, on their driver, Last with a sullen applause and consenting lapse into thunder, Where they were led all the while they sink down huge and astonished, So in their souls that withstood and obeyed and hated the yielding, Lashed by his censure, indignant, the Trojans moved towards his purpose: Sometimes a roar arose, then only, weakened, rarer, Angry murmurs swelled between sullen stretches of silence; Last, a reluctant applause broke dull from the throats of the commons. Silent raged in their hearts Laocoons following daunted; Troubled the faction of Paris turned to the face of their leader. He as yet rose not; careless he sat in his beauty and smiling, Gazing with brilliant eyes at the sculptured pillars of Ilus. Doubtful, swayed by Antenor, waited in silence the nation. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 2 - The Book of the Statesman ,

714:Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 2 LET PETER rejoice with the MOON FISH who keeps up the life in the waters by night. Let Andrew rejoice with the Whale, who is array'd in beauteous blue and is a combination of bulk and activity. Let James rejoice with the Skuttle-Fish, who foils his foe by the effusion of his ink. Let John rejoice with Nautilus who spreads his sail and plies his oar, and the Lord is his pilot. Let Philip rejoice with Boca, which is a fish that can speak. Let Bartholomew rejoice with the Eel, who is pure in proportion to where he is found and how he is used. Let Thomas rejoice with the Sword-Fish, whose aim is perpetual and strength insuperable. Let Matthew rejoice with Uranoscopus, whose eyes are lifted up to God. Let James the less, rejoice with the Haddock, who brought the piece of money for the Lord and Peter. Let Jude bless with the Bream, who is of melancholy from his depth and serenity. Let Simon rejoice with the Sprat, who is pure and innumerable. Let Matthias rejoice with the Flying-Fish, who has a part with the birds, and is sublimity in his conceit. Let Stephen rejoice with Remora -- The Lord remove all obstacles to his glory. Let Paul rejoice with the Scale, who is pleasant and faithful!, like God's good ENGLISHMAN. Let Agrippa, which is Agricola, rejoice with Elops, who is a choice fish. 56 Let Joseph rejoice with the Turbut, whose capture makes the poor fisher-man sing. Let Mary rejoice with the Maid -- blessed be the name of the immaculate CONCEPTION. Let John, the Baptist, rejoice with the Salmon -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for infant Baptism. Let Mark rejoice with the Mullet, who is John Dore, God be gracious to him and his family. Let Barnabus rejoice with the Herring -- God be gracious to the Lord's fishery. Let Cleopas rejoice with the Mackerel, who cometh in a shoal after a leader. Let Abiud of the Lord's line rejoice with Murex, who is good and of a precious tincture. Let Eliakim rejoice with the Shad, who is contemned in his abundance. Let Azor rejoice with the Flounder, who is both of the sea and of the river, Let Sadoc rejoice with the Bleak, who playeth upon the surface in the Sun. Let Achim rejoice with the Miller's Thumb, who is a delicious morsel for the water fowl. Let Eliud rejoice with Cinaedus, who is a fish yellow all over. Let Eleazar rejoice with the Grampus, who is a pompous spouter. Let Matthan rejoice with the Shark, who is supported by multitudes of small value. Let Jacob rejoice with the Gold Fish, who is an eye-trap. Let Jairus rejoice with the Silver Fish, who is bright and lively. Let Lazarus rejoice with Torpedo, who chills the life of the assailant through his staff. 57 Let Mary Magdalen rejoice with the Place, whose goodness and purity are of the Lord's making. Let Simon the leper rejoice with the Eel-pout, who is a rarity on account of his subtlety. Let Alpheus rejoice with the Whiting, whom God hath bless'd in multitudes, and his days are as the days of PURIM. Let Onesimus rejoice with the Cod -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for a miraculous draught of men. Let Joses rejoice with the Sturgeon, who saw his maker in the body and obtained grace. Let Theophilus rejoice with the Folio, who hath teeth, like the teeth of a saw. Let Bartimeus rejoice with the Quaviver -- God be gracious to the eyes of him, who prayeth for the blind. Let CHRISTOPHER, who is Simon of Cyrene, rejoice with the Rough -- God be gracious to the CAM and to DAVID CAM and his seed for ever. Let Timeus rejoice with the Ling -- God keep the English Sailors clear of French bribery. Let Salome rejoice with the Mermaid, who hath the countenance and a portion of human reason. Let Zacharias rejoice with the Gudgeon, who improves in his growth till he is mistaken. Let Campanus rejoice with the Lobster -- God be gracious to all the CAMPBELLs especially John. Let Martha rejoice with the Skallop -- the Lord revive the exercise and excellence of the Needle. Let Mary rejoice with the Carp -- the ponds of Fairlawn and the garden bless for the master. 58 Let Zebedee rejoice with the Tench -- God accept the good son for his parents also. Let Joseph of Arimathea rejoice with the Barbel -- a good coffin and a tombstone without grudging! Let Elizabeth rejoice with the Crab -- it is good, at times, to go back. Let Simeon rejoice with the Oyster, who hath the life without locomotion. Let Jona rejoice with the Wilk -- Wilks, Wilkie, and Wilkinson bless the name of the Lord Jesus. Let Nicodemus rejoice with the Muscle, for so he hath provided for the poor. Let Gamaliel rejoice with the Cockle -- I will rejoice in the remembrance of mercy. Let Agabus rejoice with the Smelt -- The Lord make me serviceable to the HOWARDS. Let Rhoda rejoice with the Sea-Cat, who is pleasantry and purity. Let Elmodam rejoice with the Chubb, who is wary of the bait and thrives in his circumspection. Let Jorim rejoice with the Roach -- God bless my throat and keep me from things stranggled. Let Addi rejoice with the Dace -- It is good to angle with meditation. Let Luke rejoice with the Trout -- Blessed be Jesus in Aa, in Dee and in Isis. Let Cosam rejoice with the Perch, who is a little tyrant, because he is not liable to that, which he inflicts. Let Levi rejoice with the Pike -- God be merciful to all dumb creatures in respect of pain. Let Melchi rejoice with the Char, who cheweth the cud. Let Joanna rejoice with the Anchovy -- I beheld and lo! 'a great multitude! 59 Let Neri rejoice with the Keeling Fish, who is also called the Stock Fish. Let Janna rejoice with the Pilchard -- the Lord restore the seed of Abishai. Let Esli rejoice with the Soal, who is flat and spackles for the increase of motion. Let Nagge rejoice with the Perriwinkle -- 'for the rain it raineth every day.' Let Anna rejoice with the Porpus, who is a joyous fish and of good omen. Let Phanuel rejoice with the Shrimp, which is the childrens fishery. Let Chuza rejoice with the Sea-Bear, who is full of sagacity and prank. Let Susanna rejoice with the Lamprey, who is an eel with a title. Let Candace rejoice with the Craw-fish -- How hath the Christian minister renowned the Queen. Let The Eunuch rejoice with the Thorn-Back -- It is good to be discovered reading the BIBLE. Let Simon the Pharisee rejoice with the Grigg -- the Lord bring up Issachar and Dan. Let Simon the converted Sorcerer rejoice with the Dab quoth Daniel. Let Joanna, of the Lord's line, rejoice with the Minnow, who is multiplied against the oppressor. Let Jonas rejoice with the Sea-Devil, who hath a good name from his Maker. Let Alexander rejoice with the Tunny -- the worse the time the better the eternity. Let Rufus rejoice with the Needle-fish, who is very good in his element. Let Matthat rejoice with the Trumpet-fish -- God revive the blowing of the TRUMPETS. Let Mary, the mother of James, rejoice with the Sea-Mouse -- it is good to be at 60 peace. Let Prochorus rejoice with Epodes, who is a kind of fish with Ovid who is at peace in the Lord. Let Timotheus rejoice with the Dolphin, who is of benevolence. Let Nicanor rejoice with the Skeat -- Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus in fish and in the Shewbread, which ought to be continually on the altar, now more than ever, and the want of it is the Abomination of Desolation spoken of by Daniel. Let Timon rejoice with Crusion -- The Shew-Bread in the first place is gratitude to God to shew who is bread, whence it is, and that there is enough and to spare. Let Parmenas rejoice with the Mixon -- Secondly it is to prevent the last extremity, for it is lawful that rejected hunger may take it. Let Dorcas rejoice with Dracunculus -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus in the Grotto. Let Tychicus rejoice with Scolopendra, who quits himself of the hook by voiding his intrails. Let Trophimus rejoice with the Sea-Horse, who shoud have been to Tychicus the father of Yorkshiremen. Let Tryphena rejoice with Fluta -- Saturday is the Sabbath for the mouth of God hath spoken it. Let Tryphosa rejoice with Acarne -- With such preparation the Lord's Jubile is better kept. Let Simon the Tanner rejoice with Alausa -- Five days are sufficient for the purposes of husbandry. Let Simeon Niger rejoice with the Loach -- The blacks are the seed of Cain. Let Lucius rejoice with Corias -- Some of Cain's seed was preserved in the loins of Ham at the flood. Let Manaen rejoice with Donax. My DEGREE is good even here, in the Lord I have 61 a better. Let Sergius Paulus rejoice with Dentex -- Blessed be the name Jesus for my teeth. Let Silas rejoice with the Cabot -- the philosophy of the times ev'n now is vain deceit. Let Barsabas rejoice with Cammarus -- Newton is ignorant for if a man consult not the WORD how should he understand the WORK? -Let Lydia rejoice with Attilus -- Blessed be the name of him which eat the fish and honey comb. Let Jason rejoice with Alopecias, who is subtlety without offence. Let Dionysius rejoice with Alabes who is peculiar to the Nile. Let Damaris rejoice with Anthias -- The fountain of the Nile is known to the Eastern people who drink it. Let Apollos rejoice with Astacus, but St Paul is the Agent for England. Let Justus rejoice with Crispus in a Salmon-Trout -- the Lord look on the soul of Richard Atwood. Let Crispus rejoice with Leviathan -- God be gracious to the soul of HOBBES, who was no atheist, but a servant of Christ, and died in the Lord -- I wronged him God forgive me. Let Aquila rejoice with Beemoth who is Enoch no fish but a stupendous creeping Thing. Let Priscilla rejoice with Cythera. As earth increases by Beemoth so the sea likewise enlarges. Let Tyrannus rejoice with Cephalus who hath a great head. Let Gaius rejoice with the Water-Tortoise -- Paul and Tychicus were in England with Agricola my father. Let Aristarchus rejoice with Cynoglossus -- The Lord was at Glastonbury in the 62 body and blessed the thorn. Let Alexander rejoice with the Sea-Urchin -- The Lord was at Bristol and blessed the waters there. Let Sopater rejoice with Elacate -- The waters of Bath were blessed by St Matthias. Let Secundus rejoice with Echeneis who is the sea-lamprey. Let Eutychus rejoice with Cnide -- Fish and honeycomb are blessed to eat after a recovery. -Let Mnason rejoice with Vulvula a sort of fish -- Good words are of God, the cant from the Devil. Let Claudius Lysias rejoice with Coracinus who is black and peculiar to Nile. Let Bernice rejoice with Corophium which is a kind of crab. Let Phebe rejoice with Echinometra who is a beautiful shellfish red and green. Let Epenetus rejoice with Erythrinus who is red with a white belly. Let Andronicus rejoice with Esox, the Lax, a great fish of the Rhine. Let Junia rejoice with the Faber-Fish -- Broil'd fish and honeycomb may be taken for the sacrament. Let Amplias rejoice with Garus, who is a kind of Lobster. Let Urbane rejoice with Glanis, who is a crafty fish who bites away the bait and saves himself. Let Stachys rejoice with Glauciscus, who is good for Women's milk. Let Apelles rejoice with Glaucus -- behold the seed of the brave and ingenious how they are saved! Let Aristobulus rejoice with Glycymerides who is pure and sweet. Let Herodion rejoice with Holothuria which are prickly fishes. 63 Let Narcissus rejoice with Hordeia -- I will magnify the Lord who multiplied the fish. Let Persis rejoice with Liparis -- I will magnify the Lord who multiplied the barley loaves. Let Rufus rejoice with Icthyocolla of whose skin a water-glue is made. Let Asyncritus rejoice with Labrus who is a voracious fish. Let Phlegon rejoice with the Sea-Lizard -- Bless Jesus THOMAS BOWLBY and all the seed of Reuben. Let Hermas rejoice with Lamyrus who is of things creeping in the sea. Let Patrobas rejoice with Lepas, all shells are precious. Let Hermes rejoice with Lepus, who is a venomous fish. Let Philologus rejoice with Ligarius -- shells are all parries to the adversary. Let Julia rejoice with the Sleeve-Fish -- Blessed be Jesus for all the TAYLERS. Let Nereus rejoice with the Calamary -- God give success to our fleets. Let Olympas rejoice with the Sea-Lantern, which glows upon the waters. Let Sosipater rejoice with Cornuta. There are fish for the Sea-Night-Birds that glow at bottom. Let Lucius rejoice with the Cackrel Fish. God be gracious to JMs FLETCHER who has my tackling. Let Tertius rejoice with Maia which is a kind of crab. Let Erastus rejoice with Melandry which is the largest Tunny. Let Quartus rejoice with Mena. God be gracious to the immortal soul of poor Carte, who was barbarously and cowardly murder'd -- the Lord prevent the dealers in clandestine death. 64 Let Sosthenes rejoice with the Winkle -- all shells like the parts of the body are good kept for those parts. Let Chloe rejoice with the Limpin -- There is a way to the terrestrial Paradise upon the knees. Let Carpus rejoice with the Frog-Fish -- A man cannot die upon his knees. Let Stephanas rejoice with Mormyra who is a fish of divers colours. Let Fortunatus rejoice with the Burret -- it is good to be born when things are crossed. Let Lois rejoice with the Angel-Fish -- There is a fish that swims in the fluid Empyrean. Let Achaicus rejoice with the Fat-Back -- The Lord invites his fishers to the WEST INDIES. Let Sylvanus rejoice with the Black-Fish -- Oliver Cromwell himself was the murderer in the Mask. Let Titus rejoice with Mys -- O Tite siquid ego adjuero curamve levasso! Let Euodias rejoice with Myrcus -- There is a perfumed fish I will offer him for a sweet savour to the Lord. Let Syntyche rejoice with Myax -- There are shells in the earth which were left by the FLOOD. Let Clement rejoice with Ophidion -- There are shells again in earth at sympathy with those in sea. Let Epaphroditus rejoice with Opthalmias -- The Lord increase the Cambridge collection of fossils. Let Epaphras rejoice with Orphus -- God be gracious to the immortal soul of Dr Woodward. Let Justus rejoice with Pagrus -- God be gracious to the immortal soul of Dr Middleton. 65 Let Nymphas rejoice with Fagurus -- God bless Charles Mason and all Trinity College. Let Archippus rejoice with Nerita whose shell swimmeth. Let Eunice rejoice with Oculata who is of the Lizard kind. Let Onesephorus rejoice with Orca, who is a great fish. Let Eubulus rejoice with Ostrum the scarlet -- God be gracious to Gordon and Groat. Let Pudens rejoice with Polypus -- The Lord restore my virgin! Let Linus rejoice with Ozsena who is a kind of Polype -- God be gracious to Lyne and Anguish. Let Claudia rejoice with Pascer -- the purest creatures minister to wantoness by unthankfulness. Let Artemas rejoice with Pastinaca who is a fish with a sting. Let Zenas rejoice with Pecten -- The Lord obliterate the laws of man! Let Philemon rejoice with Pelagia -- The laws and judgement are impudence and blindness. Let Apphia rejoice with Pelamis -- The Lord Jesus is man's judgement. Let Demetrius rejoice with Peloris, who is greatest of Shell-Fishes. Let Antipas rejoice with Pentadactylus -- A papist hath no sentiment God bless CHURCHILL. *** FOR I pray the Lord JESUS that cured the LUNATICK to be merciful to all my brethren and sisters in these houses. For they work me with their harping-irons, which is a barbarous instrument, because I am more unguarded than others. 66 For the blessing of God hath been on my epistles, which I have written for the benefit of others. For I bless God that the CHURCH of ENGLAND is one of the SEVEN ev'n the candlestick of the Lord. For the ENGLISH TONGUE shall be the language of the WEST. For I pray Almighty CHRIST to bless the MAGDALEN HOUSE and to forward a National purification. For I have the blessing of God in the three POINTS of manhood, of the pen, of the sword, and of chivalry. For I am inquisitive in the Lord, and defend the philosophy of the scripture against vain deceit. For the nets come down from the eyes of the Lord to fish up men to their salvation. For I have a greater compass both of mirth and melancholy than another. For I bless the Lord JESUS in the innumerables, and for ever and ever. For I am redoubted, and redoubtable in the Lord, as is THOMAS BECKET my father. For I have had the grace to GO BACK, which is my blessing unto prosperity. For I paid for my seat in St PAUL's, when I was six years old, and took possession against the evil day. For I am descended from the steward of the island -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus king of England. For the poor gentleman is the first object of the Lord's charity and he is the most pitied who hath lost the most. For I am in twelve HARDSHIPS, but he that was born of a virgin shall deliver me out of all. For I am safe, as to my head, from the female dancer and her admirers. 67 For I pray for CHICHISTER to give the glory to God, and to keep the adversary at bay. For I am making to the shore day by day, the Lord Jesus take me. For I bless the Lord JESUS upon RAMSGATE PIER -- the Lord forward the building of harbours. For I bless the Lord JESUS for his very seed, which is in my body. For I pray for R and his family, I pray for Mr Becher, and I bean for the Lord JESUS. For I pray to God for Nore, for the Trinity house, for all light-houses, beacons and buoys. For I bless God that I am not in a dungeon, but am allowed the light of the Sun. For I pray God for the PYGMIES against their feathered adversaries, as a deed of charity. For I pray God for all those, who have defiled themselves in matters inconvenient. For I pray God be gracious to CORNELIUS MATTHEWS name and connection. For I am under the same accusation with my Saviour -- -for they said, he is besides himself. For I pray God for the introduction of new creatures into this island. For I pray God for the ostriches of Salisbury Plain, the beavers of the Medway and silver fish of Thames. For Charity is cold in the multitude of possessions, and the rich are covetous of their crumbs. For I pray to be accepted as a dog without offence, which is best of all. For I wish to God and desire towards the most High, which is my policy. 68 For the tides are the life of God in the ocean, and he sends his angel to trouble the great DEEP. For he hath fixed the earth upon arches and pillars, and the flames of hell flow under it. For the grosser the particles the nearer to the sink, and the nearer to purity, the quicker the gravitation. For MATTER is the dust of the Earth, every atom of which is the life. For MOTION is as the quantity of life direct, and that which hath not motion, is resistance. For Resistance is not of GOD, but he -- hath built his works upon it. For the Centripetal and Centrifugal forces are GOD SUSTAINING and DIRECTING. For Elasticity is the temper of matter to recover its place with vehemence. For Attraction is the earning of parts, which have a similitude in the life. For the Life of God is in the Loadstone, and there is a magnet, which pointeth due EAST. For the Glory of God is always in the East, but cannot be seen for the cloud of the crucifixion. For due East is the way to Paradise, which man knoweth not by reason of his fall. For the Longitude is (nevertheless) attainable by steering angularly notwithstanding. For Eternity is a creature and is built upon Eternity ¥ê¥á¥ó¥á¥â¥ï¥ë¥ç ¥å¥g¥é ¥ó¥ç ¥ä¥é¥á¥â¥ï¥ë¥ç . For Fire is a mixed nature of body and spirit, and the body is fed by that which hath not life. For Fire is exasperated by the Adversary, who is Death, unto the detriment of 69 man. For an happy Conjecture is a miraculous cast by the Lord Jesus. For a bad Conjecture is a draught of stud and mud. For there is a Fire which is blandishing, and which is of God direct. For Fire is a substance and distinct, and purifyeth ev'n in hell. For the Shears is the first of the mechanical powers, and to be used on the knees. For if Adam had used this instrument right, he would not have fallen. For the power of the Shears Is direct as the life. For the power of the WEDGE is direct as it's altitude by communication of Almighty God. For the Skrew, Axle and Wheel, Pulleys, the Lever and Inclined Plane are known in the Schools. For the Centre is not known but by the application of the members to matter. For I have shown the Vis Inerti©¡ to be false, and such is all nonsense. For the Centre is the hold of the Spirit upon the matter in hand. For FRICTION is inevitable because the Universe is FULL of God's works. For the PERPETUAL MOTION is in all the works of Almighty GOD. For it is not so in the engines of man, which are made of dead materials, neither indeed can be. For the Moment of bodies, as it is used, is a false term -- bless God ye Speakers on the Fifth of November. For Time and Weight are by their several estimates. For I bless GOD in the discovery of the LONGITUDE direct by the means of 70 GLADWICK. For the motion of the PENDULUM is the longest in that it parries resistance. For the WEDDING GARMENTS of all men are prepared in the SUN against the day of acceptation. For the Wedding Garments of all women are prepared in the MOON against the day of their purification. For CHASTITY is the key of knowledge as in Esdras, Sr Isaac Newton and now, God be praised, in me. For Newton nevertheless is more of error than of the truth, but I am of the WORD of GOD. For WATER, is not of solid constituents, but is dissolved from precious stones above. For the life remains in its dissolvent state, and that in great power. For WATER is condensed by the Lord's FROST, tho' not by the FLORENTINE experiment. For GLADWICK is a substance growing on hills in the East, candied by the sun, and of diverse colours. For it is neither stone nor metal but a new creature, soft to the ax, but hard to the hammer. For it answers sundry uses, but particularly it supplies the place of Glass. For it giveth a benign light without the fragility, malignity or mischief of Glass. For it attracteth all the colours of the GREAT BOW which is fixed in the EAST. For the FOUNTAINS and SPRINGS are the life of the waters working up to God. For they are in SYMPATHY with the waters above the Heavens, which are solid. For the Fountains, springs and rivers are all of them from the sea, whose water is filtrated and purified by the earth. 71 For there is Water above the visible surface in a spiritualizing state, which cannot be seen but by application of a CAPILLARY TUBE. For the ASCENT of VAPOURS is the return of thanksgiving from all humid bodies. For the RAIN WATER kept in a reservoir at any altitude, suppose of a thousand feet, will make a fountain from a spout of ten feet of the same height. For it will ascend in a stream two thirds of the way and afterwards prank itself into ten thousand agreeable forms. For the SEA is a seventh of the Earth -- the spirit of the Lord by Esdras. For MERCURY is affected by the AIR because it is of a similar subtlety. For the rising in the BAROMETER is not effected by pressure but by sympathy. For it cannot be seperated from the creature with which it is intimately and eternally connected. For where it is stinted of air there it will adhere together and stretch on the reverse. For it works by ballancing according to the hold of the spirit. For QUICK-SILVER is spiritual and so is the AIR to all intents and purposes. For the AIR-PUMP weakens and dispirits but cannot wholly exhaust. For SUCKTION is the withdrawing of the life, but life will follow as fast as it can. For there is infinite provision to keep up the life in all the parts of Creation. For the AIR is contaminated by curses and evil language. For poysonous creatures catch some of it and retain it or ere it goes to the adversary. For IRELAND was without these creatures, till of late, because of the simplicity of the people. 72 For the AIR. is purified by prayer which is made aloud and with all our might. For loud prayer is good for weak lungs and for a vitiated throat. For SOUND is propagated in the spirit and in all directions. For the VOICE of a figure compleat in all its parts. For a man speaks HIMSELF from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet. For a LION roars HIMSELF compleat from head to tail. For all these things are seen in the spirit which makes the beauty of prayer. For all whispers and unmusical sounds in general are of the Adversary. For 'I will hiss saith the Lord' is God's denunciation of death. For applause or the clapping of the hands is the natural action of a man on the descent of the glory of God. For EARTH which is an intelligence hath a voice and a propensity to speak in all her parts. For ECHO is the soul of the voice exerting itself in hollow places. For ECHO cannot act but when she can parry the adversary. For ECHO is greatest in Churches and where she can assist in prayer. For a good voice hath its Echo with it and it is attainable by much supplication. For the FOICE is from the body and the spirit -- and is a a body and a spirit. For the prayers of good men are therefore visible to second-sighted persons. For HARPSICHORDS are best strung with gold wire. For HARPS and VIOLS are best strung with Indian weed. For the GERMAN FLUTE is an indirect -- the common flute good, bless the Lord Jesus BENJIMIN HALLET. 73 For the feast of TRUMPETS should be kept up, that being the most direct and acceptable of all instruments. For the TRUMPET of God is a blessed intelligence and so are all the instruments in HEAVEN. For GOD the father Almighty plays upon the HARP of stupendous magnitude and melody. For innumerable Angels fly out at every touch and his tune is a work of creation. For at that time malignity ceases and the devils themselves are at peace. For this time is perceptible to man by a remarkable stillness and serenity of soul. For the ¨¡olian harp is improveable into regularity. For when it is so improved it will be known to be the SHAWM. For it woud be better if the LITURGY were musically performed. For the strings of the SHAWM were upon a cylinder which turned to the wind. For this was spiritual musick altogether, as the wind is a spirit. For there is nothing but it may be played upon in delight. For the flames of fire may lie blown thro musical pipes. For it is so higher up in the vast empyrean. For is so real as that which is spiritual. For an IGNIS FATUUS is either the fool's conceit or a blast from the adversary. For SHELL-FIRE or ELECTRICAL is the quick air when it is caught. For GLASS is worked in the fire till it partakes of its nature. For the electrical fire is easily obtain'd by the working of glass. 74 For all spirits are of fire and the air is a very benign one. For the MAN in VACUO is a flat conceit of preposterous folly. For the breath of our nostrils is an electrical spirit. For an electrical spirit may be exasperated into a malignant fire. For it is good to quicken in paralytic cases being the life applied unto death, For the method of philosophizing is in a posture of Adoration. For the School-Doctrine of Thunder and Lightning is a Diabolical Hypothesis. For it is taking the nitre from the lower regions and directing it against the Infinite of Heights. For THUNDER is the voice of God direct in verse and musick. For LIGHTNING is a glance of the glory of God. For the Brimstone that is found at the times of thunder and lightning is worked up by the Adversary. For the voice is always for infinite good which he strives to impede. For the Devil can work coals into shapes to afflict the minds of those that will not pray. For the coffin and the cradle and the purse are all against a man. For the coffin is for the dead and death came by disobedience. For the cradle is for weakness and the child of man was originally strong from the womb. For the purse is for money and money is dead matter with the stamp of human vanity. For the adversary frequently sends these particular images out of the fire to those whom they concern. 75 For the coffin is for me because I have nothing to do with it. For the cradle is for me because the old Dragon attacked me in it and overcame in Christ. For the purse is for me because I have neither money nor human friends. For LIGHT is propagated at all distances in an instant because it is actuated by the divine conception. For the Satellites of the planet prove nothing in this matter but the glory of Almighty God. For the SHADE is of death and from the adversary. For Solomon said vanity of vanities, vanity of vanities all is vanity. For Jesus says verity of verities, verity of verities all is verity. For Solomon said THOU FOOL in malice from his own vanity. For the Lord reviled not all in hardship and temptation unutterable. For Fire hath this property that it reduces a thing till finally it is not. For all the filth wicked of men shall be done away by fire in Eternity. For the furnace itself shall come up at the last according to Abraham's vision. For the Convex Heaven of shall work about on that great event. For the ANTARTICK POLE is not yet but shall answer in the Consummation. For the devil hath most power in winter, because darkness prevails. For the Longing of Women is the operation of the Devil upon their conceptions. For the marking of their children is from the same cause both of which are to be parried by prayer. For the laws of King James the first against Witchcraft were wise, had it been of man to make laws. 76 For there are witches and wizards even now who are spoken to by their familiars. For the visitation of their familiars is prevented by the Lord's incarnation. For to conceive with intense diligence against one's neighbour is a branch of witchcraft. For to use pollution, exact and cross things and at the same time to think against a man is the crime direct. For prayer with musick is good for persons so exacted upon. For before the NATIVITY is the dead of the winter and after it the quick. For the sin against the HOLY GHOST is INGRATITUDE. For stuff'd guts make no musick; strain them strong and you shall have sweet melody. For the SHADOW is of death, which is the Devil, who can make false and faint images of the works of Almighty God. For every man beareth death about him ever since the transgression of Adam, but in perfect light there is no shadow. For all Wrath is Fire, which the adversary blows upon and exasperates. For SHADOW is a fair Word from God, which is not returnable till the furnace comes up. For the ECLIPSE is of the adversary -- blessed be the name of Jesus for Whisson of Trinity. For the shadow is his and the penumbra is his and his the perplexity of the the phenomenon. For the eclipses happen at times when the light is defective. For the more the light is defective, the more the powers of darkness prevail. 77 For deficiencies happen by the luminaries crossing one another. For the SUN is an intelligence and an angel of the human form. For the MOON is an intelligence and an angel in shape like a woman. For they are together in the spirit every night like man and wife. For Justice is infinitely beneath Mercy in nature and office. For the Devil himself may be just in accusation and punishment. For HELL is without eternity from the presence of Almighty God. For Volcanos and burning mountains are where the adversary hath most power. For the angel GRATITUDE is my wife -- God bring me to her or her to me. For the propagation of light is quick as the divine Conception. For FROST is damp and unwholsome air candied to fall to the best advantage. For I am the Lord's News-Writer -- the scribe-evangelist -- Widow Mitchel, Gun and Grange bless the Lord Jesus. For Adversity above all other is to be deserted of the grace of God. For in the divine Idea this Eternity is compleat and the Word is a making many more. For there is a forlorn hope ev'n for impenitent sinners because the furnace itself must be the crown of Eternity. For my hope is beyond Eternity in the bosom of God my saviour. For by the grace of God I am the Reviver of ADORATION amongst ENGLISH-MEN. For being desert-ed is to have desert in the sight of God and intitles one to the Lord's merit. For things that are not in the sight of men are thro' God of infinite concern. 78 For envious men have exceeding subtlety quippe qui in -- videant. For avaricious men are exceeding subtle like the soul seperated from the body. For their attention is on a sinking object which perishes. For they can go beyond the children of light in matters of their own misery. For Snow is the dew candied and cherishes. For TIMES and SEASONS are the Lord's -- Man is no CHRONOLOGER. For there is a CIRCULATION of the SAP in all vegetables. For SOOT is the dross of Fire. For the CLAPPING of the hands is naught unless it be to the glory of God. For God will descend in visible glory when men begin to applaud him. For all STAGE-Playing is Hypocrisy and the Devil is the master of their revels. For the INNATATION of corpuscles is solved by the Gold-beater's hammer -- God be gracious to Christopher Peacock and to all my God-Children. For the PRECESSION of the Equinoxes is improving nature -- something being gained every where for the glory of God perpetually. For the souls of the departed are embodied in clouds and purged by the Sun. For the LONGITUDE may be discovered by attending the motions of the Sun. Way 2d. For you must consider the Sun as dodging, which he does to parry observation. For he must be taken with an Astrolabe, and considered respecting the point he left. For you must do this upon your knees and that will secure your point. For I bless God that I dwell within the sound of Success, and that it is well with 79 ENGLAND this blessed day. NATIVITY of our LORD N.S. 1759. ~ Christopher Smart,

715:The Last Tournament Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall. And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, And from the crown thereof a carcanet Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, Came Tristram, saying, `Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?' For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead, From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutched at the crag, and started through mid air Bearing an eagle's nest: and through the tree Rushed ever a rainy wind, and through the wind Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarred from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Received, and after loved it tenderly, And named it Nestling; so forgot herself A moment, and her cares; till that young life Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, `Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize.' To whom the King, `Peace to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honour after death, Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, 631 And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.' `Would rather you had let them fall,' she cried, `Plunge and be lost-ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me!-ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as givenSlid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river-that unhappy child Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go With these rich jewels, seeing that they came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, But the sweet body of a maiden babe. Perchance-who knows?-the purest of thy knights May win them for the purest of my maids.' She ended, and the cry of a great jousts With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Armed for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall staggered, his visage ribbed From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And one with shattered fingers dangling lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King, `My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? Man was it who marred heaven's image in thee thus?' Then, sputtering through the hedge of splintered teeth, Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump Pitch-blackened sawing the air, said the maimed churl, `He took them and he drave them to his towerSome hold he was a table-knight of thineA hundred goodly ones-the Red Knight, heLord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; And when I called upon thy name as one 632 That doest right by gentle and by churl, Maimed me and mauled, and would outright have slain, Save that he sware me to a message, saying, 'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I Have founded my Round Table in the North, And whatsoever his own knights have sworn My knights have sworn the counter to it-and say My tower is full of harlots, like his court, But mine are worthier, seeing they profess To be none other than themselves-and say My knights are all adulterers like his own, But mine are truer, seeing they profess To be none other; and say his hour is come, The heathen are upon him, his long lance Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.'' Then Arthur turned to Kay the seneschal, `Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. The heathen-but that ever-climbing wave, Hurled back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest-and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, Friends, through your manhood and your fealty,-now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchaired tomorrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?' Thereto Sir Lancelot answered, `It is well: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me. Else, for the King has willed it, it is well.' Then Arthur rose and Lancelot followed him, 633 And while they stood without the doors, the King Turned to him saying, `Is it then so well? Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, 'A sound is in his ears'? The foot that loiters, bidden go,-the glance That only seems half-loyal to command,A manner somewhat fallen from reverenceOr have I dreamed the bearing of our knights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? Or whence the fear lest this my realm, upreared, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violences, Reel back into the beast, and be no more?' He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, Down the slope city rode, and sharply turned North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watched her lord pass, and knew not that she sighed. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, `Where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery called The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shrieked, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, filled his double-dragoned chair. He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each through worship of their Queen White-robed in honour of the stainless child, And some with scattered jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He looked but once, and vailed his eyes again. 634 The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet cracked, And showed him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard The voice that billowed round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly-entered, taller than the rest, And armoured all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle-Tristram-late From overseas in Brittany returned, And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White-Sir Tristram of the WoodsWhom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain His own against him, and now yearned to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram even to death: his strong hands gript And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, Until he groaned for wrath-so many of those, That ware their ladies' colours on the casque, Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, And there with gibes and flickering mockeries Stood, while he muttered, `Craven crests! O shame! What faith have these in whom they sware to love? The glory of our Round Table is no more.' So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than `Hast thou won? 635 Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this, is red!' to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood, Made answer, `Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Lest be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand-belike the lance hath dript upon itNo blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine.' And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; then bowed his homage, bluntly saying, `Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here.' And most of these were mute, some angered, one Murmuring, `All courtesy is dead,' and one, `The glory of our Round Table is no more.' Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness: But under her black brows a swarthy one Laughed shrilly, crying, `Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flowering through the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come-let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field.' So dame and damsel glittered at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns 636 With veer of wind, and all are flowers again; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colours, the live grass, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a withered leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, `Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?' Wheeled round on either heel, Dagonet replied, `Belike for lack of wiser company; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all.' `Ay, fool,' said Tristram, `but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to.' Then he twangled on his harp, And while he twangled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stayed in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; And being asked, `Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?' Made answer, `I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make.' Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, `Good now, what music have I broken, fool?' And little Dagonet, skipping, `Arthur, the King's; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in BrittanyAnd so thou breakest Arthur's music too.' `Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool,' said Tristram, `I would break thy head. Fool, I came too late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shellI am but a fool to reason with a fool- 637 Come, thou art crabbed and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, And harken if my music be not true. `'Free love-free field-we love but while we may: The woods are hushed, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life-the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love-free field-we love but while we may.' `Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold.' But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, `Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?-but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour endAnd them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever cameThe twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize-and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank, Spat-pish-the cup was gold, the draught was mud.' And Tristram, `Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool'Fear God: honour the King-his one true knightSole follower of the vows'-for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught-yet swine I hold thee still, 638 For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.' And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, `Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallowed, I have washed-the world Is flesh and shadow-I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me-an I wallowed, then I washedI have had my day and my philosophiesAnd thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Trooped round a Paynim harper once, who thrummed On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song-but never a king's fool.' And Tristram, `Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell.' Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, `And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?' And Tristram, `Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.' And Dagonet answered, `Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your witAnd whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right-and so went harping down The black king's highway, got so far, and grew So witty that ye played at ducks and drakes With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?' 639 `Nay, fool,' said Tristram, `not in open day.' And Dagonet, `Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip.' `Lo, fool,' he said, `ye talk Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool?' Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrilled, `Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, And men from beasts-Long live the king of fools!' And down the city Dagonet danced away; But through the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walked, or crept, or perched, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, returned; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or even a fallen feather, vanished again. So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Through many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs Furze-crammed, and bracken-rooft, the which himself Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And snatched her thence; yet dreading worse than shame Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. 640 And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; But could not rest for musing how to smoothe And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here? a name? Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King? `Isolt Of the white hands' they called her: the sweet name Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily, But left her all as easily, and returned. The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes Had drawn him home-what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dreamed. He seemed to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And showed them both the ruby-chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, `Look, her hand is red! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand-her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower.' Followed a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoiled her carcanet. He dreamed; but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-winged sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors, whereout was rolled 641 A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. `Lo there,' said one of Arthur's youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonour done the gilded spur, Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode. Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, In blood-red armour sallying, howled to the King, `The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the worldThe woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I! Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, And stings itself to everlasting death, To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King? -Look to thy life!' He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. And Arthur deigned not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretched from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, Heard in dead night along that table-shore, Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, 642 Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, From less and less to nothing; thus he fell Head-heavy; then the knights, who watched him, roared And shouted and leapt down upon the fallen; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Through open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurled The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement streamed with massacre: Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up through Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw Came round by the East, and out beyond them flushed The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge returned, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stayed him. `Why weep ye?' `Lord,' she said, `my man Hath left me or is dead;' whereon he thought`What, if she hate me now? I would not this. What, if she love me still? I would not that. I know not what I would'-but said to her, `Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favour changed and love thee not'Then pressing day by day through Lyonnesse Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gained Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, 643 A crown of towers. Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flushed, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, `Not Mark-not Mark, my soul! The footstep fluttered me at first: not he: Catlike through his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls Who hates thee, as I him-even to the death. My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.' To whom Sir Tristram smiling, `I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.' And drawing somewhat backward she replied, `Can he be wronged who is not even his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratched, bitten, blinded, marred me somehow-Mark? What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand-not, though he found me thus! But harken! have ye met him? hence he went Today for three days' hunting-as he saidAnd so returns belike within an hour. Mark's way, my soul!-but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee.' So, plucked one way by hate and one by love, Drained of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, `O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, 644 Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one-his name is out of me-the prize, If prize she were-(what marvel-she could see)Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?' And Tristram, `Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness-ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, Sailing from Ireland.' Softly laughed Isolt; `Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?' and he said, `Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me-soft, gracious, kindSave when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty, even to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love.' To whom Isolt, `Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest through the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinned against the highest, And I-misyoked with such a want of manThat I could hardly sin against the lowest.' He answered, `O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crowned warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me-fear And fault and doubt-no word of that fond taleThy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away.' And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, 645 `I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee-yearnings?-ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seemed those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watched from this tower. Isolt of Britain dashed Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, Would that have chilled her bride-kiss? Wedded her? Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? The King was all fulfilled with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that healed Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caressWell-can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories. O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love.' And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, `Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt?-I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark-Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God.' And Isolt answered, `Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flashed a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiendMark's way to steal behind one in the darkFor there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hissed it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swooned away, 646 And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms.' Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, `May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!' a saying that angered her. `'May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. For when had Lancelot uttered aught so gross Even to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight! But thou, through ever harrying thy wild beastsSave that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well-art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him, The man of men, our King-My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and through their vows The King prevailing made his realm:-I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me even when old, Gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair.' Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, `Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itselfMy knighthood taught me this-ay, being snaptWe run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once-even to the height-I honoured him. 647 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hallHis hair, a sun that rayed from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with lightMoreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end Amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon; he seemed to me no man, But Micha l trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by- The vows! O ay-the wholesome madness of an hourThey served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vowsFirst mainly through that sullying of our QueenBegan to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? washed up from out the deep? They failed to trace him through the flesh and blood Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord To bind them by inviolable vows, Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: For feel this arm of mine-the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Woos his own end; we are not angels here Nor shall be: vows-I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love.' 648 Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, `Good: an I turned away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyselfFor courtesy wins woman all as well As valour may, but he that closes both Is perfect, he is Lancelot-taller indeed, Rosier and comelier, thou-but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw, 'We love but while we may,' Well then, what answer?' He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, `Press this a little closer, sweet, untilCome, I am hungered and half-angered-meat, Wine, wine-and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come.' So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, and set before him all he willed; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their heartsNow talking of their woodland paradise, The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of MarkThen Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: `Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that bend the brier! A star in heaven, a star within the mere! Ay, ay, O ay-a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that bow the grass! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, O ay-the winds that move the mere.' Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram showed And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, `The collar of some Order, which our King 649 Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.' `Not so, my Queen,' he said, `but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee.' He spoke, he turned, then, flinging round her neck, Claspt it, and cried, `Thine Order, O my Queen!' But, while he bowed to kiss the jewelled throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touched, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek`Mark's way,' said Mark, and clove him through the brain. That night came Arthur home, and while he climbed, All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, The stairway to the hall, and looked and saw The great Queen's bower was dark,-about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he questioned it, `What art thou?' and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer, sobbing, `I am thy fool, And I shall never make thee smile again.' ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

716:Idylls Of The King: The Last Tournament (Excerpt) Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, And from the crown thereof a carcanet Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once Far down beneath a winding wall of rock Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead. From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid air Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest, This ruby necklace thrice around her neck, And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took, Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms Received, and after loved it tenderly, And named it Nestling; so forgot herself A moment, and her cares; till that young life Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold Past from her; and in time the carcanet Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, "Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize." To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne Dead nestling, and this honour after death, Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, 197 And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear." "Would rather you had let them fall," she cried, "Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were, A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed, Not knowing they were lost as soon as given-Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out Above the river--that unhappy child Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go With these rich jewels, seeing that they came Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, But the sweet body of a maiden babe. Perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights May win them for the purest of my maids." She ended, and the cry of a great jousts With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways From Camelot in among the faded fields To furthest towers; and everywhere the knights Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. But on the hither side of that loud morn Into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, A churl, to whom indignantly the King, "My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? Man was it who marr'd heaven's image in thee thus?" Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth, Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump Pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl, "He took them and he drave them to his tower-Some hold he was a table-knight of thine-A hundred goodly ones--the Red Knight, he-Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight Brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; And when I cal'd upon thy name as one 198 That doest right by gentle and by churl, Maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright have slain, Save that he aware me to a message, saying, 'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I Have founded my Round Table in the North, And whatsoever his own knights have sworn My knights have sworn the counter to it--and say My tower is full of harlots, like his court, But mine are worthier, seeing they profess To be none other than themselves--and say My knights are all adulterers like his own, But mine are truer, seeing they profess To be none other; and say his hour is come, The heathen are upon him, his long lance Broken, and his Excalibur a straw.' " Then Arthur turn'd to Kay the seneschal, "Take thou my churl, and tend him curiously Like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. The heathen--but that ever-climbing wave, Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam, Hath lain for years at rest--and renegades, Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, Friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty,--now Make their last head like Satan in the North. My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. But thou, Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it Only to yield my Queen her own again? Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?" Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well: Yet better if the King abide, and leave The leading of his younger knights to me. Else, for the King has will'd it, it is well." 199 Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him, And while they stood without the doors, the King Turn'd to him saying, "Is it then so well? Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he Of whom was written, 'A sound is in his ears'? The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance That only seems half-loyal to command,-A manner somewhat fall'n from reverence-Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights Tells of a manhood ever less and lower? Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd, By noble deeds at one with noble vows, From flat confusion and brute violence,s Reel back into the beast, and be no more?" He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, Down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd. Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows? From the great deep to the great deep he goes." But when the morning of a tournament, By these in earnest those in mockery call'd The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose, And down a streetway hung with folds of pure White samite, and by fountains running wine, Where children sat in white with cups of gold, Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps Ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair. He glanced and saw the stately galleries, Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queen 200 White-robed in honour of the stainless child, And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. He look'd but once, and vail'd his eyes again. The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began: And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are past away, Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. He saw the laws that ruled the tournament Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down Before his throne of arbitration cursed The dead babe and the follies of the King; And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, And show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, But newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, And armour'd all in forest green, whereon There tript a hundred tiny silver deer, And wearing but a holly-spray for crest, With ever-scattering berries, and on shield A spear, a harp, a bugle--Tristram--late From overseas in Brittany return'd, And marriage with a princess of that realm, Isolt the White--Sir Tristram of the Woods-Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain His own against him, and now yearn'd to shake The burthen off his heart in one full shock With Tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript And dinted the gilt dragons right and left, Until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those, That ware their ladies' colours on the casque, Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, And there with gibes and flickering mockeries 201 Stood, while he mutter'd, "Craven crests! O shame! What faith have these in whom they sware to love? The glory of our Round Table is no more." So Tristram won, and Lancelot gave, the gems, Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won? Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand Wherewith thou takest this, is red!" to whom Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous mood, Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, Are winners in this pastime of our King. My hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it-No blood of mine, I trow; but O chief knight, Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, Great brother, thou nor I have made the world; Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in mine." And Tristram round the gallery made his horse Caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying, "Fair damsels, each to him who worships each Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold This day my Queen of Beauty is not here." And most of these were mute, some anger'd, one Murmuring, "All courtesy is dead," and one "The glory of our Round Table is no more." Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day Went glooming down in wet and weariness: But under her black brows a swarthy one Laugh'd shrilly, crying, "Praise the patient saints, Our one white day of Innocence hath past, Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the year, Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. Come--let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's 202 And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity With all the kindlier colours of the field." So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast Variously gay: for he that tells the tale Liken'd them, saying, as when an hour of cold Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, And all the purple slopes of mountain flowers Pass under white, till the warm hour returns With veer of wind, and all are flowers again; So dame and damsel cast the simple white, And glowing in all colours, the live grass, Rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced About the revels, and with mirth so loud Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts, Brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?" Wheel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied, "Belike for lack of wiser company; Or being fool, and seeing too much wit Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip To know myself the wisest knight of all." "Ay, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry To dance without a catch, a roundelay To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp, And while he twangled little Dagonet stood Quiet as any water-sodden log Stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook; But when the twangling ended, skipt again; And being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?" Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years Skip to the broken music of my brains Than any broken music thou canst make." Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, 203 "Good now, what music have I broken, fool?" And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the King's; For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, Thou makest broken music with thy bride, Her daintier namesake down in Brittany-And so thou breakest Arthur's music, too." "Save for that broken music in thy brains, Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head. Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er, The life had flown, we sware but by the shell-I am but a fool to reason with a fool-Come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down, Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, And harken if my music be not true. "`Free love--free field--we love but while we may: The woods are hush'd, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love--free field--we love but while we may.' "Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold." But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, "Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?--but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour end-And them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever came-The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize--and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 204 'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank, Spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud." And Tristram, "Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-'Fear God: honour the King--his one true knight-Sole follower of the vows'--for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught--yet swine I hold thee still, For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine." And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, "Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I'll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallow'd, I have wash'd--the world Is flesh and shadow--I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath foul'd me--an I wallow'd, then I wash'd-I have had my day and my philosophies-And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song--but never a king's fool." And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell." Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, "And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself 205 Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?" And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven." And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself To babble about him, all to show your wit-And whether he were King by courtesy, Or King by right--and so went harping down The black king's highway, got so far, and grew So witty that we play'd at ducks and drakes With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. Tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?" "Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day." And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. It makes a silent music up in heaven, And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, And then we skip." "Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk Fool's treason: is the King thy brother fool?" Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd, "Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! Conceits himself as God that he can make Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs And men from beasts--Long live the king of fools!" And down the city Dagonet danced away; But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues And solitary passes of the wood Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 206 Past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye For all that walk'd, or crept, or perch'd, or flew. Anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, Unruffling waters re-collect the shape Of one that in them sees himself, return'd; But at the slot or fewmets of a deer, Or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. So on for all that day from lawn to lawn Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs Furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt Against a shower, dark in the golden grove Appearing, sent his fancy back to where She lived a moon in that low lodge with him: Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish King, With six or seven, when Tristram was away, And snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than shame Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, But bode his hour, devising wretchedness. And now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank Down on a drift of foliage random-blown; But could not rest for musing how to smoothe And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all The tonguesters of the court she had not heard. But then what folly had sent him overseas After she left him lonely here? a name? Was it the name of one in Brittany, Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name Allured him first, and then the maid herself, Who served him well with those white hands of hers, And loved him well, until himself had thought He loved her also, wedded easily, But left her all as easily, and return'd. 207 The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes Had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd. He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany Between Isolt of Britain and his bride, And show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both Began to struggle for it, till his Queen Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. Then cried the Breton, "Look, her hand is red! These be no rubies, this is frozen blood, And melts within her hand--her hand is hot With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, Is all as cool and white as any flower." Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then A whimpering of the spirit of the child, Because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet. He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears Rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, And many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh Glared on a huge machicolated tower That stood with open doors, where out was roll'd A roar of riot, as from men secure Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. "Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there, High on a grim dead tree before the tower, A goodly brother of the Table Round Swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield Showing a shower of blood in a field noir, And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights At that dishonour done the gilded spur, Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. But Arthur waved them back. Alone he rode. Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, That sent the face of all the marsh aloft An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud Of shriek and plume, the Red Knight heard, and all, 208 Even to tipmost lance and topmost helm In blood-red armour sallying, howl'd to the King, "The teeth of Hell flay bare and gnash thee flat! Lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted King Who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-The woman-worshipper? Yea, God's curse, and I! Slain was the brother of my paramour By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine And snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, And stings itself to everlasting death, To hang whatever knight of thine I fought And tumbled. Art thou King?--Look to thy life!" He ended: Arthur knew the voice; the face Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name Went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. And Arthur deign'd not use of word or sword, But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, Heard in dead night along that table-shore, Drops flat, and after the great waters break Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, From less and less to nothing; thus he fell Head-heavy; then the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n; There trampled out his face from being known, And sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: Nor heard the King for their own cries, but sprang Thro' open doors, and swording right and left Men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd The tables over and the wines, and slew Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, And all the pavement stream'd with massacre: Then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower, Which half that autumn night, like the live North, 209 Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, Made all above it, and a hundred meres About it, as the water Moab saw Come round by the East, and out beyond them flush'd The long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, But in the heart of Arthur pain was lord. Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream Fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd, Mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. He whistled his good warhorse left to graze Among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, And rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, Stay'd him. "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said, "my man Hath left me or is dead"; whereon he thought-"What, if she hate me now? I would not this. What, if she love me still? I would not that. I know not what I would"--but said to her, "Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, He find thy favour changed and love thee not"-Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonnesse Last in a roky hollow, belling, heard The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gain'd Tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, A crown of towers. Down in a casement sat, A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen. And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind The spiring stone that scaled about her tower, Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there Belted his body with her white embrace, Crying aloud, "Not Mark--not Mark, my soul! The footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, But warrior-wise thou stridest thro' his halls Who hates thee, as I him--ev'n to the death. 210 My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine." And drawing somewhat backward she replied, "Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, But save for dread of thee had beaten me, Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--Mark? What rights are his that dare not strike for them? Not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus! But harken! have ye met him? hence he went To-day for three days' hunting--as he said-And so returns belike within an hour. Mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with Mark, Because he hates thee even more than fears; Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell. My God, the measure of my hate for Mark Is as the measure of my love for thee.'' So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, Drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, "O hunter, and O blower of the horn, Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, For, ere I mated with my shambling king, Ye twain had fallen out about the bride Of one--his name is out of me--the prize, If prize she were--(what marvel--she could see) Thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, What dame or damsel have ye kneel'd to last?" And Tristram, "Last to my Queen Paramount, Here now to my Queen Paramount of love And loveliness--ay, lovelier than when first Her light feet fell on our rough Lyonnesse, 211 Sailing from Ireland." Softly laugh'd Isolt; "Flatter me not, for hath not our great Queen My dole of beauty trebled?" and he said, "Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, And thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips Most gracious; but she, haughty ev'n to him, Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow To make one doubt if ever the great Queen Have yielded him her love." To whom Isolt, "Ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou Who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me That Guinevere had sinn'd against the highest, And I--misyoked with such a want of man-That I could hardly sin against the lowest." He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted! If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin That made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear And fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories Of Tristram in that year he was away." And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, "I had forgotten all in my strong joy To see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, Here in the never-ended afternoon, O sweeter than all memories of thee, Deeper than any yearnings after thee Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd Before Isolt of Brittany on the strand, Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded her? Fought in her father's battles? wounded there? 212 The King was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-Well--can I wish her any huger wrong Than having known thee? her too hast thou left To pine and waste in those sweet memories. O were I not my Mark's, by whom all men Are noble, I should hate thee more than love." And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, "Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. Did I love her? the name at least I loved. Isolt?--I fought his battles, for Isolt! The night was dark; the true star set. Isolt! The name was ruler of the dark--Isolt? Care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God." And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, And once or twice I spake thy name aloud. Then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-For there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers So shook to such a roar of all the sky, That here in utter dark I swoon'd away, And woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'I will flee hence and give myself to God'-And thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms." Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, "May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, And past desire!" a saying that anger'd her.' 213 "`May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, And sweet no more to me!' I need Him now. For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross Ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? The greater man, the greater courtesy. Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight! But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts-Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance Becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. How darest thou, if lover, push me even In fancy from thy side, and set me far In the gray distance, half a life away, Her to be loved no more? Unsay it, unswear! Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, Broken with Mark and hate and solitude, Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck Lies like sweet wines: lie to me: I believe. Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, And solemnly as when ye sware to him The man of men, our King--My God, the power Was once in vows when men believed the King! They lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows The King prevailing made his realm:--I say, Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in despair." Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, "Vows! did you keep the vow you made to Mark More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, but learnt, The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-My knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-We run more counter to the soul thereof Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. For once--ev'n to the height--I honour'd him. 'Man, is he man at all?' methought, when first I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld That victor of the Pagan throned in hall-His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, The golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- 214 Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin's mystic babble about his end Amazed me; then his foot was on a stool Shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, But Michaël trampling Satan; so I sware, Being amazed: but this went by--The vows! O ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-They served their use, their time; for every knight Believed himself a greater than himself, And every follower eyed him as a God; Till he, being lifted up beyond himself, Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, And so the realm was made; but then their vows-First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen-Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? Dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep? They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood Of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord To bind them by inviolable vows, Which flesh and blood perforce would violate: For feel this arm of mine--the tide within Red with free chase and heather-scented air, Pulsing full man; can Arthur make me pure As any maiden child? lock up my tongue From uttering freely what I freely hear? Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it. And worldling of the world am I, and know The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour Woos his own end; we are not angels here Nor shall be: vows--I am woodman of the woods, And hear the garnet-headed yaffingale Mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love." Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, "Good: an I turn'd away my love for thee To some one thrice as courteous as thyself-For courtesy wins woman all as well As valour may, but he that closes both 215 Is perfect, he is Lancelot--taller indeed, Rosier and comelier, thou--but say I loved This knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back Thine own small saw, 'We love but while we may,' Well then, what answer?" He that while she spake, Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch The warm white apple of her throat, replied, "Press this a little closer, sweet, until-Come, I am hunger'd and half-anger'd--meat, Wine, wine--and I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come." So then, when both were brought to full accord, She rose, and set before him all he will'd; And after these had comforted the blood With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-Now talking of their woodland paradise, The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; Now mocking at the much ungainliness, And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark-Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: "Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bend the brier! A star in heaven, a star within the mere! Ay, ay, O ay--a star was my desire, And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that bow the grass! And one was water and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass. Ay, ay, O ay--the winds that move the mere." Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, "The collar of some Order, which our King Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers." 216 "Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fruit Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize, And hither brought by Tristram for his last Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee." He spoke, he turn'd, then, flinging round her neck, Claspt it, and cried "Thine Order, O my Queen!" But, while he bow'd to kiss the jewell'd throat, Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-"Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the brain. That night came Arthur home, and while he climb'd, All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw The great Queen's bower was dark,--about his feet A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, "What art thou?" and the voice about his feet Sent up an answer, sobbing, "I am thy fool, And I shall never make thee smile again." ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

717:A Dramatic Poem The deck of an ancient ship. At the right of the stage is the mast, with a large square sail hiding a great deal of the sky and sea on that side. The tiller is at the left of the stage; it is a long oar coming through an opening in the bulwark. The deck rises in a series of steps hehind the tiller, and the stern of the ship curves overhead. When the play opens there are four persons upon the deck. Aibric stands by the tiller. Forgael sleeps upon the raised portion of the deck towards the front of the stage. Two Sailors are standing near to the mast, on which a harp is hanging. First Sailor. Has he not led us into these waste seas   For long enough? Second Sailor.  Aye, long and long enough. First Sailor. We have not come upon a shore or ship   These dozen weeks. Second Sailor.  And I had thought to make   A good round Sum upon this cruise, and turn   For I am getting on in lifeto something   That has less ups and downs than robbery. First Sailor. I am so tired of being bachelor   I could give all my heart to that Red Moll   That had but the one eye. Second Sailor.    Can no bewitchment   Transform these rascal billows into women   That I may drown myself? First Sailor.     Better steer home,   Whether he will or no; and better still   To take him while he sleeps and carry him   And drop him from the gunnel. Second Sailor.       I dare not do it.   Weret not that there is magic in his harp,   I would be of your mind; but when he plays it   Strange creatures flutter up before ones eyes,   Or cry about ones ears. First Sailor.     Nothing to fear. Second Sailor. Do you remember when we sank that      galley   At the full moon? First Sailor.  He played all through the night. Second Sailor. Until the moon had set; and when I looked   Where the dead drifted, I could see a bird   Like a grey gull upon the breast of each.   While I was looking they rose hurriedly,   And after circling with strange cries awhile   Flew westward; and many a time since then   Ive heard a rustling overhead in the wind. First Sailor. I saw them on that night as well as you.   But when I had eaten and drunk myself asleep   My courage came again. Second Sailor.    But thats not all.   The other night, while he was playing it,   A beautiful young man and girl came up   In a white breaking wave; they had the look   Of those that are alive for ever and ever. First Sailor. I saw them, too, one night. Forgael was      playing,   And they were listening ther& beyond the sail.   He could not see them, but I held out my hands   To grasp the woman. Second Sailor.  You have dared to touch her? First Sailor. O she was but a shadow, and slipped from   me. Second Sailor. But were you not afraid? First Sailor.          Why should I fear? Second Sailor. Twas Aengus and Edain, the wandering      lovers,   To whom all lovers pray. First Sailor.     But what of that?   A shadow does not carry sword or spear. Second Sailor. My mother told me that there is not one   Of the Ever-living half so dangerous   As that wild Aengus. Long before her day   He carried Edain off from a kings house,   And hid her among fruits of jewel-stone   And in a tower of glass, and from that day   Has hated every man thats not in love,   And has been dangerous to him. First Sailor.          I have heard   He does not hate seafarers as he hates   Peaceable men that shut the wind away,   And keep to the one weary marriage-bed. Second Sailor. I think that he has Forgael in his net,   And drags him through the sea, First Sailor        Well, net or none,   Id drown him while we have the chance to do it. Second Sailor. Its certain Id sleep easier o nights   If he were dead; but who will be our captain,   Judge of the stars, and find a course for us? First Sailor. Ive thought of that. We must have Aibric      with us,   For he can judge the stars as well as Forgael.                  [Going towards Aibric.]   Become our captain, Aibric. I am resolved   To make an end of Forgael while he sleeps.   Theres not a man but will be glad of it   When it is over, nor one to grumble at us. Aibric. You have taken pay and made your bargain for it. First Sailor. What good is there in this hard way of      living,   Unless we drain more flagons in a year   And kiss more lips than lasting peaceable men   In their long lives? Will you be of our troop   And take the captains share of everything   And bring us into populous seas again? Aibric. Be of your troop! Aibric be one of you   And Forgael in the other scale! kill Forgael,   And he my master from my childhood up!   If you will draw that sword out of its scabbard   Ill give my answer. First Sailor.  You have awakened him.                  [To Second Sailor.]   Wed better go, for we have lost this chance.                  [They go out.] Forgael. Have the birds passed us? I could hear your      voice,   But there were others. Aibric.        I have seen nothing pass. Forgael. Youre certain of it? I never wake from sleep   But that I am afraid they may have passed,   For theyre my only pilots. If I lost them   Straying too far into the north or south,   Id never come upon the happiness   That has been promised me. I have not seen them   These many days; and yet there must be many   Dying at every moment in the world,   And flying towards their peace. Aibric.          Put by these thoughts,   And listen to me for a while. The sailors   Are plotting for your death. Forgael.          Have I not given   More riches than they ever hoped to find?   And now they will not follow, while I seek   The only riches that have hit my fancy. Aibric. What riches can you find in this waste sea   Where no ship sails, where nothing thats alive   Has ever come but those man-headed birds,   Knowing it for the worlds end? Forgael.           Where the world ends   The mind is made unchanging, for it finds   Miracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope,   The flagstone under all, the fire of fires,   The roots of the world. Aibric.        Shadows before now   Have driven travellers mad for their own sport. Forgael. Do you, too, doubt me? Have you joined their      plot? Aibric. No, no, do not say that. You know right well   That I will never lift a hand against you. Forgael. Why should you be more faithful than the rest,   Being as doubtful? Aibric.     I have called you master   Too many years to lift a hand against you. Forgael. Maybe it is but natural to doubt me.   Youve never known, Id lay a wager on it,   A melancholy that a cup of wine,   A lucky battle, or a womans kiss   Could not amend. Aibric.     I have good spirits enough. Forgael. If you will give me all your mind awhile   All, all, the very bottom of the bowl   Ill show you that I am made differently,   That nothing can amend it but these waters,   Where I am rid of lifethe events of the world   What do you call it?that old promise-breaker,   The cozening fortune-teller that comes whispering,   You will have all you have wished for when you have      earned   Land for your children or money in a pot.-   And when we have it we are no happier,   Because of that old draught under the door,   Or creaky shoes. And at the end of all   How are we better off than Seaghan the fool,   That never did a hands turn? Aibric! Aibric!   We have fallen in the dreams the Ever-living   Breathe on the burnished mirror of the world   And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh,   And find their laughter sweeter to the taste   For that brief sighing. Aibric.       If you had loved some woman Forgael. You say that also? You have heard the voices,   For that is what they sayall, all the shadows   Aengus and Edain, those passionate wanderers,   And all the others; but it must be love   As they have known it. Now the secrets out;   For it is love that I am seeking for,   But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind   That is not in the world. Aibric.        And yet the world   Has beautiful women to please every man. Forgael. But he that gets their love after the fashion   Loves in brief longing and deceiving hope   And bodily tenderness, and finds that even   The bed of love, that in the imagination   Had seemed to be the giver of all peace,   Is no more than a wine-cup in the tasting,   And as soon finished. Aibric.      All that ever loved   Have loved that waythere is no other way. Forgael. Yet never have two lovers kissed but they   believed there was some other near at hand,   And almost wept because they could not find it. Aibric. When they have twenty years; in middle life   They take a kiss for what a kiss is worth,   And let the dream go by. Forgael.          Its not a dream,   But the reality that makes our passion   As a lamp shadownono lamp, the sun.   What the worlds million lips are thirsting for   Must be substantial somewhere. Aibric.          I have heard the Druids   Mutter such things as they awake from trance.   It may be that the Ever-living know it   No mortal can. Forgael.  Yes; if they give us help. Aibric. They are besotting you as they besot   The crazy herdsman that will tell his fellows   That he has been all night upon the hills,   Riding to hurley, or in the battle-host   With the Ever-living. Forgael.      What if he speak the truth,   And for a dozen hours have been a part   Of that more powerful life? Aibric,          His wife knows better.   Has she not seen him lying like a log,   Or fumbling in a dream about the house?   And if she hear him mutter of wild riders,   She knows that it was but the cart-horse coughing   That set him to the fancy. Forgael.        All would be well   Could we but give us wholly to the dreams,   And get into their world that to the sense   Is shadow, and not linger wretchedly   Among substantial things; for it is dreams   That lift us to the flowing, changing world   That the heart longs for. What is love itself,   Even though it be the lightest of light love,   But dreams that hurry from beyond the world   To make low laughter more than meat and drink,   Though it but set us sighing? Fellow-wanderer,   Could we but mix ourselves into a dream,   Not in its image on the mirror! Aibric.            While   Were in the body thats impossible. Forgael. And yet I cannot think theyre leading me   To death; for they that promised to me love   As those that can outlive the moon have known it,   Had the worlds total life gathered up, it seemed,   Into their shining limbsIve had great teachers.   Aengus and Edain ran up out of the wave   Youd never doubt that it was life they promised   Had you looked on them face to face as I did,   With so red lips, and running on such feet,   And having such wide-open, shining eyes. Aibric. Its certain they are leading you to death.   None but the dead, or those that never lived,   Can know that ecstasy. Forgael! Forgael!   They have made you follow the man-headed birds,   And you have told me that their journey lies   Towards the country of the dead. Forgael.            What matter   If I am going to my death?for there,   Or somewhere, I shall find the love they have      promised.   That much is certain. I shall find a woman.   One of the Ever-living, as I think   One of the Laughing Peopleand she and I   Shall light upon a place in the worlds core,   Where passion grows to be a changeless thing,   Like charmed apples made of chrysoprase,   Or chrysoberyl, or beryl, or chrysclite;   And there, in juggleries of sight and sense,   Become one movement, energy, delight,   Until the overburthened moon is dead.                  [A number of Sailors entcr hurriedly.] First Sailor. Look there! there in the mist! a ship of spice!   And we are almost on her! Second Sailor.     We had not known   But for the ambergris and sandalwood. First Sailor. NO; but opoponax and cinnamon. Forgael [taking the tiller from Aibric]. The Ever-living have   kept my bargain for me,   And paid you on the nail. Aibric.        Take up that rope   To make her fast while we are plundering her. First Sailor. There is a king and queen upon her deck,   And where there is one woman therell be others. Aibric. Speak lower, or theyll hear. First Sailor.            They cannot hear;   They are too busy with each other. Look!   He has stooped down and kissed her on the lips. Second Sailor. When she finds out we have better men      aboard   She may not be too sorry in the end. First Sailor. She will be like a wild cat; for these queens   Care more about the kegs of silver and gold   And the high fame that come to them in marriage,   Than a strong body and a ready hand. Second Sailor. Theres nobody is natural but a robber,   And that is why the world totters about   Upon its bandy legs. Aibric.        Run at them now,   And overpower the crew while yet asleep!                  [The Sailors go out.] [Voices and thc clashing of swords are heard from the   other ship, which cannot be seen because of the sail.] A Voice. Armed men have come upon us! O I am slain! Another Voice. Wake all below! Another Voice.  Why have you broken our sleep? First Voice. Armed men have come upon us! O I am      slain! Forgael [who has remained at the tiller]. There! there they   come! Gull, gannet, or diver,   But with a mans head, or a fair womans,   They hover over the masthead awhile   To wait their Fiends; but when their friends have      come   Theyll fly upon that secret way of theirs.   Oneand onea couplefive together;   And I will hear them talking in a minute.   Yes, voices! but I do not catch the words.   Now I can hear. Theres one of them that says,   How light we are, now we are changed to birds!   Another answers, Maybe we shall find   Our hearts desire now that we are so light.   And then one asks another how he died,   And says, A sword-blade pierced me in my sleep.-   And now they all wheel suddenly and fly   To the other side, and higher in the air.   And now a laggard with a womans head   Comes crying, I have run upon the sword.   I have fled to my beloved in the air,   In the waste of the high air, that we may wander   Among the windy meadows of the dawn.   But why are they still waiting? why are they   Circling and circling over the masthead?   What power that is more mighty than desire   To hurry to their hidden happiness   Withholds them now? Have the Ever-living Ones   A meaning in that circling overhead?   But whats the meaning? [He cries out.] Why do you      linger there?   Why linger? Run to your desire,   Are you not happy winged bodies now?                  [His voice sinks again.]   Being too busy in the air and the high air,   They cannot hear my voice; but whats the meaning?         [The Sailors have returned. Dectora is with them.] Forgael [turning and seeing her]. Why are you standing   with your eyes upon me?   You are not the worlds core. O no, no, no!   That cannot be the meaning of the birds.   You are not its core. My teeth are in the world,   But have not bitten yet. Dectora.       I am a queen,   And ask for satisfaction upon these   Who have slain my husband and laid hands upon me.      [Breaking loose from the Sailors who are holding her.]   Let go my hands! Forgael.     Why do you cast a shadow?   Where do you come from? Who brought you to this      place?   They would not send me one that casts a shadow. Dectora. Would that the storm that overthrew my ships,   And drowned the treasures of nine conquered nations,   And blew me hither to my lasting sorrow,   Had drowned me also. But, being yet alive,   I ask a fitting punishment for all   That raised their hands against him. Forgael.               There are some   That weigh and measure all in these waste seas   They that have all the wisdom thats in life,   And all that prophesying images   Made of dim gold rave out in secret tombs;   They have it that the plans of kings and queens   But laughter and tearslaughter, laughter, and tears;   That every man should carry his own soul   Upon his shoulders. Dectora.     Youve nothing but wild words,   And I would know if you will give me vengeance. Forgael. When she finds out I will not let her go   When she knows that. Dectora. What is it that you are muttering   That youll not let me go? I am a queen. Forgael. Although you are more beautiful than any,   I almost long that it were possible;   But if I were to put you on that ship,   With sailors that were sworn to do your will,   And you had spread a sail for home, a wind   Would rise of a sudden, or a wave so huge   It had washed among the stars and put them out,   And beat the bulwark of your ship on mine,   Until you stood before me on the deck   As now. Dectora.  Does wandering in these desolate seas   And listening to the cry of wind and wave   Bring madness? Forgael.  Queen, I am not mad. Dectora.              Yet say   That unimaginable storms of wind and wave   Would rise against me. Forgael.       No, I am not mad   If it be not that hearing messages   From lasting watchers, that outlive the moon,   At the most quiet midnight is to be stricken. Dectora. And did those watchers bid you take me   captive? Forgael.  Both you and I are taken in the net.   It was their hands that plucked the winds awake   And blew you hither; and their mouths have      promised   I shall have love in their immortal fashion;   And for this end they gave me my old harp   That is more mighty than the sun and moon,   Or than the shivering casting-net of the stars,   That none might take you from me. Dectora [first trembling back from the mast where the harp is,   and then laughing]. For a moment   Your raving of a message and a harp   More mighty than the stars half troubled me,   But all thats raving. Who is there can compel   The daughter and the granddaughter of kings   To be his bedfellow? Forgael.     Until your lips   Have called me their beloved, Ill not kiss them. Dectora. My husband and miy king died at my feet,   And yet you talk of love. Forgael.        The movement of time   Is shaken in these seas, and what one does   One moment has no might upon the moment   That follows after. Dectora.     I understand you now.   You have a Druid craft of wicked sound   Wrung from the cold women of the sea   A magic that can call a demon up,   Until my body give you kiss for kiss. Forgael. Your soul shall give the kiss. Dectora.            I am not afraid,   While theres a rope to run into a noose   Or wave to drown. But I have done with words,   And I would have you look into my face   And know that it is fearless. Forgael.          Do what you will,   For neither I nor you can break a mesh   Of the great golden net that is about us. Dectora. Theres nothing in the world thats worth a   fear. [She passes Forgael and stands for a moment looking into his face.]   I have good reason for that thought. [She runs suddenly on to the raiscd part of the poop.]   And now   I can put fear away as a queen should. [She mounts on to the hulwark and turns towards Forgael.]   Fool, fool! Although you have looked into my face   You do not see my purpose. I shall have gone   Before a hand can touch me. Forgael [folding his arms].   My hands are still;   The Ever-living hold us. Do what you will,   You cannot leap out of the golden net. First Sailor. No need to drown, for, if you will pardon      us   And measure out a course and bring us home,   Well put this man to death. Dectora.          I promise it. First Sailor. There is none to take his side. Aibric.          I am on his side,   Ill strike a blow for him to give him time   To cast his dreams away. [Aibric goes in front of Forgael with drawn sword. For- gael takes the harp.] First Sailor.       No otherll do it. [The Sailors throw Aibric on one side. He falls and lies upon the deck. They lift their swords to strike Forgael, who is about to play the harp. The stage begins to darken. The Sailors hesitate in fear.] Second Sailor. He has put a sudden darkness over the   moon. Dectora. Nine swords with handles of rhinoceros horn   To him that strikes him first! First Sailor.       I will strike him first. [He goes close up to Forgael with his sword lifted.] [Shrinking back.] He has caught the crescent moon out   of the sky,   And carries it between us. Second Sailor.       Holy fire   To burn us to the marrow if we strike. Dectora. Ill give a golden galley full of fruit,   That has the heady flavour of new wine,   To him that wounds him to the death. First Sailor.          Ill do it.   For all his spells will vanish when he dies,   Having their life in him. Second Sailor.    Though it be the moon   That he is holding up between us there,   I will strike at him. The Others.      And I! And I! And I!                [Forgael plays the harp.] First Sailor [falling into a dream suddenly. But you were   saying there is somebody   Upon that other ship we are to wake.   You did not know what brought him to his end,   But it was sudden. Second Sailor.  You are in the right;   I had forgotten that we must go wake him. Dectora. He has flung a Druid spell upon the air,   And set you dreaming. Second Sailor.    How can we have a wake   When we have neither brown nor yellow ale? First Sailor. I saw a flagon of brown ale aboard her. Third Sailor. How can we raise the keen that do not      know   What name to call him by? First Sailor.      Come to his ship.   His name will come into our thoughts in a minute.   I know that he died a thousand years ago,   And has not yet been waked. Second Sailor [beginning to keen]. Ohone! O! O! O!   The yew-bough has been broken into two,   And all the birds are scattered. All the Sailors. O! O! O! O!                [They go out keening.] Dectora. Protect me now, gods that my people swear by. [Aibric has risen from the deck where he had fallen. He has begun looking for his sword as if in a dream.] Aibric. Where is my sword that fell out of my hand   When I first heard the news? Ah, there it is! [He goes dreamily towards the sword, but Dectora runs at it and takes it up before he can reach it.] Aibric [sleepily]. Queen, give it me. Dectora.          No, I have need of it. Aibric. Why do you need a sword? But you may keep it.   Now that hes dead I have no need of it,   For everything is gone. A Sailor [calling from the other ship]. Come hither, Aibric,   And tell me who it is that we are waking. Aibric [half to Dectora, half to himself]. What name had   that dead king? Arthur of Britain?   No, nonot Arthur. I remember now.   It was golden-armed Iollan, and he died   Broken-hearted, having lost his queen   Through wicked spells. That is not all the tale,   For he was killed. O! O! O! O! O! O!   For golden-armed Iollan has been killed.                       [He goes out.] [While he has been speaking, and through part of what follows, one hears the wailing of the Sailors from the other ship. Dectora stands with the sword lifted in front of Forgael.] Dectora. I will end all your magic on the instant. [Her voice hecomes dreamy, and she lowers the sword slowly, and finally lets it fall. She spreads out her hair. She takes off her crown and lays it upon the deck.]   This sword is to lie beside him in the grave.   It was in all his battles. I will spread my hair,   And wring my hands, and wail him bitterly,   For I have heard that he was proud and laughing,   Blue-eyed, and a quick runner on bare feet,   And that he died a thousand years ago.   O; O! O! O!           [Forgael changes the tune.]   But no, that is not it.   They killed him at my feet. O! O! O! O!   For golden-armed Iollan that I loved-   But what is it that made me say I loved him?   It was that harper put it in my thoughts,   But it is true. Why did they run upon him,   And beat the golden helmet with their swords? Forgael. Do you not know me, lady? I am he   That you are weeping for. Dectora.       No, for he is dead.   O! O! O! O! for golden-armed Iollan. Forgael. It was so given out, but I will prove   That the grave-diggers in a dreamy frenzy   Have buried nothing but my golden arms.   Listen to that low-laughing string of the moon   And you will recollect my face and voice,   For you have listened to me playing it   These thousand years. [He starts up, listening to the birds. The harp slips from his hands, and remains leaning against the bulwarks behind him.]   What are the birds at there?   Why are they all a-flutter of a sudden?   What are you calling out above the mast?   If railing and reproach and mockery   Because I have awakened her to love   By magic strings, Ill make this answer to it:   Being driven on by voices and by dreams   That were clear messages from the Ever-living,   I have done right. What could I but obey?   And yet you make a clamour of reproach. Dcctora [laughing]. Why, its a wonder out of reckoning   That I should keen him from the full of the moon   To the horn, and he be hale and hearty. Forgael. How have I wronged her now that she is merry?   But no, no, no! your cry is not against me.   You know the counsels of the Ever-living,   And all that tossing of your wings is joy,   And all that murmurings but a marriage-song;   But if it be reproach, I answer this:   There is not one among you that made love   by any other means. You call it passion,   Consideration, generosity;   But it was all deceit, and flattery   To win a woman in her own despite,   For love is war, and there is hatred in it;   And if you say that she came willingly Dectora. Why do you turn away and hide your face,   That I would look upon for ever? Forgael.            My grief! Dectora. Have I not loved you for a thousand years? Forgael. I never have been golden-armed Iollan. Vectora. I do not understand. I know your face   Better than my own hands. Forgael.          I have deceived you   Out of all reckoning. Tectora.          Is it not tme   That you were born a thousand years ago,   In islands where the children of Aengus wind   In happy dances under a windy moon,   And that youll bring me there? Forgael.          I have deceived you;   I have deceived you utterly. Dectora.          How can that be?   Is it that though your eyes are full of love   Some other woman has a claim on you,   And Ive but half! Forgael.     O no! Dectora.          And if there is,   If there be half a hundred more, what matter?   Ill never give another thought to it;   No, no, nor half a thought; but do not speak.   Women are hard and proud and stubborn-hearted,   Their heads being turned with praise and flattery;   And that is why their lovers are afraid   To tell them a plain story. Forgael.          Thats not the story;   But I have done so great a wrong against you,   There is no measure that it would not burst.   I will confess it all. Dectora.       What do I care,   Now that my body has begun to dream,   And you have grown to be a burning sod   In the imagination and intellect?   If something thats most fabulous were true   If you had taken me by magic spells,   And killed a lover or husband at my feet   I would not let you speak, for I would know   That it was yesterday and not to-day   I loved him; I would cover up my ears,   As I am doing now. [A pause.] Why do you weep? Forgael. I weep because Ive nothing for your eyes   But desolate waters and a battered ship. Dectora. O why do you not lift your eyes to mine? Forgael. I weepI weep because bare nights above,   And not a roof of ivory and gold. Dectora. I would grow jealous of the ivory roof,   And strike the golden pillars with my hands.   I would that there was nothing in the world   But my belovedthat night and day had perished,   And all that is and all that is to be,   All that is not the meeting of our lips. Forgael. You turn away. Why do you turn away?   Am I to fear the waves, or is the moon   My enemy? Dectora.  I looked upon the moon,   Longing to knead and pull it into shape   That I might lay it on your head as a crown.   But now it is your thoughts that wander away,   For you are looking at the sea. Do you not know   How great a wrong it is to let ones thought   Wander a moment when one is in love? [He has moved away. She follows him. He is looking out over the sea, shading his eyes.]   Why are you looking at the sea? Forgael.            Look there! Dectora. What is there but a troop of ash-grey birds   That fly into the west? Forgael.       But listen, listen! Dectora. What is there but the crying of the birds? Forgael. If youll but listen closely to that crying   Youll hear them calling out to one another   With human voices Dectora.     O, I can hear them now.   What are they? Unto what country do they fly? Forgael. To unimaginable happiness.   They have been circling over our heads in the air,   But now that they have taken to the road   We have to follow, for they are our pilots;   And though theyre but the colour of grey ash,   Theyre crying out, could you but hear their words,   There is a country at the end of the world   Where no childs born but to outlive the moon. [The Sailors comc in with Aibric. They are in great excitement.] First Sailor. The hold is full of treasure. Second Sailor.         Full to the hatches. First Sailor. Treasure on treasure. Third Sailor.          Boxes of precious spice. First Sailor. Ivory images with amethyst eyes. Third Sailor. Dragons with eyes of ruby. First Sailor.            The whole ship   Flashes as if it were a net of herrings. Third Sailor. Lets home; Id give some rubies to a   woman. Second Sailor. Theres somebody Id give the amethyst   eyes to. Aibric [silencing thcm with agesture]. We would return to   our own country, Forgael,   For we have found a treasure thats so great   Imagination cannot reckon it.   And having lit upon this woman there,   What more have you to look for on the seas? Forgael. I cannotI am going on to the end.   As for this woman, I think she is coming with me. Aibric. The Ever-living have made you mad; but no,   It was this woman in her womans vengeance   That drove you to it, and I fool enough   To fancy that shed bring you home again.   Twas you that egged him to it, for you know   That he is being driven to his death. Dectora. That is not true, for he has promised me   An unimaginable happiness. Aibric. And if that happiness be more than dreams,   More than the froth, the feather, the dust-whirl,   The crazy nothing that I think it is,   It shall be in the country of the dead,   If there be such a country. Dectora.            No, not there,   But in some island where the life of the world   Leaps upward, as if all the streams o the world   Had run into one fountain. Aibric.          Speak to him.   He knows that he is taking you to death;   Speakhe will not deny it. Dectora.          Is that true? Forgael. I do not know for certain, but I know.   That I have the best of pilots. Aibric.        Shadows, illusions,   That the Shape-changers, the Ever-laughing Ones,   The Immortal Mockers have cast into his mind,   Or called before his eyes. Dectora.          O carry me   To some sure country, some familiar place.   Have we not everything that life can give   In having one another? Forgael.       How could I rest   If I refused the messengers and pilots   With all those sights and all that crying out? Dectora. But I will cover up your eyes and ear?,   That you may never hear the cry of the birds,   Or look upon them. Forgael.     Were they but lowlier   Id do your will, but they are too hightoo high. Dectora. Being too high, their heady prophecies   But harry us with hopes that come to nothing,   Because we are not proud, imperishable,   Alone and winged. Forgael.     Our love shall be like theirs   When we have put their changeless image on. Dectora. I am a woman, I die at every breath. Aibric. Let the birds scatter, for the tree is broken,   And theres no help in words. [To the Sailors.]   To the other ship,   And I will follow you and cut the rope   When I have said farewell to this man here,   For neither I nor any living man   Will look upon his face again.                  [The Sailors go out.] Forgael [to Dectora], Go with him,   For he will shelter you and bring you home. Aibric [taking Forgaels hand]. Ill do it for his sake. Dectora. No. Take this sword   And cut the rope, for I go on with Forgael. Aibric [half falling into the keen]. The yew-bough has been   broken into two,   And all the birds are scatteredO! O! O!   Farewell! farewell! [He goes out.] Dectora. The sword is in the rope   The ropes in twoit falls into the sea,   It whirls into the foam. O ancient worm,   Dragon that loved the world and held us to it,   You are broken, you are broken. The world drifts      away,   And I am left alone with my beloved,   Who cannot put me from his sight for ever.   We are alone for ever, and I laugh,   Forgael, because you cannot put me from you.   The mist has covered the heavens, and you and I   Shall be alone for ever. We twothis crown   I half remember. It has been in my dreams.   Bend lower, O king, that I may crown you with it.   O flower of the branch, 0 bird among the leaves,   O silver fish that my two hands have taken   Out of the running stream, O morning star   Trembling in the blue heavens like a white fawn   Upon the misty border of the wood,   Bend lower, that I may cover you with my hair,   For we will gaze upon this world no longer. Forgael [gathering Dectoras hair about him]. Beloved, hav-   ing dragged the net about us,   And knitted mesh to mesh, we grow immortal;   And that old harp awakens of itself   To cry aloud to the grey birds, and dreams,   That have had dreams for father, live in us.    ~ William Butler Yeats, The Shadowy Waters - The Shadowy Waters ,

718:First Sailor. Has he not led us into these waste seas   For long enough? Second Sailor.  Aye, long and long enough. First Sailor. We have not come upon a shore or ship   These dozen weeks. Second Sailor.  And I had thought to make   A good round Sum upon this cruise, and turn -   For I am getting on in life - to something   That has less ups and downs than robbery. First Sailor. I am so tired of being bachelor   I could give all my heart to that Red Moll   That had but the one eye. Second Sailor.    Can no bewitchment   Transform these rascal billows into women   That I may drown myself? First Sailor.     Better steer home,   Whether he will or no; and better still   To take him while he sleeps and carry him   And drop him from the gunnel. Second Sailor.       I dare not do it.   Were't not that there is magic in his harp,   I would be of your mind; but when he plays it   Strange creatures flutter up before one's eyes,   Or cry about one's ears. First Sailor.     Nothing to fear. Second Sailor. Do you remember when we sank that      galley   At the full moon? First Sailor.  He played all through the night. Second Sailor. Until the moon had set; and when I looked   Where the dead drifted, I could see a bird   Like a grey gull upon the breast of each.   While I was looking they rose hurriedly,   And after circling with strange cries awhile   Flew westward; and many a time since then   I've heard a rustling overhead in the wind. First Sailor. I saw them on that night as well as you.   But when I had eaten and drunk myself asleep   My courage came again. Second Sailor.    But that's not all.   The other night, while he was playing it,   A beautiful young man and girl came up   In a white breaking wave; they had the look   Of those that are alive for ever and ever. First Sailor. I saw them, too, one night. Forgael was      playing,   And they were listening there& beyond the sail.   He could not see them, but I held out my hands   To grasp the woman. Second Sailor.  You have dared to touch her? First Sailor. O she was but a shadow, and slipped from   me. Second Sailor. But were you not afraid? First Sailor.          Why should I fear? Second Sailor. "Twas Aengus and Edain, the wandering      lovers,   To whom all lovers pray. First Sailor.     But what of that?   A shadow does not carry sword or spear. Second Sailor. My mother told me that there is not one   Of the Ever-living half so dangerous   As that wild Aengus. Long before her day   He carried Edain off from a king's house,   And hid her among fruits of jewel-stone   And in a tower of glass, and from that day   Has hated every man that's not in love,   And has been dangerous to him. First Sailor.          I have heard   He does not hate seafarers as he hates   Peaceable men that shut the wind away,   And keep to the one weary marriage-bed. Second Sailor. I think that he has Forgael in his net,   And drags him through the sea, First Sailor        Well, net or none,   I'd drown him while we have the chance to do it. Second Sailor. It's certain I'd sleep easier o' nights   If he were dead; but who will be our captain,   Judge of the stars, and find a course for us? First Sailor. I've thought of that. We must have Aibric      with us,   For he can judge the stars as well as Forgael.                  [Going towards Aibric.]   Become our captain, Aibric. I am resolved   To make an end of Forgael while he sleeps.   There's not a man but will be glad of it   When it is over, nor one to grumble at us. Aibric. You have taken pay and made your bargain for it. First Sailor. What good is there in this hard way of      living,   Unless we drain more flagons in a year   And kiss more lips than lasting peaceable men   In their long lives? Will you be of our troop   And take the captain's share of everything   And bring us into populous seas again? Aibric. Be of your troop! Aibric be one of you   And Forgael in the other scale! kill Forgael,   And he my master from my childhood up!   If you will draw that sword out of its scabbard   I'll give my answer. First Sailor.  You have awakened him.                  [To Second Sailor.]   We'd better go, for we have lost this chance.                  [They go out.] Forgael. Have the birds passed us? I could hear your      voice,   But there were others. Aibric.        I have seen nothing pass. Forgael. You're certain of it? I never wake from sleep   But that I am afraid they may have passed,   For they're my only pilots. If I lost them   Straying too far into the north or south,   I'd never come upon the happiness   That has been promised me. I have not seen them   These many days; and yet there must be many   Dying at every moment in the world,   And flying towards their peace. Aibric.          Put by these thoughts,   And listen to me for a while. The sailors   Are plotting for your death. Forgael.          Have I not given   More riches than they ever hoped to find?   And now they will not follow, while I seek   The only riches that have hit my fancy. Aibric. What riches can you find in this waste sea   Where no ship sails, where nothing that's alive   Has ever come but those man-headed birds,   Knowing it for the world's end? Forgael.           Where the world ends   The mind is made unchanging, for it finds   Miracle, ecstasy, the impossible hope,   The flagstone under all, the fire of fires,   The roots of the world. Aibric.        Shadows before now   Have driven travellers mad for their own sport. Forgael. Do you, too, doubt me? Have you joined their      plot? Aibric. No, no, do not say that. You know right well   That I will never lift a hand against you. Forgael. Why should you be more faithful than the rest,   Being as doubtful? Aibric.     I have called you master   Too many years to lift a hand against you. Forgael. Maybe it is but natural to doubt me.   You've never known, I'd lay a wager on it,   A melancholy that a cup of wine,   A lucky battle, or a woman's kiss   Could not amend. Aibric.     I have good spirits enough. Forgael. If you will give me all your mind awhile -   All, all, the very bottom of the bowl -   I'll show you that I am made differently,   That nothing can amend it but these waters,   Where I am rid of life - the events of the world -   What do you call it? - that old promise-breaker,   The cozening fortune-teller that comes whispering,   "You will have all you have wished for when you have      earned   Land for your children or money in a pot.-   And when we have it we are no happier,   Because of that old draught under the door,   Or creaky shoes. And at the end of all   How are we better off than Seaghan the fool,   That never did a hand's turn? Aibric! Aibric!   We have fallen in the dreams the Ever-living   Breathe on the burnished mirror of the world   And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh,   And find their laughter sweeter to the taste   For that brief sighing. Aibric.       If you had loved some woman - Forgael. You say that also? You have heard the voices,   For that is what they say - all, all the shadows -   Aengus and Edain, those passionate wanderers,   And all the others; but it must be love   As they have known it. Now the secret's out;   For it is love that I am seeking for,   But of a beautiful, unheard-of kind   That is not in the world. Aibric.        And yet the world   Has beautiful women to please every man. Forgael. But he that gets their love after the fashion   "Loves in brief longing and deceiving hope   And bodily tenderness, and finds that even   The bed of love, that in the imagination   Had seemed to be the giver of all peace,   Is no more than a wine-cup in the tasting,   And as soon finished. Aibric.      All that ever loved   Have loved that way - there is no other way. Forgael. Yet never have two lovers kissed but they   believed there was some other near at hand,   And almost wept because they could not find it. Aibric. When they have twenty years; in middle life   They take a kiss for what a kiss is worth,   And let the dream go by. Forgael.          It's not a dream,   But the reality that makes our passion   As a lamp shadow - no - no lamp, the sun.   What the world's million lips are thirsting for   Must be substantial somewhere. Aibric.          I have heard the Druids   Mutter such things as they awake from trance.   It may be that the Ever-living know it -   No mortal can. Forgael.  Yes; if they give us help. Aibric. They are besotting you as they besot   The crazy herdsman that will tell his fellows   That he has been all night upon the hills,   Riding to hurley, or in the battle-host   With the Ever-living. Forgael.      What if he speak the truth,   And for a dozen hours have been a part   Of that more powerful life? Aibric,          His wife knows better.   Has she not seen him lying like a log,   Or fumbling in a dream about the house?   And if she hear him mutter of wild riders,   She knows that it was but the cart-horse coughing   That set him to the fancy. Forgael.        All would be well   Could we but give us wholly to the dreams,   And get into their world that to the sense   Is shadow, and not linger wretchedly   Among substantial things; for it is dreams   That lift us to the flowing, changing world   That the heart longs for. What is love itself,   Even though it be the lightest of light love,   But dreams that hurry from beyond the world   To make low laughter more than meat and drink,   Though it but set us sighing? Fellow-wanderer,   Could we but mix ourselves into a dream,   Not in its image on the mirror! Aibric.            While   We're in the body that's impossible. Forgael. And yet I cannot think they're leading me   To death; for they that promised to me love   As those that can outlive the moon have known it, '   Had the world's total life gathered up, it seemed,   Into their shining limbs - I've had great teachers.   Aengus and Edain ran up out of the wave -   You'd never doubt that it was life they promised   Had you looked on them face to face as I did,   With so red lips, and running on such feet,   And having such wide-open, shining eyes. Aibric. It's certain they are leading you to death.   None but the dead, or those that never lived,   Can know that ecstasy. Forgael! Forgael!   They have made you follow the man-headed birds,   And you have told me that their journey lies   Towards the country of the dead. Forgael.            What matter   If I am going to my death? - for there,   Or somewhere, I shall find the love they have      promised.   That much is certain. I shall find a woman.   One of the Ever-living, as I think -   One of the Laughing People - and she and I   Shall light upon a place in the world's core,   Where passion grows to be a changeless thing,   Like charmed apples made of chrysoprase,   Or chrysoberyl, or beryl, or chrysclite;   And there, in juggleries of sight and sense,   Become one movement, energy, delight,   Until the overburthened moon is dead.                  [A number of Sailors enter hurriedly.] First Sailor. Look there! there in the mist! a ship of spice!   And we are almost on her! Second Sailor.     We had not known   But for the ambergris and sandalwood. First Sailor. NO; but opoponax and cinnamon. Forgael [taking the tiller from Aibric]. The Ever-living have   kept my bargain for me,   And paid you on the nail. Aibric        Take up that rope   To make her fast while we are plundering her. First Sailor. There is a king and queen upon her deck,   And where there is one woman there'll be others. Aibric. Speak lower, or they'll hear. First Sailor.            They cannot hear;   They are too busy with each other. Look!   He has stooped down and kissed her on the lips. Second Sailor. When she finds out we have better men      aboard   She may not be too sorry in the end. First Sailor. She will be like a wild cat; for these queens   Care more about the kegs of silver and gold   And the high fame that come to them in marriage,   Than a strong body and a ready hand. Second Sailor. There's nobody is natural but a robber,   And that is why the world totters about   Upon its bandy legs. Aibric.        Run at them now,   And overpower the crew while yet asleep!                  [The Sailors go out.] [Voices and the clashing of swords are heard from the   other ship, which cannot be seen because of the sail.] A Voice. Armed men have come upon us! O I am slain! Another Voice. Wake all below! Another Voice.  Why have you broken our sleep? First Voice. Armed men have come upon us! O I am      slain! Forgael [who has remained at the tiller]. There! there they   come! Gull, gannet, or diver,   But with a man's head, or a fair woman's,   They hover over the masthead awhile   To wait their Fiends; but when their friends have      come   They'll fly upon that secret way of theirs.   One - and one - a couple - five together;   And I will hear them talking in a minute.   Yes, voices! but I do not catch the words.   Now I can hear. There's one of them that says,   "How light we are, now we are changed to birds!'   Another answers, "Maybe we shall find   Our heart's desire now that we are so light.'   And then one asks another how he died,   And says, "A sword-blade pierced me in my sleep.-   And now they all wheel suddenly and fly   To the other side, and higher in the air.   And now a laggard with a woman's head   Comes crying, "I have run upon the sword.   I have fled to my beloved in the air,   In the waste of the high air, that we may wander   Among the windy meadows of the dawn.'   But why are they still waiting? why are they   Circling and circling over the masthead?   What power that is more mighty than desire   To hurry to their hidden happiness   Withholds them now? Have the Ever-living Ones   A meaning in that circling overhead?   But what's the meaning? [He cries out.] Why do you      linger there?   Why linger? Run to your desire,   Are you not happy winged bodies now?                  [His voice sinks again.]   Being too busy in the air and the high air,   They cannot hear my voice; but what's the meaning?         [The Sailors have returned. Dectora is with them.] Forgael [turning and seeing her]. Why are you standing   with your eyes upon me?   You are not the world's core. O no, no, no!   That cannot be the meaning of the birds.   You are not its core. My teeth are in the world,   But have not bitten yet. Dectora.       I am a queen,   And ask for satisfaction upon these   Who have slain my husband and laid hands upon me.      [Breaking loose from the Sailors who are holding her.]   Let go my hands! Forgael.     Why do you cast a shadow?   Where do you come from? Who brought you to this      place?   They would not send me one that casts a shadow. Dectora. Would that the storm that overthrew my ships,   And drowned the treasures of nine conquered nations,   And blew me hither to my lasting sorrow,   Had drowned me also. But, being yet alive,   I ask a fitting punishment for all   That raised their hands against him. Forgael.               There are some   That weigh and measure all in these waste seas -   They that have all the wisdom that's in life,   And all that prophesying images   Made of dim gold rave out in secret tombs;   They have it that the plans of kings and queens   But laughter and tears - laughter, laughter, and tears;   That every man should carry his own soul   Upon his shoulders. Dectora.     You've nothing but wild words,   And I would know if you will give me vengeance. Forgael. When she finds out I will not let her go -   When she knows that. Dectora. What is it that you are muttering -   That you'll not let me go? I am a queen. Forgael. Although you are more beautiful than any,   I almost long that it were possible;   But if I were to put you on that ship,   With sailors that were sworn to do your will,   And you had spread a sail for home, a wind   Would rise of a sudden, or a wave so huge   It had washed among the stars and put them out,   And beat the bulwark of your ship on mine,   Until you stood before me on the deck -   As now. Dectora.  Does wandering in these desolate seas   And listening to the cry of wind and wave   Bring madness? Forgael.  Queen, I am not mad. Dectora.              Yet say   That unimaginable storms of wind and wave   Would rise against me. Forgael.       No, I am not mad -   If it be not that hearing messages   From lasting watchers, that outlive the moon,   At the most quiet midnight is to be stricken. Dectora. And did those watchers bid you take me   captive? Forgael.  Both you and I are taken in the net.   It was their hands that plucked the winds awake   And blew you hither; and their mouths have      promised   I shall have love in their immortal fashion;   And for this end they gave me my old harp   That is more mighty than the sun and moon,   Or than the shivering casting-net of the stars,   That none might take you from me. Dectora [first trembling back from the mast where the harp is,   and then laughing]. For a moment   Your raving of a message and a harp   More mighty than the stars half troubled me,   But all that's raving. Who is there can compel   The daughter and the granddaughter of kings   To be his bedfellow? Forgael.     Until your lips   Have called me their beloved, I'll not kiss them. Dectora. My husband and my king died at my feet,   And yet you talk of love. Forgael.        The movement of time   Is shaken in these seas, and what one does   One moment has no might upon the moment   That follows after. Dectora.     I understand you now.   You have a Druid craft of wicked sound   Wrung from the cold women of the sea -   A magic that can call a demon up,   Until my body give you kiss for kiss. Forgael. Your soul shall give the kiss. Dectora.            I am not afraid,   While there's a rope to run into a noose   Or wave to drown. But I have done with words,   And I would have you look into my face   And know that it is fearless. Forgael.          Do what you will,   For neither I nor you can break a mesh   Of the great golden net that is about us. Dectora. There's nothing in the world that's worth a   fear. [She passes Forgael and stands for a moment looking into his face.]   I have good reason for that thought. [She runs suddenly on to the raised part of the poop.]   And now   I can put fear away as a queen should. [She mounts on to the hulwark and turns towards Forgael.]   Fool, fool! Although you have looked into my face   You do not see my purpose. I shall have gone   Before a hand can touch me. Forgael [folding his arms].   My hands are still;   The Ever-living hold us. Do what you will,   You cannot leap out of the golden net. First Sailor. No need to drown, for, if you will pardon      us   And measure out a course and bring us home,   We'll put this man to death. Dectora.          I promise it. First Sailor. There is none to take his side. Aibric.          I am on his side,   I'll strike a blow for him to give him time   To cast his dreams away. [Aibric goes in front of Forgael with drawn sword. For- gael takes the harp.] First Sailor.       No other'll do it. [The Sailors throw Aibric on one side. He falls and lies upon the deck. They lift their swords to strike Forgael, who is about to play the harp. The stage begins to darken. The Sailors hesitate in fear.] Second Sailor. He has put a sudden darkness over the   moon. Dectora. Nine swords with handles of rhinoceros horn   To him that strikes him first! First Sailor.       I will strike him first. [He goes close up to Forgael with his sword lifted.] [Shrinking back.] He has caught the crescent moon out   of the sky,   And carries it between us. Second Sailor.       Holy fire   To burn us to the marrow if we strike. Dectora. I'll give a golden galley full of fruit,   That has the heady flavour of new wine,   To him that wounds him to the death. First Sailor.          I'll do it.   For all his spells will vanish when he dies,   Having their life in him. Second Sailor.    Though it be the moon   That he is holding up between us there,   I will strike at him. The Others.      And I! And I! And I!                [Forgael plays the harp.] First Sailor [falling into a dream suddenly. But you were   saying there is somebody   Upon that other ship we are to wake.   You did not know what brought him to his end,   But it was sudden. Second Sailor.  You are in the right;   I had forgotten that we must go wake him. Dectora. He has flung a Druid spell upon the air,   And set you dreaming. Second Sailor.    How can we have a wake   When we have neither brown nor yellow ale? First Sailor. I saw a flagon of brown ale aboard her. Third Sailor. How can we raise the keen that do not      know   What name to call him by? First Sailor.      Come to his ship.   His name will come into our thoughts in a minute.   I know that he died a thousand years ago,   And has not yet been waked. Second Sailor[beginning to keen]. Ohone! O! O! O!   The yew-bough has been broken into two,   And all the birds are scattered. All the Sailors. O! O! O! O!                [They go out keening.] Dectora. Protect me now, gods that my people swear by. [Aibric has risen from the deck where he had fallen. He has begun looking for his sword as if in a dream.] Aibric. Where is my sword that fell out of my hand   When I first heard the news? Ah, there it is! [He goes dreamily towards the sword, but Dectora runs at it and takes it up before he can reach it.] Aibric [sleepily]. Queen, give it me. Dectora.         No, I have need of it. Aibric. Why do you need a sword? But you may keep it.   Now that he's dead I have no need of it,   For everything is gone. A Sailor [calling from the other ship]. Come hither, Aibric,   And tell me who it is that we are waking. Aibric [half to Dectora, half to himself]. What name had   that dead king? Arthur of Britain?   No, no - not Arthur. I remember now.   It was golden-armed Iollan, and he died   Broken-hearted, having lost his queen   Through wicked spells. That is not all the tale,   For he was killed. O! O! O! O! O! O!   For golden-armed Iollan has been killed.                       [He goes out.] [While he has been speaking, and through part of what follows, one hears the wailing of the Sailors from the other ship. Dectora stands with the sword lifted in front of Forgael.] Dectora. I will end all your magic on the instant. [Her voice becomes dreamy, and she lowers the sword slowly, and finally lets it fall. She spreads out her hair. She takes off her crown and lays it upon the deck.]   This sword is to lie beside him in the grave.   It was in all his battles. I will spread my hair,   And wring my hands, and wail him bitterly,   For I have heard that he was proud and laughing,   Blue-eyed, and a quick runner on bare feet,   And that he died a thousand years ago.   O; O! O! O!           [Forgael changes the tune.]   But no, that is not it.   They killed him at my feet. O! O! O! O!   For golden-armed Iollan that I loved-   But what is it that made me say I loved him?   It was that harper put it in my thoughts,   But it is true. Why did they run upon him,   And beat the golden helmet with their swords? Forgael. Do you not know me, lady? I am he   That you are weeping for. Dectora.       No, for he is dead.   O! O! O! O! for golden-armed Iollan. Forgael. It was so given out, but I will prove   That the grave-diggers in a dreamy frenzy   Have buried nothing but my golden arms.   Listen to that low-laughing string of the moon   And you will recollect my face and voice,   For you have listened to me playing it   These thousand years. [He starts up, listening to the birds. The harp slips from his hands, and remains leaning against the bulwarks behind him.]   What are the birds at there?   Why are they all a-flutter of a sudden?   What are you calling out above the mast?   If railing and reproach and mockery   Because I have awakened her to love   By magic strings, I'll make this answer to it:   Being driven on by voices and by dreams   That were clear messages from the Ever-living,   I have done right. What could I but obey?   And yet you make a clamour of reproach. Dectora [laughing]. Why, it's a wonder out of reckoning   That I should keen him from the full of the moon   To the horn, and he be hale and hearty. Forgael. How have I wronged her now that she is merry?   But no, no, no! your cry is not against me.   You know the counsels of the Ever-living,   And all that tossing of your wings is joy,   And all that murmuring's but a marriage-song;   But if it be reproach, I answer this:   There is not one among you that made love   by any other means. You call it passion,   Consideration, generosity;   But it was all deceit, and flattery   To win a woman in her own despite,   For love is war, and there is hatred in it;   And if you say that she came willingly - Dectora. Why do you turn away and hide your face,   That I would look upon for ever? Forgael.            My grief! Dectora. Have I not loved you for a thousand years? Forgael. I never have been golden-armed Iollan. Vectora. I do not understand. I know your face   Better than my own hands. Forgael.          I have deceived you   Out of all reckoning. Tectora.          Is it not time   That you were born a thousand years ago,   In islands where the children of Aengus wind   In happy dances under a windy moon,   And that you'll bring me there? Forgael.          I have deceived you;   I have deceived you utterly. Dectora.          How can that be?   Is it that though your eyes are full of love   Some other woman has a claim on you,   And I've but half! Forgael.     O no! Dectora.          And if there is,   If there be half a hundred more, what matter?   I'll never give another thought to it;   No, no, nor half a thought; but do not speak.   Women are hard and proud and stubborn-hearted,   Their heads being turned with praise and flattery;   And that is why their lovers are afraid   To tell them a plain story. Forgael.          That's not the story;   But I have done so great a wrong against you,   There is no measure that it would not burst.   I will confess it all. Dectora.       What do I care,   Now that my body has begun to dream,   And you have grown to be a burning sod   In the imagination and intellect?   If something that's most fabulous were true -   If you had taken me by magic spells,   And killed a lover or husband at my feet -   I would not let you speak, for I would know   That it was yesterday and not to-day   I loved him; I would cover up my ears,   As I am doing now. [A pause.] Why do you weep? Forgael. I weep because I've nothing for your eyes   But desolate waters and a battered ship. Dectora. O why do you not lift your eyes to mine? Forgael. I weep - I weep because bare night's above,   And not a roof of ivory and gold. Dectora. I would grow jealous of the ivory roof,   And strike the golden pillars with my hands.   I would that there was nothing in the world   But my beloved - that night and day had perished,   And all that is and all that is to be,   All that is not the meeting of our lips. Forgael. You turn away. Why do you turn away?   Am I to fear the waves, or is the moon   My enemy? Dectora.  I looked upon the moon,   Longing to knead and pull it into shape   That I might lay it on your head as a crown.   But now it is your thoughts that wander away,   For you are looking at the sea. Do you not know   How great a wrong it is to let one's thought   Wander a moment when one is in love? [He has moved away. She follows him. He is looking out over the sea, shading his eyes.]   Why are you looking at the sea? Forgael.            Look there! Dectora. What is there but a troop of ash-grey birds   That fly into the west? Forgael.       But listen, listen! Dectora. What is there but the crying of the birds? Forgael. If you'll but listen closely to that crying   You'll hear them calling out to one another   With human voices Dectora.     O, I can hear them now.   What are they? Unto what country do they fly? Forgael. To unimaginable happiness.   They have been circling over our heads in the air,   But now that they have taken to the road   We have to follow, for they are our pilots;   And though they're but the colour of grey ash,   They're crying out, could you but hear their words,   "There is a country at the end of the world   Where no child's born but to outlive the moon.' [The Sailors come in with Aibric. They are in great excitement.] First Sailor. The hold is full of treasure. Second Sailor.         Full to the hatches. First Sailor. Treasure on treasure. Third Sailor.          Boxes of precious spice. First Sailor. Ivory images with amethyst eyes. Third Sailor. Dragons with eyes of ruby. First Sailor.            The whole ship   Flashes as if it were a net of herrings. Third Sailor. Let's home; I'd give some rubies to a   woman. Second Sailor. There's somebody I'd give the amethyst   eyes to. Aibric [silencing them with agesture]. We would return to   our own country, Forgael,   For we have found a treasure that's so great   Imagination cannot reckon it.   And having lit upon this woman there,   What more have you to look for on the seas? Forgael. I cannot - I am going on to the end.   As for this woman, I think she is coming with me. Aibric. The Ever-living have made you mad; but no,   It was this woman in her woman's vengeance   That drove you to it, and I fool enough   To fancy that she'd bring you home again.   'Twas you that egged him to it, for you know   That he is being driven to his death. Dectora. That is not true, for he has promised me   An unimaginable happiness. Aibric. And if that happiness be more than dreams,   More than the froth, the feather, the dust-whirl,   The crazy nothing that I think it is,   It shall be in the country of the dead,   If there be such a country. Dectora.            No, not there,   But in some island where the life of the world   Leaps upward, as if all the streams o' the world   Had run into one fountain. Aibric.          Speak to him.   He knows that he is taking you to death;   Speak - he will not deny it. Dectora.          Is that true? Forgael. I do not know for certain, but I know.   That I have the best of pilots. Aibric.        Shadows, illusions,   That the Shape-changers, the Ever-laughing Ones,   The Immortal Mockers have cast into his mind,   Or called before his eyes. Dectora.          O carry me   To some sure country, some familia'r place.   Have we not everything that life can give   In having one another? Forgael.       How could I rest   If I refused the messengers and pilots   With all those sights and all that crying out? Dectora. But I will cover up your eyes and ear?,   That you may never hear the cry of the birds,   Or look upon them. Forgael.     Were they but lowlier   I'd do your will, but they are too high - too high. Dectora. Being too high, their heady prophecies   But harry us with hopes that come to nothing,   Because we are not proud, imperishable,   Alone and winged. Forgael.     Our love shall be like theirs   When we have put their changeless image on. Dectora. I am a woman, I die at every breath. Aibric. Let the birds scatter, for the tree is broken,   And there's no help in words. [To the Sailors.]   To the other ship,   And I will follow you and cut the rope   When I have said farewell to this man here,   For neither I nor any living man   Will look upon his face again.                  [The Sailors go out.] Forgael [to Dectora], Go with him,   For he will shelter you and bring you home. Aibric [taking Forgael's hand]. I'll do it for his sake. Dectora. No. Take this sword   And cut the rope, for I go on with Forgael. Aibric [half falling into the keen]. The yew-bough has been   broken into two,   And all the birds are scattered - O! O! O!   Farewell! farewell! [He goes out.] Dectora. The sword is in the rope -   The rope's in two - it falls into the sea,   It whirls into the foam. O ancient worm,   Dragon that loved the world and held us to it,   You are broken, you are broken. The world drifts      away,   And I am left alone with my beloved,   Who cannot put me from his sight for ever.   We are alone for ever, and I laugh,   Forgael, because you cannot put me from you.   The mist has covered the heavens, and you and I   Shall be alone for ever. We two - this crown -   I half remember. It has been in my dreams.   Bend lower, O king, that I may crown you with it.   O flower of the branch, 0 bird among the leaves,   O silver fish that my two hands have taken   Out of the running stream, O morning star   Trembling in the blue heavens like a white fawn   Upon the misty border of the wood,   Bend lower, that I may cover you with my hair,   For we will gaze upon this world no longer. Forgael [gathering Dectora's hair about him]. Beloved, hav-   ing dragged the net about us,   And knitted mesh to mesh, we grow immortal;   And that old harp awakens of itself   To cry aloud to the grey birds, and dreams,   That have had dreams for father, live in us. The deck of an ancient ship. At the right of the stage is the mast, with a large square sail hiding a great deal of the sky and sea on that side. The tiller is at the left of the stage; it is a long oar coming through an opening in the bulwark. The deck rises in a series of steps behind the tiller, and the stern of the ship curves overhead. When the play opens there are four persons upon the deck. Aibric stands by the tiller. Forgael sleeps upon the raised portion of the deck towards the front of the stage. Two Sailors are standing near to the mast, on which a harp is hanging. ~ William Butler Yeats, A Dramatic Poem ,

719:The Candidate This poem was written in , on occasion of the contest between the Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the University of Cambridge, vacant by the death of the Lord Chancellor Hardwicke. The spirit of party ran high in the University, and no means were left untried by either candidate to obtain a majority. The election was fixed for the th of March, when, after much altercation, the votes appearing equal, a scrutiny was demanded; whereupon the Vice-Chancellor adjourned the senate _sine die_. On appeal to the Lord High-Chancellor, he determined in favour of the Earl of Hardwicke, and a mandamus issued accordingly. Enough of Actors--let them play the player, And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare; Garrick abroad, what motives can engage To waste one couplet on a barren stage? Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days, In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise; When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years, Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears; When in return for labour, time, and health, The town had given some little share of wealth, Couldst thou repine at being still a slave? Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave? Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by those Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes? Whom, too refined for honesty and trade, By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made; Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules, Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools; With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime, In such a manner, and at such a time, To quit the stage; but men of real sense, Who neither lightly give, nor take offence, Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace, Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place. Enough of Authors--why, when scribblers fail, Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale? Why must they pity, why contempt express, And why insult a brother in distress? 108 Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brains The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains; Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom, And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb. Let those who without genius write, and write, Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite, The pen laid down, their course of folly run In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone. Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate, That Francis once endeavour'd to translate? Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head, Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? Why may not Langhorne, simple in his lay, Effusion on effusion pour away; With friendship and with fancy trifle here, Or sleep in pastoral at Belvidere? Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne, Secure from any malice but their own. Enough of Critics--let them, if they please, Fond of new pomp, each month pass new decrees; Wide and extensive be their infant state, Their subjects many, and those subjects great, Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed, With fools who write, and greater fools who read. What though they lay the realms of Genius waste, Fetter the fancy and debauch the taste; Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill, Consult not how to cure, but how to kill; Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, They damn those authors whom they never read; Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold, To deal out so much praise for so much gold: Though Scot with Scot, in damned close intrigues, Against the commonwealth of letters leagues; Uncensured let them pilot at the helm, And rule in letters, as they ruled the realm: Ours be the curse, the mean tame coward's curse, (Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse, To do our sense and honour deep despite) To credit what they say, read what they write. Enough of Scotland--let her rest in peace; The cause removed, effects of course should cease; 109 Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown, And proudly swell'd with waters not his own, Burst o'er his banks, and, by Destruction led, O'er our fair England desolation spread, Whilst, riding on his waves, Ambition, plumed In tenfold pride, the port of Bute assumed, Now that the river god, convinced, though late, And yielding, though reluctantly, to Fate, Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides, In tribute to the sea, as usual, glides? Enough of States, and such like trifling things; Enough of kinglings, and enough of kings; Henceforth, secure, let ambush'd statesmen lie, Spread the court web, and catch the patriot fly; Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontroll'd By fear or shame, let Vice, secure and bold, Lord it with all her sons, whilst Virtue's groan Meets with compassion only from the throne. Enough of Patriots--all I ask of man Is only to be honest as he can: Some have deceived, and some may still deceive; 'Tis the fool's curse at random to believe. Would those, who, by opinion placed on high, Stand fair and perfect in their country's eye, Maintain that honour, let me in their ear Hint this essential doctrine--Persevere. Should they (which Heaven forbid) to win the grace Of some proud courtier, or to gain a place, Their king and country sell, with endless shame The avenging Muse shall mark each traitorous name; But if, to Honour true, they scorn to bend, And, proudly honest, hold out to the end, Their grateful country shall their fame record, And I myself descend to praise a lord. Enough of Wilkes--with good and honest men His actions speak much stronger than my pen, And future ages shall his name adore, When he can act and I can write no more. England may prove ungrateful and unjust, But fostering France shall ne'er betray her trust: 'Tis a brave debt which gods on men impose, To pay with praise the merit e'en of foes. 110 When the great warrior of Amilcar's race Made Rome's wide empire tremble to her base, To prove her virtue, though it gall'd her pride, Rome gave that fame which Carthage had denied. Enough of Self--that darling luscious theme, O'er which philosophers in raptures dream; Of which with seeming disregard they write, Then prizing most, when most they seem to slight; Vain proof of folly tinctured strong with pride! What man can from himself, himself divide? For me,(nor dare I lie) my leading aim (Conscience first satisfied) is love of fame; Some little fame derived from some brave few, Who, prizing Honour, prize her votaries too. Let all (nor shall resentment flush my cheek) Who know me well, what they know, freely speak, So those (the greatest curse I meet below) Who know me not, may not pretend to know. Let none of those whom, bless'd with parts above My feeble genius, still I dare to love, Doing more mischief than a thousand foes, Posthumous nonsense to the world expose, And call it mine; for mine though never known, Or which, if mine, I living blush'd to own. Know all the world, no greedy heir shall find, Die when I will, one couplet left behind. Let none of those, whom I despise, though great, Pretending friendship to give malice weight, Publish my life; let no false sneaking peer, (Some such there are) to win the public ear, Hand me to shame with some vile anecdote. Nor soul-gall'd bishop damn me with a note. Let one poor sprig of bay around my head Bloom whilst I live, and point me out when dead; Let it (may Heaven, indulgent, grant that prayer!) Be planted on my grave, nor wither there; And when, on travel bound, some rhyming guest Roams through the churchyard, whilst his dinner's dress'd, Let it hold up this comment to his eyes-'Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies;' Whilst (oh, what joy that pleasing flattery gives!) Reading my works, he cries--'Here Churchill lives.' 111 Enough of Satire--in less harden'd times Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes. I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave, Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave; Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms From her one line, than from a world in arms. When in her faithful and immortal page They saw transmitted down from age to age Recorded villains, and each spotted name Branded with marks of everlasting shame, Succeeding villains sought her as a friend, And, if not really mended, feign'd to mend; But in an age, when actions are allow'd Which strike all honour dead, and crimes avow'd Too terrible to suffer the report, Avow'd and praised by men who stain a court, Propp'd by the arm of Power; when Vice, high born, High-bred, high-station'd, holds rebuke in scorn; When she is lost to every thought of fame, And, to all virtue dead, is dead to shame; When Prudence a much easier task must hold To make a new world, than reform the old, Satire throws by her arrows on the ground, And if she cannot cure, she will not wound. Come, Panegyric--though the Muse disdains, Founded on truth, to prostitute her strains At the base instance of those men, who hold No argument but power, no god but gold, Yet, mindful that from Heaven she drew her birth, She scorns the narrow maxims of this earth; Virtuous herself, brings Virtue forth to view, And loves to praise, where praise is justly due. Come, Panegyric--in a former hour, My soul with pleasure yielding to thy power, Thy shrine I sought, I pray'd--but wanton air, Before it reach'd thy ears, dispersed my prayer; E'en at thy altars whilst I took my stand, The pen of Truth and Honour in my hand, Fate, meditating wrath 'gainst me and mine, Chid my fond zeal, and thwarted my design, Whilst, Hayter brought too quickly to his end, I lost a subject and mankind a friend. 112 Come, Panegyric--bending at thy throne, Thee and thy power my soul is proud to own Be thou my kind protector, thou my guide, And lead me safe through passes yet untried. Broad is the road, nor difficult to find, Which to the house of Satire leads mankind; Narrow and unfrequented are the ways, Scarce found out in an age, which lead to praise. What though no theme I choose of vulgar note, Nor wish to write as brother bards have wrote, So mild, so meek in praising, that they seem Afraid to wake their patrons from a dream; What though a theme I choose, which might demand The nicest touches of a master's hand; Yet, if the inward workings of my soul Deceive me not, I shall attain the goal, And Envy shall behold, in triumph raised, The poet praising, and the patron praised. What patron shall I choose? Shall public voice, Or private knowledge, influence my choice? Shall I prefer the grand retreat of Stowe, Or, seeking patriots, to friend Wildman's go? 'To Wildman's!' cried Discretion, (who had heard, Close standing at my elbow, every word) 'To Wildman's! Art thou mad? Canst thou be sure One moment there to have thy head secure? Are they not all, (let observation tell) All mark'd in characters as black as Hell, In Doomsday book, by ministers set down, Who style their pride the honour of the crown? Make no reply--let Reason stand aloof-Presumptions here must pass as solemn proof. That settled faith, that love which ever springs In the best subjects, for the best of kings, Must not be measured now by what men think, Or say, or do;--by what they eat and drink, Where, and with whom, that question's to be tried, And statesmen are the judges to decide; No juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe; They, facts confess'd, in themselves vest the law. Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks; Blasphemy may be gospel at Almacks.' 113 Peace, good Discretion! peace--thy fears are vain; Ne'er will I herd with Wildman's factious train; Never the vengeance of the great incur, Nor, without might, against the mighty stir. If, from long proof, my temper you distrust, Weigh my profession, to my gown be just; Dost thou one parson know so void of grace To pay his court to patrons out of place? If still you doubt (though scarce a doubt remains) Search through my alter'd heart, and try my reins; There, searching, find, nor deem me now in sport, A convert made by Sandwich to the court. Let madmen follow error to the end, I, of mistakes convinced, and proud to mend, Strive to act better, being better taught, Nor blush to own that change which Reason wrought: For such a change as this, must Justice speak; My heart was honest, but my head was weak. Bigot to no one man, or set of men, Without one selfish view, I drew my pen; My country ask'd, or seem'd to ask, my aid, Obedient to that call, I left off trade; A side I chose, and on that side was strong, Till time hath fairly proved me in the wrong: Convinced, I change, (can any man do more?) And have not greater patriots changed before? Changed, I at once, (can any man do less?) Without a single blush, that change confess; Confess it with a manly kind of pride, And quit the losing for the winning side, Granting, whilst virtuous Sandwich holds the rein, What Bute for ages might have sought in vain. Hail, Sandwich!--nor shall Wilkes resentment show, Hearing the praises of so brave a foe-Hail, Sandwich!--nor, through pride, shalt thou refuse The grateful tribute of so mean a Muse-Sandwich, all hail!--when Bute with foreign hand, Grown wanton with ambition, scourged the land; When Scots, or slaves to Scotsmen, steer'd the helm; When peace, inglorious peace, disgraced the realm, Distrust, and general discontent prevail'd; But when, (he best knows why) his spirits fail'd; 114 When, with a sudden panic struck, he fled, Sneak'd out of power, and hid his recreant head; When, like a Mars, (Fear order'd to retreat) We saw thee nimbly vault into his seat, Into the seat of power, at one bold leap, A perfect connoisseur in statesmanship; When, like another Machiavel, we saw Thy fingers twisting, and untwisting law, Straining, where godlike Reason bade, and where She warranted thy mercy, pleased to spare; Saw thee resolved, and fix'd (come what, come might) To do thy God, thy king, thy country right; All things were changed, suspense remain'd no more, Certainty reign'd where Doubt had reign'd before: All felt thy virtues, and all knew their use, What virtues such as thine must needs produce. Thy foes (for Honour ever meets with foes) Too mean to praise, too fearful to oppose, In sullen silence sit; thy friends (some few, Who, friends to thee, are friends to Honour too) Plaud thy brave bearing, and the Commonweal Expects her safety from thy stubborn zeal. A place amongst the rest the Muses claim, And bring this freewill-offering to thy fame; To prove their virtue, make thy virtues known, And, holding up thy fame, secure their own. From his youth upwards to the present day, When vices, more than years, have mark'd him gray; When riotous Excess, with wasteful hand, Shakes life's frail glass, and hastes each ebbing sand, Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth, Untainted with one deed of real worth, Lothario, holding honour at no price, Folly to folly added, vice to vice, Wrought sin with greediness, and sought for shame With greater zeal than good men seek for fame. Where (Reason left without the least defence) Laughter was mirth, obscenity was sense: Where Impudence made Decency submit; Where noise was humour, and where whim was wit; Where rude, untemper'd license had the merit Of liberty, and lunacy was spirit; 115 Where the best things were ever held the worst, Lothario was, with justice, always first. To whip a top, to knuckle down at taw, To swing upon a gate, to ride a straw, To play at push-pin with dull brother peers, To belch out catches in a porter's ears, To reign the monarch of a midnight cell, To be the gaping chairman's oracle; Whilst, in most blessed union, rogue and whore Clap hands, huzza, and hiccup out, 'Encore;' Whilst gray Authority, who slumbers there In robes of watchman's fur, gives up his chair; With midnight howl to bay the affrighted moon, To walk with torches through the streets at noon; To force plain Nature from her usual way, Each night a vigil, and a blank each day; To match for speed one feather 'gainst another, To make one leg run races with his brother; 'Gainst all the rest to take the northern wind, Bute to ride first, and he to ride behind; To coin newfangled wagers, and to lay 'em, Laying to lose, and losing not to pay 'em; Lothario, on that stock which Nature gives, Without a rival stands, though March yet lives. When Folly, (at that name, in duty bound, Let subject myriads kneel, and kiss the ground, Whilst they who, in the presence, upright stand, Are held as rebels through the loyal land) Queen every where, but most a queen in courts, Sent forth her heralds, and proclaim'd her sports; Bade fool with fool on her behalf engage, And prove her right to reign from age to age, Lothario, great above the common size, With all engaged, and won from all the prize; Her cap he wears, which from his youth he wore, And every day deserves it more and more. Nor in such limits rests his soul confined; Folly may share but can't engross his mind; Vice, bold substantial Vice, puts in her claim, And stamps him perfect in the books of Shame. Observe his follies well, and you would swear Folly had been his first, his only care; 116 Observe his vices, you'll that oath disown, And swear that he was born for vice alone. Is the soft nature of some hapless maid, Fond, easy, full of faith, to be betray'd? Must she, to virtue lost, be lost to fame, And he who wrought her guilt declare her shame? Is some brave friend, who, men but little known, Deems every heart as honest as his own, And, free himself, in others fears no guile, To be ensnared, and ruin'd with a smile? Is Law to be perverted from her course? Is abject fraud to league with brutal force? Is Freedom to be crush'd, and every son Who dares maintain her cause, to be undone? Is base Corruption, creeping through the land, To plan, and work her ruin, underhand, With regular approaches, sure, though slow? Or must she perish by a single blow? Are kings, who trust to servants, and depend In servants (fond, vain thought!) to find a friend, To be abused, and made to draw their breath In darkness thicker than the shades of death? Is God's most holy name to be profaned, His word rejected, and his laws arraign'd, His servants scorn'd, as men who idly dream'd, His service laugh'd at, and his Son blasphemed? Are debauchees in morals to preside? Is Faith to take an Atheist for her guide? Is Science by a blockhead to be led? Are States to totter on a drunkard's head? To answer all these purposes, and more, More black than ever villain plann'd before, Search earth, search hell, the Devil cannot find An agent like Lothario to his mind. Is this nobility, which, sprung from kings, Was meant to swell the power from whence it springs; Is this the glorious produce, this the fruit, Which Nature hoped for from so rich a root? Were there but two, (search all the world around) Were there but two such nobles to be found, The very name would sink into a term Of scorn, and man would rather be a worm 117 Than be a lord: but Nature, full of grace, Nor meaning birth and titles to be base, Made only one, and having made him, swore, In mercy to mankind, to make no more: Nor stopp'd she there, but, like a generous friend, The ills which Error caused, she strove to mend, And having brought Lothario forth to view, To save her credit, brought forth Sandwich too. Gods! with what joy, what honest joy of heart, Blunt as I am, and void of every art, Of every art which great ones in the state Practise on knaves they fear, and fools they hate, To titles with reluctance taught to bend, Nor prone to think that virtues can descend, Do I behold (a sight, alas! more rare Than Honesty could wish) the noble wear His father's honours, when his life makes known They're his by virtue, not by birth alone; When he recalls his father from the grave, And pays with interest back that fame he gave: Cured of her splenetic and sullen fits, To such a peer my willing soul submits, And to such virtue is more proud to yield Than 'gainst ten titled rogues to keep the field. Such, (for that truth e'en Envy shall allow) Such Wyndham was, and such is Sandwich now. O gentle Montague! in blessed hour Didst thou start up, and climb the stairs of power; England of all her fears at once was eased, Nor, 'mongst her many foes, was one displeased: France heard the news, and told it cousin Spain; Spain heard, and told it cousin France again; The Hollander relinquished his design Of adding spice to spice, and mine to mine; Of Indian villanies he thought no more, Content to rob us on our native shore: Awed by thy fame, (which winds with open mouth Shall blow from east to west, from north to south) The western world shall yield us her increase, And her wild sons be soften'd into peace; Rich eastern monarchs shall exhaust their stores, And pour unbounded wealth on Albion's shores; 118 Unbounded wealth, which from those golden scenes, And all acquired by honourable means, Some honourable chief shall hither steer, To pay our debts, and set the nation clear. Nabobs themselves, allured by thy renown, Shall pay due homage to the English crown; Shall freely as their king our king receive-Provided the Directors give them leave. Union at home shall mark each rising year, Nor taxes be complain'd of, though severe; Envy her own destroyer shall become, And Faction with her thousand mouths be dumb: With the meek man thy meekness shall prevail, Nor with the spirited thy spirit fail: Some to thy force of reason shall submit, And some be converts to thy princely wit: Reverence for thee shall still a nation's cries, A grand concurrence crown a grand excise; And unbelievers of the first degree, Who have no faith in God, have faith in thee. When a strange jumble, whimsical and vain, Possess'd the region of each heated brain; When some were fools to censure, some to praise, And all were mad, but mad in different ways; When commonwealthsmen, starting at the shade Which in their own wild fancy had been made, Of tyrants dream'd, who wore a thorny crown, And with state bloodhounds hunted Freedom down; When others, struck with fancies not less vain, Saw mighty kings by their own subjects slain, And, in each friend of Liberty and Law, With horror big, a future Cromwell saw, Thy manly zeal stept forth, bade discord cease, And sung each jarring atom into peace; Liberty, cheer'd by thy all-cheering eye, Shall, waking from her trance, live and not die; And, patronised by thee, Prerogative Shall, striding forth at large, not die, but live; Whilst Privilege, hung betwixt earth and sky, Shall not well know whether to live or die. When on a rock which overhung the flood, And seem'd to totter, Commerce shivering stood; 119 When Credit, building on a sandy shore, Saw the sea swell, and heard the tempest roar, Heard death in every blast, and in each wave Or saw, or fancied that she saw her grave; When Property, transferr'd from hand to band, Weaken'd by change, crawl'd sickly through the land; When mutual confidence was at an end, And man no longer could on man depend; Oppress'd with debts of more than common weight, When all men fear'd a bankruptcy of state; When, certain death to honour, and to trade, A sponge was talk'd of as our only aid; That to be saved we must be more undone, And pay off all our debts, by paying none; Like England's better genius, born to bless, And snatch his sinking country from distress, Didst thou step forth, and, without sail or oar, Pilot the shatter'd vessel safe to shore: Nor shalt thou quit, till, anchor'd firm and fast, She rides secure, and mocks the threatening blast! Born in thy house, and in thy service bred, Nursed in thy arms, and at thy table fed, By thy sage counsels to reflection brought, Yet more by pattern than by precept taught, Economy her needful aid shall join To forward and complete thy grand design, And, warm to save, but yet with spirit warm, Shall her own conduct from thy conduct form. Let friends of prodigals say what they will, Spendthrifts at home, abroad are spendthrifts still. In vain have sly and subtle sophists tried Private from public justice to divide; For credit on each other they rely, They live together, and together die, 'Gainst all experience 'tis a rank offence, High treason in the eye of Common-sense, To think a statesman ever can be known To pay our debts, who will not pay his own: But now, though late, now may we hope to see Our debts discharged, our credit fair and free, Since rigid Honesty (fair fall that hour!) Sits at the helm, and Sandwich is in power. 120 With what delight I view thee, wondrous man, With what delight survey thy sterling plan, That plan which all with wonder must behold, And stamp thy age the only age of Gold. Nor rest thy triumphs here--that Discord fled, And sought with grief the hell where she was bred; That Faction, 'gainst her nature forced to yield, Saw her rude rabble scatter'd o'er the field, Saw her best friends a standing jest become, Her fools turn'd speakers, and her wits struck dumb; That our most bitter foes (so much depends On men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends; That our offended friends (such terror flows From men of name) dare not appear our foes; That Credit, gasping in the jaws of Death, And ready to expire with every breath, Grows stronger from disease; that thou hast saved Thy drooping country; that thy name, engraved On plates of brass, defies the rage of Time; Than plates of brass more firm, that sacred rhyme Embalms thy memory, bids thy glories live, And gives thee what the Muse alone can give:-These heights of Virtue, these rewards of Fame, With thee in common other patriots claim. But, that poor sickly Science, who had laid And droop'd for years beneath Neglect's cold shade, By those who knew her purposely forgot, And made the jest of those who knew her not: Whilst Ignorance in power, and pamper'd pride, 'Clad like a priest, pass'd by on t'other side,' Recover'd from her wretched state, at length Puts on new health, and clothes herself with strength, To thee we owe, and to thy friendly hand Which raised, and gave her to possess the land: This praise, though in a court, and near a throne, This praise is thine, and thine, alas! alone. With what fond rapture did the goddess smile, What blessings did she promise to this isle, What honour to herself, and length of reign, Soon as she heard that thou didst not disdain To be her steward; but what grief, what shame, What rage, what disappointment, shook her frame, 121 When her proud children dared her will dispute, When Youth was insolent, and Age was mute! That young men should be fools, and some wild few, To Wisdom deaf, be deaf to Interest too, Moved not her wonder; but that men, grown gray In search of wisdom; men who own'd the sway Of Reason; men who stubbornly kept down Each rising passion; men who wore the gown; That they should cross her will, that they should dare Against the cause of Interest to declare; That they should be so abject and unwise, Having no fear of loss before their eyes, Nor hopes of gain; scorning the ready means Of being vicars, rectors, canons, deans, With all those honours which on mitres wait, And mark the virtuous favourites of state; That they should dare a Hardwicke to support, And talk, within the hearing of a court, Of that vile beggar, Conscience, who, undone, And starved herself, starves every wretched son; This turn'd her blood to gall, this made her swear No more to throw away her time and care On wayward sons who scorn'd her love, no more To hold her courts on Cam's ungrateful shore. Rather than bear such insults, which disgrace Her royalty of nature, birth, and place, Though Dulness there unrivall'd state doth keep, Would she at Winchester with Burton sleep; Or, to exchange the mortifying scene For something still more dull, and still more mean, Rather than bear such insults, she would fly Far, far beyond the search of English eye, And reign amongst the Scots: to be a queen Is worth ambition, though in Aberdeen. Oh, stay thy flight, fair Science! what though some, Some base-born children, rebels are become? All are not rebels; some are duteous still, Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will; Thy interest is opposed by those alone Who either know not, or oppose their own. Of stubborn virtue, marching to thy aid, Behold in black, the livery of their trade, 122 Marshall'd by Form, and by Discretion led, A grave, grave troop, and Smith is at their head, Black Smith of Trinity; on Christian ground For faith in mysteries none more renown'd. Next, (for the best of causes now and then Must beg assistance from the worst of men) Next (if old story lies not) sprung from Greece, Comes Pandarus, but comes without his niece: Her, wretched maid! committed to his trust, To a rank letcher's coarse and bloated lust The arch, old, hoary hypocrite had sold, And thought himself and her well damn'd for gold. But (to wipe off such traces from the mind, And make us in good humour with mankind) Leading on men, who, in a college bred, No woman knew, but those which made their bed; Who, planted virgins on Cam's virtuous shore, Continued still male virgins at threescore, Comes Sumner, wise, and chaste as chaste can be, With Long, as wise, and not less chaste than he. Are there not friends, too, enter'd in thy cause Who, for thy sake, defying penal laws, Were, to support thy honourable plan, Smuggled from Jersey, and the Isle of Man? Are there not Philomaths of high degree Who, always dumb before, shall speak for thee? Are there not Proctors, faithful to thy will, One of full growth, others in embryo still, Who may, perhaps, in some ten years, or more, Be ascertain'd that two and two make four, Or may a still more happy method find, And, taking one from two, leave none behind? With such a mighty power on foot, to yield Were death to manhood; better in the field To leave our carcases, and die with fame, Than fly, and purchase life on terms of shame. Sackvilles alone anticipate defeat, And ere they dare the battle, sound retreat. But if persuasions ineffectual prove, If arguments are vain, nor prayers can move, Yet in thy bitterness of frantic woe Why talk of Burton? why to Scotland go? 123 Is there not Oxford? she, with open arms, Shall meet thy wish, and yield up all her charms: Shall for thy love her former loves resign, And jilt the banish'd Stuarts to be thine. Bow'd to the yoke, and, soon as she could read, Tutor'd to get by heart the despot's creed, She, of subjection proud, shall knee thy throne, And have no principles but thine alone; She shall thy will implicitly receive, Nor act, nor speak, nor think, without thy leave. Where is the glory of imperial sway If subjects none but just commands obey? Then, and then only, is obedience seen, When by command they dare do all that's mean: Hither, then, wing thy flight, here fix thy stand, Nor fail to bring thy Sandwich in thy hand. Gods! with what joy, (for Fancy now supplies, And lays the future open to my eyes) Gods! with what joy I see the worthies meet, And Brother Litchfield Brother Sandwich greet! Blest be your greetings, blest each dear embrace; Blest to yourselves, and to the human race. Sickening at virtues, which she cannot reach, Which seem her baser nature to impeach, Let Envy, in a whirlwind's bosom hurl'd, Outrageous, search the corners of the world, Ransack the present times, look back to past, Rip up the future, and confess at last, No times, past, present, or to come, could e'er Produce, and bless the world with such a pair. Phillips, the good old Phillips, out of breath, Escaped from Monmouth, and escaped from death, Shall hail his Sandwich with that virtuous zeal, That glorious ardour for the commonweal, Which warm'd his loyal heart and bless'd his tongue, When on his lips the cause of rebels hung; Whilst Womanhood, in habit of a nun, At Medenham lies, by backward monks undone; A nation's reckoning, like an alehouse score, Whilst Paul, the aged, chalks behind a door, Compell'd to hire a foe to cast it up, Dashwood shall pour, from a communion cup, 124 Libations to the goddess without eyes, And hob or nob in cider and excise. From those deep shades, where Vanity, unknown, Doth penance for her pride, and pines alone, Cursed in herself, by her own thoughts undone, Where she sees all, but can be seen by none; Where she, no longer mistress of the schools, Hears praise loud pealing from the mouths of fools, Or hears it at a distance, in despair To join the crowd, and put in for a share, Twisting each thought a thousand different ways, For his new friends new-modelling old praise; Where frugal sense so very fine is spun, It serves twelve hours, though not enough for one, King shall arise, and, bursting from the dead, Shall hurl his piebald Latin at thy head. Burton (whilst awkward affectation hung In quaint and labour'd accents on his tongue, Who 'gainst their will makes junior blockheads speak, Ignorant of both, new Latin and new Greek, Not such as was in Greece and Latium known, But of a modern cut, and all his own; Who threads, like beads, loose thoughts on such a string, They're praise and censure; nothing, every thing; Pantomime thoughts, and style so full of trick, They even make a Merry Andrew sick; Thoughts all so dull, so pliant in their growth, They're verse, they're prose, they're neither, and they're both) Shall (though by nature ever both to praise) Thy curious worth set forth in curious phrase; Obscurely stiff, shall press poor Sense to death, Or in long periods run her out of breath; Shall make a babe, for which, with all his fame, Adam could not have found a proper name, Whilst, beating out his features to a smile, He hugs the bastard brat, and calls it Style. Hush'd be all Nature as the land of Death; Let each stream sleep, and each wind hold his breath; Be the bells muffled, nor one sound of Care, Pressing for audience, wake the slumbering air; Browne comes--behold how cautiously he creeps-How slow he walks, and yet how fast he sleeps-- 125 But to thy praise in sleep he shall agree; He cannot wake, but he shall dream of thee. Physic, her head with opiate poppies crown'd, Her loins by the chaste matron Camphire bound; Physic, obtaining succour from the pen Of her soft son, her gentle Heberden, If there are men who can thy virtue know, Yet spite of virtue treat thee as a foe, Shall, like a scholar, stop their rebel breath, And in each recipe send classic death. So deep in knowledge, that few lines can sound And plumb the bottom of that vast profound, Few grave ones with such gravity can think, Or follow half so fast as he can sink; With nice distinctions glossing o'er the text, Obscure with meaning, and in words perplex'd, With subtleties on subtleties refined, Meant to divide and subdivide the mind, Keeping the forwardness of youth in awe, The scowling Blackstone bears the train of law. Divinity, enrobed in college fur, In her right hand a new Court Calendar, Bound like a book of prayer, thy coming waits With all her pack, to hymn thee in the gates. Loyalty, fix'd on Isis' alter'd shore, A stranger long, but stranger now no more, Shall pitch her tabernacle, and, with eyes Brimful of rapture, view her new allies; Shall, with much pleasure and more wonder, view Men great at court, and great at Oxford too. O sacred Loyalty! accursed be those Who, seeming friends, turn out thy deadliest foes, Who prostitute to kings thy honour'd name, And soothe their passions to betray their fame; Nor praised be those, to whose proud nature clings Contempt of government, and hate of kings, Who, willing to be free, not knowing how, A strange intemperance of zeal avow, And start at Loyalty, as at a word Which without danger Freedom never heard. Vain errors of vain men--wild both extremes, And to the state not wholesome, like the dreams, 126 Children of night, of Indigestion bred, Which, Reason clouded, seize and turn the head; Loyalty without Freedom is a chain Which men of liberal notice can't sustain; And Freedom without Loyalty, a name Which nothing means, or means licentious shame. Thine be the art, my Sandwich, thine the toil, In Oxford's stubborn and untoward soil To rear this plant of union, till at length, Rooted by time, and foster'd into strength, Shooting aloft, all danger it defies, And proudly lifts its branches to the skies; Whilst, Wisdom's happy son but not her slave, Gay with the gay, and with the grave ones grave, Free from the dull impertinence of thought, Beneath that shade, which thy own labours wrought And fashion'd into strength, shalt thou repose, Secure of liberal praise, since Isis flows, True to her Tame, as duty hath decreed, Nor longer, like a harlot, lust for Tweed, And those old wreaths, which Oxford once dared twine To grace a Stuart brow, she plants on thine. ~ Charles Churchill,

720:The thought of Eglamor's least like a thought, And yet a false one, was, "Man shrinks to nought "If matched with symbols of immensity; "Must quail, forsooth, before a quiet sky "Or sea, too little for their quietude:" And, truly, somewhat in Sordello's mood Confirmed its speciousness, while eve slow sank Down the near terrace to the farther bank, And only one spot left from out the night Glimmered upon the river opposite A breadth of watery heaven like a bay, A sky-like space of water, ray for ray, And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendours folded in To die. Nor turned he till Ferrara's din (Say, the monotonous speech from a man's lip Who lets some first and eager purpose slip In a new fancy's birththe speech keeps on Though elsewhere its informing soul be gone) Aroused him, surely offered succour. Fate Paused with this eve; ere she precipitate Herself,best put off new strange thoughts awhile, That voice, those large hands, that portentous smile, What help to pierce the future as the past Lay in the plaining city?              And at last The main discovery and prime concern, All that just now imported him to learn, Truth's self, like yonder slow moon to complete Heaven, rose again, and, naked at his feet, Lighted his old life's every shift and change, Effort with counter-effort; nor the range Of each looked wrong except wherein it checked, Some otherwhich of these could he suspect, Prying into them by the sudden blaze? The real way seemed made up of all the ways Mood after mood of the one mind in him; Tokens of the existence, bright or dim, Of a transcendent all-embracing sense Demanding only outward influence, A soul, in Palma's phrase, above his soul, Power to uplift his power,such moon's control Over such sea-depths,and their mass had swept Onward from the beginning and still kept Its course: but years and years the sky above Held none, and so, untasked of any love, His sensitiveness idled, now amort, Alive now, and, to sullenness or sport Given wholly up, disposed itself anew At every passing instigation, grew And dwindled at caprice, in foam-showers spilt, Wedge-like insisting, quivered now a gilt Shield in the sunshine, now a blinding race Of whitest ripples o'er the reeffound place For much display; not gathered up and, hurled Right from its heart, encompassing the world. So had Sordello been, by consequence, Without a function: others made pretence To strength not half his own, yet had some core Within, submitted to some moon, before Them still, superior still whate'er their force, Were able therefore to fulfil a course, Nor missed life's crown, authentic attribute. To each who lives must be a certain fruit Of having lived in his degree,a stage, Earlier or later in men's pilgrimage, To stop at; and to this the spirits tend Who, still discovering beauty without end, Amass the scintillations, make one star Something unlike them, self-sustained, afar, And meanwhile nurse the dream of being blest By winning it to notice and invest Their souls with alien glory, some one day Whene'er the nucleus, gathering shape alway, Round to the perfect circlesoon or late, According as themselves are formed to wait; Whether mere human beauty will suffice The yellow hair and the luxurious eyes, Or human intellect seem best, or each Combine in some ideal form past reach On earth, or else some shade of these, some aim, Some love, hate even, take their place, the same, So to be servedall this they do not lose, Waiting for death to live, nor idly choose What must be Hella progress thus pursued Through all existence, still above the food That 's offered them, still fain to reach beyond The widened range, in virtue of their bond Of sovereignty. Not that a Palma's Love, A Salinguerra's Hate, would equal prove To swaying all Sordello: but why doubt Some love meet for such strength, some moon without Would match his sea?or fear, Good manifest, Only the Best breaks faith?Ah but the Best Somehow eludes us ever, still might be And is not! Crave we gems? No penury Of their material round us! Pliant earth And plastic flamewhat balks the mage his birth Jacinth in balls or lodestone by the block? Flinders enrich the strand, veins swell the rock; Nought more! Seek creatures? Life 's i' the tempest, thought Clothes the keen hill-top, mid-day woods are fraught With fervours: human forms are well enough! But we had hoped, encouraged by the stuff Profuse at nature's pleasure, men beyond These actual men!and thus are over-fond In arguing, from Goodthe Best, from force Dividedforce combined, an ocean's course From this our sea whose mere intestine pants Might seem at times sufficient to our wants. External power! If none be adequate, And he stand forth ordained (a prouder fate) Himself a law to his own sphere? "Remove "All incompleteness!" for that law, that love? Nay, if all other laws be feints,truth veiled Helpfully to weak vision that had failed To grasp aught but its special want,for lure, Embodied? Stronger vision could endure The unbodied want: no partthe whole of truth! The People were himself; nor, by the ruth At their condition, was he less impelled To alter the discrepancy beheld, Than if, from the sound whole, a sickly part Subtracted were transformed, decked out with art, Then palmed on him as alien woethe Guelf To succour, proud that he forsook himself. All is himself; all service, therefore, rates Alike, nor serving one part, immolates The rest: but all in time! "That lance of yours "Makes havoc soon with Malek and his Moors, "That buckler 's lined with many a giant's beard "Ere long, our champion, be the lance upreared, "The buckler wielded handsomely as now! "But view your escort, bear in mind your vow, "Count the pale tracts of sand to pass ere that, "And, if you hope we struggle through the flat, "Put lance and buckler by! Next half-month lacks "Mere sturdy exercise of mace and axe "To cleave this dismal brake of prickly-pear "Which bristling holds Cydippe by the hair, "Lames barefoot Agathon: this felled, we 'll try "The picturesque achievements by and by "Next life!"       Ay, rally, mock, O People, urge Your claims!for thus he ventured, to the verge, Push a vain mummery which perchance distrust Of his fast-slipping resolution thrust Likewise: accordingly the Crowd(as yet He had unconsciously contrived forget I' the whole, to dwell o' the points . . . one might assuage The signal horrors easier than engage With a dim vulgar vast unobvious grief Not to be fancied off, nor gained relief In brilliant fits, cured by a happy quirk, But by dim vulgar vast unobvious work To correspond . . .) this Crowd then, forth they stood. "And now content thy stronger vision, brood "On thy bare want; uncovered, turf by turf, "Study the corpse-face thro' the taint-worms' scurf!" Down sank the People's Then; uprose their Now. These sad ones render service to! And how Piteously little must that service prove Had surely proved in any case! for, move Each other obstacle away, let youth Become aware it had surprised a truth 'T were service to impartcan truth be seized, Settled forthwith, and, of the captive eased, Its captor find fresh prey, since this alit So happily, no gesture luring it, The earnest of a flock to follow? Vain, Most vain! a life to spend ere this he chain To the poor crowd's complacence: ere the crowd Pronounce it captured, he descries a cloud Its kin of twice the plume; which he, in turn, If he shall live as many lives, may learn How to secure: not else. Then Mantua called Back to his mind how certain bards were thralled Buds blasted, but of breath more like perfume Than Naddo's staring nosegay's carrion bloom; Some insane rose that burnt heart out in sweets, A spendthrift in the spring, no summer greets; Some Dularete, drunk with truths and wine, Grown bestial, dreaming how become divine. Yet to surmount this obstacle, commence With the commencement, merits crowning! Hence Must truth be casual truth, elicited In sparks so mean, at intervals dispread So rarely, that 't is like at no one time Of the world's story has not truth, the prime Of truth, the very truth which, loosed, had hurled The world's course right, been really in the world Content the while with some mean spark by dint Of some chance-blow, the solitary hint Of buried fire, which, rip earth's breast, would stream Sky-ward!      Sordello's miserable gleam Was looked for at the moment: he would dash This badge. and all it brought, to earth,abash Taurello thus, perhaps persuade him wrest The Kaiser from his purpose,would attest His own belief, in any case. Before He dashes it however, think once more! For, were that little, truly service? "Ay, "I' the end, no doubt; but meantime? Plain you spy "Its ultimate effect, but many flaws "Of vision blur each intervening cause. "Were the day's fraction clear as the life's sum "Of service, Now as filled as teems To-come "With evidence of goodnor too minute "A share to vie with evil! No dispute, "'T were fitliest maintain the Guelfs in rule: "That makes your life's work: but you have to school "Your day's work on these natures circumstanced "Thus variously, which yet, as each advanced "Or might impede the Guelf rule, must be moved "Now, for the Then's sake,hating what you loved, "Loving old hatreds! Nor if one man bore "Brand upon temples while his fellow wore "The aureole, would it task you to decide: "But, portioned duly out, the future vied "Never with the unparcelled present! Smite "Or spare so much on warrant all so slight? "The present's complete sympathies to break, "Aversions bear with, for a future's sake "So feeble? Tito ruined through one speck, "The Legate saved by his sole lightish fleck? "This were work, true, but work performed at cost "Of other work; aught gained here, elsewhere lost. "For a new segment spoil an orb half-done? "Rise with the People one step, and sinkone? "Were it but one step, less than the whole face "Of things, your novel duty bids erase! "Harms to abolish! What, the prophet saith, "The minstrel singeth vainly then? Old faith, "Old courage, only born because of harms, "Were not, from highest to the lowest, charms? "Flame may persist; but is not glare as staunch? "Where the salt marshes stagnate, crystals branch; "Blood dries to crimson; Evil 's beautified "In every shape. Thrust Beauty then aside "And banish Evil! Wherefore? After all, "Is Evil a result less natural "Than Good? For overlook the seasons' strife "With tree and flower,the hideous animal life, "(Of which who seeks shall find a grinning taunt "For his solution, and endure the vaunt "Of nature's angel, as a child that knows "Himself befooled, unable to propose "Aught better than the fooling)and but care "For men, for the mere People then and there, "In these, could you but see that Good and Ill "Claimed you alike! Whence rose their claim but still "From Ill, as fruit of Ill? What else could knit "You theirs but Sorrow? Any free from it "Were also free from you! Whose happiness "Could be distinguished in this morning's press "Of miseries?the fool's who passed a gibe "'On thee,' jeered he, `so wedded to thy tribe, "`Thou carriest green and yellow tokens in "'Thy very face that thou art Ghibellin!' "Much hold on you that fool obtained! Nay mount "Yet higherand upon men's own account "Must Evil stay: for, what is joy?to heave "Up one obstruction more, and common leave "What was peculiar, by such act destroy "Itself; a partial death is every joy; "The sensible escape, enfranchisement "Of a sphere's essence: once the vexedcontent, "The crampedat large, the growing circleround, "All 's to begin againsome novel bound "To break, some new enlargement to entreat; "The sphere though larger is not more complete. "Now for Mankind's experience: who alone "Might style the unobstructed world his own? "Whom palled Goito with its perfect things? "Sordello's self: whereas for Mankind springs "Salvation by each hindrance interposed. "They climb; life's view is not at once disclosed "To creatures caught up, on the summit left, "Heaven plain above them, yet of wings bereft: "But lower laid, as at the mountain's foot. "So, range on range, the girdling forests shoot "'Twixt your plain prospect and the throngs who scale "Height after height, and pierce mists, veil by veil, "Heartened with each discovery; in their soul, "The Whole they seek by Partsbut, found that Whole, "Could they revert, enjoy past gains? The space "Of time you judge so meagre to embrace "The Parts were more than plenty, once attained "The Whole, to quite exhaust it: nought were gained "But leave to looknot leave to do: Beneath "Soon sates the lookerlook Above, and Death "Tempts ere a tithe of Life be tasted. Live "First, and die soon enough, Sordello! Give "Body and spirit the first right they claim, "And pasture soul on a voluptuous shame "That you, a pageant-city's denizen, "Are neither vilely lodged midst Lombard men "Can force joy out of sorrow, seem to truck "Bright attributes away for sordid muck, "Yet manage from that very muck educe "Gold; then subject nor scruple, to your cruce "The world's discardings! Though real ingots pay "Your pains, the clods that yielded them are clay "To all beside,would clay remain, though quenched "Your purging-fire; who 's robbed then? Had you wrenched "An ampler treasure forth!As 't is, they crave "A share that ruins you and will not save "Them. Why should sympathy command you quit "The course that makes your joy, nor will remit "Their woe? Would all arrive at joy? Reverse "The order (time instructs you) nor coerce "Each unit till, some predetermined mode, "The total be emancipate; men's road "Is one, men's times of travel many; thwart "No enterprising soul's precocious start "Before the general march! If slow or fast "All straggle up to the same point at last, "Why grudge your having gained, a month ago, "The brakes at balm-shed, asphodels in blow, "While they were landlocked? Speed their Then, but how "This badge would suffer you improve your Now!" His time of action for, against, or with Our world (I labour to extract the pith Of this his problem) grew, that even-tide, Gigantic with its power of joy, beside The world's eternity of impotence To profit though at his whole joy's expense. "Make nothing of my day because so brief? "Rather make more: instead of joy, use grief "Before its novelty have time subside! "Wait not for the late savour, leave untried "Virtue, the creaming honey-wine, quick squeeze "Vice like a biting spirit from the lees "Of life! Together let wrath, hatred, lust, "All tyrannies in every shape, be thrust "Upon this Now, which time may reason out "As mischiefs, far from benefits, no doubt; "But long ere then Sordello will have slipt "Away; you teach him at Goito's crypt, "There 's a blank issue to that fiery thrill. "Stirring, the few cope with the many, still: "So much of sand as, quiet, makes a mass "Unable to produce three tufts of grass, "Shall, troubled by the whirlwind, render void "The whole calm glebe's endeavour: be employed! "And e'en though somewhat smart the Crowd for this, "Contribute each his pang to make your bliss, "'T is but one pangone blood-drop to the bowl "Which brimful tempts the sluggish asp uncowl "At last, stains ruddily the dull red cape, "And, kindling orbs grey as the unripe grape "Before, avails forthwith to disentrance "The portent, soon to lead a mystic dance "Among you! For, who sits alone in Rome? "Have those great hands indeed hewn out a home, "And set me there to live? Oh life, life-breath, "Life-blood,ere sleep, come travail, life ere death! "This life stream on my soul, direct, oblique, "But always streaming! Hindrances? They pique: "Helps? such . . . but why repeat, my soul o'ertops "Each height, then every depth profoundlier drops? "Enough that I can live, and would live! Wait "For some transcendent life reserved by Fate "To follow this? Oh, never! Fate, I trust "The same, my soul to; for, as who flings dust, "Perchance (so facile was the deed) she chequed "The void with these materials to affect "My soul diversely: these consigned anew "To nought by death, what marvel if she threw "A second and superber spectacle "Before me? What may serve for sun, what still "Wander a moon above me? What else wind "About me like the pleasures left behind, "And how shall some new flesh that is not flesh "Cling to me? What 's new laughter? Soothes the fresh "Sleep like sleep? Fate 's exhaustless for my sake "In brave resource: but whether bids she slake "My thirst at this first rivulet, or count "No draught worth lip save from some rocky fount "Above i' the clouds, while here she 's provident "Of pure loquacious pearl, the soft tree-tent "Guards, with its face of reate and sedge, nor fail "The silver globules and gold-sparkling grail "At bottom? Oh, 't were too absurd to slight "For the hereafter the to-day's delight! "Quench thirst at this, then seek next well-spring: wear "Home-lilies ere strange lotus in my hair! "Here is the Crowd, whom I with freest heart "Offer to serve, contented for my part "To give life up in service,only grant "That I do serve; if otherwise, why want "Aught further of me? If men cannot choose "But set aside life, why should I refuse "The gift? I take itI, for one, engage "Never to falter through my pilgrimage "Nor end it howling that the stock or stone "Were enviable, truly: I, for one, "Will praise the world, you style mere anteroom "To palacebe it so! shall I assume "My foot the courtly gait, my tongue the trope, "My mouth the smirk, before the doors fly ope "One moment? What? with guarders row on row, "Gay swarms of varletry that come and go, "Pages to dice with, waiting-girls unlace "The plackets of, pert claimants help displace, "Heart-heavy suitors get a rank for,laugh "At yon sleek parasite, break his own staff "'Cross Beetle-brows the Usher's shoulder,why "Admitted to the presence by and by, "Should thought of having lost these make me grieve "Among new joys I reach, for joys I leave? "Cool citrine-crystals, fierce pyropus-stone, "Are floor-work there! But do I let alone "That black-eyed peasant in the vestibule "Once and for ever?Floor-work? No such fool! "Rather, were heaven to forestall earth, I 'd say "I, is it, must be blest? Then, my own way "Bless me! Giver firmer arm and fleeter foot, "I 'll thank you: but to no mad wings transmute "These limbs of mineour greensward was so soft! "Nor camp I on the thunder-cloud aloft: "We feel the bliss distinctlier, having thus "Engines subservient, not mixed up with us. "Better move palpably through heaven: nor, freed "Of flesh, forsooth, from space to space proceed "'Mid flying synods of worlds! No: in heaven's marge "Show Titan still, recumbent o'er his targe "Solid with starsthe Centaur at his game, "Made tremulously out in hoary flame! "Life! Yet the very cup whose extreme dull "Dregs, even, I would quaff, was dashed, at full, "Aside so oft; the death I fly, revealed "So oft a better life this life concealed, "And which sage, champion, martyr, through each path "Have hunted fearlesslythe horrid bath, "The crippling-irons and the fiery chair. "'T was well for them; let me become aware "As they, and I relinquish life, too! Let "What masters life disclose itself! Forget "Vain ordinances, I have one appeal "I feel, am what I feel, know what I feel; "So much is truth to me. What Is, then? Since "One object, viewed diversely, may evince "Beauty and uglinessthis way attract, "That way repel,why gloze upon the fact? "Why must a single of the sides be right? "What bids choose this and leave the opposite? "Where 's abstract Right for me?in youth endued "With Right still present, still to be pursued, "Thro' all the interchange of circles, rife "Each with its proper law and mode of life, "Each to be dwelt at ease in: where, to sway "Absolute with the Kaiser, or obey "Implicit with his serf of fluttering heart, "Or, like a sudden thought of God's, to start "Up, Brutus in the presence, then go shout "That some should pick the unstrung jewels out "Each, well!"        And, as in moments when the past Gave partially enfranchisement, he cast Himself quite through mere secondary states Of his soul's essence, little loves and hates, Into the mid deep yearnings overlaid By these; as who should pierce hill, plain, grove, glade, And on into the very nucleus probe That first determined there exist a globe. As that were easiest, half the globe dissolved, So seemed Sordello's closing-truth evolved By his flesh-half's break-up; the sudden swell Of his expanding soul showed Ill and Well, Sorrow and Joy, Beauty and Ugliness, Virtue and Vice, the Larger and the Less, All qualities, in fine, recorded here, Might be but modes of Time and this one sphere, Urgent on these, but not of force to bind Eternity, as Timeas MatterMind, If Mind, Eternity, should choose assert Their attributes within a Life: thus girt With circumstance, next change beholds them cinct Quite otherwisewith Good and Ill distinct, Joys, sorrows, tending to a like result Contrived to render easy, difficult, This or the other course of . . . what new bond In place of flesh may stop their flight beyond Its new sphere, as that course does harm or good To its arrangements. Once this understood, As suddenly he felt himself alone, Quite out of Time and this world: all was known. What made the secret of his past despair? Most imminent when he seemed most aware Of his own self-sufficiency: made mad By craving to expand the power he had, And not new power to be expanded?just This made it; Soul on Matter being thrust, Joy comes when so much Soul is wreaked in Time On Matter: let the Soul's attempt sublime Matter beyond the scheme and so prevent By more or less that deed's accomplishment, And Sorrow follows: Sorrow how avoid? Let the employer match the thing employed, Fit to the finite his infinity, And thus proceed for ever, in degree Changed but in kind the same, still limited To the appointed circumstance and dead To all beyond. A sphere is but a sphere; Small, Great, are merely terms we bandy here; Since to the spirit's absoluteness all Are like. Now, of the present sphere we call Life, are conditions; take but this among Many; the body was to be so long Youthful, no longer: but, since no control Tied to that body's purposes his soul, She chose to understand the body's trade More than the body's selfhad fain conveyed Her boundless to the body's bounded lot. Hence, the soul permanent, the body not, Scarcely its minute for enjoying here, The soul must needs instruct her weak compeer, Run o'er its capabilities and wring A joy thence, she held worth experiencing: Which, far from half discovered even,lo, The minute gone, the body's power let go Apportioned to that joy's acquirement! Broke Morning o'er earth, he yearned for all it woke From the volcano's vapour-flag, winds hoist Black o'er the spread of sea,down to the moist Dale's silken barley-spikes sullied with rain, Swayed earthwards, heavily to rise again The Small, a sphere as perfect as the Great To the soul's absoluteness. Meditate Too long on such a morning's cluster-chord And the whole music it was framed afford, The chord's might half discovered, what should pluck One string, his finger, was found palsy-struck. And then no marvel if the spirit, shown A saddest sightthe body lost alone Through her officious proffered help, deprived Of this and that enjoyment Fate contrived, Virtue, Good, Beauty, each allowed slip hence, Vain-gloriously were fain, for recompense, To stem the ruin even yet, protract The body's term, supply the power it lacked From her infinity, compel it learn These qualities were only Time's concern, And body may, with spirit helping, barred Advance the same, vanquishedobtain reward, Reap joy where sorrow was intended grow, Of Wrong make Right, and turn Ill Good below. And the result is, the poor body soon Sinks under what was meant a wondrous boon, Leaving its bright accomplice all aghast. So much was plain then, proper in the past; To be complete for, satisfy the whole Series of spheresEternity, his soul Needs must exceed, prove incomplete for, each Single sphereTime. But does our knowledge reach No farther? Is the cloud of hindrance broke But by the failing of the fleshly yoke, Its loves and hates, as now when death lets soar Sordello, self-sufficient as before, Though during the mere space that shall elapse 'Twixt his enthralment in new bonds perhaps? Must life be ever just escaped, which should Have been enjoyed?nay, might have been and would, Each purpose ordered rightthe soul 's no whit Beyond the body's purpose under it. Like yonder breadth of watery heaven, a bay, And that sky-space of water, ray for ray And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendours folded in To diewould soul, proportioned thus, begin Exciting discontent, or surelier quell The body if, aspiring, it rebel? But how so order life? Still brutalize The soul, the sad world's way, with muffled eyes To all that was before, all that shall be After this sphereall and each quality Save some sole and immutable Great, Good And Beauteous whither fate has loosed its hood To follow? Never may some soul see All The Great Before and After, and the Small Now, yet be saved by this the simplest lore, And take the single course prescribed before, As the king-bird with ages on his plumes Travels to die in his ancestral glooms? But where descry the Love that shall select That course? Here is a soul whom, to affect, Nature has plied with all her means, from trees And flowers e'en to the Multitude!and these, Decides he save or no? One word to end! Ah my Sordello, I this once befriend And speak for you. Of a Power above you still Which, utterly incomprehensible, Is out of rivalry, which thus you can Love, tho' unloving all conceived by man What need! And ofnone the minutest duct To that out-nature, nought that would instruct And so let rivalry begin to live But of a Power its representative Who, being for authority the same, Communication different, should claim A course, the first chose but this last revealed This Human clear, as that Divine concealed What utter need!          What has Sordello found? Or can his spirit go the mighty round, End where poor Eglamor begun? So, says Old fable, the two eagles went two ways About the world: where, in the midst, they met, Though on a shifting waste of sand, men set Jove's temple. Quick, what has Sordello found? For they approachapproachthat foot's rebound Palma? No, Salinguerra though in mail; They mount, have reached the threshold, dash the veil Asideand you divine who sat there dead, Under his foot the badge: still, Palma said, A triumph lingering in the wide eyes, Wider than some spent swimmer's if he spies Help from above in his extreme despair, And, head far back on shoulder thrust, turns there With short quick passionate cry: as Palma pressed In one great kiss, her lips upon his breast, It beat.     By this, the hermit-bee has stopped His day's toil at Goito: the new-cropped Dead vine-leaf answers, now 't is eve, he bit, Twirled so, and filed all day: the mansion 's fit, God counselled for. As easy guess the word That passed betwixt them, and become the third To the soft small unfrighted bee, as tax Him with one faultso, no remembrance racks Of the stone maidens and the font of stone He, creeping through the crevice, leaves alone. Alas, my friend, alas Sordello, whom Anon they laid within that old font-tomb, And, yet again, alas!            And now is 't worth Our while bring back to mind, much less set forth How Salinguerra extricates himself Without Sordello? Ghibellin and Guelf May fight their fiercest out? If Richard sulked In durance or the Marquis paid his mulct, Who cares, Sordello gone? The upshot, sure, Was peace; our chief made some frank overture That prospered; compliment fell thick and fast On its disposer, and Taurello passed With foe and friend for an outstripping soul, Nine days at least. Then,fairly reached the goal, He, by one effort, blotted the great hope Out of his mind, nor further tried to cope With Este, that mad evening's style, but sent Away the Legate and the League, content No blame at least the brothers had incurred, Dispatched a message to the Monk, he heard Patiently first to last, scarce shivered at, Then curled his limbs up on his wolfskin mat And ne'er spoke more,informed the Ferrarese He but retained their rule so long as these Lingered in pupilage,and last, no mode Apparent else of keeping safe the road From Germany direct to Lombardy For Friedrich,none, that is, to guarantee The faith and promptitude of who should next Obtain Sofia's dowry,sore perplexed (Sofia being youngest of the tribe Of daughters, Ecelin was wont to bribe The envious magnates withnor, since he sent Henry of Egna this fair child, had Trent Once failed the Kaiser's purposes"we lost "Egna last year, and who takes Egna's post "Opens the Lombard gate if Friedrich knock?") Himself espoused the Lady of the Rock In pure necessity, and, so destroyed His slender last of chances, quite made void Old prophecy, and spite of all the schemes Overt and covert, youth's deeds, age's dreams, Was sucked into Romano. And so hushed He up this evening's work that, when 't was brushed Somehow against by a blind chronicle Which, chronicling whatever woe befell Ferrara, noted this the obscure woe Of "Salinguerra's sole son Giacomo "Deceased, fatuous and doting, ere his sire," The townsfolk rubbed their eyes, could but admire Which of Sofia's five was meant.                  The chaps Of earth's dead hope were tardy to collapse, Obliterated not the beautiful Distinctive features at a crash: but dull And duller these, next year, as Guelfs withdrew Each to his stronghold. Then (securely too Ecelin at Campese slept; close by, Who likes may see him in Solagna lie, With cushioned head and gloved hand to denote The cavalier he was)then his heart smote Young Ecelin at last; long since adult. And, save Vicenza's business, what result In blood and blaze? (So hard to intercept Sordello till his plain withdrawal!) Stepped Then its new lord on Lombardy. I' the nick Of time when Ecelin and Alberic Closed with Taurello, come precisely news That in Verona half the souls refuse Allegiance to the Marquis and the Count Have cast them from a throne they bid him mount, Their Podest, thro' his ancestral worth. Ecelin flew there, and the town henceforth Was wholly hisTaurello sinking back From temporary station to a track That suited. News received of this acquist, Friedrich did come to Lombardy: who missed Taurello then? Another year: they took Vicenza, left the Marquis scarce a nook For refuge, and, when hundreds two or three Of Guelfs conspired to call themselves "The Free," Opposing Alberic,vile Bassanese, (Without Sordello!)Ecelin at ease Slaughtered them so observably, that oft A little Salinguerra looked with soft Blue eyes up, asked his sire the proper age To get appointed his proud uncle's page. More years passed, and that sire had dwindled down To a mere showy turbulent soldier, grown Better through age, his parts still in repute, Subtlehow else?but hardly so astute As his contemporaneous friends professed; Undoubtedly a brawler: for the rest, Known by each neighbour, and allowed for, let Keep his incorrigible ways, nor fret Men who would miss their boyhood's bugbear: "trap "The ostrich, suffer our bald osprey flap "A battered pinion!"was the word. In fine, One flap too much and Venice's marine Was meddled with; no overlooking that! She captured him in his Ferrara, fat And florid at a banquet, more by fraud Than force, to speak the truth; there 's slender laud Ascribed you for assisting eighty years To pull his death on such a man; fate shears The life-cord prompt enough whose last fine threads You fritter: so, presiding his board-head, The old smile, your assurance all went well With Friedrich (as if he were like to tell!) In rushed (a plan contrived before) our friends, Made some pretence at fighting, some amends For the shame done his eighty years(apart The principle, none found it in his heart To be much angry with Taurello)gained Their galleys with the prize, and what remained But carry him to Venice for a show? Set him, as 't were, down gentlyfree to go His gait, inspect our square, pretend observe The swallows soaring their eternal curve 'Twixt Theodore and Mark, if citizens Gathered importunately, fives and tens, To point their children the Magnifico, All but a monarch once in firm-land, go His gait among them now"it took, indeed, "Fully this Ecelin to supersede "That man," remarked the seniors. Singular! Sordello's inability to bar Rivals the stage, that evening, mainly brought About by his strange disbelief that aught Was ever to be done,this thrust the Twain Under Taurello's tutelage,whom, brain And heart and hand, he forthwith in one rod Indissolubly bound to baffle God Who loves the worldand thus allowed the thin Grey wizened dwarfish devil Ecelin, And massy-muscled big-boned Alberic (Mere man, alas!) to put his problem quick To demonstrationprove wherever's will To do, there's plenty to be done, or ill Or good. Anointed, then, to rend and rip Kings of the gag and flesh-hook, screw and whip, They plagued the world: a touch of Hildebrand (So far from obsolete!) made Lombards band Together, cross their coats as for Christ's cause, And saving Milan win the world's applause. Ecelin perished: and I think grass grew Never so pleasant as in Valley R By San Zenon where Alberic in turn Saw his exasperated captors burn Seven children and their mother; then, regaled So far, tied on to a wild horse, was trailed To death through raunce and bramble-bush. I take God's part and testify that 'mid the brake Wild o'er his castle on the pleasant knoll, You hear its one tower left, a belfry, toll The earthquake spared it last year, laying flat The modern church beneath,no harm in that! Chirrups the contumacious grasshopper, Rustles the lizard and the cushats chirre Above the ravage: there, at deep of day A week since, heard I the old Canon say He saw with his own eyes a barrow burst And Alberic's huge skeleton unhearsed Only five years ago. He added, "June 's "The month for carding off our first cocoons "The silkworms fabricate"a double news, Nor he nor I could tell the worthier. Choose! And Naddo gone, all's gone; not Eglamor! Believe, I knew the face I waited for, A guest my spirit of the golden courts! Oh strange to see how, despite ill-reports, Disuse, some wear of years, that face retained Its joyous look of love! Suns waxed and waned, And still my spirit held an upward flight, Spiral on spiral, gyres of life and light More and more gorgeousever that face there The last admitted! crossed, too, with some care As perfect triumph were not sure for all, But, on a few, enduring damp must fall, A transient struggle, haply a painful sense Of the inferior nature's clingingwhence Slight starting tears easily wiped away, Fine jealousies soon stifled in the play Of irrepressible admirationnot Aspiring, all considered, to their lot Who ever, just as they prepare ascend Spiral on spiral, wish thee well, impend Thy frank delight at their exclusive track, That upturned fervid face and hair put back! Is there no more to say? He of the rhymes Many a tale, of this retreat betimes, Was born: Sordello die at once for men? The Chroniclers of Mantua tired their pen Telling how Sordello Prince Visconti saved Mantua, and elsewhere notably behaved Who thus, by fortune ordering events, Passed with posterity, to all intents, For just the god he never could become. As Knight, Bard, Gallant, men were never dumb In praise of him: while what he should have been, Could be, and was notthe one step too mean For him to take,we suffer at this day Because of: Ecelin had pushed away Its chance ere Dante could arrive and take That step Sordello spurned, for the world's sake: He did muchbut Sordello's chance was gone. Thus, had Sordello dared that step alone, Apollo had been compassed: 't was a fit He wished should go to him, not he to it As one content to merely be supposed Singing or fighting elsewhere, while he dozed Really at homeone who was chiefly glad To have achieved the few real deeds he had, Because that way assured they were not worth Doing, so spared from doing them henceforth A tree that covets fruitage and yet tastes Never itself, itself. Had he embraced Their cause then, men had plucked Hesperian fruit And, praising that, just thrown him in to boot All he was anxious to appear, but scarce Solicitous to be. A sorry farce Such life is, after all! Cannot I say He lived for some one better thing? this way. Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill, Morning just up, higher and higher runs A child barefoot and rosy. See! the sun's On the square castle's inner-court's low wall Like the chine of some extinct animal Half turned to earth and flowers; and through the haze (Save where some slender patches of grey maize Are to be overleaped) that boy has crossed The whole hill-side of dew and powder-frost Matting the balm and mountain camomile. Up and up goes he, singing all the while Some unintelligible words to beat The lark, God's poet, swooning at his feet, So worsted is he at "the few fine locks "Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks "Sun-blanched the livelong summer,"all that's left Of the Goito lay! And thus bereft, Sleep and forget, Sordello! In effect He sleeps, the feverish poetI suspect Not utterly companionless; but, friends, Wake up! The ghost's gone, and the story ends I'd fain hope, sweetly; seeing, peri or ghoul, That spirits are conjectured fair or foul, Evil or good, judicious authors think, According as they vanish in a stink Or in a perfume. Friends, be frank! ye snuff Civet, I warrant. Really? Like enough! Merely the savour's rareness; any nose May ravage with impunity a rose: Rifle a musk-pod and 't will ache like yours! I'd tell you that same pungency ensures An after-gust, but that were overbold. Who would has heard Sordello's story told. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Sixth ,

721:A TRAGEDY IN TWO ACTS Translated from the Original Doric 'Choose Reform or Civil War, When through thy streets, instead of hare with dogs, A Consort-Queen shall hunt a King with hogs, Riding on the IONIAN MINOTAUR.' DRAMATIS PERSONAE Tyrant Swellfoot, King of Thebes. Iona Taurina, his Queen. Mammon, Arch-Priest of Famine. Purganax Wizard, Minister of Swellfoot. Dakry Wizard, Minister of Swellfoot. Laoctonos Wizard, Minister of Swellfoot. The Gadfly. The Leech. The Rat. Moses, the Sow-gelder. Solomon, the Porkman. Zephaniah, Pig-butcher. The Minotaur. Chorus of the Swinish Multitude. Guards, Attendants, Priests, etc., etc. SCENE.--THEBES ACT I. Scene I.-- A magnificent Temple, built of thigh-bones and death's-heads, and tiled with scalps. Over the Altar the statue of Famine, veiled; a number of Boars, Sows, and Sucking-Pigs, crowned with thistle, shamrock, and oak, sitting on the steps, and clinging round the Altar of the Temple. Enter Swellfoot, in his Royal robes, without perceiving the Pigs. Swellfoot. Thou supreme Goddess! by whose power divine These graceful limbs are clothed in proud array [He contemplates himself with satisfaction. Of gold and purple, and this kingly paunch Swells like a sail before a favouring breeze, And these most sacred nether promontories Lie satisfied with layers of fat; and these Boeotian cheeks, like Egypt's pyramid, (Nor with less toil were their foundations laid)[1], Sustain the cone of my untroubled brain, That point, the emblem of a pointless nothing! Thou to whom Kings and laurelled Emperors, Radical-butchers, Paper-money-millers, Bishops and Deacons, and the entire army Of those fat martyrs to the persecution Of stifling turtle-soup, and brandy-devils, Offer their secret vows! Thou plenteous Ceres Of their Eleusis, hail! The Swine.             Eigh! eigh! eigh! eigh!             Swellfoot.                          Ha! what are ye, Who, crowned with leaves devoted to the Furies, Cling round this sacred shrine? Swine.                  Aigh! aigh! aigh!                  Swellfoot.                           What! ye that are The very beasts that, offered at her altar With blood and groans, salt-cake, and fat, and inwards, Ever propitiate her reluctant will When taxes are withheld? Swine.              Ugh! ugh! ugh!              Swellfoot.                      What! ye who grub With filthy snouts my red potatoes up In Allan's rushy bog? Who eat the oats Up, from my cavalry in the Hebrides? Who swill the hog-wash soup my cooks digest From bones, and rags, and scraps of shoe-leather, Which should be given to cleaner Pigs than you? The Swine.Semichorus I. The same, alas! the same; Though only now the name Of Pig remains to me. Semichorus II. If 'twere your kingly will Us wretched Swine to kill, What should we yield to thee? Swellfoot. Why, skin and bones, and some few hairs for mortar. Chorus of Swine. I have heard your Laureate sing, That pity was a royal thing; Under your mighty ancestors, we Pigs Were bless'd as nightingales on myrtle sprigs, Or grasshoppers that live on noonday dew, And sung, old annals tell, as sweetly too; But now our sties are fallen in, we catch The murrain and the mange, the scab and itch; Sometimes your royal dogs tear down our thatch, And then we seek the shelter of a ditch; Hog-wash or grains, or ruta-baga, none Has yet been ours since your reign begun. First Sow. My Pigs, 'tis in vain to tug. Second Sow. I could almost eat my litter. First Pig. I suck, but no milk will come from the dug. Second Pig. Our skin and our bones would be bitter. The Boars. We fight for this rag of greasy rug, Though a trough of wash would be fitter. Semichorus.   Happier Swine were they than we,   Drowned in the Gadarean sea I wish that pity would drive out the devils, Which in your royal bosom hold their revels, And sink us in the waves of thy compassion! Alas! the Pigs are an unhappy nation! Now if your Majesty would have our bristles To bind your mortar with, or fill our colons With rich blood, or make brawn out of our gristles, In policyask else your royal Solons You ought to give us hog-wash and clean straw, And sties well thatched; besides it is the law! Swellfoot. This is sedition, and rank blasphemy! Ho! there, my guards! Enter a Guard. Guard.            Your sacred Majesty.            Swellfoot. Call in the Jews, Solomon the court porkman, Moses the sow-gelder, and Zephaniah The hog-butcher. Guard.          They are in waiting, Sire.          Enter Solomon, Moses, and Zephaniah. Swellfoot. Out with your knife, old Moses, and spay those Sows [The Pigs run about in consternation. That load the earth with Pigs; cut close and deep. Moral restraint I see has no effect, Nor prostitution, nor our own example, Starvation, typhus-fever, war, nor prison This was the art which the arch-priest of Famine Hinted at in his charge to the Theban clergy Cut close and deep, good Moses. Moses.                  Let your Majesty Keep the Boars quiet, else Swellfoot.                Zephaniah, cut That fat Hog's throat, the brute seems overfed; Seditious hunks! to whine for want of grains. Zephaniah. Your sacred Majesty, he has the dropsy; We shall find pints of hydatids in's liver, He has not half an inch of wholesome fat Upon his carious ribs Swellfoot.             'Tis all the same, He'll serve instead of riot money, when Our murmuring troops bivouac in Thebes' streets; And January winds, after a day Of butchering, will make them relish carrion. Now, Solomon, I'll sell you in a lump The whole kit of them. Solomon.             Why, your Majesty, I could not give Swellfoot.           Kill them out of the way, That shall be price enough, and let me hear Their everlasting grunts and whines no more! [Exeunt, driving in the Swine. Enter Mammon, the Arch-Priest; and Purganax, Chief of the Council of Wizards. Purganax. The future looks as black as death, a cloud, Dark as the frown of Hell, hangs over it The troops grow mutinousthe revenue fails There's something rotten in usfor the level Of the State slopes, its very bases topple, The boldest turn their backs upon themselves! Mammon. Why what's the matter, my dear fellow, now? Do the troops mutiny?decimate some regiments; Does money fail?come to my mintcoin paper, Till gold be at a discount, and ashamed To show his bilious face, go purge himself, In emulation of her vestal whiteness. Purganax. Oh, would that this were all! The oracle!! Mammon. Why it was I who spoke that oracle, And whether I was dead drunk or inspired, I cannot well remember; nor, in truth, The oracle itself! Purganax.           The words went thus: 'Boeotia, choose reform or civil war! When through the streets, instead of hare with dogs, A Consort Queen shall hunt a King with Hogs, Riding on the Ionian Minotaur.' Mammon. Now if the oracle had ne'er foretold This sad alternative, it must arrive, Or not, and so it must now that it has; And whether I was urged by grace divine Or Lesbian liquor to declare these words, Which must, as all words must, be false or true, It matters not: for the same Power made all, Oracle, wine, and me and youor none 'Tis the same thing. If you knew as much Of oracles as I do Purganax.            You arch-priests Believe in nothing; if you were to dream Of a particular number in the Lottery, You would not buy the ticket? Mammon.                 Yet our tickets Are seldom blanks. But what steps have you taken? For prophecies, when once they get abroad, Like liars who tell the truth to serve their ends, Or hypocrites who, from assuming virtue, Do the same actions that the virtuous do, Contrive their own fulfilment. This Iona Wellyou know what the chaste Pasiphae did, Wife to that most religious King of Crete, And still how popular the tale is here; And these dull Swine of Thebes boast their descent From the free Minotaur. You know they still Call themselves Bulls, though thus degenerate, And everything relating to a Bull Is popular and respectable in Thebes. Their arms are seven Bulls in a field gules; They think their strength consists in eating beef, Now there were danger in the precedent If Queen Iona Purganax.         I have taken good care That shall not be. I struck the crust o' the earth With this enchanted rod, and Hell lay bare! And from a cavern full of ugly shapes I chose a Leech, a Gadfly, and a Rat. The Gadfly was the same which Juno sent To agitate Io[2], and which Ezekiel[3] mentions That the Lord whistled for out of the mountains Of utmost Aethiopia, to torment Mesopotamian Babylon. The beast Has a loud trumpet like the scarabee, His crookd tail is barbed with many stings, Each able to make a thousand wounds, and each Immedicable; from his convex eyes He sees fair things in many hideous shapes, And trumpets all his falsehood to the world. Like other beetles he is fed on dung He has eleven feet with which he crawls, Trailing a blistering slime, and this foul beast Has tracked Iona from the Theban limits, From isle to isle, from city unto city, Urging her flight from the far Chersonese To fabulous Solyma, and the Aetnean Isle, Ortygia, Melite, and Calypso's Rock, And the swart tribes of Garamant and Fez, Aeolia and Elysium, and thy shores, Parthenope, which now, alas! are free! And through the fortunate Saturnian land, Into the darkness of the West. Mammon.                 But if This Gadfly should drive Iona hither? Purganax. Gods! what an if! but there is my gray Rat: So thin with want, he can crawl in and out Of any narrow chink and filthy hole, And he shall creep into her dressing-room, And Mammon.    My dear friend, where are your wits? as if She does not always toast a piece of cheese And bait the trap? and rats, when lean enough To crawl through such chinks Purganax.                 But my Leecha leech Fit to suck blood, with lubricous round rings, Capaciously expatiative, which make His little body like a red balloon, As full of blood as that of hydrogen, Sucked from men's hearts; insatiably he sucks And clings and pullsa horse-leech, whose deep maw The plethoric King Swellfoot could not fill, And who, till full, will cling for ever. Mammon.                       This For Queen Iona would suffice, and less; But 'tis the Swinish multitude I fear, And in that fear I have Purganax.               Done what?               Mammon.                    Disinherited My eldest son Chrysaor, because he Attended public meetings, and would always Stand prating there of commerce, public faith, Economy, and unadulterate coin, And other topics, ultra-radical; And have entailed my estate, called the Fool's Paradise, And funds in fairy-money, bonds, and bills, Upon my accomplished daughter Banknotina, And married her to the gallows[4]. Purganax.                   A good match!                   Mammon. A high connexion, Purganax. The bridegroom Is of a very ancient family, Of Hounslow Heath, Tyburn, and the New Drop, And has great influence in both Houses;oh! He makes the fondest husband; nay, too fond, New-married people should not kiss in public; But the poor souls love one another so! And then my little grandchildren, the gibbets, Promising children as you ever saw, The young playing at hanging, the elder learning How to hold radicals. They are well taught too, For every gibbet says its catechism And reads a select chapter in the Bible Before it goes to play. [A most tremendous humming is heard. Purganax.             Ha! what do I hear?             Enter the Gadfly. Mammon. Your Gadfly, as it seems, is tired of gadding. Gadfly.   Hum! hum! hum! From the lakes of the Alps, and the cold gray scalps Of the mountains, I come!   Hum! hum! hum! From Morocco and Fez, and the high palaces Of golden Byzantium; From the temples divine of old Palestine, From Athens and Rome, With a ha! and a hum! I come! I come!   All inn-doors and windows   Were open to me: I saw all that sin does,   Which lamps hardly see That burn in the night by the curtained bed, The impudent lamps! for they blushed not red, Dinging and singing, From slumber I rung her, Loud as the clank of an ironmonger;    Hum! hum! hum!     Far, far, far! With the trump of my lips, and the sting at my hips, I drove herafar! Far, far, far! From city to city, abandoned of pity, A ship without needle or star; Homeless she passed, like a cloud on the blast, Seeking peace, finding war; She is here in her car, From afar, and afar;   Hum! hum!    I have stung her and wrung her,   The venom is working; And if you had hung her   With canting and quirking, She could not be deader than she will be soon; I have driven her close to you, under the moon, Night and day, hum! hum! ha! I have hummed her and drummed her From place to place, till at last I have dumbed her,    Hum! hum! hum!    Enter the Leech and the Rat. Leech. I will suck Blood or muck! The disease of the state is a plethory, Who so fit to reduce it as I? Rat. I'll slily seize and Let blood from her weasand, Creeping through crevice, and chink, and cranny, With my snaky tail, and my sides so scranny. Purganax. Aroint ye! thou unprofitable worm! [To the Leech. And thou, dull beetle, get thee back to hell! [To the Gadfly. To sting the ghosts of Babylonian kings, And the ox-headed Io Swine (within).             Ugh, ugh, ugh! Hail! Iona the divine, We will be no longer Swine, But Bulls with horns and dewlaps. Rat.                   For, You know, my lord, the Minotaur Purganax (fiercely). Be silent! get to hell! or I will call The cat out of the kitchen. Well, Lord Mammon, This is a pretty business. [Exit the Rat. Mammon.               I will go And spell some scheme to make it ugly then. [Exit. Enter Swellfoot. Swellfoot. She is returned! Taurina is in Thebes, When Swellfoot wishes that she were in hell! Oh, Hymen, clothed in yellow jealousy, And waving o'er the couch of wedded kings The torch of Discord with its fiery hair; This is thy work, thou patron saint of queens! Swellfoot is wived! though parted by the sea, The very name of wife had conjugal rights; Her cursd image ate, drank, slept with me, And in the arms of Adiposa oft Her memory has received a husband's [A loud tumult, and cries of 'Iona for ever!No Swellfoot!'!                     Hark! How the Swine cry Iona Taurina; I suffer the real presence; Purganax, Off with her head! Purganax.           But I must first impanel A jury of the Pigs. Swellfoot.           Pack them then.           Purganax. Or fattening some few in two separate sties, And giving them clean straw, tying some bits Of ribbon round their legsgiving their Sows Some tawdry lace, and bits of lustre glass, And their young Boars white and red rags, and tails Of cows, and jay feathers, and sticking cauliflowers Between the ears of the old ones; and when They are persuaded, that by the inherent virtue Of these things, they are all imperial Pigs, Good Lord! they'd rip each other's bellies up, Not to say, help us in destroying her. Swellfoot. This plan might be tried too;where's General Laoctonos? Enter Laoctonos and Dakry.      It is my royal pleasure That you, Lord General, bring the head and body, If separate it would please me better, hither Of Queen Iona. Laoctonos.        That pleasure I well knew, And made a charge with those battalions bold, Called, from their dress and grin, the royal apes, Upon the Swine, who in a hollow square Enclosed her, and received the first attack Like so many rhinoceroses, and then Retreating in good order, with bare tusks And wrinkled snouts presented to the foe, Bore her in triumph to the public sty. What is still worse, some Sows upon the ground Have given the ape-guards apples, nuts, and gin, And they all whisk their tails aloft, and cry, 'Long live Iona! down with Swellfoot!' Purganax.                      Hark!                      The Swine (without). Long live Iona! down with Swellfoot! Dakry.                     I Went to the garret of the swineherd's tower, Which overlooks the sty, and made a long Harangue (all words) to the assembled Swine, Of delicacy, mercy, judgement, law, Morals, and precedents, and purity, Adultery, destitution, and divorce, Piety, faith, and state necessity, And how I loved the Queen!and then I wept With the pathos of my own eloquence, And every tear turned to a mill-stone, which Brained many a gaping Pig, and there was made A slough of blood and brains upon the place, Greased with the pounded bacon; round and round The mill-stones rolled, ploughing the pavement up, And hurling Sucking-Pigs into the air, With dust and stones. Enter Mammon. Mammon.             I wonder that gray wizards Like you should be so beardless in their schemes; It had been but a point of policy To keep Iona and the Swine apart. Divide and rule! but ye have made a junction Between two parties who will govern you But for my art.Behold this BAG! it is The poison BAG of that Green Spider huge, On which our spies skulked in ovation through The streets of Thebes, when they were paved with dead: A bane so much the deadlier fills it now As calumny is worse than death,for here The Gadfly's venom, fifty times distilled, Is mingled with the vomit of the Leech, In due proportion, and black ratsbane, which That very Rat, who, like the Pontic tyrant, Nurtures himself on poison, dare not touch; All is sealed up with the broad seal of Fraud, Who is the Devil's Lord High Chancellor, And over it the Primate of all Hell Murmured this pious baptism:'Be thou called The GREEN BAG; and this power and grace be thine: That thy contents, on whomsoever poured, Turn innocence to guilt, and gentlest looks To savage, foul, and fierce deformity. Let all baptized by thy infernal dew Be called adulterer, drunkard, liar, wretch! No name left out which orthodoxy loves, Court Journal or legitimate Review! Be they called tyrant, beast, fool, glutton, lover Of other wives and husbands than their own The heaviest sin on this side of the Alps! Wither they to a ghastly caricature Of what was human!let not man or beast Behold their face with unaverted eyes! Or hear their names with ears that tingle not With blood of indignation, rage, and shame!' This is a perilous liquor;good my Lords. [Swellfoot approaches to touch the GREEN BAG. Beware! for God's sake, beware!if you should break The seal, and touch the fatal liquor Purganax.                      There, Give it to me. I have been used to handle All sorts of poisons. His dread Majesty Only desires to see the colour of it. Mammon. Now, with a little common sense, my Lords, Only undoing all that has been done (Yet so as it may seem we but confirm it), Our victory is assured. We must entice Her Majesty from the sty, and make the Pigs Believe that the contents of the GREEN BAG Are the true test of guilt or innocence. And that, if she be guilty, 'twill transform her To manifest deformity like guilt. If innocent, she will become transfigured Into an angel, such as they say she is; And they will see her flying through the air, So bright that she will dim the noonday sun; Showering down blessings in the shape of comfits. This, trust a priest, is just the sort of thing Swine will believe. I'll wager you will see them Climbing upon the thatch of their low sties, With pieces of smoked glass, to watch her sail Among the clouds, and some will hold the flaps Of one another's ears between their teeth, To catch the coming hail of comfits in. You, Purganax, who have the gift o' the gab, Make them a solemn speech to this effect: I go to put in readiness the feast Kept to the honour of our goddess Famine, Where, for more glory, let the ceremony Take place of the uglification of the Queen. Dakry (to Swellfoot). I, as the keeper of your sacred conscience, Humbly remind your Majesty that the care Of your high office, as Man-milliner To red Bellona, should not be deferred. Purganax. All part, in happier plight to meet again. [Exeunt. END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II Scene I. The Public Sty. The Boars in full Assembly. Enter Purganax. Purganax. Grant me your patience, Gentlemen and Boars, Ye, by whose patience under public burthens The glorious constitution of these sties Subsists, and shall subsist. The Lean-Pig rates Grow with the growing populace of Swine, The taxes, that true source of Piggishness (How can I find a more appropriate term To include religion, morals, peace, and plenty, And all that fit Boeotia as a nation To teach the other nations how to live?), Increase with Piggishness itself; and still Does the revenue, that great spring of all The patronage, and pensions, and by-payments, Which free-born Pigs regard with jealous eyes, Diminish, till at length, by glorious steps, All the land's produce will be merged in taxes, And the revenue will amount tonothing! The failure of a foreign market for Sausages, bristles, and blood-puddings, And such home manufactures, is but partial; And, that the population of the Pigs, Instead of hog-wash, has been fed on straw And water, is a fact which isyou know That isit is a state-necessity Temporary, of course. Those impious Pigs, Who, by frequent squeaks, have dared impugn The settled Swellfoot system, or to make Irreverent mockery of the genuflexions Inculcated by the arch-priest, have been whipped Into a loyal and an orthodox whine. Things being in this happy state, the Queen Iona [A loud cry from the Pigs.    She is innocent! most innocent!    Purganax. That is the very thing that I was saying, Gentlemen Swine; the Queen Iona being Most innocent, no doubt, returns to Thebes, And the lean Sows and Boars collect about her, Wishing to make her think that we believe (I mean those more substantial Pigs, who swill Rich hog-wash, while the others mouth damp straw) That she is guilty; thus, the Lean-Pig faction Seeks to obtain that hog-wash, which has been Your immemorial right, and which I will Maintain you in to the last drop of A Boar (interrupting him).                     What Does any one accuse her of? Purganax.                Why, no one Makes any positive accusation;but There were hints dropped, and so the privy wizards Conceived that it became them to advise His Majesty to investigate their truth; Not for his own sake; he could be content To let his wife play any pranks she pleased, If, by that sufferance, he could please the Pigs; But then he fears the morals of the Swine, The Sows especially, and what effect It might produce upon the purity and Religion of the rising generation Of Sucking-Pigs, if it could be suspected That Queen Iona [A pause. First Boar.          Well, go on; we long To hear what she can possibly have done. Purganax. Why, it is hinted, that a certain Bull Thus much is known:the milk-white Bulls that feed Beside Clitumnus and the crystal lakes Of the Cisalpine mountains, in fresh dews Of lotus-grass and blossoming asphodel Sleeking their silken hair, and with sweet breath Loading the morning winds until they faint With living fragrance, are so beautiful! Well, I say nothing;but Europa rode On such a one from Asia into Crete, And the enamoured sea grew calm beneath His gliding beauty. And Pasiphae, Iona's grandmother,but she is innocent! And that both you and I, and all assert. First Boar. Most innocent! Purganax.        Behold this BAG; a bag        Second Boar. Oh! no GREEN BAGS!! Jealousy's eyes are green, Scorpions are green, and water-snakes, and efts, And verdigris, and Purganax.            Honourable Swine, In Piggish souls can prepossessions reign? Allow me to remind you, grass is green All flesh is grass;no bacon but is flesh Ye are but bacon. This divining BAG (Which is not green, but only bacon colour) Is filled with liquor, which if sprinkled o'er A woman guilty ofwe all know what Makes her so hideous, till she finds one blind She never can commit the like again. If innocent, she will turn into an angel, And rain down blessings in the shape of comfits As she flies up to heaven. Now, my proposal Is to convert her sacred Majesty Into an angel (as I am sure we shall do), By pouring on her head this mystic water.[Showing the Bag. I know that she is innocent; I wish Only to prove her so to all the world. First Boar. Excellent, just, and noble Purganax. Second Boar. How glorious it will be to see her Majesty Flying above our heads, her petticoats Streaming likelikelike Third Boar.                Anything.                Purganax.                     Oh no! But like a standard of an admiral's ship, Or like the banner of a conquering host, Or like a cloud dyed in the dying day, Unravelled on the blast from a white mountain; Or like a meteor, or a war-steed's mane, Or waterfall from a dizzy precipice Scattered upon the wind. First Boar.              Or a cow's tail.              Second Boar. Or anything, as the learned Boar observed. Purganax. Gentlemen Boars, I move a resolution, That her most sacred Majesty should be Invited to attend the feast of Famine, And to receive upon her chaste white body Dews of Apotheosis from this BAG. [A great confusion is heard of the Pigs out of Doors, which communicates itself to those within. During the first Strophe, the doors of the Sty are staved in, and a number of exceedingly leanPigs and Sows and Boars rush in. Semichorus I. No! Yes! Semichorus II. Yes! No! Semichorus I. A law! Semichorus II. A flaw! Semichorus I. Porkers, we shall lose our wash, Or must share it with the Lean-Pigs! First Boar. Order! order! be not rash! Was there ever such a scene, Pigs! An old Sow (rushing in). I never saw so fine a dash Since I first began to wean Pigs. Second Boar (solemnly). The Queen will be an angel time enough. I vote, in form of an amendment, that Purganax rub a little of that stuff Upon his face. Purganax (his heart is seen to beat through his waistcoat).          Gods! What would ye be at?          Semichorus I. Purganax has plainly shown a Cloven foot and jackdaw feather. Semichorus II. I vote Swellfoot and Iona Try the magic test together; Whenever royal spouses bicker, Both should try the magic liquor. An old Boar (aside). A miserable state is that of Pigs, For if their drivers would tear caps and wigs, The Swine must bite each other's ear therefore. An old Sow (aside). A wretched lot Jove has assigned to Swine, Squabbling makes Pig-herds hungry, and they dine On bacon, and whip Sucking-Pigs the more. Chorus.   Hog-wash has been ta'en away:    If the Bull-Queen is divested,   We shall be in every way    Hunted, stripped, exposed, molested;   Let us do whate'er we may,    That she shall not be arrested. Queen, we entrench you with walls of brawn, And palisades of tusks, sharp as a bayonet: Place your most sacred person here. We pawn Our lives that none a finger dare to lay on it.   Those who wrong you, wrong us;   Those who hate you, hate us;   Those who sting you, sting us;   Those who bait you, bait us; The oracle is now about to be Fulfilled by circumvolving destiny; Which says: 'Thebes, choose reform or civil war, When through your streets, instead of hare with dogs, A Consort Queen shall hunt a King with Hogs, Riding upon the IONIAN MINOTAUR.' Enter Iona Taurina. Iona Taurina (coming forward). Gentlemen Swine, and gentle Lady-Pigs, The tender heart of every Boar acquits Their Queen, of any act incongruous With native Piggishness, and she, reposing With confidence upon the grunting nation, Has thrown herself, her cause, her life, her all, Her innocence, into their Hoggish arms; Nor has the expectation been deceived Of finding shelter there. Yet know, great Boars, (For such whoever lives among you finds you, And so do I), the innocent are proud! I have accepted your protection only In compliment of your kind love and care, Not for necessity. The innocent Are safest there where trials and dangers wait; Innocent Queens o'er white-hot ploughshares tread Unsinged, and ladies, Erin's laureate sings it[5], Decked with rare gems, and beauty rarer still, Walked from Killarney to the Giant's Causeway, Through rebels, smugglers, troops of yeomanry, White-boys and Orange-boys, and constables, Tithe-proctors, and excise people, uninjured! Thus I! Lord Purganax, I do commit myself Into your custody, and am prepared To stand the test, whatever it may be! Purganax. This magnanimity in your sacred Majesty Must please the Pigs. You cannot fail of being A heavenly angel. Smoke your bits of glass, Ye loyal Swine, or her transfiguration Will blind your wondering eyes. An old Boar (aside).                  Take care, my Lord, They do not smoke you first. Purganax.                At the approaching feast Of Famine, let the expiation be. Swine. Content! content! Iona Taurina (aside).          I, most content of all, Know that my foes even thus prepare their fall! [Exeunt omnes. Scene II. The interior of the Temple of Famine. The statue of the Goddess, a skeleton clothed in parti-coloured rags, seated upon a heap of skulls and loaves intermingled. A number of exceedingly fat Priests in black garments arrayed on each side, with marrow-bones and cleavers in their hands. [Solomon, the Court Porkman.] A flourish of trumpets. Enter Mammon as arch-priest, Swellfoot, Dakry, Purganax, Laoctonos, followed by Iona Taurina guarded. On the other side enter the Swine. Chorus of Priests, accompanied by the Court Porkman on marrow-bones and cleavers.   Goddess bare, and gaunt, and pale,   Empress of the world, all hail!   What though Cretans old called thee   City-crested Cybele?    We call thee Famine! Goddess of fasts and feasts, starving and cramming! Through thee, for emperors, kings, and priests and lords, Who rule by viziers, sceptres, bank-notes, words, The earth pours forth its plenteous fruits, Corn, wool, linen, flesh, and roots Those who consume these fruits through thee grow fat, Those who produce these fruits through thee grow lean, Whatever change takes place, oh, stick to that! And let things be as they have ever been;   At least while we remain thy priests,   And proclaim thy fasts and feasts. Through thee the sacred Swellfoot dynasty Is based upon a rock amid that sea Whose waves are Swineso let it ever be! [Swellfoot, etc., seat themselves at a table magnificently covered at the upper end of the Temple. Attendants pass over the stage with hog-wash in pails. A number of Pigs, exceedingly lean, follow them licking up the wash. Mammon. I fear your sacred Majesty has lost The appetite which you were used to have. Allow me now to recommend this dish A simple kickshaw by your Persian cook, Such as is served at the great King's second table. The price and pains which its ingredients cost Might have maintained some dozen families A winter or twonot moreso plain a dish Could scarcely disagree. Swellfoot.               After the trial, And these fastidious Pigs are gone, perhaps I may recover my lost appetite, I feel the gout flying about my stomach Give me a glass of Maraschino punch. Purganax (filling his glass, and standing up). The glorious Constitution of the Pigs! All. A toast! a toast! stand up, and three times three! Dakry. No heel-tapsdarken daylights! Laoctonos.                   Claret, somehow, Puts me in mind of blood, and blood of claret! Swellfoot. Laoctonos is fishing for a compliment, But 'tis his due. Yes, you have drunk more wine, And shed more blood, than any man in Thebes. [To Purganax. For God's sake stop the grunting of those Pigs! Purganax. We dare not, Sire, 'tis Famine's privilege. Chorus of Swine. Hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine! Thy throne is on blood, and thy robe is of rags; Thou devil which livest on damning; Saint of new churches, and cant, and GREEN BAGS, Till in pity and terror thou risest, Confounding the schemes of the wisest; When thou liftest thy skeleton form, When the loaves and the skulls roll about, We will greet theethe voice of a storm Would be lost in our terrible shout! Then hail to thee, hail to thee, Famine! Hail to thee, Empress of Earth! When thou risest, dividing possessions; When thou risest, uprooting oppressions, In the pride of thy ghastly mirth; Over palaces, temples, and graves, We will rush as thy minister-slaves, Trampling behind in thy train, Till all be made level again! Mammon. I hear a crackling of the giant bones Of the dread image, and in the black pits Which once were eyes, I see two livid flames. These prodigies are oracular, and show The presence of the unseen Deity. Mighty events are hastening to their doom! Swellfoot. I only hear the lean and mutinous Swine Grunting about the temple. Dakry.               In a crisis Of such exceeding delicacy, I think We ought to put her Majesty, the Queen, Upon her trial without delay. Mammon.                 THE BAG Is here. Purganax.     I have rehearsed the entire scene With an ox-bladder and some ditchwater, On Lady P-; it cannot fail. (Taking up the Bag.) Your Majesty [To Swellfoot. In such a filthy business had better Stand on one side, lest it should sprinkle you. A spot or two on me would do no harm, Nay, it might hide the blood, which the sad Genius Of the Green Isle has fixed, as by a spell, Upon my browwhich would stain all its seas, But which those seas could never wash away! Iona Taurina. My Lord, I am readynay, I am impatient To undergo the test. [A graceful figure in a semi-transparent veil passes unnoticed through the Temple; the word LIBERTY is seen through the veil, as if it were written in fire upon its forehead. Its words are almost drowned in the furious grunting of the Pigs, and the business of the trial. She kneels on the steps of the Altar, and speaks in tones at first faint and low, but which ever become louder and louder.   Mighty Empress! Death's white wife!   Ghastly mother-in-law of Life!   By the God who made thee such,   By the magic of thy touch,   By the starving and the cramming Of fasts and feasts! by thy dread self, O Famine! I charge thee! when thou wake the multitude, Thou lead them not upon the paths of blood. The earth did never mean her foison For those who crown life's cup with poison Of fanatic rage and meaningless revenge But for those radiant spirits, who are still The standard-bearers in the van of Change. Be they th'appointed stewards, to fill The lap of Pain, and Toil, and Age! Remit, O Queen! thy accustomed rage! Be what thou art not! In voice faint and low Freedom calls Famine,her eternal foe, To brief alliance, hollow truce.Rise now! [Whilst the Veiled Figure has been chanting this strophe, Mammon, Dakry, Laoctonos, and Swellfoot, have surrounded Iona Taurina, who, with her hands folded on her breast, and her eyes lifted to Heaven, stands, as with saint-like resignation, to wait the issue of the business, in perfect confidence of her innocence. [Purganax, after unsealing the Green Bag, is gravely about to pour the liquor upon her head, when suddenly the whole expression of her figure and countenance changes; she snatches it from his hand with a loud laugh of triumph, and empties it over Swellfoot and his whole Court, who are instantly changed into a number of filthy and ugly animals, and rush out of the Temple. The image of Famine then arises with a tremendous sound, the Pigs begin scrambling for the loaves, and are tripped up by the skulls; all those who eat the loaves are turned into Bulls, and arrange themselves quietly behind the altar. The image of Famine sinks through a chasm in the earth, and a Minotaur rises. Minotaur. I am the Ionian Minotaur, the mightiest Of all Europa's taurine progeny I am the old traditional Man-Bull; And from my ancestors having been Ionian, I am called Ion, which, by interpretation, Is John; in plain Theban, that is to say, My name's John Bull; I am a famous hunter, And can leap any gate in all Boeotia, Even the palings of the royal park, Or double ditch about the new enclosures; And if your Majesty will deign to mount me, At least till you have hunted down your game, I will not throw you. Iona Taurina. (During this speech she has been putting on boots and spurs, and a hunting-cap, buckishly cocked on one side, and tucking up her hair, she leaps nimbly on his back.)            Hoa! hoa! tallyho! tallyho! ho! ho! Come, let us hunt these ugly badgers down, These stinking foxes, these devouring otters, These hares, these wolves, these anything but men. Hey, for a whipper-in! my loyal Pigs, Now let your noses be as keen as beagles', Your steps as swift as greyhounds', and your cries More dulcet and symphonious than the bells Of village-towers, on sunshine holiday; Wake all the dewy woods with jangling music. Give them no law (are they not beasts of blood?) But such as they gave you. Tallyho! ho! Through forest, furze, and bog, and den, and desert, Pursue the ugly beasts! tallyho! ho! Full Chorus of Iona and the Swine. Tallyho! tallyho! Through rain, hail, and snow, Through brake, gorse, and briar, Through fen, flood, and mire, We go! we go!   Tallyho! tallyho! Through pond, ditch, and slough, Wind them, and find them, Like the Devil behind them, Tallyho! tallyho! [Exeunt, in full cry; Iona driving on the Swine, with the empty Green Bag. THE END 'Begun at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 24, 1819; published anonymously by J. Johnston, Cheapside (imprint C. F. Seyfang,) 1820. On a threat of prosecution the publisher surrendered the whole impression, seven copies -- the total number sold -- excepted. Oedipus does not appear in the first edition of the Poetical Works, 1839, but it was included by Mrs. Shelley in the second edition of that year.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Oedipus Tyrannus or Swellfoot The Tyrant ,

722:DRAMATIS PERSONAE King Charles I. Queen Henrietta. Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury. Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. Lord Cottington. Lord Weston. Lord Coventry. Williams, Bishop of Lincoln. Secretary Lyttelton. Juxon. St. John. Archy, the Court Fool. Hampden. Pym. Cromwell. Cromwell's Daughter. Sir Harry Vane the younger. Leighton. Bastwick. Prynne. Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, Citizens, Pursuivants, Marshalsmen, Law Students, Judges, Clerk. Scene I. ---The Masque of the Inns of Court. A Pursuivant. Place, for the Marshal of the Masque! First Citizen. What thinkest thou of this quaint masque which turns, Like morning from the shadow of the night, The night to day, and London to a place Of peace and joy? Second Citizen.          And Hell to Heaven. Eight years are gone, And they seem hours, since in this populous street I trod on grass made green by summer's rain, For the red plague kept state within that palace Where now that vanity reigns. In nine years more The roots will be refreshed with civil blood; And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven That sin and wrongs wound, as an orphan's cry, The patience of the great Avenger's ear. A Youth. Yet, father, 'tis a happy sight to see, Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden By God or man;'tis like the bright procession Of skiey visions in a solemn dream From which men wake as from a Paradise, And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life. If God be good, wherefore should this be evil? And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw Unseasonable poison from the flowers Which bloom so rarely in this barren world? Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which make the present Dark as the future!. . . When Avarice and Tyranny, vigilant Fear, And open-eyed Conspiracy lie sleeping As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle thoughts Waken to worship Him who giveth joys With His own gift. Second Citizen. How young art thou in this old age of time! How green in this gray world? Canst thou discern The signs of seasons, yet perceive no hint Of change in that stage-scene in which thou art Not a spectator but an actor? or Art thou a puppet moved by [enginery]? The day that dawns in fire will die in storms, Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done, Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have found My inn of lasting rest; but thou must still Be journeying on in this inclement air. Wrap thy old cloak about thy back; Nor leave the broad and plain and beaten road, Although no flowers smile on the trodden dust, For the violet paths of pleasure. This Charles the First Rose like the equinoctial sun, . . . By vapours, through whose threatening ominous veil Darting his altered influence he has gained This height of noonfrom which he must decline Amid the darkness of conflicting storms, To dank extinction and to latest night . . . There goes The apostate Strafford; he whose titles whispered aphorisms From Machiavel and Bacon: and, if Judas Had been as brazen and as bold as he First Citizen.                      That Is the Archbishop. Second Citizen.           Rather say the Pope: London will be soon his Rome: he walks As if he trod upon the heads of men: He looks elate, drunken with blood and gold; Beside him moves the Babylonian woman Invisibly, and with her as with his shadow, Mitred adulterer! he is joined in sin, Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to revenge. Third Citizen (lifting up his eyes). Good Lord! rain it down upon him! . . . Amid her ladies walks the papist queen, As if her nice feet scorned our English earth. The Canaanitish Jezebel! I would be A dog if I might tear her with my teeth! There's old Sir Henry Vane, the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Essex, and Lord Keeper Coventry, And others who make base their English breed By vile participation of their honours With papists, atheists, tyrants, and apostates. When lawyers masque 'tis time for honest men To strip the vizor from their purposes. A seasonable time for masquers this! When Englishmen and Protestants should sit . . . dust on their dishonoured heads, To avert the wrath of Him whose scourge is felt For the great sins which have drawn down from Heaven . . . and foreign overthrow. The remnant of the martyred saints in Rochefort Have been abandoned by their faithless allies To that idolatrous and adulterous torturer Lewis of France,the Palatinate is lost Enter Leighton (who has been branded in the face) and Bastwick. Canst thou be -- art thou? -- Leighton.               I was Leighton: what I am thou seest. And yet turn thine eyes, And with thy memory look on thy friend's mind, Which is unchanged, and where is written deep The sentence of my judge. Third Citizen.               Are these the marks with which Laud thinks to improve the image of his Maker Stamped on the face of man? Curses upon him, The impious tyrant! Second Citizen.           It is said besides That lewd and papist drunkards may profane The Sabbath with their... And has permitted that most heathenish custom Of dancing round a pole dressed up with wreaths On May-day. A man who thus twice crucifies his God May well...his brother.In my mind, friend, The root of all this ill is prelacy. I would cut up the root. Third Citizen.              And by what means? Second Citizen. Smiting each Bishop under the fifth rib. Third Citizen. You seem to know the vulnerable place Of these same crocodiles. Second Citizen.               I learnt it in Egyptian bondage, sir. Your worm of Nile Betrays not with its flattering tears like they; For, when they cannot kill, they whine and weep. Nor is it half so greedy of men's bodies As they of soul and all; nor does it wallow In slime as they in simony and lies And close lusts of the flesh. A Marshalsman.                 Give place, give place! You torch-bearers, advance to the great gate, And then attend the Marshal of the Masque Into the Royal presence. A Law Student.              What thinkest thou Of this quaint show of ours, my agd friend? Even now we see the redness of the torches Inflame the night to the eastward, and the clarions [Gasp?] to us on the wind's wave. It comes! And their sounds, floating hither round the pageant, Rouse up the astonished air. First Citizen. I will not think but that our country's wounds May yet be healed. The king is just and gracious, Though wicked counsels now pervert his will: These once cast off Second Citizen.            As adders cast their skins And keep their venom, so kings often change; Councils and counsellors hang on one another, Hiding the loathsome Like the base patchwork of a leper's rags. The Youth. Oh, still those dissonant thoughts!List how the music Grows on the enchanted air! And see, the torches Restlessly flashing, and the crowd divided Like waves before an admiral's prow! A Marshalsman.                     Give place To the Marshal of the Masque! A Pursuivant.                 Room for the King! The Youth. How glorious! See those thronging chariots Rolling, like painted clouds before the wind, Behind their solemn steeds: how some are shaped Like curved sea-shells dyed by the azure depths Of Indian seas; some like the new-born moon; And some like cars in which the Romans climbed (Canopied by Victory's eagle-wings outspread) The CapitolianSee how gloriously The mettled horses in the torchlight stir Their gallant riders, while they check their pride, Like shapes of some diviner element Than English air, and beings nobler than The envious and admiring multitude. Second Citizen. Ay, there they are Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees, Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm, On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows, Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan, Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart. These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, Who toil not, neither do they spin,unless It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal. Here is the surfeit which to them who earn The ****rd wages of the earth, scarce leaves The tithe that will support them till they crawl Back to her cold hard bosom. Here is health Followed by grim disease, glory by shame, Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid want, And England's sin by England's punishment. And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone, Lo, giving substance to my words, behold At once the sign and the thing signified A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean outcasts, Horsed upon stumbling jades, carted with dung, Dragged for a day from cellars and low cabins And rotten hiding-holes, to point the moral Of this presentment, and bring up the rear Of painted pomp with misery! The Youth.                'Tis but The anti-masque, and serves as discords do In sweetest music. Who would love May flowers If they succeeded not to Winter's flaw; Or day unchanged by night; or joy itself Without the touch of sorrow? Second Citizen.                I and thou A Marshalsman. Place, give place! Scene II. A Chamber in Whitehall. Enter the King, Queen, Laud, Lord Strafford, Lord Cottington, and other Lords;Archy ; also St. John, with some Gentlemen of the Inns of Court. King. Thanks, gentlemen. I heartily accept This token of your service: your gay masque Was performed gallantly. And it shows well When subjects twine such flowers of [observance?] With the sharp thorns that deck the English crown. A gentle heart enjoys what it confers, Even as it suffers that which it inflicts, Though Justice guides the stroke. Accept my hearty thanks. Queen.              And gentlemen, Call your poor Queen your debtor. Your quaint pageant Rose on me like the figures of past years, Treading their still path back to infancy, More beautiful and mild as they draw nearer The quiet cradle. I could have almost wept To think I was in Paris, where these shows Are well devisedsuch as I was ere yet My young heart shared a portion of the burthen, The careful weight, of this great monarchy. There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's pleasure And that which it regards, no clamour lifts Its proud interposition. In Paris ribald censurers dare not move Their poisonous tongues against these sinless sports; And his smile Warms those who bask in it, as ours would do If...Take my heart's thanks: add them, gentlemen, To those good words which, were he King of France, My royal lord would turn to golden deeds. St. John. Madam, the love of Englishmen can make The lightest favour of their lawful king Outweigh a despot's.We humbly take our leaves, Enriched by smiles which France can never buy. [Exeunt St. John and the Gentlemen of the Inns of Court. King. My Lord Archbishop, Mark you what spirit sits in St. John's eyes? Methinks it is too saucy for this presence. Archy. Yes, pray your Grace look: for, like an unsophisticated [eye] sees everything upside down, you who are wise will discern the shadow of an idiot in lawn sleeves and a rochet setting springes to catch woodcocks in haymaking time. Poor Archy, whose owl-eyes are tempered to the error of his age, and because he is a fool, and by special ordinance of God forbidden ever to see himself as he is, sees now in that deep eye a blindfold devil sitting on the ball, and weighing words out between king and subjects. One scale is full of promises, and the other full of protestations: and then another devil creeps behind the first out of the dark windings [of a] pregnant lawyer's brain, and takes the bandage from the other's eyes, and throws a sword into the left-hand scale, for all the world like my Lord Essex's there. Strafford. A rod in pickle for the Fool's back! Archy. Ay, and some are now smiling whose tears will make the brine; for the Fool sees-- Strafford. Insolent! You shall have your coat turned and be whipped out of the palace for this. Archy. When all the fools are whipped, and all the Protestant writers, while the knaves are whipping the fools ever since a thief was set to catch a thief. If all turncoats were whipped out of palaces, poor Archy would be disgraced in good company. Let the knaves whip the fools, and all the fools laugh at it. [Let the] wise and godly slit each other's noses and ears (having no need of any sense of discernment in their craft); and the knaves, to marshal them, join in a procession to Bedlam, to entreat the madmen to omit their sublime Platonic contemplations, and manage the state of England. Let all the honest men who lie [pinched?] up at the prisons or the pillories, in custody of the pursuivants of the High-Commission Court, marshal them. Enter Secretary Lyttelton, with papers. King (looking over the papers). These stiff Scots His Grace of Canterbury must take order To force under the Church's yoke.You, Wentworth, Shall be myself in Ireland, and shall add Your wisdom, gentleness, and energy, To what in me were wanting.My Lord Weston, Look that those merchants draw not without loss Their bullion from the Tower; and, on the payment Of shipmoney, take fullest compensation For violation of our royal forests, Whose limits, from neglect, have been o'ergrown With cottages and cornfields. The uttermost Farthing exact from those who claim exemption From knighthood: that which once was a reward Shall thus be made a punishment, that subjects May know how majesty can wear at will The rugged mood.My Lord of Coventry, Lay my command upon the Courts below That bail be not accepted for the prisoners Under the warrant of the Star Chamber. The people shall not find the stubbornness Of Parliament a cheap or easy method Of dealing with their rightful sovereign: And doubt not this, my Lord of Coventry, We will find time and place for fit rebuke. My Lord of Canterbury. Archy.             The fool is here. Laud. I crave permission of your Majesty To order that this insolent fellow be Chastised: he mocks the sacred character, Scoffs at the state, and-- King.               What, my Archy? He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears, Yet with a quaint and graceful licencePrithee For this once do not as Prynne would, were he Primate of England. With your Grace's leave, He lives in his own world; and, like a parrot Hung in his gilded prison from the window Of a queen's bower over the public way, Blasphemes with a bird's mind:his words, like arrows Which know no aim beyond the archer's wit, Strike sometimes what eludes philosophy. (To Archy.) Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence Ten minutes in the rain; be it your penance To bring news how the world goes there. [Exit Archy.                       Poor Archy! He weaves about himself a world of mirth Out of the wreck of ours. Laud. I take with patience, as my Master did, All scoffs permitted from above. King.                  My lord, Pray overlook these papers. Archy's words Had wings, but these have talons. Queen.                   And the lion That wears them must be tamed. My dearest lord, I see the new-born courage in your eye Armed to strike dead the Spirit of the Time, Which spurs to rage the many-headed beast. Do thou persist: for, faint but in resolve, And it were better thou hadst still remained The slave of thine own slaves, who tear like curs The fugitive, and flee from the pursuer; And Opportunity, that empty wolf, Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy actions Even to the disposition of thy purpose, And be that tempered as the Ebro's steel; And banish weak-eyed Mercy to the weak, Whence she will greet thee with a gift of peace, And not betray thee with a traitor's kiss, As when she keeps the company of rebels, Who think that she is Fear. This do, lest we Should fall as from a glorious pinnacle In a bright dream, and wake as from a dream Out of our worshipped state. King.                Belovd friend, God is my witness that this weight of power, Which He sets me my earthly task to wield. Under His law, is my delight and pride Only because thou lovest that and me. For a king bears the office of a God To all the under world; and to his God Alone he must deliver up his trust, Unshorn of its permitted attributes. [It seems] now as the baser elements Had mutinied against the golden sun That kindles them to harmony and quells Their self-destroying rapine. The wild million Strike at the eye that guides them; like as humours Of the distempered body that conspire Against the spirit of life throned in the heart, And thus become the prey of one another, And last of death Strafford. That which would be ambition in a subject Is duty in a sovereign; for on him, As on a keystone, hangs the arch of life, Whose safety is its strength. Degree and form, And all that makes the age of reasoning man More memorable than a beast's, depend on this-- That Right should fence itself inviolably With Power; in which respect the state of England From usurpation by the insolent commons Cries for reform. Get treason, and spare treasure. Fee with coin The loudest murmurers; feed with jealousies Opposing factions,-- be thyself of none; And borrow gold of many, for those who lend Will serve thee till thou payest them; and thus Keep the fierce spirit of the hour at bay, Till time, and its coming generations Of nights and days unborn, bring some one chance,... Or war or pestilence or Nature's self,-- By some distemperature or terrible sign, Be as an arbiter betwixt themselves. ...Nor let your Majesty Doubt here the peril of the unseen event. How did your brother Kings, coheritors In your high interest in the subject earth, Rise past such troubles to that height of power Where now they sit, and awfully serene Smile on the trembling world? Such popular storms Philip the Second of Spain, this Lewis of France, And late the German head of many bodies, And every petty lord of Italy, Quelled or by arts or arms. Is England poorer Or feebler? or art thou who wield'st her power Tamer than they? or shall this island be-- [Girdled] by its inviolable waters To the world present and the world to come Sole pattern of extinguished monarchy? Not if thou dost as I would have thee do. King. Your words shall be my deeds: You speak the image of my thought. My friend (If Kings can have a friend, I call thee so), Beyond the large commission which [belongs] Under the great seal of the realm, take this: And, for some obvious reasons, let there be No seal on it, except my kingly word And honour as I am a gentleman. Be -- as thou art within my heart and mind-- Another self, here and in Ireland: Do what thou judgest well, take amplest licence, And stick not even at questionable means. Hear me, Wentworth. My word is as a wall Between thee and this world thine enemy That hates thee, for thou lovest me. Strafford.                     I own No friend but thee, no enemies but thine: Thy lightest thought is my eternal law. How weak, how short, is life to pay King.                     Peace, peace. Thou ow'st me nothing yet.               (To Laud.) My lord, what say Those papers? Laud. Your Majesty has ever interposed, In lenity towards your native soil, Between the heavy vengeance of the Church And Scotland. Mark the consequence of warming This brood of northern vipers in your bosom. The rabble, instructed no doubt By Loudon, Lindsay, Hume, and false Argyll (For the waves never menace heaven until Scourged by the wind's invisible tyranny), Have in the very temple of the Lord Done outrage to His chosen ministers. They scorn the liturgy of the Holy Church, Refuse to obey her canons, and deny The apostolic power with which the Spirit Has filled its elect vessels, even from him Who held the keys with power to loose and bind, To him who now pleads in this royal presence. Let ample powers and new instructions be Sent to the High Commissioners in Scotland. To death, imprisonment, and confiscation, Add torture, add the ruin of the kindred Of the offender, add the brand of infamy, Add mutilation: and if this suffice not, Unleash the sword and fire, that in their thirst They may lick up that scum of schismatics. I laugh at those weak rebels who, desiring What we possess, still prate of Christian peace, As if those dreadful arbitrating messengers Which play the part of God 'twixt right and wrong, Should be let loose against the innocent sleep Of templed cities and the smiling fields, For some poor argument of policy Which touches our own profit or our pride (Where it indeed were Christian charity To turn the cheek even to the smiter's hand): And, when our great Redeemer, when our God, When He who gave, accepted, and retained Himself in propitiation of our sins, Is scorned in His immediate ministry, With hazard of the inestimable loss Of all the truth and discipline which is Salvation to the extremest generation Of men innumerable, they talk of peace! Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotland now: For, by that Christ who came to bring a sword, Not peace, upon the earth, and gave command To His disciples at the Passover That each should sell his robe and buy a sword, Once strip that minister of naked wrath, And it shall never sleep in peace again Till Scotland bend or break. King.                My Lord Archbishop, Do what thou wilt and what thou canst in this. Thy earthly even as thy heavenly King Gives thee large power in his unquiet realm. But we want money, and my mind misgives me That for so great an enterprise, as yet, We are unfurnished. Strafford.           Yet it may not long Rest on our wills. Cottington.           The expenses Of gathering shipmoney, and of distraining For every petty rate (for we encounter A desperate opposition inch by inch In every warehouse and on every farm), Have swallowed up the gross sum of the imposts; So that, though felt as a most grievous scourge Upon the land, they stand us in small stead As touches the receipt. Strafford.             'Tis a conclusion Most arithmetical: and thence you infer Perhaps the assembling of a parliament. Now, if a man should call his dearest enemies To sit in licensed judgement on his life, His Majesty might wisely take that course. [Aside to Cottington. It is enough to expect from these lean imposts That they perform the office of a scourge, Without more profit. (Aloud.) Fines and confiscations, And a forced loan from the refractory city, Will fill our coffers: and the golden love Of loyal gentlemen and noble friends For the worshipped father of our common country, With contributions from the catholics, Will make Rebellion pale in our excess. Be these the expedients until time and wisdom Shall frame a settled state of government. Laud. And weak expedients they! Have we not drained All, till the...which seemed A mine exhaustless? Strafford.           And the love which is, If loyal hearts could turn their blood to gold. Laud. Both now grow barren: and I speak it not As loving parliaments, which, as they have been In the right hand of bold bad mighty kings The scourges of the bleeding Church, I hate. Methinks they scarcely can deserve our fear. Strafford. Oh! my dear liege, take back the wealth thou gavest: With that, take all I held, but as in trust For thee, of mine inheritance: leave me but This unprovided body for thy service, And a mind dedicated to no care Except thy safety:-- but assemble not A parliament. Hundreds will bring, like me, Their fortunes, as they would their blood, before-- King. No! thou who judgest them art but one. Alas! We should be too much out of love with Heaven, Did this vile world show many such as thee, Thou perfect, just, and honourable man! Never shall it be said that Charles of England Stripped those he loved for fear of those he scorns; Nor will he so much misbecome his throne As to impoverish those who most adorn And best defend it. That you urge, dear Strafford, Inclines me rather-- Queen.            To a parliament? Is this thy firmness? and thou wilt preside Over a knot of . . . censurers, To the unswearing of thy best resolves, And choose the worst, when the worst comes too soon? Plight not the worst before the worst must come. Oh, wilt thou smile whilst our ribald foes, Dressed in their own usurped authority, Sharpen their tongues on Henrietta's fame? It is enough! Thou lovest me no more! [Weeps. King. Oh, Henrietta! [They talk apart. Cottington (to Laud).        Money we have none: And all the expedients of my Lord of Strafford Will scarcely meet the arrears. Laud.                  Without delay An army must be sent into the north; Followed by a Commission of the Church, With amplest power to quench in fire and blood, And tears and terror, and the pity of hell, The intenser wrath of Heresy. God will give Victory; and victory over Scotland give The lion England tamed into our hands. That will lend power, and power bring gold. Cottington.                    Meanwhile We must begin first where your Grace leaves off. Gold must give power, or Laud.               I am not averse From the assembling of a parliament. Strong actions and smooth words might teach them soon The lesson to obey. And are they not A bubble fashioned by the monarch's mouth, The birth of one light breath? If they serve no purpose, A word dissolves them. Strafford.             The engine of parliaments Might be deferred until I can bring over The Irish regiments: they will serve to assure The issue of the war against the Scots. And, this game won -- which if lost, all is lost-- Gather these chosen leaders of the rebels, And call them, if you will, a parliament. King. Oh, be our feet still tardy to shed blood, Guilty though it may be! I would still spare The stubborn country of my birth, and ward From countenances which I loved in youth The wrathful Church's lacerating hand. (To Laud.) Have you o'erlooked the other articles? [Re-enter Archy. Laud. Hazlerig, Hampden, Pym, young Harry Vane, Cromwell, and other rebels of less note, Intend to sail with the next favouring wind For the Plantations. Archy.            Where they think to found A commonwealth like Gonzalo's in the play, Gynaecocoenic and pantisocratic. King. What's that, sirrah? Archy.            New devil's politics. Hell is the pattern of all commonwealths: Lucifer was the first republican. Will you hear Merlin's prophecy, how three [posts?] 'In one brainless skull, when the whitethorn is full, Shall sail round the world, and come back again: Shall sail round the world in a brainless skull, And come back again when the moon is at full:' When, in spite of the Church, They will hear homilies of whatever length Or form they please. [Cottington?] So please your Majesty to sign this order For their detention. Archy. If your Majesty were tormented night and day by fever, gout, rheumatism, and stone, and asthma, etc., and you found these diseases had secretly entered into a conspiracy to abandon you, should you think it necessary to lay an embargo on the port by which they meant to dispeople your unquiet kingdom of man? King. If fear were made for kings, the Fool mocks wisely; But in this case --(writing.) Here, my lord, take the warrant, And see it duly executed forthwith.-- That imp of malice and mockery shall be punished. [Exeunt all but King, Queen, and Archy. Archy. Ay, I am the physician of whom Plato prophesied, who was to be accused by the confectioner before a jury of children, who found him guilty without waiting for the summing-up, and hanged him without benefit of clergy. Thus Baby Charles, and the Twelfth-night Queen of Hearts, and the overgrown schoolboy Cottington, and that little urchin Laud who would reduce a verdict of 'guilty, death,' by famine, if it were impregnable by compositionall impannelled against poor Archy for presenting them bitter physic the last day of the holidays. Queen. Is the rain over, sirrah? King.               When it rains And the sun shines, 'twill rain again to-morrow: And therefore never smile till you've done crying. Archy. But 'tis all over now: like the April anger of woman, the gentle sky has wept itself serene. Queen. What news abroad? how looks the world this morning? Archy. Gloriously as a grave covered with virgin flowers. There's a rainbow in the sky. Let your Majesty look at it, for 'A rainbow in the morning Is the shepherd's warning;' and the flocks of which you are the pastor are scattered among the mountain-tops, where every drop of water is a flake of snow, and the breath of May pierces like a January blast. King. The sheep have mistaken the wolf for their shepherd, my poor boy; and the shepherd, the wolves for their watchdogs. Queen. But the rainbow was a good sign, Archy: it says that the waters of the deluge are gone, and can return no more. Archy. Ay, the salt-water one: but that of tears and blood must yet come down, and that of fire follow, if there be any truth in lies.-- The rainbow hung over the city with all its shops,...and churches, from north to south, like a bridge of congregated lightning pieced by the masonry of heaven like a balance in which the angel that distributes the coming hour was weighing that heavy one whose poise is now felt in the lightest hearts, before it bows the proudest heads under the meanest feet. Queen. Who taught you this trash, sirrah? Archy. A torn leaf out of an old book trampled in the dirt.-- But for the rainbow. It moved as the sun moved, and...until the top of the Tower...of a cloud through its left-hand tip, and Lambeth Palace look as dark as a rock before the other. Methought I saw a crown figured upon one tip, and a mitre on the other. So, as I had heard treasures were found where the rainbow quenches its points upon the earth, I set off, and at the Tower -- But I shall not tell your Majesty what I found close to the closet-window on which the rainbow had glimmered. King. Speak: I will make my Fool my conscience. Archy. Then conscience is a fool.I saw there a cat caught in a rat-trap. I heard the rats squeak behind the wainscots: it seemed to me that the very mice were consulting on the manner of her death. Queen. Archy is shrewd and bitter. Archy. Like the season, So blow the winds.But at the other end of the rainbow, where the gray rain was tempered along the grass and leaves by a tender interfusion of violet and gold in the meadows beyond Lambeth, what think you that I found instead of a mitre? King. Vane's wits perhaps. Archy. Something as vain. I saw a gross vapour hovering in a stinking ditch over the carcass of a dead ****, some rotten rags, and broken dishesthe wrecks of what once administered to the stuffing-out and the ornament of a worm of worms. His Grace of Canterbury expects to enter the New Jerusalem some Palm Sunday in triumph on the ghost of this ****. Queen. Enough, enough! Go desire Lady Jane She place my lute, together with the music Mari received last week from Italy, In my boudoir, and [Exit Archy. King.           I'll go in. Queen.                  My beloved lord, Have you not noted that the Fool of late Has lost his careless mirth, and that his words Sound like the echoes of our saddest fears? What can it mean? I should be loth to think Some factious slave had tutored him. King.                  Oh, no! He is but Occasion's pupil. Partly 'tis That our minds piece the vacant intervals Of his wild words with their own fashioning, As in the imagery of summer clouds, Or coals of the winter fire, idlers find The perfect shadows of their teeming thoughts: And partly, that the terrors of the time Are sown by wandering Rumour in all spirits; And in the lightest and the least, may best Be seen the current of the coming wind. Queen. Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts. Come, I will sing to you; let us go try These airs from Italy; and, as we pass The gallery, we'll decide where that Correggio Shall hangthe Virgin Mother With her child, born the King of heaven and earth, Whose reign is men's salvation. And you shall see A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, Stamped on the heart by never-erring love; Liker than any Vandyke ever made, A pattern to the unborn age of thee, Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy A thousand times, and now should weep for sorrow, Did I not think that after we were dead Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that The cares we waste upon our heavy crown Would make it light and glorious as a wreath Of Heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow. King. Dear Henrietta! Scene III. The Star Chamber. Laud, Juxon, Strafford, and others, as Judges. Prynne as a Prisoner, and thenBastwick. Laud. Bring forth the prisoner Bastwick: let the clerk Recite his sentence. Clerk.           'That he pay five thousand Pounds to the king, lose both his ears, be branded With red-hot iron on the cheek and forehead, And be imprisoned within Lancaster Castle During the pleasure of the Court.' Laud.                   Prisoner, If you have aught to say wherefore this sentence Should not be put into effect, now speak. Juxon. If you have aught to plead in mitigation, Speak. Bastwick.    Thus, my lords. If, like the prelates, I Were an invader of the royal power, A public scorner of the word of God, Profane, idolatrous, popish, superstitious, Impious in heart and in tyrannic act, Void of wit, honesty, and temperance; If Satan were my lord, as theirs,our God Pattern of all I should avoid to do; Were I an enemy of my God and King And of good men, as ye are;I should merit Your fearful state and gilt prosperity, Which, when ye wake from the last sleep, shall turn To cowls and robes of everlasting fire. But, as I am, I bid ye grudge me not The only earthly favour ye can yield, Or I think worth acceptance at your hands, Scorn, mutilation, and imprisonment. . . . even as my Master did, Until Heaven's kingdom shall descend on earth, Or earth be like a shadow in the light Of Heaven absorbedsome few tumultuous years Will pass, and leave no wreck of what opposes His will whose will is power. Laud. Officer, take the prisoner from the bar, And be his tongue slit for his insolence. Bastwick. While this hand holds a pen Laud.                 Be his hands-- Juxon.                       Stop! Forbear, my lord! The tongue, which now can speak No terror, would interpret, being dumb, Heaven's thunder to our harm;... And hands, which now write only their own shame, With bleeding stumps might sign our blood away. Laud. Much more such 'mercy' among men would be, Did all the ministers of Heaven's revenge Flinch thus from earthly retribution. I Could suffer what I would inflict. [Exit Bastwick guarded.                   Bring up The Lord Bishop of Lincoln.                 (To Strafford.) Know you not That, in distraining for ten thousand pounds Upon his books and furniture at Lincoln, Were found these scandalous and seditious letters Sent from one Osbaldistone, who is fled? I speak it not as touching this poor person; But of the office which should make it holy, Were it as vile as it was ever spotless. Mark too, my lord, that this expression strikes His Majesty, if I misinterpret not. Enter Bishop Williams guarded. Strafford. 'Twere politic and just that Williams taste The bitter fruit of his connection with The schismatics. But you, my Lord Archbishop, Who owed your first promotion to his favour, Who grew beneath his smile Laud.                Would therefore beg The office of his judge from this High Court, That it shall seem, even as it is, that I, In my assumption of this sacred robe, Have put aside all worldly preference, All sense of all distinction of all persons, All thoughts but of the service of the Church. Bishop of Lincoln! Williams.           Peace, proud hierarch! I know my sentence, and I own it just. Thou wilt repay me less than I deserve, In stretching to the utmost. . . Scene IV. --Hampden, Pym, Cromwell, his Daughter, and young Sir Harry Vane. Hampden. England, farewell! thou, who hast been my cradle, Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave! I held what I inherited in thee As pawn for that inheritance of freedom Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile: How can I call thee England, or my country? Does the wind hold? Vane.           The vanes sit steady Upon the Abbey towers. The silver lightnings Of the evening star, spite of the city's smoke, Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper air. Mark too that flock of fleecy-wingd clouds Sailing athwart St. Margaret's. Hampden.                  Hail, fleet herald Of tempest! that rude pilot who shall guide Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as thee, Beyond the shot of tyranny, Beyond the webs of that swoln spider . . . Beyond the curses, calumnies, and [lies?] Of atheist priests! . . . And thou Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide Atlantic, Athwart its zones of tempest and of calm, Bright as the path to a belovd home, Oh, light us to the isles of the evening land! Like floating Edens cradled in the glimmer Of sunset, through the distant mist of years Touched by departing hope, they gleam! lone regions, Where Power's poor dupes and victims yet have never Propitiated the savage fear of kings With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose dew Is yet unstained with tears of those who wake To weep each day the wrongs on which it dawns; Whose sacred silent air owns yet no echo Of formal blasphemies; nor impious rites Wrest man's free worship, from the God who loves, To the poor worm who envies us His love! Receive, thou young....of Paradise, These exiles from the old and sinful world!.... This glorious clime, this firmament, whose lights Dart mitigated influence through their veil Of pale blue atmosphere; whose tears keep green The pavement of this moist all-feeding earth; This vaporous horizon, whose dim round Is bastioned by the circumfluous sea, Repelling invasion from the sacred towers, Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, A low dark roof, a damp and narrow wall. The boundless universe Becomes a cell too narrow for the soul That owns no master; while the loathliest ward Of this wide prison, England, is a nest Of cradling peace built on the mountain tops, To which the eagle spirits of the free, Which range through heaven and earth, and scorn the storm Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth, Return to brood on thoughts that cannot die And cannot be repelled. Like eaglets floating in the heaven of time, They soar above their quarry, and shall stoop Through palaces and temples thunderproof. SCENE V Archy. I'll go live under the ivy that overgrows the terrace, and count the tears shed on its old [roots?] as the [wind?] plays the song of 'A widow bird sate mourning Upon a wintry bough.' [Sings] Heigho! the lark and the owl! One flies the morning, and one lulls the night:-- Only the nightingale, poor fond soul, Sings like the fool through darkness and light. 'A widow bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. 'There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.' Charles the First was designed in 1818, begun towards the close of 1819, resumed in January, and finally laid aside by June, 1822. It was published in part in the Posthumous Poems, 1824, and printed, in its present form (with the addition of some 530 lines), by Mr. William Michael Rossetti, 1870. 1. Archy, the court fool of Charles I, is both an unacknowledged prophet and, as King Charles claims, a weaver of "a world of mirth out of the wreck of ours."    ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Charles The First ,

723:No more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk. A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith! We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. It's different, preaching in basilicas, And doing duty in some masterpiece Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart! I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes, Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere; It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh? These hot long ceremonies of our church Cost us a littleoh, they pay the price, You take meamply pay it! Now, we'll talk. So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs. No deprecation,nay, I beg you, sir! Beside 't is our engagement: don't you know, I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out, We'd see truth dawn together?truth that peeps Over the glasses' edge when dinners done.                     And body gets its sop and holds its noise And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time: 'T is break of day! You do despise me then. And if I say, "despise me,"never fear! I know you do not in a certain sense Not in my arm-chair, for example: here, I well imagine you respect my place ( Status, entourage , worldly circumstance) Quite to its valuevery much indeed: Are up to the protesting eyes of you In pride at being seated here for once You'll turn it to such capital account! When somebody, through years and years to come, Hints of the bishop,names methat's enough: "Blougram? I knew him"(into it you slide) "Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day, "All alone, we two; he's a clever man: "And after dinner,why, the wine you know, "Oh, there was wine, and good!what with the wine . . "'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk! "He's no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen "Something of mine he relished, some review: "He's quite above their humbug in his heart, "Half-said as much, indeedthe thing's his trade. "I warrant, Blougram's sceptical at times: "How otherwise? I liked him, I confess!"                      Che che , my dear sir, as we say at Rome, Don't you protest now! It's fair give and take; You have had your turn and spoken your home-truths: The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit. Thus much conceded, still the first fact stays You do despise me; your ideal of life Is not the bishop's: you would not be I. You would like better to be Goethe, now, Or Buonaparte, or, bless me, lower still, Count D'Orsay,so you did what you preferred, Spoke as you thought, and, as you cannot help, Believed or disbelieved, no matter what, So long as on that point, whate'er it was, You loosed your mind, were whole and sole yourself. That, my ideal never can include, Upon that element of truth and worth Never be based! for say they make me Pope (They can'tsuppose it for our argument!) Why, there I'm at my tether's end, I've reached My height, and not a height which pleases you: An unbelieving Pope won't do, you say. It's like those eerie stories nurses tell, Of how some actor on a stage played Death, With pasteboard crown, sham orb and tinselled dart, And called himself the monarch of the world;                       Then, going in the tire-room afterward, Because the play was done, to shift himself, Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly, The moment he had shut the closet door, By Death himself. Thus God might touch a Pope At unawares, ask what his baubles mean, And whose part he presumed to play just now? Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true! So, drawing comfortable breath again, You weigh and find, whatever more or less I boast of my ideal realized, Is nothing in the balance when opposed To your ideal, your grand simple life, Of which you will not realize one jot. I am much, you are nothing; you would be all, I would be merely much: you beat me there. No, friend, you do not beat me: hearken why! The common problem, yours, mine, every one's, Isnot to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be,but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair Up to our means: a very different thing! No abstract intellectual plan of life Quite irrespective of life's plainest laws,                        But one, a man, who is man and nothing more, May lead within a world which (by your leave) Is Rome or London, not Fool's-paradise. Embellish Rome, idealize away, Make paradise of London if you can, You're welcome, nay, you're wise. A simile! We mortals cross the ocean of this world Each in his average cabin of a life; The best's not big, the worst yields elbow-room. Now for our six months' voyagehow prepare? You come on shipboard with a landsman's list Of things he calls convenient: so they are! An India screen is pretty furniture, A piano-forte is a fine resource, All Balzac's novels occupy one shelf, The new edition fifty volumes long; And little Greek books, with the funny type They get up well at Leipsic, fill the next: Go on! slabbed marble, what a bath it makes! And Parma's pride, the Jerome, let us add! 'T were pleasant could Correggio's fleeting glow Hang full in face of one where'er one roams, Since he more than the others brings with him Italy's self,the marvellous Modenese!                        Yet was not on your list before, perhaps. Alas, friend, here's the agent . . . is't the name? The captain, or whoever's master here You see him screw his face up; what's his cry Ere you set foot on shipboard? "Six feet square!" If you won't understand what six feet mean, Compute and purchase stores accordingly And if, in pique because he overhauls Your Jerome, piano, bath, you come on board Barewhy, you cut a figure at the first While sympathetic landsmen see you off; Not afterward, when long ere half seas over, You peep up from your utterly naked boards Into some snug and well-appointed berth, Like mine for instance (try the cooler jug Put back the other, but don't jog the ice!) And mortified you mutter "Well and good; "He sits enjoying his sea-furniture; "'T is stout and proper, and there's store of it: "Though I've the better notion, all agree, "Of fitting rooms up. Hang the carpenter, "Neat ship-shape fixings and contrivances "I would have brought my Jerome, frame and all!" And meantime you bring nothing: never mind You've proved your artist-nature: what you don't You might bring, so despise me, as I say.                       Now come, let's backward to the starting-place. See my way: we're two college friends, suppose. Prepare together for our voyage, then; Each note and check the other in his work, Here's mine, a bishop's outfit; criticize! What's wrong? why won't you be a bishop too? Why first, you don't believe, you don't and can't, (Not statedly, that is, and fixedly And absolutely and exclusively) In any revelation called divine. No dogmas nail your faith; and what remains But say so, like the honest man you are? First, therefore, overhaul theology! Nay, I too, not a fool, you please to think, Must find believing every whit as hard: And if I do not frankly say as much, The ugly consequence is clear enough. Now wait, my friend: well, I do not believe If you'll accept no faith that is not fixed, Absolute and exclusive, as you say. You're wrongI mean to prove it in due time. Meanwhile, I know where difficulties lie I could not, cannot solve, nor ever shall, So give up hope accordingly to solve                        (To you, and over the wine). Our dogmas then With both of us, though in unlike degree, Missing full credenceoverboard with them! I mean to meet you on your own premise: Good, there go mine in company with yours! And now what are we? unbelievers both, Calm and complete, determinately fixed To-day, to-morrow and for ever, pray? You'll guarantee me that? Not so, I think! In no wise! all we've gained is, that belief, As unbelief before, shakes us by fits, Confounds us like its predecessor. Where's The gain? how can we guard our unbelief, Make it bear fruit to us?the problem here. Just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch, A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, A chorus-ending from Euripides, And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears As old and new at once as nature's self, To rap and knock and enter in our soul, Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring, Round the ancient idol, on his base again, The grand Perhaps! We look on helplessly. There the old misgivings, crooked questions are This good God,what he could do, if he would,                       Would, if he couldthen must have done long since: If so, when, where and how? some way must be, Once feel about, and soon or late you hit Some sense, in which it might be, after all. Why not, "The Way, the Truth, the Life?" That way Over the mountain, which who stands upon Is apt to doubt if it be meant for a road; While, if he views it from the waste itself, Up goes the line there, plain from base to brow, Not vague, mistakeable! what's a break or two Seen from the unbroken desert either side? And then (to bring in fresh philosophy) What if the breaks themselves should prove at last The most consummate of contrivances To train a man's eye, teach him what is faith? And so we stumble at truth's very test! All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white,we call it black. "Well," you rejoin, "the end's no worse, at least; "We've reason for both colours on the board: "Why not confess then, where I drop the faith "And you the doubt, that I'm as right as you?"                       Because, friend, in the next place, this being so, And both things even,faith and unbelief Left to a man's choice,we'll proceed a step, Returning to our image, which I like. A man's choice, yesbut a cabin-passenger's The man made for the special life o' the world Do you forget him? I remember though! Consult our ship's conditions and you find One and but one choice suitable to all; The choice, that you unluckily prefer, Turning things topsy-turvythey or it Going to the ground. Belief or unbelief Bears upon life, determines its whole course, Begins at its beginning. See the world Such as it is,you made it not, nor I; I mean to take it as it is,and you, Not so you'll take it,though you get nought else. I know the special kind of life I like, What suits the most my idiosyncrasy, Brings out the best of me and bears me fruit In power, peace, pleasantness and length of days. I find that positive belief does this For me, and unbelief, no whit of this. For you, it does, however?that, we'll try! 'T is clear, I cannot lead my life, at least,                        Induce the world to let me peaceably, Without declaring at the outset, "Friends, "I absolutely and peremptorily "Believe!"I say, faith is my waking life: One sleeps, indeed, and dreams at intervals, We know, but waking's the main point with us And my provision's for life's waking part. Accordingly, I use heart, head and hand All day, I build, scheme, study, and make friends; And when night overtakes me, down I lie, Sleep, dream a little, and get done with it, The sooner the better, to begin afresh. What's midnight doubt before the dayspring's faith? You, the philosopher, that disbelieve, That recognize the night, give dreams their weight To be consistent you should keep your bed, Abstain from healthy acts that prove you man, For fear you drowse perhaps at unawares! And certainly at night you'll sleep and dream, Live through the day and bustle as you please. And so you live to sleep as I to wake, To unbelieve as I to still believe? Well, and the common sense o' the world calls you Bed-ridden,and its good things come to me. Its estimation, which is half the fight, That's the first-cabin comfort I secure:                       The next . . . but you perceive with half an eye! Come, come, it's best believing, if we may; You can't but own that! Next, concede again, If once we choose belief, on all accounts We can't be too decisive in our faith, Conclusive and exclusive in its terms, To suit the world which gives us the good things. In every man's career are certain points Whereon he dares not be indifferent; The world detects him clearly, if he dare, As baffled at the game, and losing life. He may care little or he may care much For riches, honour, pleasure, work, repose, Since various theories of life and life's Success are extant which might easily Comport with either estimate of these; And whoso chooses wealth or poverty, Labour or quiet, is not judged a fool Because his fellow would choose otherwise: We let him choose upon his own account So long as he's consistent with his choice. But certain points, left wholly to himself, When once a man has arbitrated on, We say he must succeed there or go hang.                      Thus, he should wed the woman he loves most Or needs most, whatsoe'er the love or need For he can't wed twice. Then, he must avouch, Or follow, at the least, sufficiently, The form of faith his conscience holds the best, Whate'er the process of conviction was: For nothing can compensate his mistake On such a point, the man himself being judge: He cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul. Well now, there's one great form of Christian faith I happened to be born inwhich to teach Was given me as I grew up, on all hands, As best and readiest means of living by; The same on examination being proved The most pronounced moreover, fixed, precise And absolute form of faith in the whole world Accordingly, most potent of all forms For working on the world. Observe, my friend! Such as you know me, I am free to say, In these hard latter days which hamper one, Myselfby no immoderate exercise Of intellect and learning, but the tact To let external forces work for me, Bid the street's stones be bread and they are bread;                      Bid Peter's creed, or rather, Hildebrand's, Exalt me o'er my fellows in the world And make my life an ease and joy and pride; It does so,which for me's a great point gained, Who have a soul and body that exact A comfortable care in many ways. There's power in me and will to dominate Which I must exercise, they hurt me else: In many ways I need mankind's respect, Obedience, and the love that's born of fear: While at the same time, there's a taste I have, A toy of soul, a titillating thing, Refuses to digest these dainties crude. The naked life is gross till clothed upon: I must take what men offer, with a grace As though I would not, could I help it, take! An uniform I wear though over-rich Something imposed on me, no choice of mine; No fancy-dress worn for pure fancy's sake And despicable therefore! now folk kneel And kiss my handof course the Church's hand. Thus I am made, thus life is best for me, And thus that it should be I have procured; And thus it could not be another way, I venture to imagine.                       You'll reply, So far my choice, no doubt, is a success; But were I made of better elements, With nobler instincts, purer tastes, like you, I hardly would account the thing success Though it did all for me I say. But, friend, We speak of what is; not of what might be, And how't were better if't were otherwise. I am the man you see here plain enough: Grant I'm a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts' lives! Suppose I own at once to tail and claws; The tailless man exceeds me: but being tailed I'll lash out lion fashion, and leave apes To dock their stump and dress their haunches up. My business is not to remake myself, But make the absolute best of what God made. Orour first similethough you prove me doomed To a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole, The sheep-pen or the pig-stye, I should strive To make what use of each were possible; And as this cabin gets upholstery, That hutch should rustle with sufficient straw. But, friend, I don't acknowledge quite so fast I fail of all your manhood's lofty tastes                      Enumerated so complacently, On the mere ground that you forsooth can find In this particular life I choose to lead No fit provision for them. Can you not? Say you, my fault is I address myself To grosser estimators than should judge? And that's no way of holding up the soul, Which, nobler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knows One wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools' Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that. I pine among my million imbeciles (You think) aware some dozen men of sense Eye me and know me, whether I believe In the last winking Virgin, as I vow, And am a fool, or disbelieve in her And am a knave,approve in neither case, Withhold their voices though I look their way: Like Verdi when, at his worst opera's end (The thing they gave at Florence,what's its name?) While the mad houseful's plaudits near out-bang His orchestra of salt-box, tongs and bones, He looks through all the roaring and the wreaths Where sits Rossini patient in his stall. Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here That even your prime men who appraise their kind                      Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, See more in a truth than the truth's simple self, Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the street Sixty the minute; what's to note in that? You see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack; Him you must watchhe's sure to fall, yet stands! Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, The superstitious atheist, demirep That loves and saves her soul in new French books We watch while these in equilibrium keep The giddy line midway: one step aside, They're classed and done with. I, then, keep the line Before your sages,just the men to shrink From the gross weights, coarse scales and labels broad You offer their refinement. Fool or knave? Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave When there's a thousand diamond weights between? So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve, you'll find, Profess themselves indignant, scandalized At thus being held unable to explain How a superior man who disbelieves May not believe as well: that's Schelling's way! It's through my coming in the tail of time, Nicking the minute with a happy tact. Had I been born three hundred years ago                      They'd say, "What's strange? Blougram of course believes;" And, seventy years since, "disbelieves of course." But now, "He may believe; and yet, and yet "How can he?" All eyes turn with interest. Whereas, step off the line on either side You, for example, clever to a fault, The rough and ready man who write apace, Read somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less You disbelieve! Who wonders and who cares? Lord So-and-sohis coat bedropped with wax, All Peter's chains about his waist, his back Brave with the needlework of Noodledom Believes! Again, who wonders and who cares? But I, the man of sense and learning too, The able to think yet act, the this, the that, I, to believe at this late time of day! Enough; you see, I need not fear contempt. Except it's yours! Admire me as these may, You don't. But whom at least do you admire? Present your own perfection, your ideal, Your pattern man for a minuteoh, make haste Is it Napoleon you would have us grow? Concede the means; allow his head and hand, (A large concession, clever as you are)                        Good! In our common primal element Of unbelief (we can't believe, you know We're still at that admission, recollect!) Where do you findapart from, towering o'er The secondary temporary aims Which satisfy the gross taste you despise Where do you find his star?his crazy trust God knows through what or in what? it's alive And shines and leads him, and that's all we want. Have we aught in our sober night shall point Such ends as his were, and direct the means Of working out our purpose straight as his, Nor bring a moment's trouble on success With after-care to justify the same? Be a Napoleon, and yet disbelieve Why, the man's mad, friend, take his light away! What's the vague good o' the world, for which you dare With comfort to yourself blow millions up? We neither of us see it! we do see The blown-up millionsspatter of their brains And writhing of their bowels and so forth, In that bewildering entanglement Of horrible eventualities Past calculation to the end of time! Can I mistake for some clear word of God (Which were my ample warrant for it all)                        His puff of hazy instinct, idle talk, "The State, that's I," quack-nonsense about crowns, And (when one beats the man to his last hold) A vague idea of setting things to rights, Policing people efficaciously, More to their profit, most of all to his own; The whole to end that dismallest of ends By an Austrian marriage, cant to us the Church, And resurrection of the old rgime ? Would I, who hope to live a dozen years, Fight Austerlitz for reasons such and such? No: for, concede me but the merest chance Doubt may be wrongthere's judgment, life to come! With just that chance, I dare not. Doubt proves right? This present life is all?you offer me Its dozen noisy years, without a chance That wedding an archduchess, wearing lace, And getting called by divers new-coined names, Will drive off ugly thoughts and let me dine, Sleep, read and chat in quiet as I like! Therefore I will not. Take another case; Fit up the cabin yet another way. What say you to the poets? shall we write Hamlet, Othellomake the world our own,                        Without a risk to run of either sort? I can'tto put the strongest reason first. "But try," you urge, "the trying shall suffice; "The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: "Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!" Spare my self-knowledgethere's no fooling me! If I prefer remaining my poor self, I say so not in self-dispraise but praise. If I'm a Shakespeare, let the well alone; Why should I try to be what now I am? If I'm no Shakespeare, as too probable, His power and consciousness and self-delight And all we want in common, shall I find Trying for ever? while on points of taste Wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and I Are dowered alikeI'll ask you, I or he, Which in our two lives realizes most? Much, he imaginedsomewhat, I possess. He had the imagination; stick to that! Let him say, "In the face of my soul's works "Your world is worthless and I touch it not "Lest I should wrong them"I'll withdraw my plea. But does he say so? look upon his life! Himself, who only can, gives judgment there. He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces To build the trimmest house in Stratford town;                        Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, Giulio Romano's pictures, Dowland's lute; Enjoys a show, respects the puppets, too, And none more, had he seen its entry once, Than "Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal." Why then should I who play that personage, The very Pandulph Shakespeare's fancy made, Be told that had the poet chanced to start From where I stand now (some degree like mine Being just the goal he ran his race to reach) He would have run the whole race back, forsooth, And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays? Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best! Did Shakespeare live, he could but sit at home And get himself in dreams the Vatican, Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, And English books, none equal to his own, Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). Terni's fall, Naples' bay and Gothard's top Eh, friend? I could not fancy one of these; But, as I pour this claret, there they are: I've gained themcrossed St. Gothard last July With ten mules to the carriage and a bed Slung inside; is my hap the worse for that? We want the same things, Shakespeare and myself, And what I want, I have: he, gifted more,                        Could fancy he too had them when he liked, But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed, He would not have them also in my sense. We play one game; I send the ball aloft No less adroitly that of fifty strokes Scarce five go o'er the wall so wide and high Which sends them back to me: I wish and get He struck balls higher and with better skill, But at a poor fence level with his head, And hithis Stratford house, a coat of arms, Successful dealings in his grain and wool, While I receive heaven's incense in my nose And style myself the cousin of Queen Bess. Ask him, if this life's all, who wins the game? Believeand our whole argument breaks up. Enthusiasm's the best thing, I repeat; Only, we can't command it; fire and life Are all, dead matter's nothing, we agree: And be it a mad dream or God's very breath, The fact's the same,belief's fire, once in us, Makes of all else mere stuff to show itself: We penetrate our life with such a glow As fire lends wood and ironthis turns steel, That burns to ashall's one, fire proves its power For good or ill, since men call flare success.                        But paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. Light one in me, I'll find it food enough! Why, to be Lutherthat's a life to lead, Incomparably better than my own. He comes, reclaims God's earth for God, he says, Sets up God's rule again by simple means, Re-opens a shut book, and all is done. He flared out in the flaring of mankind; Such Luther's luck was: how shall such be mine? If he succeeded, nothing's left to do: And if he did not altogetherwell, Strauss is the next advance. All Strauss should be I might be also. But to what result? He looks upon no future: Luther did. What can I gain on the denying side? Ice makes no conflagration. State the facts, Read the text right, emancipate the world The emancipated world enjoys itself With scarce a thank-you: Blougram told it first It could not owe a farthing,not to him More than Saint Paul! 't would press its pay, you think? Then add there's still that plaguy hundredth chance Strauss may be wrong. And so a risk is run For what gain? not for Luther's, who secured A real heaven in his heart throughout his life, Supposing death a little altered things.                       "Ay, but since really you lack faith," you cry, "You run the same risk really on all sides, "In cool indifference as bold unbelief. "As well be Strauss as swing 'twixt Paul and him. "It's not worth having, such imperfect faith, "No more available to do faith's work "Than unbelief like mine. Whole faith, or none!" Softly, my friend! I must dispute that point Once own the use of faith, I'll find you faith. We're back on Christian ground. You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o'ercomes doubt. How I know it does? By life and man's free will, God gave for that! To mould life as we choose it, shows our choice: That's our one act, the previous work's his own. You criticize the soul? it reared this tree This broad life and whatever fruit it bears! What matter though I doubt at every pore, Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' ends, Doubts in the trivial work of every day, Doubts at the very bases of my soul In the grand moments when she probes herself If finally I have a life to show, The thing I did, brought out in evidence                        Against the thing done to me underground By hell and all its brood, for aught I know? I say, whence sprang this? shows it faith or doubt? All's doubt in me; where's break of faith in this? It is the idea, the feeling and the love, God means mankind should strive for and show forth Whatever be the process to that end, And not historic knowledge, logic sound, And metaphysical acumen, sure! "What think ye of Christ," friend? when all's done and said, Like you this Christianity or not? It may be false, but will you wish it true? Has it your vote to be so if it can? Trust you an instinct silenced long ago That will break silence and enjoin you love What mortified philosophy is hoarse, And all in vain, with bidding you despise? If you desire faiththen you've faith enough: What else seeks Godnay, what else seek ourselves? You form a notion of me, we'll suppose, On hearsay; it's a favourable one: "But still" (you add), "there was no such good man, "Because of contradiction in the facts. "One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, "This Blougram; yet throughout the tales of him                      "I see he figures as an Englishman." Well, the two things are reconcileable. But would I rather you discovered that, Subjoining"Still, what matter though they be? "Blougram concerns me nought, born here or there." Pure faith indeedyou know not what you ask! Naked belief in God the Omnipotent, Omniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. It were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare Some think, Creation's meant to show him forth: I say it's meant to hide him all it can, And that's what all the blessed evil's for. Its use in Time is to environ us, Our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough Against that sight till we can bear its stress. Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain And lidless eye and disemprisoned heart Less certainly would wither up at once Than mind, confronted with the truth of him. But time and earth case-harden us to live; The feeblest sense is trusted most; the child Feels God a moment, ichors o'er the place, Plays on and grows to be a man like us.                      With me, faith means perpetual unbelief Kept quiet like the snake 'neath Michael's foot Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. Or, if that's too ambitious,here's my box I need the excitation of a pinch Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes. "Leave it in peace" advise the simple folk: Make it aware of peace by itching-fits, Say Ilet doubt occasion still more faith! You'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. How you'd exult if I could put you back Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, Geology, ethnology, what not (Greek endings, each the little passing-bell That signifies some faith's about to die), And set you square with Genesis again, When such a traveller told you his last news, He saw the ark a-top of Ararat But did not climb there since 't was getting dusk And robber-bands infest the mountain's foot! How should you feel, I ask, in such an age, How act? As other people felt and did; With soul more blank than this decanter's knob,                 Believeand yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate Full in belief's face, like the beast you'd be! No, when the fight begins within himself, A man's worth something. God stoops o'er his head, Satan looks up between his feetboth tug He's left, himself, i' the middle: the soul wakes And grows. Prolong that battle through his life! Never leave growing till the life to come! Here, we've got callous to the Virgin's winks That used to puzzle people wholesomely: Men have outgrown the shame of being fools. What are the laws of nature, not to bend If the Church bid them?brother Newman asks. Up with the Immaculate Conception, then On to the rack with faith!is my advice. Will not that hurry us upon our knees, Knocking our breasts, "It can't beyet it shall! "Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope? "Low things confound the high things!" and so forth. That's better than acquitting God with grace As some folk do. He's triedno case is proved, Philosophy is lenienthe may go! You'll say, the old system's not so obsolete But men believe still: ay, but who and where?                      King Bomba's lazzaroni foster yet The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes; But even of these, what ragamuffin-saint Believes God watches him continually, As he believes in fire that it will burn, Or rain that it will drench him? Break fire's law, Sin against rain, although the penalty Be just a singe or soaking? "No," he smiles; "Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves." The sum of all isyes, my doubt is great, My faith's still greater, then my faith's enough. I have read much, thought much, experienced much, Yet would die rather than avow my fear The Naples' liquefaction may be false, When set to happen by the palace-clock According to the clouds or dinner-time. I hear you recommend, I might at least Eliminate, decrassify my faith Since I adopt it; keeping what I must And leaving what I cansuch points as this. I won'tthat is, I can't throw one away. Supposing there's no truth in what I hold About the need of trial to man's faith, Still, when you bid me purify the same, To such a process I discern no end.                  Clearing off one excrescence to see two, There's ever a next in size, now grown as big, That meets the knife: I cut and cut again! First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last But Fichte's clever cut at God himself? Experimentalize on sacred things! I trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brain To stop betimes: they all get drunk alike. The first step, I am master not to take. You'd find the cutting-process to your taste As much as leaving growths of lies unpruned, Nor see more danger in it,you retort. Your taste's worth mine; but my taste proves more wise When we consider that the steadfast hold On the extreme end of the chain of faith Gives all the advantage, makes the difference With the rough purblind mass we seek to rule: We are their lords, or they are free of us, Just as we tighten or relax our hold. So, others matters equal, we'll revert To the first problemwhich, if solved my way And thrown into the balance, turns the scale How we may lead a comfortable life, How suit our luggage to the cabin's size.                     Of course you are remarking all this time How narrowly and grossly I view life, Respect the creature-comforts, care to rule The masses, and regard complacently "The cabin," in our old phrase. Well, I do. I act for, talk for, live for this world now, As this world prizes action, life and talk: No prejudice to what next world may prove, Whose new laws and requirements, my best pledge To observe then, is that I observe these now, Shall do hereafter what I do meanwhile. Let us concede (gratuitously though) Next life relieves the soul of body, yields Pure spiritual enjoyment: well, my friend, Why lose this life i' the meantime, since its use May be to make the next life more intense? Do you know, I have often had a dream (Work it up in your next month's article) Of man's poor spirit in its progress, still Losing true life for ever and a day Through ever trying to be and ever being In the evolution of successive spheres Before its actual sphere and place of life, Halfway into the next, which having reached, It shoots with corresponding foolery                      Halfway into the next still, on and off! As when a traveller, bound from North to South, Scouts fur in Russia: what's its use in France? In France spurns flannel: where's its need in Spain? In Spain drops cloth, too cumbrous for Algiers! Linen goes next, and last the skin itself, A superfluity at Timbuctoo. When, through his journey, was the fool at ease? I'm at ease now, friend; worldly in this world, I take and like its way of life; I think My brothers, who administer the means, Live better for my comfortthat's good too; And God, if he pronounce upon such life, Approves my service, which is better still. If he keep silence,why, for you or me Or that brute beast pulled-up in to-day's "Times," What odds is't, save to ourselves, what life we lead? You meet me at this issue: you declare, All special-pleading done withtruth is truth, And justifies itself by undreamed ways. You don't fear but it's better, if we doubt, To say so, act up to our truth perceived However feebly. Do then,act away! 'T is there I'm on the watch for you. How one acts Is, both of us agree, our chief concern:                      And how you'll act is what I fain would see If, like the candid person you appear, You dare to make the most of your life's scheme As I of mine, live up to its full law Since there's no higher law that counterchecks. Put natural religion to the test You've just demolished the revealed withquick, Down to the root of all that checks your will, All prohibition to lie, kill and thieve, Or even to be an atheistic priest! Suppose a pricking to incontinence Philosophers deduce you chastity Or shame, from just the fact that at the first Whoso embraced a woman in the field, Threw club down and forewent his brains beside, So, stood a ready victim in the reach Of any brother savage, club in hand; Hence saw the use of going out of sight In wood or cave to prosecute his loves: I read this in a French book t' other day. Does law so analysed coerce you much? Oh, men spin clouds of fuzz where matters end, But you who reach where the first thread begins, You'll soon cut that!which means you can, but won't, Through certain instincts, blind, unreasoned-out,                      You dare not set aside, you can't tell why, But there they are, and so you let them rule. Then, friend, you seem as much a slave as I, A liar, conscious coward and hypocrite, Without the good the slave expects to get, In case he has a master after all! You own your instincts? why, what else do I, Who want, am made for, and must have a God Ere I can be aught, do aught?no mere name Want, but the true thing with what proves its truth, To wit, a relation from that thing to me, Touching from head to footwhich touch I feel, And with it take the rest, this life of ours! I live my life here; yours you dare not live. Not as I state it, who (you please subjoin) Disfigure such a life and call it names, While, to your mind, remains another way For simple men: knowledge and power have rights, But ignorance and weakness have rights too. There needs no crucial effort to find truth If here or there or anywhere about: We ought to turn each side, try hard and see, And if we can't, be glad we've earned at least The right, by one laborious proof the more, To graze in peace earth's pleasant pasturage.                      Men are not angels, neither are they brutes: Something we may see, all we cannot see. What need of lying? I say, I see all, And swear to each detail the most minute In what I think a Pan's faceyou, mere cloud: I swear I hear him speak and see him wink, For fear, if once I drop the emphasis, Mankind may doubt there's any cloud at all. You take the simple lifeready to see, Willing to see (for no cloud's worth a face) And leaving quiet what no strength can move, And which, who bids you move? who has the right? I bid you; but you are God's sheep, not mine: " Pastor est tui Dominus ." You find In this the pleasant pasture of our life Much you may eat without the least offence, Much you don't eat because your maw objects, Much you would eat but that your fellow-flock Open great eyes at you and even butt, And thereupon you like your mates so well You cannot please yourself, offending them; Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep, You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats And strike the balance. Sometimes certain fears Restrain you, real checks since you find them so; Sometimes you please yourself and nothing checks:                        And thus you graze through life with not one lie, And like it best. But do you, in truth's name? If so, you beatwhich means you are not I Who needs must make earth mine and feed my fill Not simply unbutted at, unbickered with, But motioned to the velvet of the sward By those obsequious wethers' very selves. Look at me, sir; my age is double yours: At yours, I knew beforehand, so enjoyed, What now I should beas, permit the word, I pretty well imagine your whole range And stretch of tether twenty years to come. We both have minds and bodies much alike: In truth's name, don't you want my bishopric, My daily bread, my influence and my state? You're young. I'm old; you must be old one day; Will you find then, as I do hour by hour, Women their lovers kneel to, who cut curls From your fat lap-dog's ear to grace a brooch Dukes, who petition just to kiss your ring With much beside you know or may conceive? Suppose we die to-night: well, here am I, Such were my gains, life bore this fruit to me, While writing all the same my articles                      On music, poetry, the fictile vase Found at Albano, chess, Anacreon's Greek. But youthe highest honour in your life, The thing you'll crown yourself with, all your days, Isdining here and drinking this last glass I pour you out in sign of amity Before we part for ever. Of your power And social influence, worldly worth in short, Judge what's my estimation by the fact, I do not condescend to enjoin, beseech, Hint secrecy on one of all these words! You're shrewd and know that should you publish one The world would brand the liemy enemies first, Who'd sneer"the bishop's an arch-hypocrite "And knave perhaps, but not so frank a fool." Whereas I should not dare for both my ears Breathe one such syllable, smile one such smile, Before the chaplain who reflects myself My shade's so much more potent than your flesh. What's your reward, self-abnegating friend? Stood you confessed of those exceptional And privileged great natures that dwarf mine A zealot with a mad ideal in reach, A poet just about to print his ode, A statesman with a scheme to stop this war, An artist whose religion is his art      ~ Robert Browning, Bishop Blougram's Apology ,

724:The Unknown Eros. Book I. Saint Valentine’s Day Well dost thou, Love, thy solemn Feast to hold In vestal February; Not rather choosing out some rosy day From the rich coronet of the coming May, When all things meet to marry! O, quick, prævernal Power That signall'st punctual through the sleepy mould The Snowdrop's time to flower, Fair as the rash oath of virginity Which is first-love's first cry; O, Baby Spring, That flutter'st sudden 'neath the breast of Earth A month before the birth; Whence is the peaceful poignancy, The joy contrite, Sadder than sorrow, sweeter than delight, That burthens now the breath of everything, Though each one sighs as if to each alone The cherish'd pang were known? At dusk of dawn, on his dark spray apart, With it the Blackbird breaks the young Day's heart; In evening's hush About it talks the heavenly-minded Thrush; The hill with like remorse Smiles to the Sun's smile in his westering course; The fisher's drooping skiff In yonder sheltering bay; The choughs that call about the shining cliff; The children, noisy in the setting ray; Own the sweet season, each thing as it may; Thoughts of strange kindness and forgotten peace In me increase; And tears arise Within my happy, happy Mistress' eyes, And, lo, her lips, averted from my kiss, 210 Ask from Love's bounty, ah, much more than bliss! Is't the sequester'd and exceeding sweet Of dear Desire electing his defeat? Is't the waked Earth now to yon purpling cope Uttering first-love's first cry, Vainly renouncing, with a Seraph's sigh, Love's natural hope? Fair-meaning Earth, foredoom'd to perjury! Behold, all amorous May, With roses heap'd upon her laughing brows, Avoids thee of thy vows! Were it for thee, with her warm bosom near, To abide the sharpness of the Seraph's sphere? Forget thy foolish words; Go to her summons gay, Thy heart with dead, wing'd Innocencies fill'd, Ev'n as a nest with birds After the old ones by the hawk are kill'd. Well dost thou, Love, to celebrate The noon of thy soft ecstasy, Or e'er it be too late, Or e'er the Snowdrop die! II Wind And Wave The wedded light and heat, Winnowing the witless space, Without a let, What are they till they beat Against the sleepy sod, and there beget Perchance the violet! Is the One found, Amongst a wilderness of as happy grace, To make Heaven's bound; So that in Her All which it hath of sensitively good Is sought and understood After the narrow mode the mighty Heavens prefer? 211 She, as a little breeze Following still Night, Ripples the spirit's cold, deep seas Into delight; But, in a while, The immeasurable smile Is broke by fresher airs to flashes blent With darkling discontent; And all the subtle zephyr hurries gay, And all the heaving ocean heaves one way, T'ward the void sky-line and an unguess'd weal; Until the vanward billows feel The agitating shallows, and divine the goal, And to foam roll, And spread and stray And traverse wildly, like delighted hands, The fair and fleckless sands; And so the whole Unfathomable and immense Triumphing tide comes at the last to reach And burst in wind-kiss'd splendours on the deaf'ning beach, Where forms of children in first innocence Laugh and fling pebbles on the rainbow'd crest Of its untired unrest. III Winter I, singularly moved To love the lovely that are not beloved, Of all the Seasons, most Love Winter, and to trace The sense of the Trophonian pallor on her face. It is not death, but plenitude of peace; And the dim cloud that does the world enfold Hath less the characters of dark and cold Than warmth and light asleep, And correspondent breathing seems to keep With the infant harvest, breathing soft below Its eider coverlet of snow. Nor is in field or garden anything 212 But, duly look'd into, contains serene The substance of things hoped for, in the Spring, And evidence of Summer not yet seen. On every chance-mild day That visits the moist shaw, The honeysuckle, 'sdaining to be crost In urgence of sweet life by sleet or frost, 'Voids the time's law With still increase Of leaflet new, and little, wandering spray; Often, in sheltering brakes, As one from rest disturb'd in the first hour, Primrose or violet bewilder'd wakes, And deems 'tis time to flower; Though not a whisper of her voice he hear, The buried bulb does know The signals of the year, And hails far Summer with his lifted spear. The gorse-field dark, by sudden, gold caprice, Turns, here and there, into a Jason's fleece; Lilies, that soon in Autumn slipp'd their gowns of green, And vanish'd into earth, And came again, ere Autumn died, to birth, Stand full-array'd, amidst the wavering shower, And perfect for the Summer, less the flower; In nook of pale or crevice of crude bark, Thou canst not miss, If close thou spy, to mark The ghostly chrysalis, That, if thou touch it, stirs in its dream dark; And the flush'd Robin, in the evenings hoar, Does of Love's Day, as if he saw it, sing; But sweeter yet than dream or song of Summer or Spring Are Winter's sometime smiles, that seem to well From infancy ineffable; Her wandering, languorous gaze, So unfamiliar, so without amaze, On the elemental, chill adversity, The uncomprehended rudeness; and her sigh And solemn, gathering tear, And look of exile from some great repose, the sphere Of ether, moved by ether only, or 213 By something still more tranquil. IV Beta Of infinite Heaven the rays, Piercing some eyelet in our cavern black, Ended their viewless track On thee to smite Solely, as on a diamond stalactite, And in mid-darkness lit a rainbow's blaze, Wherein the absolute Reason, Power, and Love, That erst could move Mainly in me but toil and weariness, Renounced their deadening might, Renounced their undistinguishable stress Of withering white, And did with gladdest hues my spirit caress, Nothing of Heaven in thee showing infinite, Save the delight. The Day After To-Morrow Perchance she droops within the hollow gulf Which the great wave of coming pleasure draws, Not guessing the glad cause! Ye Clouds that on your endless journey go, Ye Winds that westward flow, Thou heaving Sea That heav'st 'twixt her and me, Tell her I come; Then only sigh your pleasure, and be dumb; For the sweet secret of our either self We know. Tell her I come, And let her heart be still'd. One day's controlled hope, and then one more, And on the third our lives shall be fulfill'd! Yet all has been before: 214 Palm placed in palm, twin smiles, and words astray. What other should we say? But shall I not, with ne'er a sign, perceive, Whilst her sweet hands I hold, The myriad threads and meshes manifold Which Love shall round her weave: The pulse in that vein making alien pause And varying beats from this; Down each long finger felt, a differing strand Of silvery welcome bland; And in her breezy palm And silken wrist, Beneath the touch of my like numerous bliss Complexly kiss'd, A diverse and distinguishable calm? What should we say! It all has been before; And yet our lives shall now be first fulfill'd, And into their summ'd sweetness fall distill'd One sweet drop more; One sweet drop more, in absolute increase Of unrelapsing peace. O, heaving Sea, That heav'st as if for bliss of her and me, And separatest not dear heart from heart, Though each 'gainst other beats too far apart, For yet awhile Let it not seem that I behold her smile. O, weary Love, O, folded to her breast, Love in each moment years and years of rest, Be calm, as being not. Ye oceans of intolerable delight, The blazing photosphere of central Night, Be ye forgot. Terror, thou swarthy Groom of Bride-bliss coy, Let me not see thee toy. O, Death, too tardy with thy hope intense Of kisses close beyond conceit of sense; O, Life, too liberal, while to take her hand Is more of hope than heart can understand; Perturb my golden patience not with joy, 215 Nor, through a wish, profane The peace that should pertain To him who does by her attraction move. Has all not been before? One day's controlled hope, and one again, And then the third, and ye shall have the rein, O Life, Death, Terror, Love! But soon let your unrestful rapture cease, Ye flaming Ethers thin, Condensing till the abiding sweetness win One sweet drop more; One sweet drop more in the measureless increase Of honied peace. VI Tristitia Darling, with hearts conjoin'd in such a peace That Hope, so not to cease, Must still gaze back, And count, along our love's most happy track, The landmarks of like inconceiv'd increase, Promise me this: If thou alone should'st win God's perfect bliss, And I, beguiled by gracious-seeming sin, Say, loving too much thee, Love's last goal miss, And any vows may then have memory, Never, by grief for what I bear or lack, To mar thy joyance of heav'n's jubilee. Promise me this; For else I should be hurl'd, Beyond just doom And by thy deed, to Death's interior gloom, From the mild borders of the banish'd world Wherein they dwell Who builded not unalterable fate On pride, fraud, envy, cruel lust, or hate; Yet loved too laxly sweetness and heart's ease, And strove the creature more than God to please. 216 For such as these Loss without measure, sadness without end! Yet not for this do thou disheaven'd be With thinking upon me. Though black, when scann'd from heaven's surpassing bright, This might mean light, Foil'd with the dim days of mortality. For God is everywhere. Go down to deepest Hell, and He is there, And, as a true but quite estranged Friend, He works, 'gainst gnashing teeth of devilish ire, With love deep hidden lest it be blasphemed, If possible, to blend Ease with the pangs of its inveterate fire; Yea, in the worst And from His Face most wilfully accurst Of souls in vain redeem'd, He does with potions of oblivion kill Remorse of the lost Love that helps them still. Apart from these, Near the sky-borders of that banish'd world, Wander pale spirits among willow'd leas, Lost beyond measure, sadden'd without end, But since, while erring most, retaining yet Some ineffectual fervour of regret, Retaining still such weal As spurned Lovers feel, Preferring far to all the world's delight Their loss so infinite, Or Poets, when they mark In the clouds dun A loitering flush of the long sunken sun, And turn away with tears into the dark. Know, Dear, these are not mine But Wisdom's words, confirmed by divine Doctors and Saints, though fitly seldom heard Save in their own prepense-occulted word, Lest fools be fool'd the further by false hope, And wrest sweet knowledge to their own decline; 217 And (to approve I speak within my scope) The Mistress of that dateless exile gray Is named in surpliced Schools Tristitia. But, O, my Darling, look in thy heart and see How unto me, Secured of my prime care, thy happy state, In the most unclean cell Of sordid Hell, And worried by the most ingenious hate, It never could be anything but well, Nor from my soul, full of thy sanctity, Such pleasure die As the poor harlot's, in whose body stirs The innocent life that is and is not hers: Unless, alas, this fount of my relief By thy unheavenly grief Were closed. So, with a consecrating kiss And hearts made one in past all previous peace, And on one hope reposed, Promise me this! VII The Azalea There, where the sun shines first Against our room, She train'd the gold Azalea, whose perfume She, Spring-like, from her breathing grace dispersed. Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom, For this their dainty likeness watch'd and nurst, Were just at point to burst. At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead, And groan'd aloud upon my wretched bed, And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her, But lay, with eyes still closed, Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere By which I knew so well that she was near, My heart to speechless thankfulness composed. Till 'gan to stir 218 A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head— It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead! The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed, And I had fall'n asleep with to my breast A chance-found letter press'd In which she said, ‘So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu! Parting's well-paid with soon again to meet, Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet, Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!’ VIII Departure It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days, Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well, To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, 219 And frighten'd eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. IX Eurydice Is this the portent of the day nigh past, And of a restless grave O'er which the eternal sadness gathers fast; Or but the heaped wave Of some chance, wandering tide, Such as that world of awe Whose circuit, listening to a foreign law, Conjunctures ours at unguess'd dates and wide, Does in the Spirit's tremulous ocean draw, To pass unfateful on, and so subside? Thee, whom ev'n more than Heaven loved I have, And yet have not been true Even to thee, I, dreaming, night by night, seek now to see, And, in a mortal sorrow, still pursue Thro' sordid streets and lanes And houses brown and bare And many a haggard stair Ochrous with ancient stains, And infamous doors, opening on hapless rooms, In whose unhaunted glooms Dead pauper generations, witless of the sun, Their course have run; And ofttimes my pursuit Is check'd of its dear fruit By things brimful of hate, my kith and kin, Furious that I should keep Their forfeit power to weep, And mock, with living fear, their mournful malice thin. But ever, at the last, my way I win To where, with perfectly sad patience, nurst By sorry comfort of assured worst, 220 Ingrain'd in fretted cheek and lips that pine, On pallet poor Thou lyest, stricken sick, Beyond love's cure, By all the world's neglect, but chiefly mine. Then sweetness, sweeter than my tongue can tell, Does in my bosom well, And tears come free and quick And more and more abound For piteous passion keen at having found, After exceeding ill, a little good; A little good Which, for the while, Fleets with the current sorrow of the blood, Though no good here has heart enough to smile. The Toys My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd 221 To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, ‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’ XI Tired Memory The stony rock of death's insensibility Well'd yet awhile with honey of thy love And then was dry; Nor could thy picture, nor thine empty glove, Nor all thy kind, long letters, nor the band Which really spann'd Thy body chaste and warm, Thenceforward move Upon the stony rock their wearied charm. At last, then, thou wast dead. Yet would I not despair, But wrought my daily task, and daily said Many and many a fond, unfeeling prayer, To keep my vows of faith to thee from harm. In vain. ‘For 'tis,’ I said, ‘all one, The wilful faith, which has no joy or pain, As if 'twere none.’ Then look'd I miserably round If aught of duteous love were left undone, And nothing found. But, kneeling in a Church, one Easter-Day, It came to me to say: ‘Though there is no intelligible rest, In Earth or Heaven, For me, but on her breast, 222 I yield her up, again to have her given, Or not, as, Lord, Thou wilt, and that for aye.’ And the same night, in slumber lying, I, who had dream'd of thee as sad and sick and dying, And only so, nightly for all one year, Did thee, my own most Dear, Possess, In gay, celestial beauty nothing coy, And felt thy soft caress With heretofore unknown reality of joy. But, in our mortal air, None thrives for long upon the happiest dream, And fresh despair Bade me seek round afresh for some extreme Of unconceiv'd, interior sacrifice Whereof the smoke might rise To God, and 'mind Him that one pray'd below. And so, In agony, I cried: ‘My Lord, if Thy strange will be this, That I should crucify my heart, Because my love has also been my pride, I do submit, if I saw how, to bliss Wherein She has no part.’ And I was heard, And taken at my own remorseless word. O, my most Dear, Was't treason, as I fear? 'Twere that, and worse, to plead thy veiled mind, Kissing thy babes, and murmuring in mine ear, ‘Thou canst not be Faithful to God, and faithless unto me!’ Ah, prophet kind! I heard, all dumb and blind With tears of protest; and I cannot see But faith was broken. Yet, as I have said, My heart was dead, Dead of devotion and tired memory, When a strange grace of thee In a fair stranger, as I take it, bred To her some tender heed, Most innocent 223 Of purpose therewith blent, And pure of faith, I think, to thee; yet such That the pale reflex of an alien love, So vaguely, sadly shown, Did her heart touch Above All that, till then, had woo'd her for its own. And so the fear, which is love's chilly dawn, Flush'd faintly upon lids that droop'd like thine, And made me weak, By thy delusive likeness doubly drawn, And Nature's long suspended breath of flame Persuading soft, and whispering Duty's name, Awhile to smile and speak With this thy Sister sweet, and therefore mine; Thy Sister sweet, Who bade the wheels to stir Of sensitive delight in the poor brain, Dead of devotion and tired memory, So that I lived again, And, strange to aver, With no relapse into the void inane, For thee; But (treason was't?) for thee and also her. XII Magna Est Veritas Here, in this little Bay, Full of tumultuous life and great repose, Where, twice a day, The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes, Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, I sit me down. For want of me the world's course will not fail: When all its work is done, the lie shall rot; The truth is great, and shall prevail, When none cares whether it prevail or not. XIII 224 1867 In the year of the great crime, When the false English Nobles and their Jew, By God demented, slew The Trust they stood twice pledged to keep from wrong, One said, Take up thy Song, That breathes the mild and almost mythic time Of England's prime! But I, Ah, me, The freedom of the few That, in our free Land, were indeed the free, Can song renew? Ill singing 'tis with blotting prison-bars, How high soe'er, betwixt us and the stars; Ill singing 'tis when there are none to hear; And days are near When England shall forget The fading glow which, for a little while, Illumes her yet, The lovely smile That grows so faint and wan, Her people shouting in her dying ear, Are not two daws worth two of any swan! Ye outlaw'd Best, who yet are bright With the sunken light, Whose common style Is Virtue at her gracious ease, The flower of olden sanctities, Ye haply trust, by love's benignant guile, To lure the dark and selfish brood To their own hated good; Ye haply dream Your lives shall still their charmful sway sustain, Unstifled by the fever'd steam That rises from the plain. Know, 'twas the force of function high, In corporate exercise, and public awe Of Nature's, Heaven's, and England's Law That Best, though mix'd with Bad, should reign, Which kept you in your sky! 225 But, when the sordid Trader caught The loose-held sceptre from your hands distraught, And soon, to the Mechanic vain, Sold the proud toy for nought, Your charm was broke, your task was sped, Your beauty, with your honour, dead, And though you still are dreaming sweet Of being even now not less Than Gods and Goddesses, ye shall not long so cheat Your hearts of their due heaviness. Go, get you for your evil watching shriven! Leave to your lawful Master's itching hands Your unking'd lands, But keep, at least, the dignity Of deigning not, for his smooth use, to be, Voteless, the voted delegates Of his strange interests, loves and hates. In sackcloth, or in private strife With private ill, ye may please Heaven, And soothe the coming pangs of sinking life; And prayer perchance may win A term to God's indignant mood And the orgies of the multitude, Which now begin; But do not hope to wave the silken rag Of your unsanction'd flag, And so to guide The great ship, helmless on the swelling tide Of that presumptuous Sea, Unlit by sun or moon, yet inly bright With lights innumerable that give no light, Flames of corrupted will and scorn of right, Rejoicing to be free. And, now, because the dark comes on apace When none can work for fear, And Liberty in every Land lies slain, And the two Tyrannies unchallenged reign, And heavy prophecies, suspended long At supplication of the righteous few, And so discredited, to fulfilment throng, Restrain'd no more by faithful prayer or tear, 226 And the dread baptism of blood seems near That brings to the humbled Earth the Time of Grace, Breathless be song, And let Christ's own look through The darkness, suddenly increased, To the gray secret lingering in the East. XIV ‘If I Were Dead’ ‘If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!’ The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make? Poor Child, poor Child! And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! Poor Child! XV Peace O England, how hast thou forgot, In dullard care for undisturb'd increase Of gold, which profits not, The gain which once thou knew'st was for thy peace! Honour is peace, the peace which does accord Alone with God's glad word: ‘My peace I send you, and I send a sword.’ O England, how hast thou forgot, How fear'st the things which make for joy, not fear, Confronted near. 227 Hard days? 'Tis what the pamper'd seek to buy With their most willing gold in weary lands. Loss and pain risk'd? What sport but understands These for incitements! Suddenly to die, With conscience a blurr'd scroll? The sunshine dreaming upon Salmon's height Is not so sweet and white As the most heretofore sin-spotted soul That darts to its delight Straight from the absolution of a faithful fight. Myriads of homes unloosen'd of home's bond, And fill'd with helpless babes and harmless women fond? Let those whose pleasant chance Took them, like me, among the German towns, After the war that pluck'd the fangs from France, With me pronounce Whether the frequent black, which then array'd Child, wife, and maid, Did most to magnify the sombreness of grief, Or add the beauty of a staid relief And freshening foil To cheerful-hearted Honour's ready smile! Beneath the heroic sun Is there then none Whose sinewy wings by choice do fly In the fine mountain-air of public obloquy, To tell the sleepy mongers of false ease That war's the ordained way of all alive, And therein with goodwill to dare and thrive Is profit and heart's peace? But in his heart the fool now saith: ‘The thoughts of Heaven were past all finding out, Indeed, if it should rain Intolerable woes upon our Land again, After so long a drought!’ ‘Will a kind Providence our vessel whelm, With such a pious Pilot at the helm?’ ‘Or let the throats be cut of pretty sheep 228 That care for nought but pasture rich and deep?’ ‘Were 't Evangelical of God to deal so foul a blow At people who hate Turks and Papists so?’ ‘What, make or keep A tax for ship and gun, When 'tis full three to one Yon bully but intends To beat our friends?’ ‘Let's put aside Our costly pride. Our appetite's not gone Because we've learn'd to doff Our caps, where we were used to keep them on.’ ‘If times get worse, We've money in our purse, And Patriots that know how, let who will scoff, To buy our perils off. Yea, blessed in our midst Art thou who lately didst, So cheap, The old bargain of the Saxon with the Dane.’ Thus in his heart the fool now saith; And, lo, our trusted leaders trust fool's luck, Which, like the whale's 'mazed chine, When they thereon were mulling of their wine, Will some day duck. Remnant of Honour, brooding in the dark Over your bitter cark, Staring, as Rispah stared, astonied seven days, Upon the corpses of so many sons, Who loved her once, Dead in the dim and lion-haunted ways, Who could have dreamt That times should come like these! Prophets, indeed, taught lies when we were young, And people loved to have it so; For they teach well who teach their scholars' tongue! 229 But that the foolish both should gaze, With feeble, fascinated face, Upon the wan crest of the coming woe, The billow of earthquake underneath the seas, And sit at ease, Or stand agape, Without so much as stepping back to 'scape, Mumbling, ‘Perchance we perish if we stay: 'Tis certain wear of shoes to stir away!’ Who could have dreamt That times should come like these! Remnant of Honour, tongue-tied with contempt, Consider; you are strong yet, if you please. A hundred just men up, and arm'd but with a frown, May hoot a hundred thousand false loons down, Or drive them any way like geese. But to sit silent now is to suborn The common villainy you scorn. In the dark hour When phrases are in power, And nought's to choose between The thing which is not and which is not seen, One fool, with lusty lungs, Does what a hundred wise, who hate and hold their tongues, Shall ne'er undo. In such an hour, When eager hands are fetter'd and too few, And hearts alone have leave to bleed, Speak; for a good word then is a good deed. XVI A Farewell With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. 230 Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry. XVII 1880-85 Stand by, Ye Wise, by whom Heav'n rules! Your kingly hands suit not the hangman's tools. When God has doom'd a glorious Past to die, Are there no knaves and fools? For ages yet to come your kind shall count for nought. Smoke of the strife of other Powers Than ours, And tongues inscrutable with fury fraught 'Wilder the sky, Till the far good which none can guess be wrought. Stand by! Since tears are vain, here let us rest and laugh, But not too loudly; for the brave time's come, When Best may not blaspheme the Bigger Half, And freedom for our sort means freedom to be dumb. Lo, how the dross and draff Jeer up at us, and shout, ‘The Day is ours, the Night is theirs!’ 231 And urge their rout Where the wild dawn of rising Tartarus flares. Yon strives their Leader, lusting to be seen. His leprosy's so perfect that men call him clean! Listen the long, sincere, and liberal bray Of the earnest Puller at another's hay 'Gainst aught that dares to tug the other way, Quite void of fears With all that noise of ruin round his ears! Yonder the people cast their caps o'erhead, And swear the threaten'd doom is ne'er to dread That's come, though not yet past. All front the horror and are none aghast; Brag of their full-blown rights and liberties, Nor once surmise When each man gets his due the Nation dies; Nay, still shout ‘Progress!’ as if seven plagues Should take the laggard who would stretch his legs. Forward! glad rush of Gergesenian swine; You've gain'd the hill-top, but there's yet the brine. Forward! to meet the welcome of the waves That mount to 'whelm the freedom which enslaves. Forward! bad corpses turn into good dung, To feed strange futures beautiful and young. Forward! God speed ye down the damn'd decline, And grant ye the Fool's true good, in abject ruin's gulf As the Wise see him so to see himself! Ah, Land once mine, That seem'd to me too sweetly wise, Too sternly fair for aught that dies, Past is thy proud and pleasant state, That recent date When, strong and single, in thy sovereign heart, The thrones of thinking, hearing, sight, The cunning hand, the knotted thew Of lesser powers that heave and hew, And each the smallest beneficial part, And merest pore of breathing, beat, Full and complete, The great pulse of thy generous might, Equal in inequality, 232 That soul of joy in low and high; When not a churl but felt the Giant's heat, Albeit he simply call'd it his, Flush in his common labour with delight, And not a village-Maiden's kiss But was for this More sweet, And not a sorrow but did lightlier sigh, And for its private self less greet, The whilst that other so majestic self stood by! Integrity so vast could well afford To wear in working many a stain, To pillory the cobbler vain And license madness in a lord. On that were all men well agreed; And, if they did a thing, Their strength was with them in their deed, And from amongst them came the shout of a king! But, once let traitor coward meet, Not Heaven itself can keep its feet. Come knave who said to dastard, ‘Lo, ‘The Deluge!’ which but needed ‘No!’ For all the Atlantic's threatening roar, If men would bravely understand, Is softly check'd for evermore By a firm bar of sand. But, dastard listening knave, who said, ‘'Twere juster were the Giant dead, That so yon bawlers may not miss To vote their own pot-belly'd bliss,’ All that is past! We saw the slaying, and were not aghast. But ne'er a sun, on village Groom and Bride, Albeit they guess not how it is, At Easter or at Whitsuntide, But shines less gay for this! XVIII The Two Deserts 233 Not greatly moved with awe am I To learn that we may spy Five thousand firmaments beyond our own. The best that's known Of the heavenly bodies does them credit small. View'd close, the Moon's fair ball Is of ill objects worst, A corpse in Night's highway, naked, fire-scarr'd, accurst; And now they tell That the Sun is plainly seen to boil and burst Too horribly for hell. So, judging from these two, As we must do, The Universe, outside our living Earth, Was all conceiv'd in the Creator's mirth, Forecasting at the time Man's spirit deep, To make dirt cheap. Put by the Telescope! Better without it man may see, Stretch'd awful in the hush'd midnight, The ghost of his eternity. Give me the nobler glass that swells to the eye The things which near us lie, Till Science rapturously hails, In the minutest water-drop, A torment of innumerable tails. These at the least do live. But rather give A mind not much to pry Beyond our royal-fair estate Betwixt these deserts blank of small and great. Wonder and beauty our own courtiers are, Pressing to catch our gaze, And out of obvious ways Ne'er wandering far. XIX Crest And Gulf Much woe that man befalls 234 Who does not run when sent, nor come when Heaven calls; But whether he serve God, or his own whim, Not matters, in the end, to any one but him; And he as soon Shall map the other side of the Moon, As trace what his own deed, In the next chop of the chance gale, shall breed. This he may know: His good or evil seed Is like to grow, For its first harvest, quite to contraries: The father wise Has still the hare-brain'd brood; 'Gainst evil, ill example better works than good; The poet, fanning his mild flight At a most keen and arduous height, Unveils the tender heavens to horny human eyes Amidst ingenious blasphemies. Wouldst raise the poor, in Capuan luxury sunk? The Nation lives but whilst its Lords are drunk! Or spread Heav'n's partial gifts o'er all, like dew? The Many's weedy growth withers the gracious Few! Strange opposites, from those, again, shall rise. Join, then, if thee it please, the bitter jest Of mankind's progress; all its spectral race Mere impotence of rest, The heaving vain of life which cannot cease from self, Crest altering still to gulf And gulf to crest In endless chace, That leaves the tossing water anchor'd in its place! Ah, well does he who does but stand aside, Sans hope or fear, And marks the crest and gulf in station sink and rear, And prophesies 'gainst trust in such a tide: For he sometimes is prophet, heavenly taught, Whose message is that he sees only nought. Nathless, discern'd may be, By listeners at the doors of destiny, The fly-wheel swift and still Of God's incessant will, 235 Mighty to keep in bound, tho' powerless to quell, The amorous and vehement drift of man's herd to hell. XX ‘Let Be!’ Ah, yes; we tell the good and evil trees By fruits: But how tell these? Who does not know That good and ill Are done in secret still, And that which shews is verily but show! How high of heart is one, and one how sweet of mood: But not all height is holiness, Nor every sweetness good; And grace will sometimes lurk where who could guess? The Critic of his kind, Dealing to each his share, With easy humour, hard to bear, May not impossibly have in him shrined, As in a gossamer globe or thickly padded pod, Some small seed dear to God. Haply yon wretch, so famous for his falls, Got them beneath the Devil-defended walls Of some high Virtue he had vow'd to win; And that which you and I Call his besetting sin Is but the fume of his peculiar fire Of inmost contrary desire, And means wild willingness for her to die, Dash'd with despondence of her favour sweet; He fiercer fighting, in his worst defeat, Than I or you, That only courteous greet Where he does hotly woo, Did ever fight, in our best victory. Another is mistook Through his deceitful likeness to his look! Let be, let be: Why should I clear myself, why answer thou for me? That shaft of slander shot 236 Miss'd only the right blot. I see the shame They cannot see: 'Tis very just they blame The thing that's not. XXI ‘Faint Yet Pursuing’ Heroic Good, target for which the young Dream in their dreams that every bow is strung, And, missing, sigh Unfruitful, or as disbelievers die, Thee having miss'd, I will not so revolt, But lowlier shoot my bolt, And lowlier still, if still I may not reach, And my proud stomach teach That less than highest is good, and may be high. An even walk in life's uneven way, Though to have dreamt of flight and not to fly Be strange and sad, Is not a boon that's given to all who pray. If this I had I'd envy none! Nay, trod I straight for one Year, month or week, Should Heaven withdraw, and Satan me amerce Of power and joy, still would I seek Another victory with a like reverse; Because the good of victory does not die, As dies the failure's curse, And what we have to gain Is, not one battle, but a weary life's campaign. Yet meaner lot being sent Should more than me content; Yea, if I lie Among vile shards, though born for silver wings, In the strong flight and feathers gold Of whatsoever heavenward mounts and sings I must by admiration so comply That there I should my own delight behold. 237 Yea, though I sin each day times seven, And dare not lift the fearfullest eyes to Heaven, Thanks must I give Because that seven times are not eight or nine, And that my darkness is all mine, And that I live Within this oak-shade one more minute even, Hearing the winds their Maker magnify. XXII Victory In Defeat Ah, God, alas, How soon it came to pass The sweetness melted from thy barbed hook Which I so simply took; And I lay bleeding on the bitter land, Afraid to stir against thy least command, But losing all my pleasant life-blood, whence Force should have been heart's frailty to withstand. Life is not life at all without delight, Nor has it any might; And better than the insentient heart and brain Is sharpest pain; And better for the moment seems it to rebel, If the great Master, from his lifted seat, Ne'er whispers to the wearied servant ‘Well!’ Yet what returns of love did I endure, When to be pardon'd seem'd almost more sweet Than aye to have been pure! But day still faded to disastrous night, And thicker darkness changed to feebler light, Until forgiveness, without stint renew'd, Was now no more with loving tears imbued, Vowing no more offence. Not less to thine Unfaithful didst thou cry, ‘Come back, poor Child; be all as 'twas before. But I, ‘No, no; I will not promise any more! Yet, when I feel my hour is come to die, And so I am secured of continence, 238 Then may I say, though haply then in vain, 'My only, only Love, O, take me back again!'’ Thereafter didst thou smite So hard that, for a space, Uplifted seem'd Heav'n's everlasting door, And I indeed the darling of thy grace. But, in some dozen changes of the moon, A bitter mockery seem'd thy bitter boon. The broken pinion was no longer sore. Again, indeed, I woke Under so dread a stroke That all the strength it left within my heart Was just to ache and turn, and then to turn and ache, And some weak sign of war unceasingly to make. And here I lie, With no one near to mark, Thrusting Hell's phantoms feebly in the dark, And still at point more utterly to die. O God, how long! Put forth indeed thy powerful right hand, While time is yet, Or never shall I see the blissful land! Thus I: then God, in pleasant speech and strong, (Which soon I shall forget): ‘The man who, though his fights be all defeats, Still fights, Enters at last The heavenly Jerusalem's rejoicing streets With glory more, and more triumphant rites Than always-conquering Joshua's, when his blast The frighted walls of Jericho down cast; And, lo, the glad surprise Of peace beyond surmise, More than in common Saints, for ever in his eyes. XXIII Remembered Grace Since succour to the feeblest of the wise 239 Is charge of nobler weight Than the security Of many and many a foolish soul's estate, This I affirm, Though fools will fools more confidently be: Whom God does once with heart to heart befriend, He does so till the end: And having planted life's miraculous germ, One sweet pulsation of responsive love, He sets him sheer above, Not sin and bitter shame And wreck of fame, But Hell's insidious and more black attempt, The envy, malice, and pride, Which men who share so easily condone That few ev'n list such ills as these to hide. From these unalterably exempt, Through the remember'd grace Of that divine embrace, Of his sad errors none, Though gross to blame, Shall cast him lower than the cleansing flame, Nor make him quite depart From the small flock named ‘after God's own heart,’ And to themselves unknown. Nor can he quail In faith, nor flush nor pale When all the other idiot people spell How this or that new Prophet's word belies Their last high oracle; But constantly his soul Points to its pole Ev'n as the needle points, and knows not why; And, under the ever-changing clouds of doubt, When others cry, ‘The stars, if stars there were, Are quench'd and out!’ To him, uplooking t'ward the hills for aid, Appear, at need display'd, Gaps in the low-hung gloom, and, bright in air, Orion or the Bear. 240 XXIV Vesica Piscis In strenuous hope I wrought, And hope seem'd still betray'd; Lastly I said, ‘I have labour'd through the Night, nor yet Have taken aught; But at Thy word I will again cast forth the net!’ And, lo, I caught (Oh, quite unlike and quite beyond my thought,) Not the quick, shining harvest of the Sea, For food, my wish, But Thee! Then, hiding even in me, As hid was Simon's coin within the fish, Thou sigh'd'st, with joy, ‘Be dumb, Or speak but of forgotten things to far-off times to come.’ ~ Coventry Patmore,

725:The woods were long austere with snow: at last Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes, Brightened, "as in the slumbrous heart o' the woods "Our buried year, a witch, grew young again "To placid incantations, and that stain "About were from her cauldron, green smoke blent "With those black pines"so Eglamor gave vent To a chance fancy. Whence a just rebuke From his companion; brother Naddo shook The solemnest of brows: "Beware," he said, "Of setting up conceits in nature's stead!" Forth wandered our Sordello. Nought so sure As that to-day's adventure will secure Palma, the visioned ladyonly pass O'er you damp mound and its exhausted grass, Under that brake where sundawn feeds the stalks Of withered fern with gold, into those walks Of pine and take her! Buoyantly he went. Again his stooping forehead was besprent With dew-drops from the skirting ferns. Then wide Opened the great morass, shot every side With flashing water through and through; a-shine, Thick-steaming, all-alive. Whose shape divine, Quivered i' the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced Athwart the flying herons? He advanced, But warily; though Mincio leaped no more, Each foot-fall burst up in the marish-floor A diamond jet: and if he stopped to pick Rose-lichen, or molest the leeches quick, And circling blood-worms, minnow, newt or loach, A sudden pond would silently encroach This way and that. On Palma passed. The verge Of a new wood was gained. She will emerge Flushed, now, and panting,crowds to see,will own She loves himBoniface to hear, to groan, To leave his suit! One screen of pine-trees still Opposes: butthe startling spectacle Mantua, this time! Under the wallsa crowd Indeed, real men and women, gay and loud Round a pavilion. How he stood!                  In truth No prophecy had come to pass: his youth In its prime nowand where was homage poured Upon Sordello?born to be adored, And suddenly discovered weak, scarce made To cope with any, cast into the shade By this and this. Yet something seemed to prick And tingle in his blood; a sleighta trick And much would be explained. It went for nought The best of their endowments were ill bought With his identity: nay, the conceit, That this day's roving led to Palma's feet Was not so vainlist! The word, "Palma!" Steal Aside, and die, Sordello; this is real, And thisabjure!          What next? The curtains see Dividing! She is there; and presently He will be therethe proper You, at length In your own cherished dress of grace and strength: Most like, the very Boniface!                Not so. It was a showy man advanced; but though A glad cry welcomed him, then every sound Sank and the crowd disposed themselves around, "This is not he," Sordello felt; while, "Place "For the best Troubadour of Boniface!" Hollaed the Jongleurs,"Eglamor, whose lay "Concludes his patron's Court of Love to-day!" Obsequious Naddo strung the master's lute With the new lute-string, "Elys," named to suit The song: he stealthily at watch, the while, Biting his lip to keep down a great smile Of pride: then up he struck. Sordello's brain Swam; for he knew a sometime deed again; So, could supply each foolish gap and chasm The minstrel left in his enthusiasm, Mistaking its true versionwas the tale Not of Apollo? Only, what avail Luring her down, that Elys an he pleased, If the man dared no further? Has he ceased And, lo, the people's frank applause half done, Sordello was beside him, had begun (Spite of indignant twitchings from his friend The Trouvere) the true lay with the true end, Taking the other's names and time and place For his. On flew the song, a giddy race, After the flying story; word made leap Out word, rhymerhyme; the lay could barely keep Pace with the action visibly rushing past: Both ended. Back fell Naddo more aghast Than some Egyptian from the harassed bull That wheeled abrupt and, bellowing, fronted full His plague, who spied a scarab 'neath the tongue, And found 't was Apis' flank his hasty prong Insulted. But the peoplebut the cries, The crowding round, and proffering the prize! For he had gained some prize. He seemed to shrink Into a sleepy cloud, just at whose brink One sight withheld him. There sat Adelaide, Silent; but at her knees the very maid Of the North Chamber, her red lips as rich, The same pure fleecy hair; one weft of which, Golden and great, quite touched his cheek as o'er She leant, speaking some six words and no more. He answered something, anything; and she Unbound a scarf and laid it heavily Upon him, her neck's warmth and all. Again Moved the arrested magic; in his brain Noises grew, and a light that turned to glare, And greater glare, until the intense flare Engulfed him, shut the whole scene from his sense. And when he woke 't was many a furlong thence, At home; the sun shining his ruddy wont; The customary birds'-chirp; but his front Was crownedwas crowned! Her scented scarf around His neck! Whose gorgeous vesture heaps the ground? A prize? He turned, and peeringly on him Brooded the women-faces, kind and dim, Ready to talk"The Jongleurs in a troop "Had brought him back, Naddo and Squarcialupe "And Tagliafer; how strange! a childhood spent "In taking, well for him, so brave a bent! "Since Eglamor," they heard, "was dead with spite, "And Palma chose him for her minstrel."                      Light Sordello roseto think, now; hitherto He had perceived. Sure, a discovery grew Out of it all! Best live from first to last The transport o'er again. A week he passed, Sucking the sweet out of each circumstance, From the bard's outbreak to the luscious trance Bounding his own achievement. Strange! A man Recounted an adventure, but began Imperfectly; his own task was to fill The frame-work up, sing well what he sung ill, Supply the necessary points, set loose As many incidents of little use More imbecile the other, not to see Their relative importance clear as he! But, for a special pleasure in the act Of singinghad he ever turned, in fact, From Elys, to sing Elys?from each fit Of rapture to contrive a song of it? True, this snatch or the other seemed to wind Into a treasure, helped himself to find A beauty in himself; for, see, he soared By means of that mere snatch, to many a hoard Of fancies; as some falling cone bears soft The eye along the fir-tree-spire, aloft To a dove's nest. Then, how divine the cause Why such performance should exact applause From men, if they had fancies too? Did fate Decree they found a beauty separate In the poor snatch itself?"Take Elys, there, "'Her head that 's sharp and perfect like a pear, "'So close and smooth are laid the few fine locks "'Coloured like honey oozed from topmost rocks "'Sun-blanched the livelong summer'if they heard "Just those two rhymes, assented at my word, "And loved them as I love them who have run "These fingers through those pale locks, let the sun "Into the white cool skinwho first could clutch, "Then praiseI needs must be a god to such. "Or what if some, above themselves, and yet "Beneath me, like their Eglamor, have set "An impress on our gift? So, men believe "And worship what they know not, nor receive "Delight from. Have they fanciesslow, perchance, "Not at their beck, which indistinctly glance "Until, by song, each floating part be linked "To each, and all grow palpable, distinct?" He pondered this.          Meanwhile, sounds low and drear Stole on him, and a noise of footsteps, near And nearer, while the underwood was pushed Aside, the larches grazed, the dead leaves crushed At the approach of men. The wind seemed laid; Only, the trees shrunk slightly and a shade Came o'er the sky although 't was midday yet: You saw each half-shut downcast floweret Flutter"a Roman bride, when they 'd dispart "Her unbound tresses with the Sabine dart, "Holding that famous rape in memory still, "Felt creep into her curls the iron chill, "And looked thus," Eglamor would sayindeed 'T is Eglamor, no other, these precede Home hither in the woods. "'T were surely sweet "Far from the scene of one's forlorn defeat "To sleep!" judged Naddo, who in person led Jongleurs and Trouveres, chanting at their head, A scanty company; for, sooth to say, Our beaten Troubadour had seen his day. Old worshippers were something shamed, old friends Nigh weary; still the death proposed amends. "Let us but get them safely through my song "And home again!" quoth Naddo.                 All along, This man (they rest the bier upon the sand) This calm corpse with the loose flowers in his hand, Eglamor, lived Sordello's opposite. For him indeed was Naddo's notion right, And verse a temple-worship vague and vast, A ceremony that withdrew the last Opposing bolt, looped back the lingering veil Which hid the holy place: should one so frail Stand there without such effort? or repine If much was blank, uncertain at the shrine He knelt before, till, soothed by many a rite, The power responded, and some sound or sight Grew up, his own forever, to be fixed, In rhyme, the beautiful, forever!mixed With his own life, unloosed when he should please, Having it safe at hand, ready to ease All pain, remove all trouble; every time He loosed that fancy from its bonds of rhyme, (Like Perseus when he loosed his naked love) Faltering; so distinct and far above Himself, these fancies! He, no genius rare, Transfiguring in fire or wave or air At will, but a poor gnome that, cloistered up In some rock-chamber with his agate cup, His topaz rod, his seed-pearl, in these few And their arrangement finds enough to do For his best art. Then, how he loved that art! The calling marking him a man apart From menone not to care, take counsel for Cold hearts, comfortless faces(Eglamor Was neediest of his tribe)since verse, the gift, Was his, and men, the whole of them, must shift Without it, e'en content themselves with wealth And pomp and power, snatching a life by stealth. So, Eglamor was not without his pride! The sorriest bat which cowers throughout noontide While other birds are jocund, has one time When moon and stars are blinded, and the prime Of earth is his to claim, nor find a peer; And Eglamor was noblest poet here He well knew, 'mid those April woods he cast Conceits upon in plenty as he passed, That Naddo might suppose him not to think Entirely on the coming triumph: wink At the one weakness! 'T was a fervid child, That song of his; no brother of the guild Had e'er conceived its like. The rest you know, The exaltation and the overthrow: Our poet lost his purpose, lost his rank, His lifeto that it came. Yet envy sank Within him, as he heard Sordello out, And, for the first time, shoutedtried to shout Like others, not from any zeal to show Pleasure that way: the common sort did so, What else was Eglamor? who, bending down As they, placed his beneath Sordello's crown, Printed a kiss on his successor's hand, Left one great tear on it, then joined his band In time; for some were watching at the door: Who knows what envy may effect? "Give o'er, "Nor charm his lips, nor craze him!" (here one spied And disengaged the withered crown)"Beside "His crown? How prompt and clear those verses rang "To answer yours! nay, sing them!" And he sang Them calmly. Home he went; friends used to wait His coming, zealous to congratulate; But, to a manso quickly runs report Could do no less than leave him, and escort His rival. That eve, then, bred many a thought: What must his future life be? was he brought So low, who stood so lofty this Spring morn? At length he said, "Best sleep now with my scorn, "And by to-morrow I devise some plain "Expedient!" So, he slept, nor woke again. They found as much, those friends, when they returned O'erflowing with the marvels they had learned About Sordello's paradise, his roves Among the hills and vales and plains and groves, Wherein, no doubt, this lay was roughly cast, Polished by slow degrees, completed last To Eglamor's discomfiture and death. Such form the chanters now, and, out of breath, They lay the beaten man in his abode, Naddo reciting that same luckless ode, Doleful to hear. Sordello could explore By means of it, however, one step more In joy; and, mastering the round at length, Learnt how to live in weakness as in strength, When from his covert forth he stood, addressed Eglamor, bade the tender ferns invest, Primval pines o'ercanopy his couch, And, most of all, his fame(shall I avouch Eglamor heard it, dead though he might look, And laughed as from his brow Sordello took The crown, and laid on the bard's breast, and said It was a crown, now, fit for poet's head?) Continue. Nor the prayer quite fruitless fell. A plant they have, yielding a three-leaved bell Which whitens at the heart ere noon, and ails Till evening; evening gives it to her gales To clear away with such forgotten things As are an eyesore to the morn: this brings Him to their mind, and bears his very name. So much for Eglamor. My own month came; 'T was a sunrise of blossoming and May. Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars Dug up at Bai, when the south wind shed The ripest, made him happier; filleted And robed the same, only a lute beside Lay on the turf. Before him far and wide The country stretched: Goito slept behind The castle and its covert, which confined Him with his hopes and fears; so fain of old To leave the story of his birth untold. At intervals, 'spite the fantastic glow Of his Apollo-life, a certain low And wretched whisper, winding through the bliss, Admonished, no such fortune could be his, All was quite false and sure to fade one day: The closelier drew he round him his array Of brilliance to expel the truth. But when A reason for his difference from men Surprised him at the grave, he took no rest While aught of that old life, superbly dressed Down to its meanest incident, remained A mystery: alas, they soon explained Away Apollo! and the tale amounts To this: when at Vicenza both her counts Banished the Vivaresi kith and kin, Those Maltraversi hung on Ecelin, Reviled him as he followed; he for spite Must fire their quarter, though that self-same night Among the flames young Ecelin was born Of Adelaide, there too, and barely torn From the roused populace hard on the rear, By a poor archer when his chieftain's fear Grew high; into the thick Elcorte leapt, Saved her, and died; no creature left except His child to thank. And when the full escape Was knownhow men impaled from chine to nape Unlucky Prata, all to pieces spurned Bishop Pistore's concubines, and burned Taurello's entire household, flesh and fell, Missing the sweeter preysuch courage well Might claim reward. The orphan, ever since, Sordello, had been nurtured by his prince Within a blind retreat where Adelaide (For, once this notable discovery made, The past at every point was understood) Might harbour easily when times were rude, When Azzo schemed for Palma, to retrieve That pledge of Agnes Esteloth to leave Mantua unguarded with a vigilant eye, While there Taurello bode ambiguously He who could have no motive now to moil For his own fortunes since their utter spoil As it were worth while yet (went the report) To disengage himself from her. In short, Apollo vanished; a mean youth, just named His lady's minstrel, was to be proclaimed How shall I phrase it?Monarch of the World! For, on the day when that array was furled Forever, and in place of one a slave To longings, wild indeed, but longings save In dreams as wild, suppressedone daring not Assume the mastery such dreams allot, Until a magical equipment, strength, Grace, wisdom, decked him too,he chose at length, Content with unproved wits and failing frame, In virtue of his simple will, to claim That mastery, no lessto do his best With means so limited, and let the rest Go by,the seal was set: never again Sordello could in his own sight remain One of the many, one with hopes and cares And interests nowise distinct from theirs, Only peculiar in a thriveless store Of fancies, which were fancies and no more; Never again for him and for the crowd A common law was challenged and allowed If calmly reasoned of, howe'er denied By a mad impulse nothing justified Short of Apollo's presence. The divorce Is clear: why needs Sordello square his course By any known example? Men no more Compete with him than tree and flower before. Himself, inactive, yet is greater far Than such as act, each stooping to his star, Acquiring thence his function; he has gained The same result with meaner mortals trained To strength or beauty, moulded to express Each the idea that rules him; since no less He comprehends that function, but can still Embrace the others, take of might his fill With Richard as of grace with Palma, mix Their qualities, or for a moment fix On one; abiding free meantime, uncramped By any partial organ, never stamped Strong, and to strength turning all energies Wise, and restricted to becoming wise That is, he loves not, nor possesses One Idea that, star-like over, lures him on To its exclusive purpose. "Fortunate! "This flesh of mine ne'er strove to emulate "A soul so varioustook no casual mould "Of the first fancy and, contracted, cold, "Clogged her foreversoul averse to change "As flesh: whereas flesh leaves soul free to range, "Remains itself a blank, cast into shade, "Encumbers little, if it cannot aid. "So, range, free soul!who, by self-consciousness, "The last drop of all beauty dost express "The grace of seeing grace, a quintessence "For thee: while for the world, that can dispense "Wonder on men who, themselves, wondermake "A shift to love at second-hand, and take "For idols those who do but idolize, "Themselves,the world that counts men strong or wise, "Who, themselves, court strength, wisdom,it shall bow "Surely in unexampled worship now, "Discerning me!"          (Dear monarch, I beseech, Notice how lamentably wide a breach Is here: discovering this, discover too What our poor world has possibly to do With it! As pigmy natures as you please So much the better for you; take your ease, Look on, and laugh; style yourself God alone; Strangle some day with a cross olive-stone! All that is right enough: but why want us To know that you yourself know thus and thus?) "The world shall bow to me conceiving all "Man's life, who see its blisses, great and small, "Afarnot tasting any; no machine "To exercise my utmost will is mine: "Be mine mere consciousness! Let men perceive "What I could do, a mastery believe, "Asserted and established to the throng "By their selected evidence of song "Which now shall prove, whate'er they are, or seek "To be, I amwhose words, not actions speak, "Who change no standards of perfection, vex "With no strange forms created to perplex, "But just perform their bidding and no more, "At their own satiating-point give o'er, "While each shall love in me the love that leads "His soul to power's perfection." Song, not deeds, (For we get tired) was chosen. Fate would brook Mankind no other organ; he would look For not another channel to dispense His own volition by, receive men's sense Of its supremacywould live content, Obstructed else, with merely verse for vent. Nor should, for instance, strength an outlet seek And, striving, be admired: nor grace bespeak Wonder, displayed in gracious attitudes: Nor wisdom, poured forth, change unseemly moods; But he would give and take on song's one point. Like some huge throbbing stone that, poised a-joint, Sounds, to affect on its basaltic bed, Must sue in just one accent; tempests shed Thunder, and raves the windstorm: only let That key by any little noise be set The far benighted hunter's halloo pitch On that, the hungry curlew chance to scritch Or serpent hiss it, rustling through the rift, However loud, however lowall lift The groaning monster, stricken to the heart. Lo ye, the world's concernment, for its part, And this, for his, will hardly interfere! Its businesses in blood and blaze this year But wile the hour awaya pastime slight Till he shall step upon the platform: right! And, now thus much is settled, cast in rough, Proved feasible, be counselled! thought enough, Slumber, Sordello! any day will serve: Were it a less digested plan! how swerve To-morrow? Meanwhile eat these sun-dried grapes, And watch the soaring hawk there! Life escapes Merrily thus.        He thoroughly read o'er His truchman Naddo's missive six times more, Praying him visit Mantua and supply A famished world.          The evening star was high When he reached Mantua, but his fame arrived Before him: friends applauded, foes connived, And Naddo looked an angel, and the rest Angels, and all these angels would be blest Supremely by a songthe thrice-renowned Goito-manufacture. Then he found (Casting about to satisfy the crowd) That happy vehicle, so late allowed, A sore annoyance; 't was the song's effect He cared for, scarce the song itself: reflect! In the past life, what might be singing's use? Just to delight his Delians, whose profuse Praise, not the toilsome process which procured That praise, enticed Apollo: dreams abjured, No overleaping means for endstake both For granted or take neither! I am loth To say the rhymes at last were Eglamor's; But Naddo, chuckling, bade competitors Go pine; "the master certes meant to waste "No effort, cautiously had probed the taste "He 'd please anon: true bard, in short,disturb "His title if they could; nor spur nor curb, "Fancy nor reason, wanting in him; whence "The staple of his verses, common sense: "He built on man's broad naturegift of gifts, "That power to build! The world contented shifts "With counterfeits enough, a dreary sort "Of warriors, statesmen, ere it can extort "Its poet-soulthat 's, after all, a freak "(The having eyes to see and tongue to speak) "With our herd's stupid sterling happiness "So plainly incompatible thatyes "Yesshould a son of his improve the breed "And turn out poet, he were cursed indeed!" "Well, there 's Goito and its woods anon, "If the worst happen; best go stoutly on "Now!" thought Sordello.              Ay, and goes on yet! You pother with your glossaries to get A notion of the Troubadour's intent In rondel, tenzon, virlai or sirvent Much as you study arras how to twirl His angelot, plaything of page and girl Once; but you surely reach, at last,or, no! Never quite reach what struck the people so, As from the welter of their time he drew Its elements successively to view, Followed all actions backward on their course, And catching up, unmingled at the source, Such a strength, such a weakness, added then A touch or two, and turned them into men. Virtue took form, nor vice refused a shape; Here heaven opened, there was hell agape, As Saint this simpered past in sanctity, Sinner the other flared portentous by A greedy people. Then why stop, surprised At his success? The scheme was realized Too suddenly in one respect: a crowd Praising, eyes quick to see, and lips as loud To speak, delicious homage to receive, The woman's breath to feel upon his sleeve, Who said, "But Anafestwhy asks he less "Than Lucio, in your verses? how confess, "It seemed too much but yestereve!"the youth, Who bade him earnestly, "Avow the truth! "You love Bianca, surely, from your song; "I knew I was unworthy!"soft or strong, In poured such tributes ere he had arranged Ethereal ways to take them, sorted, changed, Digested. Courted thus at unawares, In spite of his pretensions and his cares, He caught himself shamefully hankering After the obvious petty joys that spring From true life, fain relinquish pedestal And condescend with pleasuresone and all To be renounced, no doubt; for, thus to chain Himself to single joys and so refrain From tasting their quintessence, frustrates, sure, His prime design; each joy must he abjure Even for love of it.            He laughed: what sage But perishes if from his magic page He look because, at the first line, a proof 'T was heard salutes him from the cavern roof? "On! Give yourself, excluding aught beside, "To the day's task; compel your slave provide "Its utmost at the soonest; turn the leaf "Thoroughly conned. These lays of yours, in brief "Cannot men bear, now, something better?fly "A pitch beyond this unreal pageantry "Of essences? the period sure has ceased "For such: present us with ourselves, at least, "Not portions of ourselves, mere loves and hates "Made flesh: wait not!"             Awhile the poet waits However. The first trial was enough: He left imagining, to try the stuff That held the imaged thing, and, let it writhe Never so fiercely, scarce allowed a tithe To reach the lighthis Language. How he sought The cause, conceived a cure, and slow re-wrought That Language,welding words into the crude Mass from the new speech round him, till a rude Armour was hammered out, in time to be Approved beyond the Roman panoply Melted to make it,boots not. This obtained With some ado, no obstacle remained To using it; accordingly he took An action with its actors, quite forsook Himself to live in each, returned anon With the resulta creature, and, by one And one, proceeded leisurely to equip Its limbs in harness of his workmanship. "Accomplished! Listen, Mantuans!" Fond essay! Piece after piece that armour broke away, Because perceptions whole, like that he sought To clothe, reject so pure a work of thought As language: thought may take perception's place But hardly co-exist in any case, Being its mere presentmentof the whole By parts, the simultaneous and the sole By the successive and the many. Lacks The crowd perception? painfully it tacks Thought to thought, which Sordello, needing such, Has rent perception into: it's to clutch And reconstructhis office to diffuse, Destroy: as hard, then, to obtain a Muse As to become Apollo. "For the rest, "E'en if some wondrous vehicle expressed "The whole dream, what impertinence in me "So to express it, who myself can be "The dream! nor, on the other hand, are those "I sing to, over-likely to suppose "A higher than the highest I present "Now, which they praise already: be content "Both parties, ratherthey with the old verse, "And I with the old praisefar go, fare worse!" A few adhering rivets loosed, upsprings The angel, sparkles off his mail, which rings Whirled from each delicatest limb it warps; So might Apollo from the sudden corpse Of Hyacinth have cast his luckless quoits. He set to celebrating the exploits Of Montfort o'er the Mountaineers.                   Then came The world's revenge: their pleasure, now his aim Merely,what was it? "Not to play the fool "So much as learn our lesson in your school!" Replied the world. He found that, every time He gained applause by any ballad-rhyme, His auditory recognized no jot As he intended, and, mistaking not Him for his meanest hero, ne'er was dunce Sufficient to believe himall, at once. His will . . . conceive it caring for his will! Mantuans, the main of them, admiring still How a mere singer, ugly, stunted, weak, Had Montfort at completely (so to speak) His fingers' ends; while past the praise-tide swept To Montfort, either's share distinctly kept: The true meed for true merit!his abates Into a sort he most repudiates, And on them angrily he turns. Who were The Mantuans, after all, that he should care About their recognition, ay or no? In spite of the convention months ago, (Why blink the truth?) was not he forced to help This same ungrateful audience, every whelp Of Naddo's litter, make them pass for peers With the bright band of old Goito years, As erst he toiled for flower or tree? Why, there Sat Palma! Adelaide's funereal hair Ennobled the next corner. Ay, he strewed A fairy dust upon that multitude, Although he feigned to take them by themselves; His giants dignified those puny elves, Sublimed their faint applause. In short, he found Himself still footing a delusive round, Remote as ever from the self-display He meant to compass, hampered every way By what he hoped assistance. Wherefore then Continue, make believe to find in men A use he found not?           Weeks, months, years went by And lo, Sordello vanished utterly, Sundered in twain; each spectral part at strife With each; one jarred against another life; The Poet thwarting hopelessly the Man Who, fooled no longer, free in fancy ran Here, there: let slip no opportunities As pitiful, forsooth, beside the prize To drop on him some no-time and acquit His constant faith (the Poet-half's to wit That waiving any compromise between No joy and all joy kept the hunger keen Beyond most methods)of incurring scoff From the Man-portionnot to be put off With self-reflectings by the Poet's scheme, Though ne'er so bright. Who sauntered forth in dream, Dressed any how, nor waited mystic frames, Immeasurable gifts, astounding claims, But just his sorry self?who yet might be Sorrier for aught he in reality Achieved, so pinioned Man's the Poet-part, Fondling, in turn of fancy, verse; the Art Developing his soul a thousand ways Potent, by its assistance, to amaze The multitude with majesties, convince Each sort of nature that the nature's prince Accosted it. Language, the makeshift, grew Into a bravest of expedients, too; Apollo, seemed it now, perverse had thrown Quiver and bow away, the lyre alone Sufficed. While, out of dream, his day's work went To tune a crazy tenzon or sirvent So hampered him the Man-part, thrust to judge Between the bard and the bard's audience, grudge A minute's toil that missed its due reward! But the complete Sordello, Man and Bard, John's cloud-girt angel, this foot on the land, That on the sea, with, open in his hand, A bitter-sweetling of a bookwas gone. Then, if internal struggles to be one, Which frittered him incessantly piecemeal, Referred, ne'er so obliquely, to the real Intruding Mantuans! ever with some call To action while he pondered, once for all, Which looked the easier effortto pursue This course, still leap o'er paltry joys, yearn through The present ill-appreciated stage Of self-revealment, and compel the age Know himor else, forswearing bard-craft, wake From out his lethargy and nobly shake Off timid habits of denial, mix With men, enjoy like men. Ere he could fix On aught, in rushed the Mantuans; much they cared For his perplexity! Thus unprepared, The obvious if not only shelter lay In deeds, the dull conventions of his day Prescribed the like of him: why not be glad 'T is settled Palma's minstrel, good or bad, Submits to this and that established rule? Let Vidal change, or any other fool, His murrey-coloured robe for filamot, And crop his hair; too skin-deep, is it not, Such vigour? Then, a sorrow to the heart, His talk! Whatever topics they might start Had to be groped for in his consciousness Straight, and as straight delivered them by guess. Only obliged to ask himself, "What was," A speedy answer followed; but, alas, One of God's large ones, tardy to condense Itself into a period; answers whence A tangle of conclusions must be stripped At any risk ere, trim to pattern clipped, They matched rare specimens the Mantuan flock Regaled him with, each talker from his stock Of sorted-o'er opinions, every stage, Juicy in youth or desiccate with age, Fruits like the fig-tree's, rathe-ripe, rotten-rich, Sweet-sour, all tastes to take: a practice which He too had not impossibly attained, Once either of those fancy-flights restrained; (For, at conjecture how might words appear To others, playing there what happened here, And occupied abroad by what he spurned At home, 't was slipped, the occasion he returned To seize he 'd strike that lyre adroitlyspeech, Would but a twenty-cubit plectre reach; A clever hand, consummate instrument, Were both brought close; each excellency went For nothing, else. The question Naddo asked, Had just a lifetime moderately tasked To answer, Naddo's fashion. More disgust And more: why move his soul, since move it must At minute's notice or as good it failed To move at all? The end was, he retailed Some ready-made opinion, put to use This quip, that maxim, ventured reproduce Gestures and tonesat any folly caught Serving to finish with, nor too much sought If false or true 't was spoken; praise and blame Of what he said grew pretty nigh the same Meantime awards to meantime acts: his soul, Unequal to the compassing a whole, Saw, in a tenth part, less and less to strive About. And as for men in turn . . . contrive Who could to take eternal interest In them, so hate the worst, so love the best, Though, in pursuance of his passive plan, He hailed, decried, the proper way.                    As Man So figured he; and how as Poet? Verse Came only not to a stand-still. The worse, That his poor piece of daily work to do Wasnot sink under any rivals; who Loudly and long enough, without these qualms, Turned, from Bocafoli's stark-naked psalms, To Plara's sonnets spoilt by toying with, "As knops that stud some almug to the pith "Prickd for gum, wry thence, and crinkld worse "Than pursd eyelids of a river-horse "Sunning himself o' the slime when whirrs the breese" Gad-fly, that is. He might compete with these! Butbut      "Observe a pompion-twine afloat; "Pluck me one cup from off the castle-moat! "Along with cup you raise leaf, stalk and root, "The entire surface of the pool to boot. "So could I pluck a cup, put in one song "A single sight, did not my hand, too strong, "Twitch in the least the root-strings of the whole. "How should externals satisfy my soul?" "Why that's precise the error Squarcialupe" (Hazarded Naddo) "finds; 'the man can't stoop "'To sing us out,' quoth he, 'a mere romance; "'He'd fain do better than the best, enhance "'The subjects' rarity, work problems out "'Therewith.' Now, you 're a bard, a bard past doubt, "And no philosopher; why introduce "Crotchets like these? fine, surely, but no use "In poetrywhich still must be, to strike, "Based upon common sense; there's nothing like "Appealing to our nature! what beside "Was your first poetry? No tricks were tried "In that, no hollow thrills, affected throes! "'The man,' said we, 'tells his own joys and woes: "'We'll trust him.' Would you have your songs endure? "Build on the human heart!why, to be sure "Yours is one sort of heartbut I mean theirs, "Ours, every one's, the healthy heart one cares "To build on! Central peace, mother of strength, "That's father of . . . nay, go yourself that length, "Ask those calm-hearted doers what they do "When they have got their calm! And is it true, "Fire rankles at the heart of every globe? "Perhaps. But these are matters one may probe "Too deeply for poetic purposes: "Rather select a theory that . . . yes, "Laugh! what does that prove?stations you midway "And saves some little o'er-refining. Nay, "That's rank injustice done me! I restrict "The poet? Don't I hold the poet picked "Out of a host of warriors, statesmen . . . did "I tell you? Very like! As well you hid "That sense of power, you have! True bards believe "All able to achieve what they achieve "That is, just nothingin one point abide "Profounder simpletons than all beside. "Oh, ay! The knowledge that you are a bard "Must constitute your prime, nay sole, reward!" So prattled Naddo, busiest of the tribe Of genius-hauntershow shall I describe What grubs or nips or rubs or ripsyour louse For love, your flea for hate, magnanimous, Malignant, Pappacoda, Tagliafer, Picking a sustenance from wear and tear By implements it sedulous employs To undertake, lay down, mete out, o'er-toise Sordello? Fifty creepers to elude At once! They settled staunchly; shame ensued: Behold the monarch of mankind succumb To the last fool who turned him round his thumb, As Naddo styled it! 'T was not worth oppose The matter of a moment, gainsay those He aimed at getting rid of; better think Their thoughts and speak their speech, secure to slink Back expeditiously to his safe place, And chew the cudwhat he and what his race Were really, each of them. Yet even this Conformity was partial. He would miss Some point, brought into contact with them ere Assured in what small segment of the sphere Of his existence they attended him; Whence blunders, falsehoods rectifieda grim Listslur it over! How? If dreams were tried, His will swayed sicklily from side to side, Nor merely neutralized his waking act But tended e'en in fancy to distract The intermediate will, the choice of means. He lost the art of dreaming: Mantuan scenes Supplied a baron, say, he sang before, Handsomely reckless, full to running-o'er Of gallantries; "abjure the soul, content "With body, therefore!" Scarcely had he bent Himself in dream thus low, when matter fast Cried out, he found, for spirit to contrast And task it duly; by advances slight, The simple stuff becoming composite, Count Lori grew Apollo: best recall His fancy! Then would some rough peasant-Paul, Like those old Ecelin confers with, glance His gay apparel o'er; that countenance Gathered his shattered fancies into one, And, body clean abolished, soul alone Sufficed the grey Paulician: by and by, To balance the ethereality, Passions were needed; foiled he sank again. Meanwhile the world rejoiced ('t is time explain) Because a sudden sickness set it free From Adelaide. Missing the mother-bee, Her mountain-hive Romano swarmed; at once A rustle-forth of daughters and of sons Blackened the valley. "I am sick too, old, "Half-crazed I think; what good's the Kaiser's gold "To such an one? God help me! for I catch "My children's greedy sparkling eyes at watch "'He bears that double breastplate on,' they say, "'So many minutes less than yesterday!' "Beside, Monk Hilary is on his knees "Now, sworn to kneel and pray till God shall please "Exact a punishment for many things "You know, and some you never knew; which brings "To memory, Azzo's sister Beatrix "And Richard's Giglia are my Alberic's "And Ecelin's betrothed; the Count himself "Must get my Palma: Ghibellin and Guelf "Mean to embrace each other." So began Romano's missive to his fighting man Taurelloon the Tuscan's death, away With Friedrich sworn to sail from Naples' bay Next month for Syria. Never thunder-clap Out of Vesuvius' throat, like this mishap Startled him. "That accursed Vicenza! I "Absent, and she selects this time to die! "Ho, fellows, for Vicenza!" Half a score Of horses ridden dead, he stood before Romano in his reeking spurs: too late "Boniface urged me, Este could not wait," The chieftain stammered; "let me die in peace "Forget me! Was it I who craved increase "Of rule? Do you and Friedrich plot your worst "Against the Father: as you found me first "So leave me now. Forgive me! Palma, sure, "Is at Goito still. Retain that lure "Only be pacified!"           The country rung With such a piece of news: on every tongue, How Ecelin's great servant, congeed off, Had done a long day's service, so, might doff The green and yellow, and recover breath At Mantua, whither,since Retrude's death, (The girlish slip of a Sicilian bride From Otho's house, he carried to reside At Mantua till the Ferrarese should pile A structure worthy her imperial style, The gardens raise, the statues there enshrine, She never lived to see)although his line Was ancient in her archives and she took A pride in him, that city, nor forsook Her child when he forsook himself and spent A prowess on Romano surely meant For his own growthwhither he ne'er resorts If wholly satisfied (to trust reports) With Ecelin. So, forward in a trice Were shows to greet him. "Take a friend's advice," Quoth Naddo to Sordello, "nor be rash "Because your rivals (nothing can abash "Some folks) demur that we pronounced you best "To sound the great man's welcome; 't is a test, "Remember! Strojavacca looks asquint, "The rough fat sloven; and there 's plenty hint "Your pinions have received of late a shock "Outsoar them, cobswan of the silver flock! "Sing well!" A signal wonder, song 's no whit Facilitated.       Fast the minutes flit; Another day, Sordello finds, will bring The soldier, and he cannot choose but sing; So, a last shift, quits Mantuaslow, alone: Out of that aching brain, a very stone, Song must be struck. What occupies that front? Just how he was more awkward than his wont The night before, when Naddo, who had seen Taurello on his progress, praised the mien For dignity no crosses could affect Such was a joy, and might not he detect A satisfaction if established joys Were proved imposture? Poetry annoys Its utmost: wherefore fret? Verses may come Or keep away! And thus he wandered, dumb Till evening, when he paused, thoroughly spent, On a blind hill-top: down the gorge he went, Yielding himself up as to an embrace. The moon came out; like features of a face, A querulous fraternity of pines, Sad blackthorn clumps, leafless and grovelling vines Also came out, made gradually up The picture; 't was Goito's mountain-cup And castle. He had dropped through one defile He never dared explore, the Chief erewhile Had vanished by. Back rushed the dream, enwrapped Him wholly. 'T was Apollo now they lapped, Those mountains, not a pettish minstrel meant To wear his soul away in discontent, Brooding on fortune's malice. Heart and brain Swelled; he expanded to himself again, As some thin seedling spice-tree starved and frail, Pushing between cat's head and ibis' tail Crusted into the porphyry pavement smooth, Suffered remain just as it sprung, to soothe The Soldan's pining daughter, never yet Well in her chilly green-glazed minaret, When rooted up, the sunny day she died, And flung into the common court beside Its parent tree. Come home, Sordello! Soon Was he low muttering, beneath the moon, Of sorrow saved, of quiet evermore, Since from the purpose, he maintained before, Only resulted wailing and hot tears. Ah, the slim castle! dwindled of late years, But more mysterious; gone to ruintrails Of vine through every loop-hole. Nought avails The night as, torch in hand, he must explore The maple chamber: did I say, its floor Was made of intersecting cedar beams? Worn now with gaps so large, there blew cold streams Of air quite from the dungeon; lay your ear Close and 't is like, one after one, you hear In the blind darkness water drop. The nests And nooks retain their long ranged vesture-chests Empty and smelling of the iris root The Tuscan grated o'er them to recruit Her wasted wits. Palma was gone that day, Said the remaining women. Last, he lay Beside the Carian group reserved and still. The Body, the Machine for Acting Will, Had been at the commencement proved unfit; That for Demonstrating, Reflecting it, Mankindno fitter: was the Will Itself In fault?      His forehead pressed the moonlit shelf Beside the youngest marble maid awhile; Then, raising it, he thought, with a long smile, "I shall be king again!" as he withdrew The envied scarf; into the font he threw His crown      Next day, no poet! "Wherefore?" asked Taurello, when the dance of Jongleurs, masked As devils, ended; "don't a song come next?" The master of the pageant looked perplexed Till Naddo's whisper came to his relief. "His Highness knew what poets were: in brief, "Had not the tetchy race prescriptive right "To peevishness, caprice? or, call it spite, "One must receive their nature in its length "And breadth, expect the weakness with the strength!" So phrasing, till, his stock of phrases spent, The easy-natured soldier smiled assent, Settled his portly person, smoothed his chin, And nodded that the bull-bait might begin. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Second ,

726:Is it the same Sordello in the dusk As at the dawn?merely a perished husk Now, that arose a power fit to build Up Rome again? The proud conception chilled So soon? Ay, watch that latest dream of thine A Rome indebted to no Palatine Drop arch by arch, Sordello! Art possessed Of thy wish now, rewarded for thy quest To-day among Ferrara's squalid sons? Are this and this and this the shining ones Meet for the Shining City? Sooth to say, Your favoured tenantry pursue their way After a fashion! This companion slips On the smooth causey, t' other blinkard trips At his mooned sandal. "Leave to lead the brawls "Here i' the atria?" No, friend! He that sprawls On aught but a stibadium . . . what his dues Who puts the lustral vase to such an use? Oh, huddle up the day's disasters! March, Ye runagates, and drop thou, arch by arch, Rome!    Yet before they quite disbanda whim Study mere shelter, now, for him, and him, Nay, even the worst,just house them! Any cave Suffices: throw out earth! A loophole? Brave! They ask to feel the sun shine, see the grass Grow, hear the larks sing? Dead art thou, alas, And I am dead! But here's our son excels At hurdle-weaving any Scythian, fells Oak and devises rafters, dreams and shapes His dream into a door-post, just escapes The mystery of hinges. Lie we both Perdue another age. The goodly growth Of brick and stone! Our building-pelt was rough, But that descendant's garb suits well enough A portico-contriver. Speed the years What 's time to us? At last, a city rears Itself! nay, enterwhat's the grave to us? Lo, our forlorn acquaintance carry thus The head! Successively sewer, forum, cirque Last age, an aqueduct was counted work, But now they tire the artificer upon Blank alabaster, black obsidion, Careful, Jove's face be duly fulgurant, And mother Venus' kiss-creased nipples pant Back into pristine pulpiness, ere fixed Above the baths. What difference betwixt This Rome and oursresemblance what, between That scurvy dumb-show and this pageant sheen These Romans and our rabble? Use thy wit! The work marched: step by step,a workman fit Took each, nor too fit,to one task, one time, No leaping o'er the petty to the prime, When just the substituting osier lithe For brittle bulrush, sound wood for soft withe, To further loam-and-roughcast-work a stage, Exacts an architect, exacts an age: No tables of the Mauritanian tree For men whose maple log 's their luxury! That way was Rome built. "Better" (say you) "merge "At once all workmen in the demiurge, "All epochs in a lifetime, every task "In one!" So should the sudden city bask I' the daywhile those we 'd feast there, want the knack Of keeping fresh-chalked gowns from speck and brack, Distinguish not rare peacock from vile swan, Nor Mareotic juice from Ccuban. "Enough of Rome! 'T was happy to conceive "Rome on a sudden, nor shall fate bereave "Me of that credit: for the rest, her spite "Is an old storyserves my folly right "By adding yet another to the dull "List of abortionsthings proved beautiful "Could they be done, Sordello cannot do." He sat upon the terrace, plucked and threw The powdery aloe-cusps away, saw shift Rome's walls, and drop arch after arch, and drift Mist-like afar those pillars of all stripe, Mounds of all majesty. "Thou archetype, "Last of my dreams and loveliest, depart!" And then a low voice wound into his heart: "Sordello!" (low as some old Pythoness Conceding to a Lydian King's distress The cause of his long errorone mistake Of her past oracle) "Sordello, wake! "God has conceded two sights to a man "One, of men's whole work, time's completed plan, "The other, of the minute's work, man's first "Step to the plan's completeness: what's dispersed "Save hope of that supreme step which, descried "Earliest, was meant still to remain untried "Only to give you heart to take your own "Step, and there stay, leaving the rest alone? "Where is the vanity? Why count as one "The first step, with the last step? What is gone "Except Rome's ary magnificence, "That last step you 'd take first?an evidence "You were God: be man now! Let those glances fall! "The basis, the beginning step of all, "Which proves you just a manis that gone too? "Pity to disconcert one versed as you "In fate's ill-nature! but its full extent "Eludes Sordello, even: the veil rent, "Read the black writingthat collective man "Outstrips the individual. Who began "The acknowledged greatnesses? Ay, your own art "Shall serve us: put the poet's mimes apart "Close with the poet's self, and lo, a dim "Yet too plain form divides itself from him! "Alcamo's song enmeshes the lulled Isle, "Woven into the echoes left erewhile "By Nina, one soft web of song: no more "Turning his name, then, flower-like o'er and o'er! "An elder poet in the younger's place; "Nina's the strength, but Alcamo's the grace: "Each neutralizes each then! Search your fill; "You get no whole and perfect Poetstill "New Ninas, Alcamos, till time's mid-night "Shrouds allor better say, the shutting light "Of a forgotten yesterday. Dissect "Every ideal workman(to reject "In favour of your fearful ignorance "The thousand phantasms eager to advance, "And point you but to those within your reach) "Were you the first who brought(in modern speech) "The Multitude to be materialized? "That loose eternal unrestwho devised "An apparition i' the midst? The rout "Was checked, a breathless ring was formed about "That sudden flower: get round at any risk "The gold-rough pointel, silver-blazing disk "O' the lily! Swords across it! Reign thy reign "And serve thy frolic service, Charlemagne! "The very child of over-joyousness, "Unfeeling thence, strong therefore: Strength by stress "Of Strength comes of that forehead confident, "Those widened eyes expecting heart's content, "A calm as out of just-quelled noise; nor swerves "For doubt, the ample cheek in gracious curves "Abutting on the upthrust nether lip: "He wills, how should he doubt then? Ages slip: "Was it Sordello pried into the work "So far accomplished, and discovered lurk "A company amid the other clans, "Only distinct in priests for castellans "And popes for suzerains (their rule confessed "Its rule, their interest its interest, "Living for sake of livingthere an end, "Wrapt in itself, no energy to spend "In making adversaries or allies) "Dived you into its capabilities "And dared create, out of that sect, a soul "Should turn a multitude, already whole, "Into its body? Speak plainer! Is 't so sure "God's church lives by a King's investiture? "Look to last step! A staggeringa shock "What 's mere sand is demolished, while the rock "Endures: a column of black fiery dust "Blots heaventhat help was prematurely thrust "Aside, perchance!but air clears, nought 's erased "Of the true outline. Thus much being firm based, "The other was a scaffold. See him stand "Buttressed upon his mattock, Hildebrand "Of the huge brain-mask welded ply o'er ply "As in a forge; it buries either eye "White and extinct, that stupid brow; teeth clenched, "The neck tight-corded, too, the chin deep-trenched, "As if a cloud enveloped him while fought "Under its shade, grim prizers, thought with thought "At dead-lock, agonizing he, until "The victor thought leap radiant up, and Will, "The slave with folded arms and drooping lids "They fought for, lean forth flame-like as it bids. "Call him no flowera mandrake of the earth, "Thwarted and dwarfed and blasted in its birth, "Rather,a fruit of suffering's excess, "Thence feeling, therefore stronger: still by stress "Of Strength, work Knowledge! Full three hundred years "Have men to wear away in smiles and tears "Between the two that nearly seemed to touch, "Observe you! quit one workman and you clutch "Another, letting both their trains go by "The actors-out of either's policy, "Heinrich, on this hand, Otho, Barbaross, "Carry the three Imperial crowns across, "Aix' Iron, Milan's Silver, and Rome's Gold "While Alexander, Innocent uphold "On that, each Papal keybut, link on link, "Why is it neither chain betrays a chink? "How coalesce the small and great? Alack, "For one thrust forward, fifty such fall back! "Do the popes coupled there help Gregory "Alone? Harkfrom the hermit Peter's cry "At Claremont, down to the first serf that says "Friedrich 's no liege of his while he delays "Getting the Pope's curse off him! The Crusade "Or trick of breeding Strength by other aid "Than Strength, is safe. Harkfrom the wild harangue "Of Vimmercato, to the carroch's clang "Yonder! The Leagueor trick of turning Strength "Against Pernicious Strength, is safe at length. "Yet harkfrom Mantuan Albert making cease "The fierce ones, to Saint Francis preaching peace "Yonder! God's Truceor trick to supersede "The very Use of Strength, is safe. Indeed "We trench upon the future. Who is found "To take next step, next agetrail o'er the ground "Shall I say, gourd-like?not the flower's display "Nor the root's prowess, but the plenteous way "O' the plantproduced by joy and sorrow, whence "Unfeeling and yet feeling, strongest thence? "Knowledge by stress of merely Knowledge? No "E'en were Sordello ready to forego "His life for this, 't were overleaping work "Some one has first to do, howe'er it irk, "Nor stray a foot's breadth from the beaten road. "Who means to help must still support the load "Hildebrand lifted'why hast Thou,' he groaned, "`Imposed on me a burthen, Paul had moaned, "'And Moses dropped beneath?' Much doneand yet "Doubtless that grandest task God ever set "On man, left much to do: at his arm's wrench, "Charlemagne's scaffold fell; but pillars blench "Merely, start back againperchance have been "Taken for buttresses: crash every screen, "Hammer the tenons better, and engage "A gang about your work, for the next age "Or two, of Knowledge, part by Strength and part "By Knowledge! Then, indeed, perchance may start "Sordello on his racewould time divulge "Such secrets! If one step's awry, one bulge "Calls for correction by a step we thought "Got over long since, why, till that is wrought, "No progress! And the scaffold in its turn "Becomes, its service o'er, a thing to spurn. "Meanwhile, if your half-dozen years of life "In store dispose you to forego the strife, "Who takes exception? Only bear in mind "Ferrara 's reached, Goito 's left behind: "As you then were, as half yourself, desist! "The warrior-part of you may, an it list, "Finding real faulchions difficult to poise, "Fling them afar and taste the cream of joys "By wielding such in fancy,what is bard "Of you may spurn the vehicle that marred "Elys so much, and in free fancy glut "His sense, yet write no versesyou have but "To please yourself for law, and once could please "What once appeared yourself, by dreaming these "Rather than doing these, in days gone by. "But all is changed the moment you descry "Mankind as half yourself,then, fancy's trade "Ends once and always: how may half evade "The other half? men are found half of you. "Out of a thousand helps, just one or two "Can be accomplished presently: but flinch "From these (as from the faulchion, raised an inch, "Elys, described a couplet) and make proof "Of fancy,then, while one half lolls aloof "I' the vines, completing Rome to the tip-top "See if, for that, your other half will stop "A tear, begin a smile! The rabble's woes, "Ludicrous in their patience as they chose "To sit about their town and quietly "Be slaughtered,the poor reckless soldiery, "With their ignoble rhymes on Richard, how "'Polt-foot,' sang they, 'was in a pitfall now,' "Cheering each other from the engine-mounts, "That crippled spawling idiot who recounts "How, lopped of limbs, he lay, stupid as stone, "Till the pains crept from out him one by one, "And wriggles round the archers on his head "To earn a morsel of their chestnut bread, "And Cino, always in the self-same place "Weeping; beside that other wretch's case, "Eyepits to ear, one gangrene since he plied "The engine in his coat of raw sheep's hide "A double watch in the noon sun; and see "Lucchino, beauty, with the favours free, "Trim hacqueton, spruce beard and scented hair, "Campaigning it for the first timecut there "In two already, boy enough to crawl "For latter orpine round the southern wall, "Tom, where Richard 's kept, because that **** "Marfisa, the fool never saw before, "Sickened for flowers this wearisomest siege: "And Tiso's wifemen liked their pretty liege, "Cared for her least of whims once,Berta, wed "A twelvemonth gone, and, now poor Tiso's dead, "Delivering herself of his first child "On that chance heap of wet filth, reconciled "To fifty gazers!"(Here a wind below Made moody music augural of woe From the pine barrier)"What if, now the scene "Draws to a close, yourself have really been "You, plucking purples in Goito's moss "Like edges of a trabea (not to cross "Your consul-humour) or dry aloe-shafts "For fasces, at Ferrarahe, fate wafts, "This very age, her whole inheritance `Of opportunities? Yet you advance "Upon the last! Since talking is your trade, "There 's Salinguerra left you to persuade: "Fail! then"        "Nonowhich latest chance secure!" Leaped up and cried Sordello: "this made sure, "The past were yet redeemable; its work "Washelp the Guelfs, whom I, howe'er it irk, "Thus help!" He shook the foolish aloe-haulm Out of his doublet, paused, proceeded calm To the appointed presence. The large head Turned on its socket; "And your spokesman," said The large voice, "is Elcorte's happy sprout? "Few such"(so finishing a speech no doubt Addressed to Palma, silent at his side) "My sober councils have diversified. "Elcorte's son! good: forward as you may, "Our lady's minstrel with so much to say!" The hesitating sunset floated back, Rosily traversed in the wonted track The chamber, from the lattice o'er the girth Of pines, to the huge eagle blacked in earth Opposite,outlined sudden, spur to crest, That solid Salinguerra, and caressed Palma's contour; 't was day looped back night's pall; Sordello had a chance left spite of all. And much he made of the convincing speech Meant to compensate for the past and reach Through his youth's daybreak of unprofit, quite To his noon's labour, so proceed till night Leisurely! The great argument to bind Taurello with the Guelf Cause, body and mind, Came the consummate rhetoric to that? Yet most Sordello's argument dropped flat Through his accustomed fault of breaking yoke, Disjoining him who felt from him who spoke. Was 't not a touching incidentso prompt A rendering the world its just accompt, Once proved its debtor? Who 'd suppose, before This proof, that he, Goito's god of yore, At duty's instance could demean himself So memorably, dwindle to a Guelf? Be sure, in such delicious flattery steeped, His inmost self at the out-portion peeped, Thus occupied; then stole a glance at those Appealed to, curious if her colour rose Or his lip moved, while he discreetly urged The need of Lombardy becoming purged At soonest of her barons; the poor part Abandoned thus, missing the blood at heart And spirit in brain, unseasonably off Elsewhere! But, though his speech was worthy scoff, Good-humoured Salinguerra, famed for tact And tongue, who, careless of his phrase, ne'er lacked The right phrase, and harangued Honorius dumb At his accession,looked as all fell plumb To purpose and himself found interest In every point his new instructor pressed Left playing with the rescript's white wax seal To scrutinize Sordello head and heel. He means to yield assent sure? No, alas! All he replied was, "What, it comes to pass "That poesy, sooner than politics, "Makes fade young hair?" To think such speech could fix Taurello!      Then a flash of bitter truth: So fantasies could break and fritter youth That he had long ago lost earnestness, Lost will to work, lost power to even express The need of working! Earth was turned a grave: No more occasions now, though he should crave Just one, in right of superhuman toil, To do what was undone, repair such spoil, Alter the pastnothing would give the chance! Not that he was to die; he saw askance Protract the ignominious years beyond To dream intime to hope and time despond, Remember and forget, be sad, rejoice As saved a trouble; he might, at his choice, One way or other, idle life out, drop No few smooth verses by the wayfor prop, A thyrsus, these sad people, all the same, Should pick up, and set store by,far from blame, Plant o'er his hearse, convinced his better part Survived him. "Rather tear men out the heart "O' the truth!"Sordello muttered, and renewed His propositions for the Multitude. But Salinguerra, who at this attack Had thrown great breast and ruffling corslet back To hear the better, smilingly resumed His task; beneath, the carroch's warning boomed; He must decide with Tito; courteously He turned then, even seeming to agree With his admonisher"Assist the Pope, "Extend Guelf domination, fill the scope "O' the Church, thus based on All, by All, for All "Change Secular to Evangelical" Echoing his very sentence: all seemed lost, When suddenly he looked up, laughingly almost, To Palma: "This opinion of your friend's "For instance, would it answer Palma's ends? "Best, were it not, turn Guelf, submit our Strength" (Here he drew out his baldric to its length) "To the Pope's Knowledgelet our captive slip, "Wide to the walls throw ope our gates, equip "Azzo with . . . what I hold here! Who 'll subscribe "To a trite censure of the minstrel tribe "Henceforward? or pronounce, as Heinrich used, "'Spear-heads for battle, burr-heads for the joust!' "When Constance, for his couplets, would promote "Alcamo, from a parti-coloured coat, "To holding her lord's stirrup in the wars. "Not that I see where couplet-making jars "With common sense: at Mantua I had borne "This chanted, better than their most forlorn "Of bull-baits,that 's indisputable!"                      Brave! Whom vanity nigh slew, contempt shall save! All 's at an end: a Troubadour suppose Mankind will class him with their friends or foes? A puny uncouth ailing vassal think The world and him bound in some special link? Abrupt the visionary tether burst. What were rewarded here, or what amerced If a poor drudge, solicitous to dream Deservingly, got tangled by his theme So far as to conceit the knack or gift Or whatsoe'er it be, of verse, might lift The globe, a lever like the hand and head Of"Men of Action," as the Jongleurs said, "The Great Men," in the people's dialect? And not a moment did this scorn affect Sordello: scorn the poet? They, for once, Asking "what was," obtained a full response. Bid Naddo think at Mantuahe had but To look into his promptuary, put Finger on a set thought in a set speech: But was Sordello fitted thus for each Conjecture? Nowise; since within his soul, Perception brooded unexpressed and whole. A healthy spirit like a healthy frame Craves aliment in plentyall the same, Changes, assimilates its aliment. Perceived Sordello, on a truth intent? Next day no formularies more you saw Than figs or olives in a sated maw. 'T is Knowledge, whither such perceptions tend; They lose themselves in that, means to an end, The many old producing some one new, A last unlike the first. If lies are true, The Caliph's wheel-work man of brass receives A meal, munched millet grains and lettuce leaves Together in his stomach rattle loose; You find them perfect next day to produce: But ne'er expect the man, on strength of that, Can roll an iron camel-collar flat Like Haroun's self! I tell you, what was stored Bit by bit through Sordello's life, outpoured That eve, was, for that age, a novel thing: And round those three the People formed a ring, Of visionary judges whose award He recognised in fullfaces that barred Henceforth return to the old careless life, In whose great presence, therefore, his first strife For their sake must not be ignobly fought; All these, for once, approved of him, he thought, Suspended their own vengeance, chose await The issue of this strife to reinstate Them in the right of taking itin fact He must be proved king ere they could exact Vengeance for such king's defalcation. Last, A reason why the phrases flowed so fast Was in his quite forgetting for a time Himself in his amazement that the rhyme Disguised the royalty so much: he there And Salinguerra yet all-unaware Who was the lord, who liegeman!                  "Thus I lay "On thine my spirit and compel obey "His lord,my liegeman,impotent to build "Another Rome, but hardly so unskilled "In what such builder should have been, as brook "One shame beyond the charge that I forsook "His function! Free me from that shame, I bend "A brow before, suppose new years to spend, "Allow each chance, nor fruitlessly, recur "Measure thee with the Minstrel, then, demur "At any crowd he claims! That I must cede "Shamed now, my right to my especial meed "Confess thee fitter help the world than I "Ordained its champion from eternity, "Is much: but to behold thee scorn the post "I quit in thy behalfto hear thee boast "What makes my own despair!" And while he rung The changes on this theme, the roof up-sprung, The sad walls of the presence-chamber died Into the distance, or embowering vied With far-away Goito's vine-frontier; And crowds of faces(only keeping clear The rose-light in the midst, his vantage-ground To fight their battle from)deep clustered round Sordello, with good wishes no mere breath, Kind prayers for him no vapour, since, come death Come life, he was fresh-sinewed every joint, Each bone new-marrowed as whom gods anoint Though mortal to their rescue. Now let sprawl The snaky volumes hither! Is Typhon all For Hercules to tramplegood report From Salinguerra only to extort? "So was I" (closed he his inculcating A poet must be earth's essential king) "So was I, royal so, and if I fail, "'T is not the royalty, ye witness quail, "But one deposed who, caring not exert "Its proper essence, trifled malapert "With accidents insteadgood things assigned "As heralds of a better thing behind "And, worthy through display of these, put forth "Never the inmost all-surpassing worth "That constitutes him king precisely since "As yet no other spirit may evince "Its like: the power he took most pride to test, "Whereby all forms of life had been professed "At pleasure, forms already on the earth, "Was but a means to power beyond, whose birth "Should, in its novelty, be kingship's proof. "Now, whether he came near or kept aloof "The several forms he longed to imitate, "Not there the kingship lay, he sees too late. "Those forms, unalterable first as last, "Proved him her copier, not the protoplast "Of nature: what would come of being free, "By action to exhibit tree for tree, "Bird, beast, for beast and bird, or prove earth bore "One veritable man or woman more? "Means to an end, such proofs are: what the end? "Let essence, whatsoe'er it be, extend "Never contract. Already you include "The multitude; then let the multitude "Include yourself; and the result were new: "Themselves before, the multitude turn you. "This were to live and move and have, in them, "Your being, and secure a diadem "You should transmit (because no cycle yearns "Beyond itself, but on itself returns) "When, the full sphere in wane, the world o'erlaid "Long since with you, shall have in turn obeyed "Some orb still prouder, some displayer, still "More potent than the last, of human will, "And some new king depose the old. Of such "Am Iwhom pride of this elates too much? "Safe, rather say, 'mid troops of peers again; "I, with my words, hailed brother of the train "Deeds once sufficed: for, let the world roll back, "Who fails, through deeds howe'er diverse, retrack "My purpose still, my task? A teeming crust "Air, flame, earth, wave at conflict! Then, needs must "Emerge some Calm embodied, these refer "The brawl toyellow-bearded Jupiter? "No! Saturn; some existence like a pact "And protest against Chaos, some first fact "I' the faint of time. My deep of life, I know "Is unavailing e'en to poorly show" . . . (For here the Chief immeasurably yawned) . . . "Deeds in their due gradation till Song dawned "The fullest effluence of the finest mind, "All in degree, no way diverse in kind "From minds about it, minds which, more or less, "Lofty or low, move seeking to impress "Themselves on somewhat; but one mind has climbed "Step after step, by just ascent sublimed. "Thought is the soul of act, and, stage by stage, "Soul is from body still to disengage "As tending to a freedom which rejects "Such help and incorporeally affects "The world, producing deeds but not by deeds, "Swaying, in others, frames itself exceeds, "Assigning them the simpler tasks it used "To patiently perform till Song produced "Acts, by thoughts only, for the mind: divest "Mind of e'en Thought, and, lo, God's unexpressed "Will draws above us! All then is to win "Save that. How much for me, then? where begin "My work? About me, faces! and they flock, "The earnest faces. What shall I unlock "By song? behold me prompt, whate'er it be, "To minister: how much can mortals see "Of Life? No more than so? I take the task "And marshal you Life's elemental masque, "Show Men, on evil or on good lay stress, "This light, this shade make prominent, suppress "All ordinary hues that softening blend "Such natures with the level. Apprehend "Which sinner is, which saint, if I allot "Hell, Purgatory, Heaven, a blaze or blot, "To those you doubt concerning! I enwomb "Some wretched Friedrich with his red-hot tomb; "Some dubious spirit, Lombard Agilulph "With the black chastening river I engulph! "Some unapproached Matilda I enshrine "With languors of the planet of decline "These, fail to recognize, to arbitrate "Between henceforth, to rightly estimate "Thus marshalled in the masque! Myself, the while, "As one of you, am witness, shrink or smile "At my own showing! Next agewhat 's to do? "The men and women stationed hitherto "Will I unstation, good and bad, conduct "Each nature to its farthest, or obstruct "At soonest, in the world: light, thwarted, breaks "A limpid purity to rainbow flakes, "Or shadow, massed, freezes to gloom: behold "How such, with fit assistance to unfold, "Or obstacles to crush them, disengage "Their forms, love, hate, hope, fear, peace make, war wage, "In presence of you all! Myself, implied "Superior now, as, by the platform's side, "I bade them do and suffer,would last content "The world . . . nothat 's too far! I circumvent "A few, my masque contented, and to these "Offer unveil the last of mysteries "Man's inmost life shall have yet freer play: "Once more I cast external things away, "And natures composite, so decompose "That" . . . Why, he writes Sordello!                     "How I rose, "And how have you advanced! since evermore "Yourselves effect what I was fain before "Effect, what I supplied yourselves suggest, "What I leave bare yourselves can now invest. "How we attain to talk as brothers talk, "In half-words, call things by half-names, no balk "From discontinuing old aids. To-day "Takes in account the work of Yesterday: "Has not the world a Past now, its adept "Consults ere he dispense with or accept "New aids? a single touch more may enhance, "A touch less turn to insignificance "Those structures' symmetry the past has strewed "The world with, once so bare. Leave the mere rude "Explicit details! 't is but brother's speech "We need, speech where an accent's change gives each "The other's soulno speech to understand "By former audience: need was then to expand, "Expatiatehardly were we brothers! true "Nor I lament my small remove from you, "Nor reconstruct what stands already. Ends "Accomplished turn to means: my art intends "New structure from the ancient: as they changed "The spoils of every clime at Venice, ranged "The horned and snouted Libyan god, upright "As in his desert, by some simple bright "Clay cinerary pitcherThebes as Rome, "Athens as Byzant rifled, till their Dome "From earth's reputed consummations razed "A seal, the all-transmuting Triad blazed "Above. Ah, whose that fortune? Ne'ertheless "E'en he must stoop contented to express "No tithe of what 's to saythe vehicle "Never sufficient: but his work is still "For faces like the faces that select "The single service I am bound effect, "That bid me cast aside such fancies, bow "Taurello to the Guelf cause, disallow "The Kaiser's comingwhich with heart, soul, strength, "I labour for, this eve, who feel at length "My past career's outrageous vanity, "And would, as its amends, die, even die "Now I first estimate the boon of life, "If death might win compliancesure, this strife "Is right for oncethe People my support." My poor Sordello! what may we extort By this, I wonder? Palma's lighted eyes Turned to Taurello who, long past surprise, Began, "You love himwhat you 'd say at large "Let me say briefly. First, your father's charge "To me, his friend, peruse: I guessed indeed "You were no stranger to the course decreed. "He bids me leave his children to the saints: "As for a certain project, he acquaints "The Pope with that, and offers him the best "Of your possessions to permit the rest "Go peaceablyto Ecelin, a stripe "Of soil the cursed Vicentines will gripe, "To Alberic, a patch the Trevisan "Clutches already; extricate, who can, "Treville, Villarazzi, Puissolo, "Loria and Cartiglione!all must go, "And with them go my hopes. 'T is lost, then! Lost "This eve, our crisis, and some pains it cost "Procuring; thirty yearsas good I'd spent "Like our admonisher! But each his bent "Pursues: no question, one might live absurd "Oneself this while, by deed as he by word "Persisting to obtrude an influence where "'T is made account of, much as . . . nay, you fare "With twice the fortune, youngster!I submit, "Happy to parallel my waste of wit "With the renowned Sordello's: you decide "A course for me. Romano may abide "Romano,Bacchus! After all, what dearth "Of Ecelins and Alberics on earth? "Say there 's a prize in prospect, must disgrace "Betide competitors, unless they style "Themselves Romano? Were it worth my while "To try my own luck! But an obscure place "Suits methere wants a youth to bustle, stalk "And attitudinizesome fight, more talk, "Most flaunting badgeshow, I might make clear "Since Friedrich's very purposes lie here "Here, pity they are like to lie! For me, "With station fixed unceremoniously "Long since, small use contesting; I am but "The liegemanyou are born the lieges: shut "That gentle mouth now! or resume your kin "In your sweet self; were Palma Ecelin "For me to work with! Could that neck endure "This bauble for a cumbrous garniture, "She should . . . or might one bear it for her? Stay "I have not been so flattered many a day "As by your pale friendBacchus! The least help "Would lick the hind's fawn to a lion's whelp: "His neck is broad enougha ready tongue "Beside: too writhledbut, the main thing, young "I could . . . why, look ye!"                And the badge was thrown Across Sordello's neck: "This badge alone "Makes you Romano's Headbecomes superb "On your bare neck, which would, on mine, disturb "The pauldron," said Taurello. A mad act, Nor even dreamed about beforein fact, Not when his sportive arm rose for the nonce But he had dallied overmuch, this once, With power: the thing was done, and he, aware The thing was done, proceeded to declare (So like a nature made to serve, excel In serving, only feel by service well!) That he would make Sordello that and more. "As good a scheme as any. What 's to pore "At in my face?" he asked"ponder instead "This piece of news; you are Romano's Head! "One cannot slacken pace so near the goal, "Suffer my Azzo to escape heart-whole "This time! For you there 's Palma to espouse "For me, one crowning trouble ere I house "Like my compeer."          On which ensued a strange And solemn visitation; there came change O'er every one of them; each looked on each: Up in the midst a truth grew, without speech. And when the giddiness sank and the haze Subsided, they were sitting, no amaze, Sordello with the baldric on, his sire Silent, though his proportions seemed aspire Momently; and, interpreting the thrill, Night at its ebb,Palma was found there still Relating somewhat Adelaide confessed A year ago, while dying on her breast, Of a contrivance, that Vicenza night When Ecelin had birth. "Their convoy's flight, "Cut off a moment, coiled inside the flame "That wallowed like a dragon at his game "The toppling city throughSan Biagio rocks! "And wounded lies in her delicious locks "Retrude, the frail mother, on her face, "None of her wasted, just in one embrace "Covering her child: when, as they lifted her, "Cleaving the tumult, mighty, mightier "And mightiest Taurello's cry outbroke, "Leapt like a tongue of fire that cleaves the smoke, "Midmost to cheer his Mantuans onwarddrown "His colleague Ecelin's clamour, up and down "The disarray: failed Adelaide see then "Who was the natural chief, the man of men? "Outstripping time, her infant there burst swathe, "Stood up with eyes haggard beyond the scathe "From wandering after his heritage "Lost once and lost for aye: and why that rage, "That deprecating glance? A new shape leant "On a familiar shapegloatingly bent "O'er his discomfiture; 'mid wreaths it wore, "Still one outflamed the resther child's before "'T was Salinguerra's for his child: scorn, hate, "Rage now might startle her when all too late! "Then was the moment!rival's foot had spurned "Never that House to earth else! Sense returned "The act conceived, adventured and complete, "They bore away to an obscure retreat "Mother and childRetrude's self not slain" (Nor even here Taurello moved) "though pain "Was fled; and what assured them most 't was fled, "All pain, was, if they raised the pale hushed head "'T would turn this way and that, waver awhile, "And only settle into its old smile "(Graceful as the disquieted water-flag "Steadying itself, remarked they, in the quag "On either side their path)when suffered look "Down on her child. They marched: no sign once shook "The company's close litter of crossed spears "Till, as they reached Goito, a few tears "Slipped in the sunset from her long black lash, "And she was gone. So far the action rash; "No crime. They laid Retrude in the font, "Taurello's very gift, her child was wont "To sit beneathconstant as eve he came "To sit by its attendant girls the same "As one of them. For Palma, she would blend "With this magnific spirit to the end, "That ruled her first; but scarcely had she dared "To disobey the Adelaide who scared "Her into vowing never to disclose "A secret to her husband, which so froze "His blood at half-recital, she contrived "To hide from him Taurello's infant lived, "Lest, by revealing that, himself should mar "Romano's fortunes. And, a crime so far, "Palma received that action: she was told "Of Salinguerra's nature, of his cold "Calm acquiescence in his lot! But free "To impart the secret to Romano, she "Engaged to repossess Sordello of "His heritage, and hers, and that way doff "The mask, but after years, long years: while now, "Was not Romano's sign-mark on that brow?" Across Taurello's heart his arms were locked: And when he did speak 't was as if he mocked The minstrel, "who had not to move," he said, "Nor stirshould fate defraud him of a shred "Of his son's infancy? much less his youth!" (Laughingly all this)"which to aid, in truth, "Himself, reserved on purpose, had not grown "Old, not too old't was best they kept alone "Till now, and never idly met till now;" Then, in the same breath, told Sordello how All intimations of this eve's event Were lies, for Friedrich must advance to Trent, Thence to Verona, then to Rome, there stop, Tumble the Church down, institute a-top The Alps a Prefecture of Lombardy: "That 's now!no prophesying what may be "Anon, with a new monarch of the clime, "Native of Gesi, passing his youth's prime "At Naples. Tito bids my choice decide "On whom . . ."         "Embrace him, madman!" Palma cried, Who through the laugh saw sweat-drops burst apace, And his lips blanching: he did not embrace Sordello, but he laid Sordello's hand On his own eyes, mouth, forehead.                  Understand, This while Sordello was becoming flushed Out of his whiteness; thoughts rushed, fancies rushed; He pressed his hand upon his head and signed Both should forbear him. "Nay, the best 's behind!" Taurello laughednot quite with the same laugh: "The truth is, thus we scatter, ay, like chaff "These Guelfs, a despicable monk recoils "From: nor expect a fickle Kaiser spoils "Our triumph!Friedrich? Think you, I intend "Friedrich shall reap the fruits of blood I spend "And brain I waste? Think you, the people clap "Their hands at my out-hewing this wild gap "For any Friedrich to fill up? 'T is mine "That 's yours: I tell you, towards some such design "Have I worked blindly, yes, and idly, yes, "And for another, yesbut worked no less "With instinct at my heart; I else had swerved, "While nowlook round! My cunning has preserved "Samminiatothat 's a central place "Secures us Florence, boy,in Pisa's case. "By land as she by sea; with Pisa ours, "And Florence, and Pistoia, one devours "The land at leisure! Gloriously dispersed "Brescia, observe, Milan, Piacenza first "That flanked us (ah, you know not!) in the March; "On these we pile, as keystone of our arch, "Romagna and Bologna, whose first span "Covered the Trentine and the Valsugan; "Sofia's Egna by Bolgiano 's sure!" . . . So he proceeded: half of all this, pure Delusion, doubtless, nor the rest too true, But what was undone he felt sure to do, As ring by ring he wrung off, flung away The pauldron-rings to give his sword-arm play Need of the sword now! That would soon adjust Aught wrong at present; to the sword intrust Sordello's whiteness, undersize: 't was plain He hardly rendered right to his own brain Like a brave hound, men educate to pride Himself on speed or scent nor aught beside, As though he could not, gift by gift, match men! Palma had listened patiently: but when 'T was time expostulate, attempt withdraw Taurello from his child, she, without awe Took off his iron arms from, one by one, Sordello's shrinking shoulders, and, that done, Made him avert his visage and relieve Sordello (you might see his corslet heave The while) who, loose, rosetried to speak, then sank: They left him in the chamber. All was blank. And even reeling down the narrow stair Taurello kept up, as though unaware Palma was by to guide him, the old device Something of Milan"how we muster thrice "The Torriani's strength there; all along "Our own Visconti cowed them"thus the song Continued even while she bade him stoop, Thrid somehow, by some glimpse of arrow-loop, The turnings to the gallery below, Where he stopped short as Palma let him go. When he had sat in silence long enough Splintering the stone bench, braving a rebuff She stopped the truncheon; only to commence One of Sordello's poems, a pretence For speaking, some poor rhyme of "Elys' hair "And head that 's sharp and perfect like a pear, "So smooth and close are laid the few fine locks "Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks "Sun-blanched the livelong summer"from his worst Performance, the Goito, as his first: And that at end, conceiving from the brow And open mouth no silence would serve now, Went on to say the whole world loved that man And, for that matter, thought his face, tho' wan, Eclipsed the Count'she sucking in each phrase As if an angel spoke. The foolish praise Ended, he drew her on his mailed knees, made Her face a framework with his hands, a shade, A crown, an aureole: there must she remain (Her little mouth compressed with smiling pain As in his gloves she felt her tresses twitch) To get the best look at, in fittest niche Dispose his saint. That done, he kissed her brow, "Lauded her father for his treason now," He told her, "only, how could one suspect "The wit in him?whose clansman, recollect, `Was ever Salinguerrashe, the same, "Romano and his ladyso, might claim "To know all, as she should"and thus begun Schemes with a vengeance, schemes on schemes, "not one "Fit to be told that foolish boy," he said, "But only let Sordello Palma wed, "Then!"      'T was a dim long narrow place at best: Midway a sole grate showed the fiery West, As shows its corpse the world's end some split tomb A gloom, a rift of fire, another gloom, Faced Palmabut at length Taurello set Her free; the grating held one ragged jet Of fierce gold fire: he lifted her within The hollow underneathhow else begin Fate's second marvellous cycle, else renew The ages than with Palma plain in view? Then paced the passage, hands clenched, head erect, Pursuing his discourse; a grand unchecked Monotony made out from his quick talk And the recurring noises of his walk; Somewhat too much like the o'ercharged assent Of two resolved friends in one danger blent, Who hearten each the other against heart; Boasting there 's nought to care for, when, apart The boaster, all 's to care for. He, beside Some shape not visible, in power and pride Approached, out of the dark, ginglingly near, Nearer, passed close in the broad light, his ear Crimson, eyeballs suffused, temples full-fraught, Just a snatch of the rapid speech you caught, And on he strode into the opposite dark, Till presently the harsh heel's turn, a spark I' the stone, and whirl of some loose embossed throng That crashed against the angle aye so long After the last, punctual to an amount Of mailed great paces you could not but count, Prepared you for the pacing back again. And by the snatches you might ascertain That, Friedrich's Prefecture surmounted, left By this alone in Italy, they cleft Asunder, crushed together, at command Of none, were free to break up Hildebrand, Rebuild, he and Sordello, Charlemagne But garnished, Strength with Knowledge, "if we deign "Accept that compromise and stoop to give "Rome law, the Csar's Representative." Enough, that the illimitable flood Of triumphs after triumphs, understood In its faint reflux (you shall hear) sufficed Young Ecelin for appanage, enticed Him on till, these long quiet in their graves, He found 't was looked for that a whole life's braves Should somehow be made good; so, weak and worn, Must stagger up at Milan, one grey morn Of the to-come, and fight his latest fight. But, Salinguerra's prophecy at height He voluble with a raised arm and stiff, A blaring voice, a blazing eye, as if He had our very Italy to keep Or cast away, or gather in a heap To garrison the betteray, his word Was, "run the cucumber into a gourd, "Drive Trent upon Apulia"at their pitch Who spied the continents and islands which Grew mulberry leaves and sickles, in the map (Strange that three such confessions so should hap To Palma, Dante spoke with in the clear Amorous silence of the Swooning-sphere, Cunizza, as he called her! Never ask Of Palma more! She sat, knowing her task Was done, the labour of it,for, success Concerned not Palma, passion's votaress.) Triumph at neight, and thus Sordello crowned Above the passage suddenly a sound Stops speech, stops walk: back shrinks Taurello, bids With large involuntary asking lids, Palma interpret. "'T is his own foot-stamp "Your hand! His summons! Nay, this idle damp "Befits not!" Out they two reeled dizzily. "Visconti 's strong at Milan," resumed he, In the old, somewhat insignificant way (Was Palma wont, years afterward, to say) As though the spirit's flight, sustained thus far, Dropped at that very instant.                Gone they are Palma, Taurello; Eglamor anon, Ecelin,only Naddo 's never gone! Labours, this moonrise, what the Master meant: "Is Squarcialupo speckled?purulent, "I 'd say, but when was Providence put out? "He carries somehow handily about "His spite nor fouls himself!" Goito's vines Stand like a cheat detectedstark rough lines, The moon breaks through, a grey mean scale against The vault where, this eve's Maiden, thou remain'st Like some fresh martyr, eyes fixedwho can tell? As Heaven, now all 's at end, did not so well, Spite of the faith and victory, to leave Its virgin quite to death in the lone eve. While the persisting hermit-bee . . . ha! wait No longer: these in compass, forward fate! ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Fifth ,

727:Meantime Ferrara lay in rueful case; The lady-city, for whose sole embrace Her pair of suitors struggled, felt their arms A brawny mischief to the fragile charms They tugged forone discovering that to twist Her tresses twice or thrice about his wrist Secured a point of vantageone, how best He 'd parry that by planting in her breast His elbow spikeeach party too intent For noticing, howe'er the battle went, The conqueror would but have a corpse to kiss. "May Boniface be duly damned for this!" Howled some old Ghibellin, as up he turned, From the wet heap of rubbish where they burned His house, a little skull with dazzling teeth: "A boon, sweet Christlet Salinguerra seethe "In hell for ever, Christ, and let myself "Be there to laugh at him!"moaned some young Guelf Stumbling upon a shrivelled hand nailed fast To the charred lintel of the doorway, last His father stood within to bid him speed. The thoroughfares were overrun with weed Docks, quitchgrass, loathy mallows no man plants. The stranger, none of its inhabitants Crept out of doors to taste fresh air again, And ask the purpose of a splendid train Admitted on a morning; every town Of the East League was come by envoy down To treat for Richard's ransom: here you saw The Vicentine, here snowy oxen draw The Paduan carroch, its vermilion cross On its white field. A-tiptoe o'er the fosse Looked Legate Montelungo wistfully After the flock of steeples he might spy In Este's time, gone (doubts he) long ago To mend the ramparts: sure the laggards know The Pope's as good as here! They paced the streets More soberly. At last, "Taurello greets "The League," announced a pursuivant,"will match "Its courtesy, and labours to dispatch "At earliest Tito, Friedrich's Pretor, sent "On pressing matters from his post at Trent, "With Mainard Count of Tyrol,simply waits "Their going to receive the delegates." "Tito!" Our delegates exchanged a glance, And, keeping the main way, admired askance The lazy engines of outlandish birth, Couched like a king each on its bank of earth Arbalist, manganel and catapult; While stationed by, as waiting a result, Lean silent gangs of mercenaries ceased Working to watch the strangers. "This, at least, "Were better spared; he scarce presumes gainsay "The League's decision! Get our friend away "And profit for the future: how else teach "Fools 't is not safe to stray within claw's reach "Ere Salinguerra's final gasp be blown? "Those mere convulsive scratches find the bone. "Who bade him bloody the spent osprey's nare?" The carrochs halted in the public square. Pennons of every blazon once a-flaunt, Men prattled, freelier than the crested gaunt White ostrich with a horse-shoe in her beak Was missing, and whoever chose might speak "Ecelin" boldly out: so,"Ecelin "Needed his wife to swallow half the sin "And sickens by himself: the devil's whelp, "He styles his son, dwindles away, no help "From conserves, your fine triple-curded froth "Of virgin's blood, your Venice viper-broth "Eh? Jubilate!""Peace! no little word "You utter here that 's not distinctly heard "Up at Oliero: he was absent sick "When we besieged Bassanowho, i' the thick "O' the work, perceived the progress Azzo made, "Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide? "She managed it so well that, night by night "At their bed-foot stood up a soldier-sprite, "First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound, "And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound, "They knew the place was taken.""Ominous "That Ghibellins should get what cautelous "Old Redbeard sought from Azzo's sire to wrench "Vainly; Saint George contrived his town a trench "O' the marshes, an impermeable bar." "Young Ecelin is meant the tutelar "Of Padua, rather; veins embrace upon "His hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion." What now?"The founts! God's bread, touch not a plank! "A crawling hell of carrionevery tank "Choke-full!found out just now to Cino's cost "The same who gave Taurello up for lost, "And, making no account of fortune's freaks, "Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaks "Back now with Concorezzi: 'faith! they drag "Their carroch to San Vitale, plant the flag "On his own palace, so adroitly razed "He knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazed "And laughed apart; Cino disliked their air "Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care "Seats himself on the tank's edgewill begin "To hum, za, za, Cavaler Ecelin "A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime, "Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time, "At last, za, za and up with a fierce kick "Comes his own mother's face caught by the thick "Grey hair about his spur!"                Which means, they lift The covering, Salinguerra made a shift To stretch upon the truth; as well avoid Further disclosures; leave them thus employed. Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace, And poor Ferrara puts a softened face On her misfortunes. Let us scale this tall Huge foursquare line of red brick garden-wall Bastioned within by trees of every sort On three sides, slender, spreading, long and short; Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped, The fig-tree reared itself,but stark and cramped, Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge, Running 'twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledge Of shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof, Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roof Of solid tops, and o'er the slope you slide Down to a grassy space level and wide, Here and there dotted with a tree, but trees Of rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease, Set by itself: and in the centre spreads, Borne upon three uneasy leopards' heads, A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirt Of water bubbles in. The walls begirt With trees leave off on either hand; pursue Your path along a wondrous avenue Those walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone, With aloes leering everywhere, grey-grown From many a Moorish summer: how they wind Out of the fissures! likelier to bind The building than those rusted cramps which drop Already in the eating sunshine. Stop, You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the pride Or else despair of the whole country-side! A range of statues, swarming o'er with wasps, God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-rasps In crumbling Naples marblemeant to look Like those Messina marbles Constance took Delight in, or Taurello's self conveyed To Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide, A certain font with caryatides Since cloistered at Goito; only, these Are up and doing, not abashed, a troop Able to right themselveswho see you, stoop Their arms o' the instant after you! Unplucked By this or that, you pass; for they conduct To terrace raised on terrace, and, between, Creatures of brighter mould and braver mien Than any yet, the choicest of the Isle No doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while, Up-gathered on himself the Fighter stood For his last fight, and, wiping treacherous blood Out of the eyelids just held ope beneath Those shading fingers in their iron sheath, Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stir Of the dusk hideous amphitheatre At the announcement of his over-match To wind the day's diversion up, dispatch The pertinactious Gaul: while, limbs one heap, The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leap Dart after dart forth, as her hero's car Clove dizzily the solid of the war Let coil about his knees for pride in him. We reach the farthest terrace, and the grim San Pietro Palace stops us.                Such the state Of Salinguerra's plan to emulate Sicilian marvels, that his girlish wife Retrude still might lead her ancient life In her new home: whereat enlarged so much Neighbours upon the novel princely touch He took,who here imprisons Boniface. Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace; And here, emerging from the labyrinth Below, Sordello paused beside the plinth Of the door-pillar.           He had really left Verona for the cornfields (a poor theft From the morass) where Este's camp was made; The Envoys' march, the Legate's cavalcade All had been seen by him, but scarce as when, Eager for cause to stand aloof from men At every point save the fantastic tie Acknowledged in his boyish sophistry, He made account of such. A crowd,he meant To task the whole of it; each part's intent Concerned him therefore: and, the more he pried, The less became Sordello satisfied With his own figure at the moment. Sought He respite from his task? Descried he aught Novel in the anticipated sight Of all these livers upon all delight? This phalanx, as of myriad points combined, Whereby he still had imaged the mankind His youth was passed in dreams of rivalling, His agein plans to prove at least such thing Had been so dreamed,which now he must impress With his own will, effect a happiness By theirs,supply a body to his soul Thence, and become eventually whole With them as he had hoped to be without Made these the mankind he once raved about? Because a few of them were notable, Should all be figured worthy note? As well Expect to find Taurello's triple line Of trees a single and prodigious pine. Real pines rose here and there; but, close among, Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throng Of shrubs, he saw,a nameless common sort O'erpast in dreams, left out of the report And hurried into corners, or at best Admitted to be fancied like the rest. Reckon that morning's proper chiefshow few! And yet the people grew, the people grew, Grew ever, as if the many there indeed, More left behind and most who should succeed, Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes, Petty enjoyments and huge miseries, Mingled with, and made veritably great Those chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard's state Nor Concorezzi's station, but instead Of stopping there, each dwindled to be head Of infinite and absent Tyrolese Or Paduans; startling all the more, that these Seemed passive and disposed of, uncared for, Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor) Smiling; for if a wealthy man decays And out of store of robes must wear, all days, One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade, 'T is commonly some tarnished gay brocade Fit for a feast-night's flourish and no more: Nor otherwise poor Misery from her store Of looks is fain upgather, keep unfurled For common wear as she goes through the world, The faint remainder of some worn-out smile Meant for a feast-night's service merely. While Crowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus, (Crowds no way interfering to discuss, Much less dispute, life's joys with one employed In envying them,or, if they aught enjoyed, Where lingered something indefinable In every look and tone, the mirth as well As woe, that fixed at once his estimate Of the result, their good or bad estate) Old memories returned with new effect: And the new body, ere he could suspect, Cohered, mankind and he were really fused, The new self seemed impatient to be used By him, but utterly another way Than that anticipated: strange to say, They were too much below him, more in thrall Than he, the adjunct than the principal. What booted scattered units?here a mind And there, which might repay his own to find, And stamp, and use?a few, howe'er august, If all the rest were grovelling in the dust? No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure, Should he establish, privilege procure For all, the few had long possessed! He felt An error, an exceeding error melt: While he was occupied with Mantuan chants, Behoved him think of men, and take their wants, Such as he now distinguished every side, As his own want which might be satisfied, And, after that, think of rare qualities Of his own soul demanding exercise. It followed naturally, through no claim On their part, which made virtue of the aim At serving them, on his,that, past retrieve, He felt now in their toils, theirsnor could leave Wonder how, in the eagerness to rule, Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!) Had never even entertained the thought That this his last arrangement might be fraught with incidental good to them as well, And that mankind's delight would help to swell His own. So, if he sighed, as formerly Because the merry time of life must fleet, 'T was deeplier now,for could the crowds repeat Their poor experiences? His hand that shook Was twice to be deplored. "The Legate, look! "With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread, "Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head, "Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while "That owner of the idiotic smile "Serves them!"        He fortunately saw in time His fault however, and since the office prime Includes the secondarybest accept Both offices; Taurello, its adept, Could teach him the preparatory one, And how to do what he had fancied done Long previously, ere take the greater task. How render first these people happy? Ask The people's friends: for there must be one good One way to itthe Cause! He understood The meaning now of Palma; why the jar Else, the ado, the trouble wide and far Of Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hope And Rome's despair?'twixt Emperor and Pope The confused shifting sort of Eden tale Hardihood still recurring, still to fail That foreign interloping fiend, this free And native overbrooding deity: Yet a dire fascination o'er the palms The Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calms Of paradise; or, on the other hand, The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand, One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground, Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profound Some saving treewhich needs the Kaiser, dressed As the dislodging angel of that pest: Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold, With coruscating dower of dyes. "Behold "The secret, so to speak, and master-spring "O' the contest!which of the two Powers shall bring "Men good, perchance the most good: ay, it may "Be that!the question, which best knows the way." And hereupon Count Mainard strutted past Out of San Pietro; never seemed the last Of archers, slingers: and our friend began To recollect strange modes of serving man Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel, And more. "This way of theirs may,who can tell? "Need perfecting," said he: "let all be solved "At once! Taurello 't is, the task devolved "On late: confront Taurello!"                And at last He did confront him. Scarce an hour had past When forth Sordello came, older by years Than at his entry. Unexampled fears Oppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, mute And deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute, Into Ferraranot the empty town That morning witnessed: he went up and down Streets whence the veil had been stript shred by shred, So that, in place of huddling with their dead Indoors, to answer Salinguerra's ends, Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friends With any one. A woman gave him choice Of her two daughters, the infantile voice Or the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throat Was clasped with; but an archer knew the coat Its blue cross and eight lilies,bade beware One dogging him in concert with the pair Though thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife. Night set in early, autumn dews were rife, They kindled great fires while the Leaguers' mass Began at every carroch: he must pass Between the kneeling people. Presently The carroch of Verona caught his eye With purple trappings; silently he bent Over its fire, when voices violent Began, "Affirm not whom the youth was like "That struck me from the porch: I did not strike "Again: I too have chestnut hair; my kin "Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin. "Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! Take "My glove for guerdon!" And for that man's sake He turned: "A song of Eglamor's!"scarce named, When, "Our Sordello's rather!"all exclaimed; "Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?" He had been happy to deny, this time, Profess as heretofore the aching head And failing heart,suspect that in his stead Some true Apollo had the charge of them, Was champion to reward or to condemn, So his intolerable risk might shift Or share itself; but Naddo's precious gift Of gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close "I made that," said he to a youth who rose As if to hear: 't was Palma through the band Conducted him in silence by her hand. Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of Trent Gave place to Palma and her friend, who went In turn at Montelungo's visit: one After the other were they come and gone, These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope, This incarnation of the People's hope, Sordello,all the say of each was said; And Salinguerra sat,himself instead Of these to talk with, lingered musing yet. 'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly set In order for the morning's use; full face, The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place, The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blacked With ochre on the naked wall; nor lacked Romano's green and yellow either side; But the new token Tito brought had tried The Legate's patiencenay, if Palma knew What Salinguerra almost meant to do Until the sight of her restored his lip A certain half-smile, three months' chieftainship Had banished! Afterward, the Legate found No change in him, nor asked what badge he wound And unwound carelessly. Now sat the Chief Silent as when our couple left, whose brief Encounter wrought so opportune effect In thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject, Though time 't was now if ever, to pausefix On any sort of ending: wiles and tricks Exhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town, Just managed to be hindered crashing down His last sound troops rangedcare observed to post His best of the maimed soldiers innermost So much was plain enough, but somehow struck Him not before. And now with this strange luck Of Tito's news, rewarding his address So well, what thought he of?how the success With Friedrich's rescript there, would either hush Old Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flush To his young son's white cheek, or, last, exempt Himself from telling what there was to tempt? No: that this minstrel was Romano's last Servanthimself the first! Could he contrast The whole!that minstrel's thirty years just spent In doing nought, their notablest event This morning's journey hither, as I told Who yet was lean, outworn and really old, A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raise His eye before the magisterial gaze And Salinguerra with his fears and hopes Of sixty years, his Emperors and Popes, Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say, 'T was a youth nonchalantly looked away Through the embrasure northward o'er the sick Expostulating treesso agile, quick And graceful turned the head on the broad chest Encased in pliant steel, his constant vest, Whence split the sun off in a spray of fire Across the room; and, loosened of its tire Of steel, that head let breathe the comely brown Large massive locks discoloured as if a crown Encircled them, so frayed the basnet where A sharp white line divided clean the hair; Glossy above, glossy below, it swept Curling and fine about a brow thus kept Calm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound: This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found, Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced, No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchased In hollows filled with many a shade and streak Settling from the bold nose and bearded cheek. Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformed A lip supremely perfect elseunwarmed, Unwidened, less or more; indifferent Whether on trees or men his thoughts were bent, Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and train As now a period was fulfilled again: Of such, a series made his life, compressed In each, one story serving for the rest How his life-streams rolling arrived at last At the barrier, whence, were it once overpast, They would emerge, a river to the end, Gathered themselves up, paused, bade fate befriend, Took the leap, hung a minute at the height, Then fell back to oblivion infinite: Therefore he smiled. Beyond stretched garden-grounds Where late the adversary, breaking bounds, Had gained him an occasion, That above, That eagle, testified he could improve Effectually. The Kaiser's symbol lay Beside his rescript, a new badge by way Of baldric; while,another thing that marred Alike emprise, achievement and reward, Ecelin's missive was conspicuous too. What past life did those flying thoughts pursue? As his, few names in Mantua half so old; But at Ferrara, where his sires enrolled It latterly, the Adelardi spared No pains to rival them: both factions shared Ferrara, so that, counted out, 't would yield A product very like the city's shield, Half black and white, or Ghibellin and Guelf As after Salinguerra styled himself And Este who, till Marchesalla died, (Last of the Adelardi)never tried His fortune there: with Marchesalla's child Would pass,could Blacks and Whites be reconciled And young Taurello wed Linguetta,wealth And sway to a sole grasp. Each treats by stealth Already: when the Guelfs, the Ravennese Arrive, assault the Pietro quarter, seize Linguetta, and are gone! Men's first dismay Abated somewhat, hurries down, to lay The after indignation, Boniface, This Richard's father. "Learn the full disgrace "Averted, ere you blame us Guelfs, who rate "Your Salinguerra, your sole potentate "That might have been, 'mongst Este's valvassors "Ay, Azzo'swho, not privy to, abhors "Our step; but we were zealous." Azzo then To do with! Straight a meeting of old men: "Old Salinguerra dead, his heir a boy, "What if we change our ruler and decoy "The Lombard Eagle of the azure sphere "With Italy to build in, fix him here, "Settle the city's troubles in a trice? "For private wrong, let public good suffice!" In fine, young Salinguerra's staunchest friends Talked of the townsmen making him amends, Gave him a goshawk, and affirmed there was Rare sport, one morning, over the green grass A mile or so. He sauntered through the plain, Was restless, fell to thinking, turned again In time for Azzo's entry with the bride; Count Boniface rode smirking at their side; "She brings him half Ferrara," whispers flew, "And all Ancona! If the stripling knew!" Anon the stripling was in Sicily Where Heinrich ruled in right of Constance; he Was gracious nor his guest incapable; Each understood the other. So it fell, One Spring, when Azzo, thoroughly at ease, Had near forgotten by what precise degrees He crept at first to such a downy seat, The Count trudged over in a special heat To bid him of God's love dislodge from each Of Salinguerra's palaces,a breach Might yawn else, not so readily to shut, For who was just arrived at Mantua but The youngster, sword on thigh and tuft on chin, With tokens for Celano, Ecelin, Pistore, and the like! Next news,no whit Do any of Ferrara's domes befit His wife of Heinrich's very blood: a band Of foreigners assemble, understand Garden-constructing, level and surround, Build up and bury in. A last news crowned The consternation: since his infant's birth, He only waits they end his wondrous girth Of trees that link San Pietro with Tom, To visit Mantua. When the Podest Ecelin, at Vicenza, called his friend Taurello thither, what could be their end But to restore the Ghibellins' late Head, The Kaiser helping? He with most to dread From vengeance and reprisal, Azzo, there With Boniface beforehand, as aware Of plots in progress, gave alarm, expelled Both plotters: but the Guelfs in triumph yelled Too hastily. The burning and the flight, And how Taurello, occupied that night With Ecelin, lost wife and son, I told: Not how he bore the blow, retained his hold, Got friends safe through, left enemies the worst O' the fray, and hardly seemed to care at first: But afterward men heard not constantly Of Salinguerra's House so sure to be! Though Azzo simply gained by the event A shifting of his plaguesthe first, content To fall behind the second and estrange So far his nature, suffer such a change That in Romano sought he wife and child, And for Romano's sake seemed reconciled To losing individual life, which shrunk As the other prosperedmortised in his trunk; Like a dwarf palm which wanton Arabs foil Of bearing its own proper wine and oil, By grafting into it the stranger-vine, Which sucks its heart out, sly and serpentine, Till forth one vine-palm feathers to the root, And red drops moisten the insipid fruit. Once Adelaide set on,the subtle mate Of the weak soldier, urged to emulate The Church's valiant women deed for deed, And paragon her namesake, win the meed O' the great Matilda,soon they overbore The rest of Lombardy,not as before By an instinctive truculence, but patched The Kaiser's strategy until it matched The Pontiff's, sought old ends by novel means. "Only, why is it Salinguerra screens "Himself behind Romano?him we bade "Enjoy our shine i' the front, not seek the shade!" Asked Heinrich, somewhat of the tardiest To comprehend. Nor Philip acquiesced At once in the arrangement; reasoned, plied His friend with offers of another bride, A statelier functionfruitlessly: 't was plain Taurello through some weakness must remain Obscure. And Otho, free to judge of both Ecelin the unready, harsh and loth, And this more plausible and facile wight With every point a-sparklechose the right, Admiring how his predecessors harped On the wrong man: "thus," quoth he, "wits are warped "By outsides!" Carelessly, meanwhile, his life Suffered its many turns of peace and strife In many landsyou hardly could surprise The man; who shamed Sordello (recognize!) In this as much beside, that, unconcerned What qualities were natural or earned, With no ideal of graces, as they came He took them, singularly well the same Speaking the Greek's own language, just because Your Greek eludes you, leave the least of flaws In contracts with him; while, since Arab lore Holds the stars' secrettake one trouble more And master it! 'T is done, and now deter Who may the Tuscan, once Jove trined for her, From Friedrich's path!Friedrich, whose pilgrimage The same man puts aside, whom he 'll engage To leave next year John Brienne in the lurch, Come to Bassano, see Saint Francis' church And judge of Guido the Bolognian's piece Which,lend Taurello credit,rivals Greece Angels, with aureoles like golden quoits Pitched home, applauding Ecelin's exploits. For elegance, he strung the angelot, Made rhymes thereto; for prowess, clove he not Tiso, last siege, from crest to crupper? Why Detail you thus a varied mastery But to show how Taurello, on the watch For men, to read their hearts and thereby catch Their capabilities and purposes, Displayed himself so far as displayed these: While our Sordello only cared to know About men as a means whereby he 'd show Himself, and men had much or little worth According as they kept in or drew forth That self; the other's choicest instruments Surmised him shallow.            Meantime, malcontents Dropped off, town after town grew wiser. "How "Change the world's face?" asked people; "as 't is now "It has been, will be ever: very fine "Subjecting things profane to things divine, "In talk! This contumacy will fatigue "The vigilance of Este and the League! "The Ghibellins gain on us!"as it happed. Old Azzo and old Boniface, entrapped By Ponte Alto, both in one month's space Slept at Verona: either left a brace Of sonsbut, three years after, either's pair Lost Guglielm and Aldobrand its heir: Azzo remained and Richardall the stay Of Este and Saint Boniface, at bay As 't were. Then, either Ecelin grew old Or his brain alterednot o' the proper mould For new applianceshis old palm-stock Endured no influx of strange strengths. He 'd rock As in a drunkenness, or chuckle low As proud of the completeness of his woe, Then weep real tears;now make some mad onslaught On Este, heedless of the lesson taught So painfully,now cringe for peace, sue peace At price of past gain, bar of fresh increase To the fortunes of Romano. Up at last Rose Este, down Romano sank as fast. And men remarked these freaks of peace and war Happened while Salinguerra was afar: Whence every friend besought him, all in vain, To use his old adherent's wits again. Not he!"who had advisers in his sons, "Could plot himself, nor needed any one's "Advice." 'T was Adelaide's remaining staunch Prevented his destruction root and branch Forthwith; but when she died, doom fell, for gay He made alliances, gave lands away To whom it pleased accept them, and withdrew For ever from the world. Taurello, who Was summoned to the convent, then refused A word at the wicket, patience thus abused, Promptly threw off alike his imbecile Ally's yoke, and his own frank, foolish smile. Soon a few movements of the happier sort Changed matters, put himself in men's report As heretofore; he had to fight, beside, And that became him ever. So, in pride And flushing of this kind of second youth, He dealt a good-will blow. Este in truth Lay proneand men remembered, somewhat late, A laughing old outrageous stifled hate He bore to Estehow it would outbreak At times spite of disguise, like an earthquake In sunny weatheras that noted day When with his hundred friends he tried to slay Azzo before the Kaiser's face: and how, On Azzo's calm refusal to allow A liegeman's challenge, straight he too was calmed: As if his hate could bear to lie embalmed, Bricked up, the moody Pharaoh, and survive All intermediate crumblings, to arrive At earth's catastrophe't was Este's crash Not Azzo's he demanded, so, no rash Procedure! Este's true antagonist Rose out of Ecelin: all voices whist, All eyes were sharpened, wits predicted. He 'T was, leaned in the embrasure absently, Amused with his own efforts, now, to trace With his steel-sheathed forefinger Friedrich's face I' the dust: but as the trees waved sere, his smile Deepened, and words expressed its thought erewhile. "Ay, fairly housed at last, my old compeer? "That we should stick together, all the year "I kept Vicenza!How old Boniface, "Old Azzo caught us in its market-place, "He by that pillar, I at this,caught each "In mid swing, more than fury of his speech, "Egging the rabble on to disavow "Allegiance to their MarquisBacchus, how "They boasted! Ecelin must turn their drudge, "Nor, if released, will Salinguerra grudge "Paying arrears of tribute due long since "Bacchus! My man could promise then, nor wince "The bones-and-muscles! Sound of wind and limb, "Spoke he the set excuse I framed for him: "And now he sits me, slavering and mute, "Intent on chafing each starved purple foot "Benumbed past aching with the altar slab: "Will no vein throb there when some monk shall blab "Spitefully to the circle of bald scalps, "'Friedrich 's affirmed to be our side the Alps' "Eh, brother Lactance, brother Anaclet? "Sworn to abjure the world, its fume and fret, "God's own now? Drop the dormitory bar, "Enfold the scanty grey serge scapular "Twice o'er the cowl to muffle memories out! "So! But the midnight whisper turns a shout, "Eyes wink, mouths open, pulses circulate "In the stone walls: the past, the world you hate "Is with you, ambush, open fieldor see "The surging flamewe fire Vicenzaglee! "Follow, let Pilio and Bernardo chafe! "Bring up the Mantuansthrough San Biagiosafe! "Ah, the mad people waken? Ah, they writhe "And reach us? If they block the gate? No tithe "Can passkeep back, you Bassanese! The edge, "Use the edgeshear, thrust, hew, melt down the wedge, "Let out the black of those black upturned eyes! "Hellare they sprinkling fire too? The blood fries "And hisses on your brass gloves as they tear "Those upturned faces choking with despair. "Brave! Slidder through the reeking gate! `How now? "'You six had charge of her?' And then the vow "Comes, and the foam spirts, hair's plucked, till one shriek "(I hear it) and you flingyou cannot speak "Your gold-flowered basnet to a man who haled "The Adelaide he dared scarce view unveiled "This morn, naked across the fire: how crown "The archer that exhausted lays you down "Your infant, smiling at the flame, and dies? "While one, while mine . . .                "Bacchus! I think there lies "More than one corpse there" (and he paced the room) "Another cinder somewhere: 't was my doom "Beside, my doom! If Adelaide is dead, "I live the same, this Azzo lives instead "Of that to me, and we pull, any how, "Este into a heap: the matter 's now "At the true juncture slipping us so oft. "Ay, Heinrich died and Otho, please you, doffed "His crown at such a juncture! Still, if hold "Our Friedrich's purpose, if this chain enfold "The neck of . . . who but this same Ecelin "That must recoil when the best days begin! "Recoil? that 's nought; if the recoiler leaves "His name for me to fight with, no one grieves: "But he must interfere, forsooth, unlock "His cloister to become my stumbling-block "Just as of old! Ay, ay, there 't is again "The land's inevitable Headexplain "The reverences that subject us! Count "These Ecelins now! Not to say as fount, "Originating power of thought,from twelve "That drop i' the trenches they joined hands to delve, "Six shall surpass him, but . . . why men must twine "Somehow with something! Ecelin 's a fine "Clear name! 'Twere simpler, doubtless, twine with me "At once: our cloistered friend's capacity "Was of a sort! I had to share myself "In fifty portions, like an o'ertasked elf "That 's forced illume in fifty points the vast "Rare vapour he 's environed by. At last "My strengths, though sorely frittered, e'en converge "And crown . . . no, Bacchus, they have yet to urge "The man be crowned!            "That aloe, an he durst, "Would climb! Just such a bloated sprawler first "I noted in Messina's castle-court "The day I came, when Heinrich asked in sport "If I would pledge my faith to win him back "His right in Lombardy: 'for, once bid pack "Marauders,' he continued, `in my stead "'You rule, Taurello!' and upon this head `Laid the silk glove of ConstanceI see her "Too, mantled head to foot in miniver, "Retrude following!           "I am absolved "From further toil: the empery devolved "On me, 't was Tito's word: I have to lay "For once my plan, pursue my plan my way, "Prompt nobody, and render an account "Taurello to Taurello! Nay, I mount "To Friedrich: he conceives the post I kept, "Who did true service, able or inept, "Who 's worthy guerdon, Ecelin or I. "Me guerdoned, counsel follows: would he vie "With the Pope really? Azzo, Boniface "Compose a right-arm Hohenstauffen's race "Must break ere govern Lombardy. I point "How easy 't were to twist, once out of joint, "The socket from the bone: my Azzo's stare "Meanwhile! for I, this idle strap to wear, "Shallfret myself abundantly, what end "To serve? There 's left me twenty years to spend "How better than my old way? Had I one "Who laboured overthrow my worka son "Hatching with Azzo superb treachery, "To root my pines up and then poison me, "Suppose't were worth while frustrate that! Beside, "Another life's ordained me: the world's tide "Rolls, and what hope of parting from the press "Of waves, a single wave though weariness "Gently lifted aside, laid upon shore? "My life must be lived out in foam and roar, "No question. Fifty years the province held "Taurello; troubles raised, and troubles quelled, "He in the midstwho leaves this quaint stone place, "These trees a year or two, then not a trace "Of him! How obtain hold, fetter men's tongues "Like this poor minstrel with the foolish songs "To which, despite our bustle, he is linked? "Flowers one may teaze, that never grow extinct. "Ay, that patch, surely, green as ever, where "I set Her Moorish lentisk, by the stair, "To overawe the aloes; and we trod "Those flowers, how call you such?into the sod; "A stately foreignera world of pain "To make it thrive, arrest rough windsall vain! "It would decline; these would not be destroyed: "And now, where is it? where can you avoid "The flowers? I frighten children twenty years "Longer!which way, too, Ecelin appears "To thwart me, for his son's besotted youth "Gives promise of the proper tigertooth: "They feel it at Vicenza! Fate, fate, fate, "My fine Taurello! Go you, promulgate "Friedrich's decree, and here 's shall aggrandise "Young Ecelinyour Prefect's badge! a prize "Too precious, certainly.              "How now? Compete "With my old comrade? shuffle from their seat "His children? Paltry dealing! Do n't I know "Ecelin? now, I think, and years ago! "What 's changedthe weakness? did not I compound "For that, and undertake to keep him sound "Despite it? Here 's Taurello hankering "After a boy's prefermentthis plaything "To carry, Bacchus!" And he laughed.                    Remark Why schemes wherein cold-blooded men embark Prosper, when your enthusiastic sort Fail: while these last are ever stopping short (So much they shouldso little they can do!) The careless tribe see nothing to pursue If they desist; meantime their scheme succeeds. Thoughts were caprices in the course of deeds Methodic with Taurello; so, he turned, Enough amused by fancies fairly earned Of Este's horror-struck submitted neck, And Richard, the cowed braggart, at his beck, To his own petty but immediate doubt If he could pacify the League without Conceding Richard; just to this was brought That interval of vain discursive thought! As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuit Of all enslavers, dips a shackled foot Burnt to the blood, into the drowsy black Enormous watercourse which guides him back To his own tribe again, where he is king; And laughs because he guesses, numbering The yellower poison-wattles on the pouch Of the first lizard wrested from its couch Under the slime (whose skin, the while, he strips To cure his nostril with, and festered lips, And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast) That he has reached its boundary, at last May breathe;thinks o'er enchantments of the South Sovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth, Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments tried In fancy, puts them soberly aside For truth, projects a cool return with friends, The likelihood of winning mere amends Ere long; thinks that, takes comfort silently, Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he, Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soon Off-striding for the Mountains of the Moon. Midnight: the watcher nodded on his spear, Since clouds dispersing left a passage clear For any meagre and discoloured moon To venture forth; and such was peering soon Above the harassed cityher close lanes Closer, not half so tapering her fanes, As though she shrunk into herself to keep What little life was saved, more safely. Heap By heap the watch-fires mouldered, and beside The blackest spoke Sordello and replied Palma with none to listen. "'T is your cause: "What makes a Ghibellin? There should be laws "(Remember how my youth escaped! I trust "To you for manhood, Palma! tell me just "As any child)there must be laws at work "Explaining this. Assure me, good may lurk "Under the bad,my multitude has part "In your designs, their welfare is at heart "With Salinguerra, to their interest "Refer the deeds he dwelt on,so divest "Our conference of much that scared me. Why "Affect that heartless tone to Tito? I "Esteemed myself, yes, in my inmost mind "This morn, a recreant to my racemankind "O'erlooked till now: why boast my spirit's force, "Such force denied its object? why divorce "These, then admire my spirit's flight the same "As though it bore up, helped some half-orbed flame "Else quenched in the dead void, to living space? "That orb cast off to chaos and disgrace, "Why vaunt so much my unencumbered dance, "Making a feat's facilities enhance "Its marvel? But I front Taurello, one "Of happier fate, and all I should have done, "He does; the people's good being paramount "With him, their progress may perhaps account "For his abiding still; whereas you heard "The talk with Titothe excuse preferred "For burning those five hostages,and broached "By way of blind, as you and I approached, "I do believe."         She spoke: then he, "My thought "Plainlier expressed! All to your profitnought "Meantime of these, of conquests to achieve "For them, of wretchedness he might relieve "While profiting your party. Azzo, too, "Supports a cause: what cause? Do Guelfs pursue "Their ends by means like yours, or better?"                        When The Guelfs were proved alike, men weighed with men, And deed with deed, blaze, blood, with blood and blaze, Morn broke: "Once more, Sordello, meet its gaze "Proudlythe people's charge against thee fails "In every point, while either party quails! "These are the busy ones: be silent thou! "Two parties take the world up, and allow "No third, yet have one principle, subsist "By the same injustice; whoso shall enlist "With either, ranks with man's inveterate foes. "So there is one less quarrel to compose: "The Guelf, the Ghibellin may be to curse "I have done nothing, but both sides do worse "Than nothing. Nay, to me, forgotten, reft "Of insight, lapped by trees and flowers, was left "The notion of a serviceha? What lured "Me here, what mighty aim was I assured "Must move Taurello? What if there remained "A cause, intact, distinct from these, ordained "For me, its true discoverer?"                 Some one pressed Before them here, a watcher, to suggest The subject for a ballad: "They must know "The tale of the dead worthy, long ago "Consul of Romethat 's long ago for us, "Minstrels and bowmen, idly squabbling thus `In the world's cornerbut too late no doubt, "For the brave time he sought to bring about. "Not know Crescentius Nomentanus?" Then He cast about for terms to tell him, when Sordello disavowed it, how they used Whenever their Superior introduced A novice to the Brotherhood("for I "Was just a brown-sleeve brother, merrily "Appointed too," quoth he, "till Innocent "Bade me relinquish, to my small content, "My wife or my brown sleeves")some brother spoke Ere nocturns of Crescentius, to revoke The edict issued, after his demise, Which blotted fame alike and effigies, All out except a floating power, a name Including, tending to produce the same Great act. Rome, dead, forgotten, lived at least Within that brain, though to a vulgar priest And a vile stranger,two not worth a slave Of Rome's, Pope John, King Otho,fortune gave The rule there: so, Crescentius, haply dressed In white, called Roman Consul for a jest, Taking the people at their word, forth stepped As upon Brutus' heel, nor ever kept Rome waiting,stood erect, and from his brain Gave Rome out on its ancient place again, Ay, bade proceed with Brutus' Rome, Kings styled Themselves mere citizens of, and, beguiled Into great thoughts thereby, would choose the gem Out of a lapfull, spoil their diadem The Senate's cypher was so hard to scratch He flashes like a phanal, all men catch The flame, Rome 's just accomplished! when returned Otho, with John, the Consul's step had spurned, And Hugo Lord of Este, to redress The wrongs of each. Crescentius in the stress Of adverse fortune bent. "They crucified "Their Consul in the Forum; and abide "E'er since such slaves at Rome, that I(for I "Was once a brown-sleeve brother, merrily "Appointed)I had option to keep wife "Or keep brown sleeves, and managed in the strife "Lose both. A song of Rome!"                And Rome, indeed, Robed at Goito in fantastic weed, The Mother-City of his Mantuan days, Looked an established point of light whence rays Traversed the world; for, all the clustered homes Beside of men, seemed bent on being Romes In their degree; the question was, how each Should most resemble Rome, clean out of reach. Nor, of the Two, did either principle Struggle to change, but to possess Rome,still Guelf Rome or Ghibellin Rome.                Let Rome advance! Rome, as she struck Sordello's ignorance How could he doubt one moment? Rome 's the Cause! Rome of the Pandects, all the world's new laws Of the Capitol, of Castle Angelo; New structures, that inordinately glow, Subdued, brought back to harmony, made ripe By many a relic of the archetype Extant for wonder; every upstart church That hoped to leave old temples in the lurch, Corrected by the Theatre forlorn That,as a mundane shell, its world late born, Lay and o'ershadowed it. These hints combined, Rome typifies the scheme to put mankind Once more in full possession of their rights. "Let us have Rome again! On me it lights "To build up Romeon me, the first and last: "For such a future was endured the past!" And thus, in the grey twilight, forth he sprung To give his thought consistency among The very Peoplelet their facts avail Finish the dream grown from the archer's tale. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Fourth ,

728:BOOK THE ELEVENTH The Death of Orpheus Here, while the Thracian bard's enchanting strain Sooths beasts, and woods, and all the listn'ing plain, The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad, In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad, Warbling in air perceiv'd his lovely lay, And from a rising ground beheld him play. When one, the wildest, with dishevel'd hair, That loosely stream'd, and ruffled in the air; Soon as her frantick eye the lyrist spy'd, See, see! the hater of our sex, she cry'd. Then at his face her missive javelin sent, Which whiz'd along, and brusht him as it went; But the soft wreathes of ivy twisted round, Prevent a deep impression of the wound. Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone, Which, by the sound subdu'd as soon as thrown, Falls at his feet, and with a seeming sense Implores his pardon for its late offence. But now their frantick rage unbounded grows, Turns all to madness, and no measure knows: Yet this the charms of musick might subdue, But that, with all its charms, is conquer'd too; In louder strains their hideous yellings rise, And squeaking horn-pipes eccho thro' the skies, Which, in hoarse consort with the drum, confound The moving lyre, and ev'ry gentle sound: Then 'twas the deafen'd stones flew on with speed, And saw, unsooth'd, their tuneful poet bleed. The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew, Now, by the female mob's more furious rage, Are driv'n, and forc'd to quit the shady stage. Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail, Nor can his song against their wrath prevail: They flock, like birds, when in a clustring flight, By day they chase the boding fowl of night. So crowded amphitheatres survey The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey. Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine, For sacred rites of mild religion made, Are flung promiscuous at the poet's head. Those clods of earth or flints discharge, and these Hurl prickly branches sliver'd from the trees. And, lest their passion shou'd be unsupply'd, The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spy'd Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke, The fallow'd field with slow advances broke; Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil, Procuring food with long laborious toil. These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near, Quitted their tools, and fled, possest with fear. Long spades, and rakes of mighty size were found, Carelesly left upon the broken ground. With these the furious lunaticks engage, And first the lab'ring oxen feel their rage; Then to the poet they return with speed, Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed: In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain He tries, before, his never-failing strain. And, from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound Fierce tygers, and insensate rocks cou'd wound, Ah Gods! how moving was the mournful sight! To see the fleeting soul now take its flight. Thee the soft warblers of the feather'd kind Bewail'd; for thee thy savage audience pin'd; Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led, Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead; And drooping trees their leafy glories shed. Naids and Dryads with dishevel'd hair Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear; Nor cou'd the river-Gods conceal their moan, But with new floods of tears augment their own. His mangled limbs lay scatter'd all around, His head, and harp a better fortune found; In Hebrus' streams they gently roul'd along, And sooth'd the waters with a mournful song. Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire, A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre; The hollows banks in solemn consort mourn, And the sad strain in ecchoing groans return. Now with the current to the sea they glide, Born by the billows of the briny tide; And driv'n where waves round rocky Lesbos roar, They strand, and lodge upon Methymna's shore. But here, when landed on the foreign soil, A venom'd snake, the product of the isle Attempts the head, and sacred locks embru'd With clotted gore, and still fresh-dropping blood. Phoebus, at last, his kind protection gives, And from the fact the greedy monster drives: Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone, Still grinning ghastly, tho' transform'd to stone. His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore, And knows the places it had seen before: Among the shadows of the pious train He finds Eurydice, and loves again; With pleasure views the beauteous phantom's charms, And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms. There side by side they unmolested walk, Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk; Aft or before the bard securely goes, And, without danger, can review his spouse. The Thracian Women transform'd to Trees Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong, Of Orpheus murder'd, on the madding throng, Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand Fix'd by the roots along the conscious land. Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran To wreak their malice on the guiltless man, Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound, Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground. And, as the fowler with his subtle gins, His feather'd captives by the feet entwines, That flutt'ring pant, and struggle to get loose, Yet only closer draw the fatal noose; So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain To quit the place, they but encreas'd their pain. They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controul'd; The root, tho' pliant, toughly keeps its hold. In vain their toes and feet they look to find, For ev'n their shapely legs are cloath'd with rind. One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke, And finds the flesh transform'd to solid oak; Another, with surprize, and grief distrest, Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast. A rugged bark their softer neck invades, Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades; At once they seem, and are, a real grove, With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above. The Fable of Midas Nor this suffic'd; the God's disgust remains, And he resolves to quit their hated plains; The vineyards of Tymole ingross his care, And, with a better choir, he fixes there; Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll'd, Then undistinguish'd for its sands of gold. The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng, Come to salute their God, and jovial danc'd along. Silenus only miss'd; for while he reel'd, Feeble with age, and wine, about the field, The hoary drunkard had forgot his way, And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey; Who to king Midas drag the captive God, While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod. Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore, And knew the rites of Bacchus long before. He, when he saw his venerable guest, In honour of the God ordain'd a feast. Ten days in course, with each continu'd night, Were spent in genial mirth, and brisk delight: Then on th' eleventh, when with brighter ray Phosphor had chac'd the fading stars away, The king thro' Lydia's fields young Bacchus sought, And to the God his foster-father brought. Pleas'd with the welcome sight, he bids him soon But name his wish, and swears to grant the boon. A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow'd On him whose choice so little judgment show'd. Give me, says he (nor thought he ask'd too much), That with my body whatsoe'er I touch, Chang'd from the nature which it held of old, May be converted into yellow gold. He had his wish; but yet the God repin'd, To think the fool no better wish could find. But the brave king departed from the place, With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face: Nor could contain, but, as he took his way, Impatient longs to make the first essay. Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew, The twig strait glitter'd with a golden hue: He takes a stone, the stone was turn'd to gold; A clod he touches, and the crumbling mold Acknowledg'd soon the great transforming pow'r, In weight and substance like a mass of ore. He pluck'd the corn, and strait his grasp appears Fill'd with a bending tuft of golden ears. An apple next he takes, and seems to hold The bright Hesperian vegetable gold. His hand he careless on a pillar lays. With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze: And while he washes, as the servants pour, His touch converts the stream to Danae's show'r. To see these miracles so finely wrought, Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought. The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board, Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord; Whose pow'rful hands the bread no sooner hold, But its whole substance is transform'd to gold: Up to his mouth he lifts the sav'ry meat, Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat: His patron's noble juice of purple hue, Touch'd by his lips, a gilded cordial grew; Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold, It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold. The rich poor fool, confounded with surprize, Starving in all his various plenty lies: Sick of his wish, he now detests the pow'r, For which he ask'd so earnestly before; Amidst his gold with pinching famine curst; And justly tortur'd with an equal thirst. At last his shining arms to Heav'n he rears, And in distress, for refuge, flies to pray'rs. O father Bacchus, I have sinn'd, he cry'd, And foolishly thy gracious gift apply'd; Thy pity now, repenting, I implore; Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more. The hungry wretch, his folly thus confest, Touch'd the kind deity's good-natur'd breast; The gentle God annull'd his first decree, And from the cruel compact set him free. But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm, And to dilute the relicks of the charm, He bids him seek the stream that cuts the land Nigh where the tow'rs of Lydian Sardis stand; Then trace the river to the fountain head, And meet it rising from its rocky bed; There, as the bubling tide pours forth amain, To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain. The king instructed to the fount retires, But with the golden charm the stream inspires: For while this quality the man forsakes, An equal pow'r the limpid water takes; Informs with veins of gold the neighb'ring land, And glides along a bed of golden sand. Now loathing wealth, th' occasion of his woes, Far in the woods he sought a calm repose; In caves and grottos, where the nymphs resort, And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court. Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind! But his condition alter'd not his mind. For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow, And from his cliffs surveys the seas below, In his descent, by Sardis bounded here, By the small confines of Hypaepa there, Pan to the nymphs his frolick ditties play'd, Tuning his reeds beneath the chequer'd shade. The nymphs are pleas'd, the boasting sylvan plays, And speaks with slight of great Apollo's lays. Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still Accepts the tryal with unequal skill. The venerable judge was seated high On his own hill, that seem'd to touch the sky. Above the whisp'ring trees his head he rears, From their encumbring boughs to free his ears; A wreath of oak alone his temples bound, The pendant acorns loosely dangled round. In me your judge, says he, there's no delay: Then bids the goatherd God begin, and play. Pan tun'd the pipe, and with his rural song Pleas'd the low taste of all the vulgar throng; Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please, Midas was there, and Midas judg'd with these. The mountain sire with grave deportment now To Phoebus turns his venerable brow: And, as he turns, with him the listning wood In the same posture of attention stood. The God his own Parnassian laurel crown'd, And in a wreath his golden tresses bound, Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground. High on the left his iv'ry lute he rais'd, The lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring jewels, blaz'd In his right hand he nicely held the quill, His easy posture spoke a master's skill. The strings he touch'd with more than human art, Which pleas'd the judge's ear, and sooth'd his heart; Who soon judiciously the palm decreed, And to the lute postpon'd the squeaking reed. All, with applause, the rightful sentence heard, Midas alone dissatisfy'd appear'd; To him unjustly giv'n the judgment seems, For Pan's barbarick notes he most esteems. The lyrick God, who thought his untun'd ear Deserv'd but ill a human form to wear, Of that deprives him, and supplies the place With some more fit, and of an ampler space: Fix'd on his noddle an unseemly pair, Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair; Without a total change from what he was, Still in the man preserves the simple ass. He, to conceal the scandal of the deed, A purple turbant folds about his head; Veils the reproach from publick view, and fears The laughing world would spy his monstrous ears. One trusty barber-slave, that us'd to dress His master's hair, when leng then'd to excess, The mighty secret knew, but knew alone, And, tho' impatient, durst not make it known. Restless, at last, a private place he found, Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground; In a low whisper he reveal'd the case, And cover'd in the earth, and silent left the place. In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous crop From the confided furrow sprouted up; Which, high advancing with the ripening year, Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care: For then the rustling blades, and whisp'ring wind, To tell th' important secret, both combin'd. The Building of Troy Phoebus, with full revenge, from Tmolus flies, Darts thro' the air, and cleaves the liquid skies; Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the plains Where great Laomedon sole monarch reigns; Where, built between the two projecting strands, To Panomphaean Jove an altar stands. Here first aspiring thoughts the king employ, To found the lofty tow'rs of future Troy. The work, from schemes magnificent begun, At vast expence was slowly carry'd on: Which Phoebus seeing, with the trident God Who rules the swelling surges with his nod, Assuming each a mortal shape, combine At a set price to finish his design. The work was built; the king their price denies, And his injustice backs with perjuries. This Neptune cou'd not brook, but drove the main, A mighty deluge, o'er the Phrygian plain: 'Twas all a sea; the waters of the deep From ev'ry vale the copious harvest sweep; The briny billows overflow the soil, Ravage the fields, and mock the plowman's toil. Nor this appeas'd the God's revengeful mind, For still a greater plague remains behind; A huge sea-monster lodges on the sands, And the king's daughter for his prey demands. To him that sav'd the damsel, was decreed A set of horses of the Sun's fine breed: But when Alcides from the rock unty'd The trembling fair, the ransom was deny'd. He, in revenge, the new-built walls attack'd, And the twice-perjur'd city bravely sack'd. Telamon aided, and in justice shar'd Part of the plunder as his due reward: The princess, rescu'd late, with all her charms, Hesione, was yielded to his arms; For Peleus, with a Goddess-bride, was more Proud of his spouse, than of his birth before: Grandsons to Jove there might be more than one, But he the Goddess had enjoy'd alone. The Story of Thetis and Peleus For Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said, Fair Goddess of the waves, consent to wed, And take some spritely lover to your bed. A son you'll have, the terror of the field, To whom in fame, and pow'r his sire shall yield. Jove, who ador'd the nymph with boundless love, Did from his breast the dangerous flame remove. He knew the Fates, nor car'd to raise up one, Whose fame and greatness should eclipse his own, On happy Peleus he bestow'd her charms, And bless'd his grandson in the Goddess' arms: A silent creek Thessalia's coast can show; Two arms project, and shape it like a bow; 'Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide Does scarce the yellow-gravell'd bottom hide; For the quick eye may thro' the liquid wave A firm unweedy level beach perceive. A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows, Whose boughs, tho' thick, a beauteous grot disclose; The well-wrought fabrick, to discerning eyes, Rather by art than Nature seems to rise. A bridled dolphin oft fair Thetis bore To this her lov'd retreat, her fav'rite shore. Here Peleus seiz'd her, slumbring while she lay, And urg'd his suit with all that love could say: But when he found her obstinately coy, Resolv'd to force her, and comm and the joy; The nymph, o'erpowr'd, to art for succour flies And various shapes the eager youth surprize: A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain, His hands the fleeting substance still detain: A branchy tree high in the air she grew; About its bark his nimble arms he threw: A tyger next she glares with flaming eyes; The frighten'd lover quits his hold, and flies: The sea-Gods he with sacred rites adores, Then a libation on the ocean pours; While the fat entrails crackle in the fire, And sheets of smoak in sweet perfume aspire; 'Till Proteus rising from his oozy bed, Thus to the poor desponding lover said: No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ, For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy. You must once more th' unwary nymph surprize, As in her cooly grot she slumbring lies; Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands, And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands. Still hold her under ev'ry different shape, 'Till tir'd she tries no longer to escape. Thus he: then sunk beneath the glassy flood, And broken accents flutter'd, where he stood. Bright Sol had almost now his journey done, And down the steepy western convex run; When the fair Nereid left the briny wave, And, as she us'd, retreated to her cave. He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose, And into various shapes her body throws: She went to move her arms, and found 'em ty'd; Then with a sigh, Some God assists ye, cry'd, And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side. About her waiste his longing arms he flung, From which embrace the great Achilles sprung. The Transformation of Daedalion Peleus unmix'd felicity enjoy'd (Blest in a valiant son, and virtuous bride), 'Till Fortune did in blood his hands imbrue, And his own brother by curst chance he slew: Then driv'n from Thessaly, his native clime, Trachinia first gave shelter to his crime; Where peaceful Ceyx mildly fill'd the throne, And like his sire, the morning planet, shone; But now, unlike himself, bedew'd with tears, Mourning a brother lost, his brow appears. First to the town with travel spent, and care, Peleus, and his small company repair: His herds, and flocks the while at leisure feed, On the rich pasture of a neighb'ring mead. The prince before the royal presence brought, Shew'd by the suppliant olive what he sought; Then tells his name, and race, and country right, But hides th' unhappy reason of his flight. He begs the king some little town to give, Where they may safe his faithful vassals live. Ceyx reply'd: To all my bounty flows, A hospitable realm your suit has chose. Your glorious race, and far-resounding fame, And grandsire Jove, peculiar favours claim. All you can wish, I grant; entreaties spare; My kingdom (would 'twere worth the sharing) share. Tears stop'd his speech: astonish'd Peleus pleads To know the cause from whence his grief proceeds. The prince reply'd: There's none of ye but deems This hawk was ever such as now it seems; Know 'twas a heroe once, Daedalion nam'd, For warlike deeds, and haughty valour fam'd; Like me to that bright luminary born, Who wakes Aurora, and brings on the morn. His fierceness still remains, and love of blood, Now dread of birds, and tyrant of the wood. My make was softer, peace my greatest care; But this my brother wholly bent on war; Late nations fear'd, and routed armies fled That force, which now the tim'rous pigeons dread. A daughter he possess'd, divinely fair, And scarcely yet had seen her fifteenth year; Young Chione: a thousand rivals strove To win the maid, and teach her how to love. Phoebus, and Mercury by chance one day From Delphi, and Cyllene past this way; Together they the virgin saw: desire At once warm'd both their breasts with am'rous fire. Phoebus resolv'd to wait 'till close of day; But Mercury's hot love brook'd no delay; With his entrancing rod the maid he charms, And unresisted revels in her arms. 'Twas night, and Phoebus in a beldam's dress, To the late rifled beauty got access. Her time compleat nine circling moons had run; To either God she bore a lovely son: To Mercury Autolycus she brought, Who turn'd to thefts and tricks his subtle thought; Possess'd he was of all his father's slight, At will made white look black, and black look white. Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire, The Muses lov'd, and finely struck the lyre, And made his voice, and touch in harmony conspire. In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth, The love of Gods, and royal father's worth, And Jove among your ancestors rehearse! Could blessings such as these e'er prove a curse? To her they did, who with audacious pride, Vain of her own, Diana's charms decry'd. Her taunts the Goddess with resentment fill; My face you like not, you shall try my skill. She said; and strait her vengeful bow she strung, And sent a shaft that pierc'd her guilty tongue: The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries; In the red stream her soul reluctant flies. With sorrow wild I ran to her relief, And try'd to moderate my brother's grief. He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat, Loudly laments, and hears me not intreat. When on the fun'ral pile he saw her laid, Thrice he to rush into the flames assay'd, Thrice with officious care by us was stay'd. Now, mad with grief, away he fled amain, Like a stung heifer that resents the pain, And bellowing wildly bounds along the plain. O'er the most rugged ways so fast he ran, He seem'd a bird already, not a man: He left us breathless all behind; and now In quest of death had gain'd Parnassus' brow: But when from thence headlong himself he threw, He fell not, but with airy pinions flew. Phoebus in pity chang'd him to a fowl, Whose crooked beak and claws the birds controul, Little of bulk, but of a warlike soul. A hawk become, the feather'd race's foe, He tries to case his own by other's woe. A Wolf turn'd into Marble While they astonish'd heard the king relate These wonders of his hapless brother's fate; The prince's herdsman at the court arrives, And fresh surprize to all the audience gives. O Peleus, Peleus! dreadful news I bear, He said; and trembled as he spoke for fear. The worst, affrighted Peleus bid him tell, Whilst Ceyx too grew pale with friendly zeal. Thus he began: When Sol mid-heav'n had gain'd, And half his way was past, and half remain'd, I to the level shore my cattle drove, And let them freely in the meadows rove. Some stretch'd at length admire the watry plain, Some crop'd the herb, some wanton swam the main. A temple stands of antique make hard by, Where no gilt domes, nor marble lure the eye; Unpolish'd rafters bear its lowly height, Hid by a grove, as ancient, from the sight. Here Nereus, and the Nereids they adore; I learnt it from the man who thither bore His net, to dry it on the sunny shore. Adjoyns a lake, inclos'd with willows round, Where swelling waves have overflow'd the mound, And, muddy, stagnate on the lower ground. From thence a russling noise increasing flies, Strikes the still shore; and frights us with surprize, Strait a huge wolf rush'd from the marshy wood, His jaws besmear'd with mingled foam, and blood, Tho' equally by hunger urg'd, and rage, His appetite he minds not to asswage; Nought that he meets, his rabid fury spares, But the whole herd with mad disorder tears. Some of our men who strove to drive him thence, Torn by his teeth, have dy'd in their defence. The echoing lakes, the sea, and fields, and shore, Impurpled blush with streams of reeking gore. Delay is loss, nor have we time for thought; While yet some few remain alive, we ought To seize our arms, and with confederate force Try if we so can stop his bloody course. But Peleus car'd not for his ruin'd herd; His crime he call'd to mind, and thence inferr'd, That Psamathe's revenge this havock made, In sacrifice to murder'd Phocus' shade. The king commands his servants to their arms; Resolv'd to go; but the loud noise alarms His lovely queen, who from her chamber flew, And her half-plaited hair behind her threw: About his neck she hung with loving fears, And now with words, and now with pleading tears, Intreated that he'd send his men alone, And stay himself, to save two lives in one. Then Peleus: Your just fears, o queen, forget; Too much the offer leaves me in your debt. No arms against the monster I shall bear, But the sea nymphs appease with humble pray'r. The citadel's high turrets pierce the sky, Which home-bound vessels, glad, from far descry; This they ascend, and thence with sorrow ken The mangled heifers lye, and bleeding men; Th' inexorable ravager they view, With blood discolour'd, still the rest pursue: There Peleus pray'd submissive tow'rds the sea, And deprecates the ire of injur'd Psamathe. But deaf to all his pray'rs the nymph remain'd, 'Till Thetis for her spouse the boon obtain'd. Pleas'd with the luxury, the furious beast, Unstop'd, continues still his bloody feast: While yet upon a sturdy bull he flew, Chang'd by the nymph, a marble block he grew. No longer dreadful now the wolf appears, Bury'd in stone, and vanish'd like their fears. Yet still the Fates unhappy Peleus vex'd; To the Magnesian shore he wanders next. Acastus there, who rul'd the peaceful clime, Grants his request, and expiates his crime. The Story of Ceyx and Alcyone These prodigies affect the pious prince, But more perplex'd with those that happen'd since, He purposes to seek the Clarian God, Avoiding Delphi, his more fam'd abode, Since Phlegyan robbers made unsafe the road. Yet could he not from her he lov'd so well, The fatal voyage, he resolv'd, conceal; But when she saw her lord prepar'd to part, A deadly cold ran shiv'ring to her heart; Her faded cheeks are chang'd to boxen hue, And in her eyes the tears are ever new. She thrice essay'd to speak; her accents hung, And falt'ring dy'd unfinish'd on her tongue, And vanish'd into sighs: with long delay Her voice return'd, and found the wonted way. Tell me, my lord, she said, what fault unknown Thy once belov'd Alcyone has done? Whither, ah, whither, is thy kindness gone! Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his wife, And unconcern'd forsake the sweets of life? What can thy mind to this long journey move? Or need'st thou absence to renew thy love? Yet, if thou go'st by land, tho' grief possess My soul ev'n then, my fears will be the less. But ah! be warn'd to shun the watry way, The face is frightful of the stormy sea: For late I saw a-drift disjointed planks, And empty tombs erected on the banks. Nor let false hopes to trust betray thy mind, Because my sire in caves constrains the wind, Can with a breath their clam'rous rage appease, They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas: Not so; for once indulg'd, they sweep the main; Deaf to the call, or hearing, hear in vain; But bent on mischief bear the waves before, And not content with seas, insult the shore, When ocean, air, and Earth, at once ingage, And rooted forests fly before their rage: At once the clashing clouds to battel move, And lightnings run across the fields above: I know them well, and mark'd their rude comport, While yet a child within my father's court: In times of tempest they comm and alone, And he but sits precarious on the throne: The more I know, the more my fears augment; And fears are oft prophetick of th' event. But if not fears, or reasons will prevail, If Fate has fix'd thee obstinate to sail, Go not without thy wife, but let me bear My part of danger with an equal share, And present, what I suffer only fear: Then o'er the bounding billows shall we fly, Secure to live together, or to die. These reasons mov'd her warlike husband's heart, But still he held his purpose to depart: For as he lov'd her equal to his life, He would not to the seas expose his wife; Nor could be wrought his voyage to refrain, But sought by arguments to sooth her pain: Nor these avail'd; at length he lights on one, With which so difficult a cause he won: My love, so short an absence cease to fear, For by my father's holy flame I swear, Before two moons their orb with light adorn, If Heav'n allow me life, I will return. This promise of so short a stay prevails; He soon equips the ship, supplies the sails, And gives the word to launch; she trembling views This pomp of death, and parting tears renews: Last with a kiss, she took a long farewel, Sigh'd with a sad presage, and swooning fell: While Ceyx seeks delays, the lusty crew, Rais'd on their banks, their oars in order drew To their broad breasts, the ship with fury flew. The queen recover'd, rears her humid eyes, And first her husb and on the poop espies, Shaking his hand at distance on the main; She took the sign, and shook her hand again. Still as the ground recedes, contracts her view With sharpen'd sight, 'till she no longer knew The much-lov'd face; that comfort lost supplies With less, and with the galley feeds her eyes; The galley born from view by rising gales, She follow'd with her sight the flying sails: When ev'n the flying sails were seen no more, Forsaken of all sight she left the shore. Then on her bridal bed her body throws, And sought in sleep her wearied eyes to close: Her husband's pillow, and the widow'd part Which once he press'd, renew'd the former smart. And now a breeze from shoar began to blow, The sailors ship their oars, and cease to row; Then hoist their yards a-trip, and all their sails Let fall, to court the wind, and catch the gales: By this the vessel half her course had run, Both shoars were lost to sight, when at the close Of day a stiffer gale at east arose: The sea grew white, the rouling waves from far, Like heralds, first denounce the watry war. This seen, the master soon began to cry, Strike, strike the top-sail; let the main-sheet fly, And furl your sails: the winds repel the sound, And in the speaker's mouth the speech is drown'd. Yet of their own accord, as danger taught Each in his way, officiously they wrought; Some stow their oars, or stop the leaky sides, Another bolder, yet the yard bestrides, And folds the sails; a fourth with labour laves Th' intruding seas, and waves ejects on waves. In this confusion while their work they ply, The winds augment the winter of the sky, And wage intestine wars; the suff'ring seas Are toss'd, and mingled, as their tyrants please. The master would command, but in despair Of safety, stands amaz'd with stupid care, Nor what to bid, or what forbid he knows, Th' ungovern'd tempest to such fury grows: Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill; With such a concourse comes the flood of ill; The cries of men are mix'd with rattling shrowds; Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds: At once from east to west, from pole to pole, The forky lightnings flash, the roaring thunders roul. Now waves on waves ascending scale the skies, And in the fires above the water fries: When yellow sands are sifted from below, The glittering billows give a golden show: And when the fouler bottom spews the black The Stygian dye the tainted waters take: Then frothy white appear the flatted seas, And change their colour, changing their disease, Like various fits the Trachin vessel finds, And now sublime, she rides upon the winds; As from a lofty summit looks from high, And from the clouds beholds the nether sky; Now from the depth of Hell they lift their sight, And at a distance see superior light; The lashing billows make a loud report, And beat her sides, as batt'ring rams a fort: Or as a lion bounding in his way, With force augmented, bears against his prey, Sidelong to seize; or unapal'd with fear, Springs on the toils, and rushes on the spear: So seas impell'd by winds, with added pow'r Assault the sides, and o'er the hatches tow'r. The planks (their pitchy cov'ring wash'd away) Now yield; and now a yawning breach display: The roaring waters with a hostile tide Rush through the ruins of her gaping side. Mean-time in sheets of rain the sky descends, And ocean swell'd with waters upwards tends; One rising, falling one, the Heav'ns and sea Meet at their confines, in the middle way: The sails are drunk with show'rs, and drop with rain, Sweet waters mingle with the briny main. No star appears to lend his friendly light; Darkness, and tempest make a double night; But flashing fires disclose the deep by turns, And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns. Now all the waves their scatter'd force unite, And as a soldier foremost in the fight, Makes way for others, and an host alone Still presses on, and urging gains the town; So while th' invading billows come a-breast, The hero tenth advanc'd before the rest, Sweeps all before him with impetuous sway, And from the walls descends upon the prey; Part following enter, part remain without, With envy hear their fellows' conqu'ring shout, And mount on others' backs, in hopes to share The city, thus become the seat of war. An universal cry resounds aloud, The sailors run in heaps, a helpless crowd; Art fails, and courage falls, no succour near; As many waves, as many deaths appear. One weeps, and yet despairs of late relief; One cannot weep, his fears congeal his grief, But stupid, with dry eyes expects his fate: One with loud shrieks laments his lost estate, And calls those happy whom their fun'rals wait. This wretch with pray'rs and vows the Gods implores, And ev'n the skies he cannot see, adores. That other on his friends his thoughts bestows, His careful father, and his faithful spouse. The covetous worldling in his anxious mind, Thinks only on the wealth he left behind. All Ceyx his Alcyone employs, For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys: His wife he wishes, and would still be near, Not her with him, but wishes him with her: Now with last looks he seeks his native shoar, Which Fate has destin'd him to see no more; He sought, but in the dark tempestuous night He knew not whither to direct his sight. So whirl the seas, such darkness blinds the sky, That the black night receives a deeper dye. The giddy ship ran round; the tempest tore Her mast, and over-board the rudder bore. One billow mounts, and with a scornful brow, Proud of her conquest gain'd, insults the waves below; Nor lighter falls, than if some giant tore Pindus and Athos with the freight they bore, And toss'd on seas; press'd with the pond'rous blow, Down sinks the ship within th' abyss below: Down with the vessel sink into the main The many, never more to rise again. Some few on scatter'd planks, with fruitless care, Lay hold, and swim; but while they swim, despair. Ev'n he who late a scepter did command, Now grasps a floating fragment in his hand; And while he struggles on the stormy main, Invokes his father, and his wife's, in vain. But yet his consort is his greatest care, Alcyone he names amidst his pray'r; Names as a charm against the waves and wind; Most in his mouth, and ever in his mind. Tir'd with his toil, all hopes of safety past, From pray'rs to wishes he descends at last; That his dead body, wafted to the sands, Might have its burial from her friendly hands, As oft as he can catch a gulp of air, And peep above the seas, he names the fair; And ev'n when plung'd beneath, on her he raves, Murm'ring Alcyone below the waves: At last a falling billow stops his breath, Breaks o'er his head, and whelms him underneath. That night, his heav'nly form obscur'd with tears, And since he was forbid to leave the skies, He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes. Mean-time Alcyone (his fate unknown) Computes how many nights he had been gone. Observes the waining moon with hourly view, Numbers her age, and wishes for a new; Against the promis'd time provides with care, And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear: And for her self employs another loom, New-dress'd to meet her lord returning home, Flatt'ring her heart with joys, that never were to come: She fum'd the temples with an od'rous flame, And oft before the sacred altars came, To pray for him, who was an empty name. All Pow'rs implor'd, but far above the rest To Juno she her pious vows address'd, Her much-lov'd lord from perils to protect, And safe o'er seas his voyage to direct: Then pray'd, that she might still possess his heart, And no pretending rival share a part; This last petition heard of all her pray'r, The rest, dispers'd by winds, were lost in air. But she, the Goddess of the nuptial bed, Tir'd with her vain devotions for the dead, Resolv'd the tainted hand should be repell'd, Which incense offer'd, and her altar held: Then Iris thus bespoke: Thou faithful maid, By whom thy queen's commands are well convey'd, Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the God Who rules the night by visions with a nod, Prepare a dream, in figure, and in form Resembling him, who perish'd in the storm; This form before Alcyone present, To make her certain of the sad event. Indu'd with robes of various hue she flies, And flying draws an arch (a segment of the skies): Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep Descends, to search the silent house of sleep. The House of Sleep Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode, Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God; Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun, Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon; But lazy vapours round the region fly, Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky: No crowing cock does there his wings display, Nor with his horny bill provoke the day; Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese, Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace; Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh, Nor trees with tempests rock'd, nor human cry; But safe repose without an air of breath Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death. An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow Arising upwards from the rock below, The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps, And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps. Around its entry nodding poppies grow, And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow; Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains, And passing, sheds it on the silent plains: No door there was th' unguarded house to keep, On creaking hinges turn'd, to break his sleep. But in the gloomy court was rais'd a bed, Stuff'd with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted: Black was the cov'ring too, where lay the God, And slept supine, his limbs display'd abroad: About his head fantastick visions fly, Which various images of things supply, And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more, Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore. The virgin ent'ring bright, indulg'd the day To the brown cave, and brush'd the dreams away: The God disturb'd with this new glare of light, Cast sudden on his face, unseal'd his sight, And rais'd his tardy head, which sunk again, And sinking, on his bosom knock'd his chin; At length shook off himself, and ask'd the dame, (And asking yawn'd) for what intent she came. To whom the Goddess thus: O sacred rest, Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the Pow'rs the best! O peace of mind, repairer of decay, Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day, Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away! Adorn a dream, expressing human form, The shape of him who suffer'd in the storm, And send it flitting to the Trachin court, The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report: Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand, Who begs a vain relief at Juno's hand. She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep, Unable to support the fumes of sleep; But fled, returning by the way she went, And swerv'd along her bow with swift ascent. The God, uneasy 'till he slept again, Resolv'd at once to rid himself of pain; And, tho' against his custom, call'd aloud, Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd: Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express'd The shape of man, and imitated best; The walk, the words, the gesture could supply, The habit mimick, and the mein bely; Plays well, but all his action is confin'd, Extending not beyond our human kind. Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes, And dreadful images, and monster shapes: This demon, Icelos, in Heav'n's high hall The Gods have nam'd; but men Phobetor call. A third is Phantasus, whose actions roul On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul; Earth, fruits, and flow'rs he represents in dreams, And solid rocks unmov'd, and running streams. These three to kings, and chiefs their scenes display, The rest before th' ignoble commons play. Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatch'd; Which done, the lazy monarch, over-watch'd, Down from his propping elbow drops his head, Dissolv'd in sleep, and shrinks within his bed. Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepar'd, So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard. To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade, Thro' air his momentary journey made: Then lays aside the steerage of his wings, Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king's; And pale, as death, despoil'd of his array, Into the queen's apartment takes his way, And stands before the bed at dawn of day: Unmov'd his eyes, and wet his beard appears; And shedding vain, but seeming real tears; The briny waters dropping from his hairs. Then staring on her with a ghastly look, And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke. Know'st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife? Or are my features perish'd with my life? Look once again, and for thy husb and lost, Lo all that's left of him, thy husband's ghost! Thy vows for my return were all in vain, The stormy south o'ertook us in the main, And never shalt thou see thy living lord again. Bear witness, Heav'n, I call'd on thee in death, And while I call'd, a billow stop'd my breath. Think not, that flying fame reports my fate; I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate. Rise, wretched widow, rise; nor undeplor'd Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford; But rise, prepar'd in black, to mourn thy perish'd lord. Thus said the player-God; and adding art Of voice and gesture, so perform'd his part, She thought (so like her love the shade appears) That Ceyx spake the words, and Ceyx shed the tears; She groan'd, her inward soul with grief opprest, She sigh'd, she wept, and sleeping beat her breast; Then stretch'd her arms t' embrace his body bare; Her clasping arms inclose but empty air: At this, not yet awake, she cry'd, O stay; One is our fate, and common is our way! So dreadful was the dream, so loud she spoke, That starting sudden up, the slumber broke: Then cast her eyes around, in hope to view Her vanish'd lord, and find the vision true: For now the maids, who waited her commands, Ran in with lighted tapers in their hands. Tir'd with the search, not finding what she seeks, With cruel blows she pounds her blubber'd cheeks; Then from her beaten breast the linnen tare, And cut the golden caul that bound her hair. Her nurse demands the cause; with louder cries She prosecutes her griefs, and thus replies. No more Alcyone; she suffer'd death With her lov'd lord, when Ceyx lost his breath: No flatt'ry, no false comfort, give me none, My shipwreck'd Ceyx is for ever gone: I saw, I saw him manifest in view, His voice, his figure, and his gestures knew: His lustre lost, and ev'ry living grace, Yet I retain'd the features of his face; Tho' with pale cheeks, wet beard, and dropping hair, None but my Ceyx could appear so fair: I would have strain'd him with a strict embrace, But thro' my arms he slipt, and vanish'd from the place: There, ev'n just there he stood; and as she spoke, Where last the spectre was she cast her look: Fain would she hope, and gaz'd upon the ground, If any printed footsteps might be found. Then sigh'd, and said: This I too well foreknew, And my prophetick fears presag'd too true: 'Twas what I begg'd, when with a bleeding heart I took my leave, and suffer'd thee to part; Or I to go along, or thou to stay, Never, ah never to divide our way! Happier for me, that all our hours assign'd Together we had liv'd; ev'n not in death disjoin'd! So had my Ceyx still been living here, Or with my Ceyx I had perish'd there: Now I die absent, in the vast profound; And me, without my self, the seas have drown'd. The storms were not so cruel: should I strive To leng then life, and such a grief survive; But neither will I strive, nor wretched thee In death forsake, but keep thee company. If not one common sepulchre contains Our bodies, or one urn our last remains, Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join, Their names remember'd in one common line. No farther voice her mighty grief affords, For sighs come rushing in betwixt her words, And stop'd her tongue; but what her tongue deny'd, Soft tears, and groans, and dumb complaints supply'd. 'Twas morning; to the port she takes her way, And stands upon the margin of the sea: That place, that very spot of ground she sought, Or thither by her destiny was brought, Where last he stood: and while she sadly said, 'Twas here he left me, lingring here delay'd His parting kiss, and there his anchors weigh'd. Thus speaking, while her thoughts past actions trace, And call to mind, admonish'd by the place, Sharp at her utmost ken she cast her eyes, And somewhat floating from afar descries: It seems a corps a-drift to distant sight, But at a distance who could judge aright? It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew, That what before she but surmis'd, was true: A corps it was, but whose it was, unknown, Yet mov'd, howe'er, she made the cause her own. Took the bad omen of a shipwreck'd man, As for a stranger wept, and thus began. Poor wretch, on stormy seas to lose thy life, Unhappy thou, but more thy widow'd wife; At this she paus'd: for now the flowing tide Had brought the body nearer to the side: The more she looks, the more her fears increase, At nearer sight; and she's her self the less: Now driv'n ashore, and at her feet it lies, She knows too much in knowing whom she sees: Her husband's corps; at this she loudly shrieks, 'Tis he, 'tis he, she cries, and tears her cheeks, Her hair, and vest; and stooping to the sands, About his neck she cast her trembling hands. And is it thus, o dearer than my life, Thus, thus return'st thou to thy longing wife! She said, and to the neighbouring mole she strode, (Rais'd there to break th' incursions of the flood). Headlong from hence to plunge her self she springs, But shoots along, supported on her wings; A bird new-made, about the banks she plies, Not far from shore, and short excursions tries; Nor seeks in air her humble flight to raise, Content to skim the surface of the seas: Her bill tho' slender, sends a creaking noise, And imitates a lamentable voice. Now lighting where the bloodless body lies, She with a fun'ral note renews her cries: At all her stretch, her little wings she spread, And with her feather'd arms embrac'd the dead: Then flick'ring to his palid lips, she strove To print a kiss, the last essay of love. Whether the vital touch reviv'd the dead, Or that the moving waters rais'd his head To meet the kiss, the vulgar doubt alone; For sure a present miracle was shown. The Gods their shapes to winter-birds translate, But both obnoxious to their former fate. Their conjugal affection still is ty'd, And still the mournful race is multiply'd: They bill, they tread; Alcyone compress'd, Sev'n days sits brooding on her floating nest: A wintry queen: her sire at length is kind, Calms ev'ry storm, and hushes ev'ry wind; Prepares his empire for his daughter's ease, And for his hatching nephews smooths the seas. Aesacus transform'd into a Cormorant These some old man sees wanton in the air, And praises the unhappy constant pair. Then to his friend the long-neck'd corm'rant shows, The former tale reviving others' woes: That sable bird, he cries, which cuts the flood With slender legs, was once of royal blood; His ancestors from mighty Tros proceed, The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede (Whose beauty tempted Jove to steal the boy), And Priam, hapless prince! who fell with Troy: Himself was Hector's brother, and (had Fate But giv'n this hopeful youth a longer date) Perhaps had rival'd warlike Hector's worth, Tho' on the mother's side of meaner birth; Fair Alyxothoe, a country maid, Bare Aesacus by stealth in Ida's shade. He fled the noisy town, and pompous court, Lov'd the lone hills, and simple rural sport. And seldom to the city would resort. Yet he no rustick clownishness profest, Nor was soft love a stranger to his breast: The youth had long the nymph Hesperie woo'd, Oft thro' the thicket, or the mead pursu'd: Her haply on her father's bank he spy'd, While fearless she her silver tresses dry'd; Away she fled: not stags with half such speed, Before the prowling wolf, scud o'er the mead; Not ducks, when they the safer flood forsake, Pursu'd by hawks, so swift regain the lake. As fast he follow'd in the hot career; Desire the lover wing'd, the virgin fear. A snake unseen now pierc'd her heedless foot; Quick thro' the veins the venom'd juices shoot: She fell, and 'scap'd by death his fierce pursuit; Her lifeless body, frighted, he embrac'd, And cry'd, Not this I dreaded, but thy haste: O had my love been less, or less thy fear! The victory, thus bought, is far too dear. Accursed snake! yet I more curs'd than he! He gave the wound; the cause was given by me. Yet none shall say, that unreveng'd you dy'd. He spoke; then climb'd a cliff's o'er-hanging side, And, resolute, leap'd on the foaming tide. Tethys receiv'd him gently on the wave; The death he sought deny'd, and feathers gave. Debarr'd the surest remedy of grief, And forc'd to live, he curst th' unask'd relief. Then on his airy pinions upward flies, And at a second fall successless tries; The downy plume a quick descent denies. Enrag'd, he often dives beneath the wave, And there in vain expects to find a grave. His ceaseless sorrow for th' unhappy maid, Meager'd his look, and on his spirits prey'd. Still near the sounding deep he lives; his name From frequent diving and emerging came. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE ELEVENTH ,

729:BOOK THE TENTH The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice Thence, in his saffron robe, for distant Thrace, Hymen departs, thro' air's unmeasur'd space; By Orpheus call'd, the nuptial Pow'r attends, But with ill-omen'd augury descends; Nor chearful look'd the God, nor prosp'rous spoke, Nor blaz'd his torch, but wept in hissing smoke. In vain they whirl it round, in vain they shake, No rapid motion can its flames awake. With dread these inauspicious signs were view'd, And soon a more disastrous end ensu'd; For as the bride, amid the Naiad train, Ran joyful, sporting o'er the flow'ry plain, A venom'd viper bit her as she pass'd; Instant she fell, and sudden breath'd her last. When long his loss the Thracian had deplor'd, Not by superior Pow'rs to be restor'd; Inflam'd by love, and urg'd by deep despair, He leaves the realms of light, and upper air; Daring to tread the dark Tenarian road, And tempt the shades in their obscure abode; Thro' gliding spectres of th' interr'd to go, And phantom people of the world below: Persephone he seeks, and him who reigns O'er ghosts, and Hell's uncomfortable plains. Arriv'd, he, tuning to his voice his strings, Thus to the king and queen of shadows sings. Ye Pow'rs, who under Earth your realms extend, To whom all mortals must one day descend; If here 'tis granted sacred truth to tell: I come not curious to explore your Hell; Nor come to boast (by vain ambition fir'd) How Cerberus at my approach retir'd. My wife alone I seek; for her lov'd sake These terrors I support, this journey take. She, luckless wandring, or by fate mis-led, Chanc'd on a lurking viper's crest to tread; The vengeful beast, enflam'd with fury, starts, And thro' her heel his deathful venom darts. Thus was she snatch'd untimely to her tomb; Her growing years cut short, and springing bloom. Long I my loss endeavour'd to sustain, And strongly strove, but strove, alas, in vain: At length I yielded, won by mighty love; Well known is that omnipotence above! But here, I doubt, his unfelt influence fails; And yet a hope within my heart prevails. That here, ev'n here, he has been known of old; At least if truth be by tradition told; If fame of former rapes belief may find, You both by love, and love alone, were join'd. Now, by the horrors which these realms surround; By the vast chaos of these depths profound; By the sad silence which eternal reigns O'er all the waste of these wide-stretching plains; Let me again Eurydice receive, Let Fate her quick-spun thread of life re-weave. All our possessions are but loans from you, And soon, or late, you must be paid your due; Hither we haste to human-kind's last seat, Your endless empire, and our sure retreat. She too, when ripen'd years she shall attain, Must, of avoidless right, be yours again: I but the transient use of that require, Which soon, too soon, I must resign entire. But if the destinies refuse my vow, And no remission of her doom allow; Know, I'm determin'd to return no more; So both retain, or both to life restore. Thus, while the bard melodiously complains, And to his lyre accords his vocal strains, The very bloodless shades attention keep, And silent, seem compassionate to weep; Ev'n Tantalus his flood unthirsty views, Nor flies the stream, nor he the stream pursues; Ixion's wond'ring wheel its whirl suspends, And the voracious vulture, charm'd, attends; No more the Belides their toil bemoan, And Sisiphus reclin'd, sits list'ning on his stone. Then first ('tis said) by sacred verse subdu'd, The Furies felt their cheeks with tears bedew'd: Nor could the rigid king, or queen of Hell, Th' impulse of pity in their hearts repell. Now, from a troop of shades that last arriv'd, Eurydice was call'd, and stood reviv'd: Slow she advanc'd, and halting seem to feel The fatal wound, yet painful in her heel. Thus he obtains the suit so much desir'd, On strict observance of the terms requir'd: For if, before he reach the realms of air, He backward cast his eyes to view the fair, The forfeit grant, that instant, void is made, And she for ever left a lifeless shade. Now thro' the noiseless throng their way they bend, And both with pain the rugged road ascend; Dark was the path, and difficult, and steep, And thick with vapours from the smoaky deep. They well-nigh now had pass'd the bounds of night, And just approach'd the margin of the light, When he, mistrusting lest her steps might stray, And gladsome of the glympse of dawning day, His longing eyes, impatient, backward cast To catch a lover's look, but look'd his last; For, instant dying, she again descends, While he to empty air his arms extends. Again she dy'd, nor yet her lord reprov'd; What could she say, but that too well he lov'd? One last farewell she spoke, which scarce he heard; So soon she drop'd, so sudden disappear'd. All stunn'd he stood, when thus his wife he view'd By second Fate, and double death subdu'd: Not more amazement by that wretch was shown, Whom Cerberus beholding, turn'd to stone; Nor Olenus cou'd more astonish'd look, When on himself Lethaea's fault he took, His beauteous wife, who too secure had dar'd Her face to vye with Goddesses compar'd: Once join'd by love, they stand united still, Turn'd to contiguous rocks on Ida's hill. Now to repass the Styx in vain he tries, Charon averse, his pressing suit denies. Sev'n days entire, along th' infernal shores, Disconsolate, the bard Eurydice deplores; Defil'd with filth his robe, with tears his cheeks, No sustenance but grief, and cares, he seeks: Of rigid Fate incessant he complains, And Hell's inexorable Gods arraigns. This ended, to high Rhodope he hastes, And Haemus' mountain, bleak with northern blasts. And now his yearly race the circling sun Had thrice compleat thro' wat'ry Pisces run, Since Orpheus fled the face of womankind, And all soft union with the sex declin'd. Whether his ill success this change had bred, Or binding vows made to his former bed; Whate'er the cause, in vain the nymphs contest, With rival eyes to warm his frozen breast: For ev'ry nymph with love his lays inspir'd, But ev'ry nymph repuls'd, with grief retir'd. A hill there was, and on that hill a mead, With verdure thick, but destitute of shade. Where, now, the Muse's son no sooner sings, No sooner strikes his sweet resounding strings. But distant groves the flying sounds receive, And list'ning trees their rooted stations leave; Themselves transplanting, all around they grow, And various shades their various kinds bestow. Here, tall Chaonian oaks their branches spread, While weeping poplars there erect their head. The foodful Esculus here shoots his leaves, That turf soft lime-tree, this, fat beach receives; Here, brittle hazels, lawrels here advance, And there tough ash to form the heroe's lance; Here silver firs with knotless trunks ascend, There, scarlet oaks beneath their acorns bend. That spot admits the hospitable plane, On this, the maple grows with clouded grain; Here, watry willows are with Lotus seen; There, tamarisk, and box for ever green. With double hue here mirtles grace the ground, And laurestines, with purple berries crown'd. With pliant feet, now, ivies this way wind, Vines yonder rise, and elms with vines entwin'd. Wild Ornus now, the pitch-tree next takes root, And Ar butus adorn'd with blushing fruit. Then easy-bending palms, the victor's prize, And pines erect with bristly tops arise. For Rhea grateful still the pine remains, For Atys still some favour she retains; He once in human shape her breast had warm'd, And now is cherish'd, to a tree transform'd. The Fable of Cyparissus Amid the throng of this promiscuous wood, With pointed top, the taper cypress stood; A tree, which once a youth, and heav'nly fair, Was of that deity the darling care, Whose hand adapts, with equal skill, the strings To bows with which he kills, and harps to which he sings. For heretofore, a mighty stag was bred, Which on the fertile fields of Caea fed; In shape and size he all his kind excell'd, And to Carthaean nymphs was sacred held. His beamy head, with branches high display'd, Afforded to itself an ample shade; His horns were gilt, and his smooth neck was grac'd With silver collars thick with gems enchas'd: A silver boss upon his forehead hung, And brazen pendants in his ear-rings rung. Frequenting houses, he familiar grew, And learnt by custom, Nature to subdue; 'Till by degrees, of fear, and wildness, broke, Ev'n stranger hands his proffer'd neck might stroak. Much was the beast by Caea's youth caress'd, But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lov'dst him best: By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led, By thee oft water'd at the fountain's head: His horns with garlands, now, by thee were ty'd, And, now, thou on his back wou'dst wanton ride; Now here, now there wou'dst bound along the plains, Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins. 'Twas when the summer sun, at noon of day, Thro' glowing Cancer shot his burning ray, 'Twas then, the fav'rite stag, in cool retreat, Had sought a shelter from the scorching heat; Along the grass his weary limbs he laid, Inhaling freshness from the breezy shade: When Cyparissus with his pointed dart, Unknowing, pierc'd him to the panting heart. But when the youth, surpriz'd, his error found, And saw him dying of the cruel wound, Himself he would have slain thro' desp'rate grief: What said not Phoebus, that might yield relief! To cease his mourning, he the boy desir'd, Or mourn no more than such a loss requir'd. But he, incessant griev'd: at length address'd To the superior Pow'rs a last request; Praying, in expiation of his crime, Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time. And now, of blood exhausted he appears, Drain'd by a torrent of continual tears; The fleshy colour in his body fades, And a green tincture all his limbs invades; From his fair head, where curling locks late hung, A horrid bush with bristled branches sprung, Which stiffning by degrees, its stem extends, 'Till to the starry skies the spire ascends. Apollo sad look'd on, and sighing, cry'd, Then, be for ever, what thy pray'r imply'd: Bemoan'd by me, in others grief excite; And still preside at ev'ry fun'ral rite. Thus the sweet artist in a wondrous shade Of verdant trees, which harmony had made, Encircled sate, with his own triumphs crown'd, Of listning birds, and savages around. Again the trembling strings he dext'rous tries, Again from discord makes soft musick rise. Then tunes his voice: O Muse, from whom I sprung, Jove be my theme, and thou inspire my song. To Jove my grateful voice I oft have rais'd, Oft his almighty pow'r with pleasure prais'd. I sung the giants in a solemn strain, Blasted, and thunder-struck on Phlegra's plain. Now be my lyre in softer accents mov'd, To sing of blooming boys by Gods belov'd; And to relate what virgins, void of shame, Have suffer'd vengeance for a lawless flame. The King of Gods once felt the burning joy, And sigh'd for lovely Ganimede of Troy: Long was he puzzled to assume a shape Most fit, and expeditious for the rape; A bird's was proper, yet he scorns to wear Any but that which might his thunder bear. Down with his masquerading wings he flies, And bears the little Trojan to the skies; Where now, in robes of heav'nly purple drest, He serves the nectar at th' Almighty's feast, To slighted Juno an unwelcome guest. Hyacinthus transform'd into a Flower Phoebus for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd A place among the Gods, had Fate been kind: Yet this he gave; as oft as wintry rains Are past, and vernal breezes sooth the plains, From the green turf a purple flow'r you rise, And with your fragrant breath perfume the skies. You when alive were Phoebus' darling boy; In you he plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his joy: Their God the Delphic priests consult in vain; Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta's plain: His hands the use of bow and harp forget, And hold the dogs, or bear the corded net; O'er hanging cliffs swift he pursues the game; Each hour his pleasure, each augments his flame. The mid-day sun now shone with equal light Between the past, and the succeeding night; They strip, then, smooth'd with suppling oyl, essay To pitch the rounded quoit, their wonted play: A well-pois'd disk first hasty Phoebus threw, It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew; It reach'd the mark, a most surprizing length; Which spoke an equal share of art, and strength. Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager hand Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand; But the curst orb, which met a stony soil, Flew in his face with violent recoil. Both faint, both pale, and breathless now appear, The boy with pain, the am'rous God with fear. He ran, and rais'd him bleeding from the ground, Chafes his cold limbs, and wipes the fatal wound: Then herbs of noblest juice in vain applies; The wound is mortal, and his skill defies. As in a water'd garden's blooming walk, When some rude hand has bruis'd its tender stalk, A fading lilly droops its languid head, And bends to earth, its life, and beauty fled: So Hyacinth, with head reclin'd, decays, And, sickning, now no more his charms displays. O thou art gone, my boy, Apollo cry'd, Defrauded of thy youth in all its pride! Thou, once my joy, art all my sorrow now; And to my guilty hand my grief I owe. Yet from my self I might the fault remove, Unless to sport, and play, a fault should prove, Unless it too were call'd a fault to love. Oh cou'd I for thee, or but with thee, dye! But cruel Fates to me that pow'r deny. Yet on my tongue thou shalt for ever dwell; Thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell; And to a flow'r transform'd, unheard-of yet, Stamp'd on thy leaves my cries thou shalt repeat. The time shall come, prophetick I foreknow, When, joyn'd to thee, a mighty chief shall grow, And with my plaints his name thy leaf shall show. While Phoebus thus the laws of Fate reveal'd, Behold, the blood which stain'd the verdant field, Is blood no longer; but a flow'r full blown, Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet shone. A lilly's form it took; its purple hue Was all that made a diff'rence to the view, Nor stop'd he here; the God upon its leaves The sad expression of his sorrow weaves; And to this hour the mournful purple wears Ai, Ai, inscrib'd in funeral characters. Nor are the Spartans, who so much are fam'd For virtue, of their Hyacinth asham'd; But still with pompous woe, and solemn state, The Hyacinthian feasts they yearly celebrate The Transformations of the Cerastae and Propoetides Enquire of Amathus, whose wealthy ground With veins of every metal does abound, If she to her Propoetides wou'd show, The honour Sparta does to him allow? Nor more, she'd say, such wretches wou'd we grace, Than those whose crooked horns deform'd their face, From thence Cerastae call'd, an impious race: Before whose gates a rev'rend altar stood, To Jove inscrib'd, the hospitable God: This had some stranger seen with gore besmear'd, The blood of lambs, and bulls it had appear'd: Their slaughter'd guests it was; nor flock nor herd. Venus these barb'rous sacrifices view'd With just abhorrence, and with wrath pursu'd: At first, to punish such nefarious crimes, Their towns she meant to leave, her once-lov'd climes: But why, said she, for their offence shou'd I My dear delightful plains, and cities fly? No, let the impious people, who have sinn'd, A punishment in death, or exile, find: If death, or exile too severe be thought, Let them in some vile shape bemoan their fault. While next her mind a proper form employs, Admonish'd by their horns, she fix'd her choice. Their former crest remains upon their heads, And their strong limbs an ox's shape invades. The blasphemous Propoetides deny'd Worship of Venus, and her pow'r defy'd: But soon that pow'r they felt, the first that sold Their lewd embraces to the world for gold. Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown, A small transition changes them to stone. The Story of Pygmalion and the Statue Pygmalion loathing their lascivious life, Abhorr'd all womankind, but most a wife: So single chose to live, and shunn'd to wed, Well pleas'd to want a consort of his bed. Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill, In sculpture exercis'd his happy skill; And carv'd in iv'ry such a maid, so fair, As Nature could not with his art compare, Were she to work; but in her own defence Must take her pattern here, and copy hence. Pleas'd with his idol, he commends, admires, Adores; and last, the thing ador'd, desires. A very virgin in her face was seen, And had she mov'd, a living maid had been: One wou'd have thought she cou'd have stirr'd, but strove With modesty, and was asham'd to move. Art hid with art, so well perform'd the cheat, It caught the carver with his own deceit: He knows 'tis madness, yet he must adore, And still the more he knows it, loves the more: The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft, Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft. Fir'd with this thought, at once he strain'd the breast, And on the lips a burning kiss impress'd. 'Tis true, the harden'd breast resists the gripe, And the cold lips return a kiss unripe: But when, retiring back, he look'd again, To think it iv'ry, was a thought too mean: So wou'd believe she kiss'd, and courting more, Again embrac'd her naked body o'er; And straining hard the statue, was afraid His hands had made a dint, and hurt his maid: Explor'd her limb by limb, and fear'd to find So rude a gripe had left a livid mark behind: With flatt'ry now he seeks her mind to move, And now with gifts (the pow'rful bribes of love), He furnishes her closet first; and fills The crowded shelves with rarities of shells; Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew, And all the sparkling stones of various hue: And parrots, imitating human tongue, And singing-birds in silver cages hung: And ev'ry fragrant flow'r, and od'rous green, Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between: Rich fashionable robes her person deck, Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck: Her taper'd fingers too with rings are grac'd, And an embroider'd zone surrounds her slender waste. Thus like a queen array'd, so richly dress'd, Beauteous she shew'd, but naked shew'd the best. Then, from the floor, he rais'd a royal bed, With cov'rings of Sydonian purple spread: The solemn rites perform'd, he calls her bride, With blandishments invites her to his side; And as she were with vital sense possess'd, Her head did on a plumy pillow rest. The feast of Venus came, a solemn day, To which the Cypriots due devotion pay; With gilded horns the milk-white heifers led, Slaughter'd before the sacred altars, bled. Pygmalion off'ring, first approach'd the shrine, And then with pray'rs implor'd the Pow'rs divine: Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want, If all we can require, be yours to grant; Make this fair statue mine, he wou'd have said, But chang'd his words for shame; and only pray'd, Give me the likeness of my iv'ry maid. The golden Goddess, present at the pray'r, Well knew he meant th' inanimated fair, And gave the sign of granting his desire; For thrice in chearful flames ascends the fire. The youth, returning to his mistress, hies, And impudent in hope, with ardent eyes, And beating breast, by the dear statue lies. He kisses her white lips, renews the bliss, And looks, and thinks they redden at the kiss; He thought them warm before: nor longer stays, But next his hand on her hard bosom lays: Hard as it was, beginning to relent, It seem'd, the breast beneath his fingers bent; He felt again, his fingers made a print; 'Twas flesh, but flesh so firm, it rose against the dint: The pleasing task he fails not to renew; Soft, and more soft at ev'ry touch it grew; Like pliant wax, when chasing hands reduce The former mass to form, and frame for use. He would believe, but yet is still in pain, And tries his argument of sense again, Presses the pulse, and feels the leaping vein. Convinc'd, o'erjoy'd, his studied thanks, and praise, To her, who made the miracle, he pays: Then lips to lips he join'd; now freed from fear, He found the savour of the kiss sincere: At this the waken'd image op'd her eyes, And view'd at once the light, and lover with surprize. The Goddess, present at the match she made, So bless'd the bed, such fruitfulness convey'd, That ere ten months had sharpen'd either horn, To crown their bliss, a lovely boy was born; Paphos his name, who grown to manhood, wall'd The city Paphos, from the founder call'd. The Story of of Cinyras and Myrrha Nor him alone produc'd the fruitful queen; But Cinyras, who like his sire had been A happy prince, had he not been a sire. Daughters, and fathers, from my song retire; I sing of horror; and could I prevail, You shou'd not hear, or not believe my tale. Yet if the pleasure of my song be such, That you will hear, and credit me too much, Attentive listen to the last event, And, with the sin, believe the punishment: Since Nature cou'd behold so dire a crime, I gratulate at least my native clime, That such a land, which such a monster bore, So far is distant from our Thracian shore. Let Araby extol her happy coast, Her cinamon, and sweet Amomum boast, Her fragrant flow'rs, her trees with precious tears, Her second harvests, and her double years; How can the land be call'd so bless'd, that Myrrha bears? Nor all her od'rous tears can cleanse her crime; Her Plant alone deforms the happy clime: Cupid denies to have inflam'd thy heart, Disowns thy love, and vindicates his dart: Some Fury gave thee those infernal pains, And shot her venom'd vipers in thy veins. To hate thy sire, had merited a curse; But such an impious love deserv'd a worse. The neighb'ring monarchs, by thy beauty led, Contend in crowds, ambitious of thy bed: The world is at thy choice; except but one, Except but him, thou canst not chuse, alone. She knew it too, the miserable maid, Ere impious love her better thoughts betray'd, And thus within her secret soul she said: Ah Myrrha! whither wou'd thy wishes tend? Ye Gods, ye sacred laws, my soul defend From such a crime as all mankind detest, And never lodg'd before in human breast! But is it sin? Or makes my mind alone Th' imagin'd sin? For Nature makes it none. What tyrant then these envious laws began, Made not for any other beast, but Man! The father-bull his daughter may bestride, The horse may make his mother-mare a bride; What piety forbids the lusty ram, Or more salacious goat, to rut their dam? The hen is free to wed the chick she bore, And make a husband, whom she hatch'd before. All creatures else are of a happier kind, Whom nor ill-natur'd laws from pleasure bind, Nor thoughts of sin disturb their peace of mind. But Man a slave of his own making lives; The fool denies himself what Nature gives: Too-busie senates, with an over-care, To make us better than our kind can bear, Have dash'd a spice of envy in the laws, And straining up too high, have spoil'd the cause. Yet some wise nations break their cruel chains, And own no laws, but those which love ordains; Where happy daughters with their sires are join'd, And piety is doubly paid in kind. O that I had been born in such a clime, Not here, where 'tis the country makes the crime! But whither wou'd my impious fancy stray? Hence hopes, and ye forbidden thoughts away! His worth deserves to kindle my desires, But with the love, that daughters bear to sires. Then had not Cinyras my father been, What hinder'd Myrrha's hopes to be his queen? But the perverseness of my fate is such, That he's not mine, because he's mine too much: Our kindred-blood debars a better tie; He might be nearer, were he not so nigh. Eyes, and their objects, never must unite; Some distance is requir'd to help the sight: Fain wou'd I travel to some foreign shore, Never to see my native country more, So might I to my self my self restore; So might my mind these impious thoughts remove, And ceasing to behold, might cease to love. But stay I must, to feed my famish'd sight, To talk, to kiss, and more, if more I might: More, impious maid! What more canst thou design? To make a monstrous mixture in thy line, And break all statutes human and divine! Can'st thou be call'd (to save thy wretched life) Thy mother's rival, and thy father's wife? Confound so many sacred names in one, Thy brother's mother! Sister to thy son! And fear'st thou not to see th' infernal bands, Their heads with snakes; with torches arm'd their hands Full at thy face th' avenging brands to bear, And shake the serpents from their hissing hair; But thou in time th' increasing ill controul, Nor first debauch the body by the soul; Secure the sacred quiet of thy mind, And keep the sanctions Nature has design'd. Suppose I shou'd attempt, th' attempt were vain, No thoughts like mine, his sinless soul profane; Observant of the right: and o that he Cou'd cure my madness, or be mad like me! Thus she: but Cinyras, who daily sees A crowd of noble suitors at his knees, Among so many, knew not whom to chuse, Irresolute to grant, or to refuse. But having told their names, enquir'd of her Who pleas'd her best, and whom she would prefer. The blushing maid stood silent with surprize, And on her father fix'd her ardent eyes, And looking sigh'd, and as she sigh'd, began Round tears to shed, that scalded as they ran. The tender sire, who saw her blush, and cry, Ascrib'd it all to maiden modesty, And dry'd the falling drops, and yet more kind, He stroak'd her cheeks, and holy kisses join'd. She felt a secret venom fire her blood, And found more pleasure, than a daughter shou'd; And, ask'd again what lover of the crew She lik'd the best, she answer'd, One like you. Mistaking what she meant, her pious will He prais'd, and bid her so continue still: The word of pious heard, she blush'd with shame Of secret guilt, and cou'd not bear the name. 'Twas now the mid of night, when slumbers close Our eyes, and sooth our cares with soft repose; But no repose cou'd wretched Myrrha find, Her body rouling, as she roul'd her mind: Mad with desire, she ruminates her sin, And wishes all her wishes o'er again: Now she despairs, and now resolves to try; Wou'd not, and wou'd again, she knows not why; Stops, and returns; makes, and retracts the vow; Fain wou'd begin, but understands not how. As when a pine is hew'd upon the plains, And the last mortal stroke alone remains, Lab'ring in pangs of death, and threatning all, This way, and that she nods, consid'ring where to fall: So Myrrha's mind, impell'd on either side, Takes ev'ry bent, but cannot long abide; Irresolute on which she shou'd relie, At last, unfix'd in all, is only fix'd to die. On that sad thought she rests, resolv'd on death, She rises, and prepares to choak her breath: Then while about the beam her zone she ties, Dear Cinyras farewell, she softly cries; For thee I die, and only wish to be Not hated, when thou know'st die I for thee: Pardon the crime, in pity to the cause: This said, about her neck the noose she draws. The nurse, who lay without, her faithful guard, Though not the words, the murmurs over-heard; And sighs, and hollow sounds: surpriz'd with fright, She starts, and leaves her bed, and springs a light; Unlocks the door, and entring out of breath, The dying saw, and instruments of death; She shrieks, she cuts the zone with trembling haste, And in her arms her fainting charge embrac'd: Next (for she now had leisure for her tears), She weeping ask'd, in these her blooming years, What unforeseen misfortune caus'd her care, To loath her life, and languish in despair! The maid, with down-cast eyes, and mute with grief For death unfinish'd, and ill-tim'd relief, Stood sullen to her suit: the beldame press'd The more to know, and bar'd her wither'd breast, Adjur'd her by the kindly food she drew From those dry founts, her secret ill to shew. Sad Myrrha sigh'd, and turn'd her eyes aside: The nurse still urg'd, and wou'd not be deny'd: Nor only promis'd secresie, but pray'd She might have leave to give her offer'd aid. Good-will, she said, my want of strength supplies, And diligence shall give what age denies: If strong desires thy mind to fury move, With charms and med'cines I can cure thy love: If envious eyes their hurtuful rays have cast, More pow'rful verse shall free thee from the blast: If Heav'n offended sends thee this disease, Offended Heav'n with pray'rs we can appease. What then remains, that can these cares procure? Thy house is flourishing, thy fortune sure: Thy careful mother yet in health survives, And, to thy comfort, thy kind father lives. The virgin started at her father's name, And sigh'd profoundly, conscious of the shame Nor yet the nurse her impious love divin'd, But yet surmis'd that love disturb'd her mind: Thus thinking, she pursu'd her point, and laid, And lull'd within her lap the mourning maid; Then softly sooth'd her thus; I guess your grief: You love, my child; your love shall find relief. My long-experienc'd age shall be your guide; Rely on that, and lay distrust aside. No breath of air shall on the secret blow, Nor shall (what most you fear) your father know. Struck once again, as with a thunder-clap, The guilty virgin bounded from her lap, And threw her body prostrate on the bed. And, to conceal her blushes, hid her head; There silent lay, and warn'd her with her hand To go: but she receiv'd not the command; Remaining still importunate to know: Then Myrrha thus: Or ask no more, or go; I pr'ythee go, or staying spare my shame; What thou would'st hear, is impious ev'n to name. At this, on high the beldame holds her hands, And trembling both with age, and terror stands; Adjures, and falling at her feet intreats, Sooths her with blandishments, and frights with threats, To tell the crime intended, or disclose What part of it she knew, if she no farther knows. And last, if conscious to her counsel made, Confirms anew the promise of her aid. Now Myrrha rais'd her head; but soon oppress'd With shame, reclin'd it on her nurse's breast; Bath'd it with tears, and strove to have confess'd: Twice she began, and stopp'd; again she try'd; The falt'ring tongue its office still deny'd. At last her veil before her face she spread, And drew a long preluding sigh, and said, O happy mother, in thy marriage-bed! Then groan'd, and ceas'd. The good old woman shook, Stiff were her eyes, and ghastly was her look: Her hoary hair upright with horror stood, Made (to her grief) more knowing than she wou'd. Much she reproach'd, and many things she said, To cure the madness of th' unhappy maid, In vain: for Myrrha stood convict of ill; Her reason vanquish'd, but unchang'd her will: Perverse of mind, unable to reply; She stood resolv'd, or to possess, or die. At length the fondness of a nurse prevail'd Against her better sense, and virtue fail'd: Enjoy, my child, since such is thy desire, Thy love, she said; she durst not say, thy sire: Live, though unhappy, live on any terms; Then with a second oath her faith confirms. The solemn feast of Ceres now was near, When long white linnen stoles the matrons wear; Rank'd in procession walk the pious train, Off'ring first-fruits, and spikes of yellow grain: For nine long nights the nuptial-bed they shun, And sanctifying harvest, lie alone. Mix'd with the crowd, the queen forsook her lord, And Ceres' pow'r with secret rites ador'd: The royal couch, now vacant for a time, The crafty crone, officious in her crime, The first occasion took: the king she found Easie with wine, and deep in pleasures drown'd, Prepar'd for love: the beldame blew the flame, Confess'd the passion, but conceal'd the name. Her form she prais'd; the monarch ask'd her years; And she reply'd, The same thy Myrrha bears. Wine, and commended beauty fir'd his thought; Impatient, he commands her to be brought. Pleas'd with her charge perform'd, she hies her home, And gratulates the nymph, the task was overcome. Myrrha was joy'd the welcome news to hear; But clog'd with guilt, the joy was unsincere: So various, so discordant is the mind, That in our will a diff'rent will we find. Ill she presag'd, and yet pursu'd her lust; For guilty pleasures give a double gust. 'Twas depth of night: Arctophylax had driv'n His lazy wain half round the northern Heav'n, When Myrrha hasten'd to the crime desir'd: The moon beheld her first, and first retir'd: The stars amaz'd, ran backward from the sight, And (shrunk within their sockets) lost their light. Icarius first withdraws his holy flame: The virgin sign, in Heav'n the second name, Slides down the belt, and from her station flies, And night with sable clouds involves the skies. Bold Myrrha still pursues her black intent; She stumbled thrice (an omen of th' event); Thrice shriek'd the fun'ral owl, yet on she went, Secure of shame, because secure of sight; Ev'n bashful sins are impudent by night. Link'd hand in hand, th' accomplice, and the dame, Their way exploring, to the chamber came: The door was ope; they blindly grope their way, Where dark in bed th' expecting monarch lay. Thus far her courage held, but here forsakes; Her faint knees knock at ev'ry step she makes. The nearer to her crime, the more within She feels remorse, and horror of her sin; Repents too late her criminal desire, And wishes, that unknown she could retire. Her lingring thus, the nurse (who fear'd delay The fatal secret might at length betray) Pull'd forward, to compleat the work begun, And said to Cinyras, Receive thy own. Thus saying, she deliver'd kind to kind, Accurs'd, and their devoted bodies join'd. The sire, unknowing of the crime, admits His bowels, and prophanes the hallow'd sheets; He found she trembled, but believ'd she strove With maiden modesty against her love, And sought with flatt'ring words vain fancies to remove. Perhaps he said, My daughter, cease thy fears (Because the title suited with her years); And, Father, she might whisper him again, That names might not be wanting to the sin. Full of her sire, she left th' incestuous bed, And carry'd in her womb the crime she bred. Another, and another night she came; For frequent sin had left no sense of shame: 'Till Cinyras desir'd to see her face, Whose body he had held in close embrace, And brought a taper; the revealer, light, Expos'd both crime, and criminal to sight. Grief, rage, amazement, could no speech afford, But from the sheath he drew th' avenging sword: The guilty fled: the benefit of night, That favour'd first the sin, secur'd the flight. Long wand'ring thro' the spacious fields, she bent Her voyage to th' Arabian continent; Then pass'd the region which Panchaea join'd, And flying, left the palmy plains behind. Nine times the moon had mew'd her horns; at length With travel weary, unsupply'd with strength, And with the burden of her womb oppress'd, Sabaean fields afford her needful rest: There, loathing life, and yet of death afraid, In anguish of her spirit, thus she pray'd: Ye Pow'rs, if any so propitious are T' accept my penitence, and hear my pray'r; Your judgments, I confess, are justly sent; Great sins deserve as great a punishment: Yet since my life the living will profane, And since my death the happy dead will stain, A middle state your mercy may bestow, Betwixt the realms above, and those below: Some other form to wretched Myrrha give, Nor let her wholly die, nor wholly live. The pray'rs of penitents are never vain; At least she did her last request obtain: For while she spoke, the ground began to rise, And gather'd round her feet, her legs, and thighs; Her toes in roots descend, and spreading wide, A firm foundation for the trunk provide: Her solid bones convert to solid wood, To pith her marrow, and to sap her blood: Her arms are boughs, her fingers change their kind, Her tender skin is harden'd into rind. And now the rising tree her womb invests, Now shooting upwards still, invades her breasts, And shades the neck; when weary with delay, She sunk her head within, and met it half the way. And tho' with outward shape she lost her sense, With bitter tears she wept her last offence; And still she weeps, nor sheds her tears in vain; For still the precious drops her name retain. Mean-time the mis-begotten infant grows, And ripe for birth, distends with deadly throes The swelling rind, with unavailing strife, To leave the wooden womb, and pushes into life. The mother-tree, as if oppress'd with pain, Writhes here, and there, to break the bark, in vain; And, like a lab'ring woman, wou'd have pray'd, But wants a voice to call Lucina's aid: The bending bole sends out a hollow sound, And trickling tears fall thicker on the ground. The mild Lucina came uncall'd, and stood Beside the struggling boughs, and heard the groaning wood; Then reach'd her midwife-hand to speed the throes, And spoke the pow'rful spells, that babes to birth disclose. The bark divides, the living load to free, And safe delivers the convulsive tree. The ready nymphs receive the crying child, And wash him in the tears the parent plant distill'd. They swath'd him with their scarfs; beneath him spread The ground with herbs; with roses rais'd his head. The lovely babe was born with ev'ry grace, Ev'n envy must have prais'd so fair a face: Such was his form, as painters when they show Their utmost art, on naked loves bestow: And that their arms no diff'rence might betray, Give him a bow, or his from Cupid take away. Time glides along with undiscover'd haste, The future but a length behind the past; So swift are years. The babe, whom just before His grandsire got, and whom his sister bore; The drop, the thing, which late the tree inclos'd, And late the yawning bark to life expos'd; A babe, a boy, a beauteous youth appears, And lovelier than himself at riper years. Now to the queen of love he gave desires, And, with her pains, reveng'd his mother's fires. The Story of Venus and Adonis For Cytherea's lips while Cupid prest, He with a heedless arrow raz'd her breast, The Goddess felt it, and with fury stung, The wanton mischief from her bosom flung: Yet thought at first the danger slight, but found The dart too faithful, and too deep the wound. Fir'd with a mortal beauty, she disdains To haunt th' Idalian mount, or Phrygian plains. She seeks not Cnidos, nor her Paphian shrines, Nor Amathus, that teems with brazen mines: Ev'n Heav'n itself with all its sweets unsought, Adonis far a sweeter Heav'n is thought. On him she hangs, and fonds with ev'ry art, And never, never knows from him to part. She, whose soft limbs had only been display'd On rosie beds beneath the myrtle shade, Whose pleasing care was to improve each grace, And add more charms to an unrival'd face, Now buskin'd, like the virgin huntress, goes Thro' woods, and pathless wilds, and mountain-snows With her own tuneful voice she joys to cheer The panting hounds, that chace the flying deer. She runs the labyrinth of fearful hares, But fearless beasts, and dang'rous prey forbears, Hunts not the grinning wolf, or foamy boar, And trembles at the lion's hungry roar. Thee too, Adonis, with a lover's care She warns, if warn'd thou wou'dst avoid the snare, To furious animals advance not nigh, Fly those that follow, follow those that fly; 'Tis chance alone must the survivors save, Whene'er brave spirits will attempt the brave. O! lovely youth! in harmless sports delight; Provoke not beasts, which, arm'd by Nature, fight. For me, if not thy self, vouchsafe to fear; Let not thy thirst of glory cost me dear. Boars know not bow to spare a blooming age; No sparkling eyes can sooth the lion's rage. Not all thy charms a savage breast can move, Which have so deeply touch'd the queen of love. When bristled boars from beaten thickets spring, In grinded tusks a thunderbolt they bring. The daring hunters lions rouz'd devour, Vast is their fury, and as vast their pow'r: Curst be their tawny race! If thou would'st hear What kindled thus my hate, then lend an ear: The wond'rous tale I will to thee unfold, How the fell monsters rose from crimes of old. But by long toils I faint: see! wide-display'd, A grateful poplar courts us with a shade. The grassy turf, beneath, so verdant shows, We may secure delightfully repose. With her Adonis here be Venus blest; And swift at once the grass and him she prest. Then sweetly smiling, with a raptur'd mind, On his lov'd bosom she her head reclin'd, And thus began; but mindful still of bliss, Seal'd the soft accents with a softer kiss. Perhaps thou may'st have heard a virgin's name, Who still in swiftness swiftest youths o'ercame. Wondrous! that female weakness should outdo A manly strength; the wonder yet is true. 'Twas doubtful, if her triumphs in the field Did to her form's triumphant glories yield; Whether her face could with more ease decoy A crowd of lovers, or her feet destroy. For once Apollo she implor'd to show If courteous Fates a consort would allow: A consort brings thy ruin, he reply'd; O! learn to want the pleasures of a bride! Nor shalt thou want them to thy wretched cost, And Atalanta living shall be lost. With such a rueful Fate th' affrighted maid Sought green recesses in the wood-land glade. Nor sighing suiters her resolves could move, She bad them show their speed, to show their love. He only, who could conquer in the race, Might hope the conquer'd virgin to embrace; While he, whose tardy feet had lagg'd behind, Was doom'd the sad reward of death to find. Tho' great the prize, yet rigid the decree, But blind with beauty, who can rigour see? Ev'n on these laws the fair they rashly sought, And danger in excess of love forgot. There sat Hippomenes, prepar'd to blame In lovers such extravagance of flame. And must, he said, the blessing of a wife Be dearly purchas'd by a risk of life? But when he saw the wonders of her face, And her limbs naked, springing to the race, Her limbs, as exquisitely turn'd, as mine, Or if a woman thou, might vie with thine, With lifted hands, he cry'd, forgive the tongue Which durst, ye youths, your well-tim'd courage wrong. I knew not that the nymph, for whom you strove, Deserv'd th' unbounded transports of your love. He saw, admir'd, and thus her spotless frame He prais'd, and praising, kindled his own flame. A rival now to all the youths who run, Envious, he fears they should not be undone. But why (reflects he) idly thus is shown The fate of others, yet untry'd my own? The coward must not on love's aid depend; The God was ever to the bold a friend. Mean-time the virgin flies, or seems to fly, Swift as a Scythian arrow cleaves the sky: Still more and more the youth her charms admires. The race itself t' exalt her charms conspires. The golden pinions, which her feet adorn, In wanton flutt'rings by the winds are born. Down from her head, the long, fair tresses flow, And sport with lovely negligence below. The waving ribbands, which her buskins tie, Her snowy skin with waving purple die; As crimson veils in palaces display'd, To the white marble lend a blushing shade. Nor long he gaz'd, yet while he gaz'd, she gain'd The goal, and the victorious wreath obtain'd. The vanquish'd sigh, and, as the law decreed, Pay the dire forfeit, and prepare to bleed. Then rose Hippomenes, not yet afraid, And fix'd his eyes full on the beauteous maid. Where is (he cry'd) the mighty conquest won, To distance those, who want the nerves to run? Here prove superior strength, nor shall it be Thy loss of glory, if excell'd by me. High my descent, near Neptune I aspire, For Neptune was grand-parent to my sire. From that great God the fourth my self I trace, Nor sink my virtues yet beneath my race. Thou from Hippomenes, o'ercome, may'st claim An envy'd triumph, and a deathless fame. While thus the youth the virgin pow'r defies, Silent she views him still with softer eyes. Thoughts in her breast a doubtful strife begin, If 'tis not happier now to lose, than win. What God, a foe to beauty, would destroy The promis'd ripeness of this blooming boy? With his life's danger does he seek my bed? Scarce am I half so greatly worth, she said. Nor has his beauty mov'd my breast to love, And yet, I own, such beauty well might move: 'Tis not his charms, 'tis pity would engage My soul to spare the greenness of his age. What, that heroick conrage fires his breast, And shines thro' brave disdain of Fate confest? What, that his patronage by close degrees Springs from th' imperial ruler of the seas? Then add the love, which bids him undertake The race, and dare to perish for my sake. Of bloody nuptials, heedless youth, beware! Fly, timely fly from a too barb'rous fair. At pleasure chuse; thy love will be repaid By a less foolish, and more beauteous maid. But why this tenderness, before unknown? Why beats, and pants my breast for him alone? His eyes have seen his num'rous rivals yield; Let him too share the rigour of the field, Since, by their fates untaught, his own he courts, And thus with ruin insolently sports. Yet for what crime shall he his death receive? Is it a crime with me to wish to live? Shall his kind passion his destruction prove? Is this the fatal recompence of love? So fair a youth, destroy'd, would conquest shame, Aud nymphs eternally detest my fame. Still why should nymphs my guiltless fame upbraid? Did I the fond adventurer persuade? Alas! I wish thou would'st the course decline, Or that my swiftness was excell'd by thine. See! what a virgin's bloom adorns the boy! Why wilt thou run, and why thy self destroy? Hippomenes! O that I ne'er had been By those bright eyes unfortunately seen! Ah! tempt not thus a swift, untimely Fate; Thy life is worthy of the longest date. Were I less wretched, did the galling chain Of rigid Gods not my free choice restrain, By thee alone I could with joy be led To taste the raptures of a nuptial bed. Thus she disclos'd the woman's secret heart, Young, innocent, and new to Cupid's dart. Her thoughts, her words, her actions wildly rove, With love she burns, yet knows not that 'tis love. Her royal sire now with the murm'ring crowd Demands the race impatiently aloud. Hippomenes then with true fervour pray'd, My bold attempt let Venus kindly aid. By her sweet pow'r I felt this am'rous fire, Still may she succour, whom she did inspire. A soft, unenvious wind, with speedy care, Wafted to Heav'n the lover's tender pray'r. Pity, I own, soon gain'd the wish'd consent, And all th' assistance he implor'd I lent. The Cyprian lands, tho' rich, in richness yield To that, surnam'd the Tamasenian field. That field of old was added to my shrine, And its choice products consecrated mine. A tree there stands, full glorious to behold, Gold are the leafs, the crackling branches gold. It chanc'd, three apples in my hand I bore, Which newly from the tree I sportive tore; Seen by the youth alone, to him I brought The fruit, and when, and how to use it, taught. The signal sounding by the king's command, Both start at once, and sweep th' imprinted sand. So swiftly mov'd their feet, they might with ease, Scarce moisten'd, skim along the glassy seas; Or with a wondrous levity be born O'er yellow harvests of unbending corn. Now fav'ring peals resound from ev'ry part, Spirit the youth, and fire his fainting heart. Hippomenes! (they cry'd) thy life preserve, Intensely labour, and stretch ev'ry nerve. Base fear alone can baffle thy design, Shoot boldly onward, and the goal is thine. 'Tis doubtful whether shouts, like these, convey'd More pleasures to the youth, or to the maid. When a long distance oft she could have gain'd, She check'd her swiftness, and her feet restrain'd: She sigh'd, and dwelt, and languish'd on his face, Then with unwilling speed pursu'd the race. O'er-spent with heat, his breath he faintly drew, Parch'd was his mouth, nor yet the goal in view, And the first apple on the plain he threw. The nymph stop'd sudden at th' unusual sight, Struck with the fruit so beautifully bright. Aside she starts, the wonder to behold, And eager stoops to catch the rouling gold. Th' observant youth past by, and scour'd along, While peals of joy rung from th' applauding throng. Unkindly she corrects the short delay, And to redeem the time fleets swift away, Swift, as the lightning, or the northern wind, And far she leaves the panting youth behind. Again he strives the flying nymph to hold With the temptation of the second gold: The bright temptation fruitlessly was tost, So soon, alas! she won the distance lost. Now but a little interval of space Remain'd for the decision of the race. Fair author of the precious gift, he said, Be thou, O Goddess, author of my aid! Then of the shining fruit the last he drew, And with his full-collected vigour threw: The virgin still the longer to detain, Threw not directly, but a-cross the plain. She seem'd a-while perplex'd in dubious thought, If the far-distant apple should be sought: I lur'd her backward mind to seize the bait, And to the massie gold gave double weight. My favour to my votary was show'd, Her speed I lessen'd, and encreas'd her load. But lest, tho' long, the rapid race be run, Before my longer, tedious tale is done, The youth the goal, and so the virgin won. Might I, Adonis, now not hope to see His grateful thanks pour'd out for victory? His pious incense on my altars laid? But he nor grateful thanks, nor incense paid. Enrag'd I vow'd, that with the youth the fair, For his contempt, should my keen vengeance share; That future lovers might my pow'r revere, And, from their sad examples, learn to fear. The silent fanes, the sanctify'd abodes, Of Cybele, great mother of the Gods, Rais'd by Echion in a lonely wood, And full of brown, religious horror stood. By a long painful journey faint, they chose! Their weary limbs here secret to repose. But soon my pow'r inflam'd the lustful boy, Careless of rest he sought untimely joy. A hallow'd gloomy cave, with moss o'er-grown, The temple join'd, of native pumice-stone, Where antique images by priests were kept. And wooden deities securely slept. Thither the rash Hippomenes retires, And gives a loose to all his wild desires, And the chaste cell pollutes with wanton fires. The sacred statues trembled with surprize, The tow'ry Goddess, blushing, veil'd her eyes; And the lewd pair to Stygian sounds had sent, But unrevengeful seem'd that punishment, A heavier doom such black prophaneness draws, Their taper figures turn to crooked paws. No more their necks the smoothness can retain, Now cover'd sudden with a yellow mane. Arms change to legs: each finds the hard'ning breast Of rage unknown, and wond'rous strength possest. Their alter'd looks with fury grim appear, And on the ground their brushing tails they hear. They haunt the woods: their voices, which before Were musically sweet, now hoarsly roar. Hence lions, dreadful to the lab'ring swains, Are tam'd by Cybele, and curb'd with reins, And humbly draw her car along the plains. But thou, Adonis, my delightful care, Of these, and beasts, as fierce as these, beware! The savage, which not shuns thee, timely shun, For by rash prowess should'st thou be undone, A double ruin is contain'd in one. Thus cautious Venus school'd her fav'rite boy; But youthful heat all cautions will destroy. His sprightly soul beyond grave counsels flies, While with yok'd swans the Goddess cuts the skies. His faithful hounds, led by the tainted wind, Lodg'd in thick coverts chanc'd a boar to find. The callow hero show'd a manly heart, And pierc'd the savage with a side-long dart. The flying savage, wounded, turn'd again, Wrench'd out the gory dart, and foam'd with pain. The trembling boy by flight his safety sought, And now recall'd the lore, which Venus taught; But now too late to fly the boar he strove, Who in the groin his tusks impetuous drove, On the discolour'd grass Adonis lay, The monster trampling o'er his beauteous prey. Fair Cytherea, Cyprus scarce in view, Heard from afar his groans, and own'd them true, And turn'd her snowy swans, and backward flew. But as she saw him gasp his latest breath, And quiv'ring agonize in pangs of death, Down with swift flight she plung'd, nor rage forbore, At once her garments, and her hair she tore. With cruel blows she beat her guiltless breast, The Fates upbraided, and her love confest. Nor shall they yet (she cry'd) the whole devour With uncontroul'd, inexorable pow'r: For thee, lost youth, my tears, and restless pain Shall in immortal monuments remain, With solemn pomp in annual rites return'd, Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn'd, Could Pluto's queen with jealous fury storm, And Men the to a fragrant herb transform? Yet dares not Venus with a change surprise, And in a flow'r bid her fall'n heroe rise? Then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows, The scented blood in little bubbles rose: Little as rainy drops, which flutt'ring fly, Born by the winds, along a low'ring sky. Short time ensu'd, 'till where the blood was shed, A flow'r began to rear its purple head: Such, as on Punick apples is reveal'd, Or in the filmy rind but half conceal'd. Still here the Fate of lovely forms we see, So sudden fades the sweet Anemonie. The feeble stems, to stormy blasts a prey, Their sickly beauties droop, and pine away. The winds forbid the flow'rs to flourish long, Which owe to winds their names in Grecian song. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE TENTH ,

730:class:Classics BOOK THE THIRTEENTH The Speeches of Ajax and Ulysses The chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the field: To these the master of the seven-fold shield Upstarted fierce: and kindled with disdain. Eager to speak, unable to contain His boiling rage, he rowl'd his eyes around The shore, and Graecian gallies hall'd a-ground. Then stretching out his hands, O Jove, he cry'd, Must then our cause before the fleet be try'd? And dares Ulysses for the prize contend, In sight of what he durst not once defend? But basely fled that memorable day, When I from Hector's hands redeem'd the flaming prey. So much 'tis safer at the noisie bar With words to flourish, than ingage in war. By diff'rent methods we maintain our right, Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight. In bloody fields I labour to be great; His arms are a smooth tongue, and soft deceit: Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see, The sun, and day are witnesses for me. Let him who fights unseen, relate his own, And vouch the silent stars, and conscious moon. Great is the prize demanded, I confess, But such an abject rival makes it less; That gift, those honours, he but hop'd to gain, Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain: Losing he wins, because his name will be Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me. Were my known valour question'd, yet my blood Without that plea wou'd make my title good: My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ'd With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy'd; And who before with Jason sent from Greece, In the first ship brought home the golden fleece. Great Telamon from Aeacus derives His birth (th' inquisitor of guilty lives In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son This thief is thought, rouls up the restless heavy stone), Just Aeacus, the king of Gods above Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove. Nor shou'd I seek advantage from my line, Unless (Achilles) it was mix'd with thine: As next of kin, Achilles' arms I claim; This fellow wou'd ingraft a foreign name Upon our stock, and the Sisyphian seed By fraud, and theft asserts his father's breed: Then must I lose these arms, because I came To fight uncall'd, a voluntary name, Nor shunn'd the cause, but offer'd you my aid? While he long lurking was to war betray'd: Forc'd to the field he came, but in the reer; And feign'd distraction to conceal his fear: 'Till one more cunning caught him in the snare (Ill for himself); and dragg'd him into war. Now let a hero's arms a coward vest, And he who shunn'd all honours, gain the best: And let me stand excluded from my right, Robb'd of my kinsman's arms, who first appear'd in fight, Better for us, at home had he remain'd, Had it been true the madness which he feign'd, Or so believ'd; the less had been our shame, The less his counsell'd crime, which brands the Grecian name; Nor Philoctetes had been left inclos'd In a bare isle, to wants and pains expos'd, Where to the rocks, with solitary groans, His suff'rings, and our baseness he bemoans: And wishes (so may Heav'n his wish fulfill) The due reward to him, who caus'd his ill. Now he, with us to Troy's destruction sworn, Our brother of the war, by whom are born Alcides' arrows, pent in narrow bounds, With cold and hunger pinch'd, and pain'd with wounds, To find him food and cloathing, must employ Against the birds the shafts due to the fate of Troy. Yet still he lives, and lives from treason free, Because he left Ulysses' company; Poor Palamede might wish, so void of aid, Rather to have been left, than so to death betray'd. The coward bore the man immortal spight, Who sham'd him out of madness into fight: Nor daring otherwise to vent his hate, Accus'd him first of treason to the state; And then for proof produc'd the golden store, Himself had hidden in his tent before: Thus of two champions he depriv'd our host, By exile one, and one by treason lost. Thus fights Ulysses, thus his fame extends, A formidable man, but to his friends: Great, for what greatness is in words, and sound, Ev'n faithful Nestor less in both is found: But that he might without a rival reign, He left this faithful Nestor on the plain; Forsook his friend ev'n at his utmost need, Who tir'd, and tardy with his wounded steed, Cry'd out for aid, and call'd him by his name; But cowardice has neither ears nor shame; Thus fled the good old man, bereft of aid, And, for as much as lay in him, betray'd: That this is not a fable forg'd by me, Like one of his, an Ulyssean lie, I vouch ev'n Diomede, who tho' his friend, Cannot that act excuse, much less defend: He call'd him back aloud, and tax'd his fear; And sure enough he heard, but durst not hear. The Gods with equal eyes on mortal look, He justly was forsaken, who forsook: Wanted that succour, he refus'd to lend, Found ev'ry fellow such another friend: No wonder, if he roar'd that all might hear; His elocution was increas'd by fear: I heard, I ran, I found him out of breath, Pale, trembling, and half dead with fear of death. Though he had judg'd himself by his own laws, And stood condemn'd, I help'd the common cause: With my broad buckler hid him from the foe (Ev'n the shield trembled as he lay below); And from impending Fate the coward freed: Good Heav'n forgive me for so bad a deed! If still he will persist, and urge the strife, First let him give me back his forfeit life: Let him return to that opprobrious field; Again creep under my protecting shield: Let him lie wounded, let the foe be near, And let his quiv'ring heart confess his fear; There put him in the very jaws of Fate; And let him plead his cause in that estate: And yet when snatch'd from death, when from below My lifted shield I loos'd, and let him go; Good Heav'ns, how light he rose, with what a bound He sprung from earth, forgetful of his wound; How fresh, how eager then his feet to ply; Who had not strength to stand, had speed to fly! Hector came on, and brought the Gods along; Fear seiz'd alike the feeble, and the strong: Each Greek was an Ulysses; such a dread Th' approach, and ev'n the sound of Hector bred: Him, flesh'd with slaughter, and with conquest crown'd, I met, and over-turn'd him to the ground; When after, matchless as he deem'd in might, He challeng'd all our host to single fight; All eyes were fix'd on me: the lots were thrown; But for your champion I was wish'd alone: Your vows were heard; we fought, and neither yield; Yet I return'd unvanquish'd from the field. With Jove to friend, th' insulting Trojan came, And menac'd us with force, our fleet with flame. Was it the strength of this tongue-valiant lord, In that black hour, that sav'd you from the sword? Or was my breast expos'd alone, to brave A thousand swords, a thousand ships to save? The hopes of your return! And can you yield, For a sav'd fleet, less than a single shield? Think it no boast, o Grecians, if I deem These arms want Ajax, more than Ajax them: Or, I with them an equal honour share; They honour'd to be worn, and I to wear. Will he compare my courage with his sleight? As well he may compare the day with night. Night is indeed the province of his reign: Yet all his dark exploits no more contain Than a spy taken, and a sleeper slain; A priest made pris'ner, Pallas made a prey: But none of all these actions done by day: Nor ought of these was done, and Diomede away. If on such petty merits you confer So vast a prize, let each his portion share; Make a just dividend; and if not all, The greater part to Diomede will fall. But why for Ithacus such arms as those, Who naked, and by night invades his foes? The glitt'ring helm by moonlight will proclaim The latent robber, and prevent his game: Nor cou'd he hold his tott'ring head upright Beneath that morion, or sustain the weight; Nor that right arm cou'd toss the beamy lance; Much less the left that ampler shield advance; Pond'rous with precious weight, and rough with cost Of the round world in rising gold emboss'd. That orb would ill become his hand to wield, And look as for the gold he stole the shield; Which, shou'd your error on the wretch bestow, It would not frighten, but allure the foe: Why asks he, what avails him not in fight, And wou'd but cumber, and retard his flight, In which his only excellence is plac'd? You give him death, that intercept his haste. Add, that his own is yet a maiden-shield, Nor the least dint has suffer'd in the field, Guiltless of fight: mine batter'd, hew'd, and bor'd, Worn out of service, must forsake his lord, What farther need of words our right to scan? My arguments are deeds, let action speak the man. Since from a champion's arms the strife arose, Go cast the glorious prize amid the foes; Then send us to redeem both arms, and shield, And let him wear, who wins 'em in the field. He said: a murmur from a multitude, Or somewhat like a stifled shout, ensu'd: 'Till from his seat arose Laertes' son, Look'd down a while, and paus'd, e'er he begun; Then, to th' expecting audience, rais'd his look, And not without prepar'd attention spoke: Soft was his tone, and sober was his face; Action his words, and words his action grace. If Heav'n, my lords, had heard our common pray'r, These arms had caus'd no quarrel for an heir; Still great Achilles had his own possess'd, And we with great Achilles had been bless'd; But since hard Fate, and Heav'n's severe decree, Have ravish'd him away from you, and me (At this he sigh'd, and wip'd his eyes, and drew, Or seem'd to draw, some drops of kindly dew), Who better can succeed Achilles lost, Than he, who gave Achilles to your hoast? This only I request, that neither he May gain, by being what he seems to be, A stupid thing; nor I may lose the prize, By having sense, which Heav'n to him denies: Since great or small, the talent I enjoy'd Was ever in the common cause employ'd; Nor let my wit, and wonted eloquence, Which often has been us'd in your defense, And in my own, this only time be brought To bear against my self, and deem'd a fault. Make not a crime, where Nature made it none; For ev'ry man may freely use his own. The deeds of long-descended ancestors Are but by grace of imputation ours, Theirs in effect; but since he draws his line From Jove, and seems to plead a right divine; From Jove, like him, I claim my pedigree, And am descended in the same degree: My sire Laertes was Arcesius' heir, Arcesius was the son of Jupiter: No parricide, no banish'd man, is known In all my line: let him excuse his own. Hermes ennobles too my mother's side, By both my parents to the Gods ally'd. But not because that on the female part My blood is better, dare I claim desert, Or that my sire from parricide is free; But judge by merit betwixt him, and me: The prize be to the best; provided yet That Ajax for a while his kin forget, And his great sire, and greater uncle's name, To fortifie by them his feeble claim: Be kindred and relation laid aside, And honour's cause by laws of honour try'd: For if he plead proximity of blood; That empty title is with ease withstood. Peleus, the hero's sire, more nigh than he, And Pyrrhus, his undoubted progeny, Inherit first these trophies of the field; To Scyros, or to Pthia, send the shield: And Teucer has an uncle's right; yet he Waves his pretensions, nor contends with me. Then since the cause on pure desert is plac'd, Whence shall I take my rise, what reckon last? I not presume on ev'ry act to dwell, But take these few, in order as they fell. Thetis, who knew the Fates, apply'd her care To keep Achilles in disguise from war; And 'till the threatning influence was past, A woman's habit on the hero cast: All eyes were cozen'd by the borrow'd vest, And Ajax (never wiser than the rest) Found no Pelides there: at length I came With proffer'd wares to this pretended dame; She, not discover'd by her mien, or voice, Betray'd her manhood by her manly choice; And while on female toys her fellows look, Grasp'd in her warlike hand, a javelin shook; Whom, by this act reveal'd, I thus bespoke: O Goddess-born! resist not Heav'n's decree, The fall of Ilium is reserv'd for thee; Then seiz'd him, and produc'd in open light, Sent blushing to the field the fatal knight. Mine then are all his actions of the war; Great Telephus was conquer'd by my spear, And after cur'd: to me the Thebans owe, Lesbos, and Tenedos, their overthrow; Syros and Cylla: not on all to dwell, By me Lyrnesus, and strong Chrysa fell: And since I sent the man who Hector slew, To me the noble Hector's death is due: Those arms I put into his living hand, Those arms, Pelides dead, I now demand. When Greece was injur'd in the Spartan prince, And met at Aulis to avenge th' offence, 'Twas a dead calm, or adverse blasts, that reign'd, And in the port the wind-bound fleet detain'd: Bad signs were seen, and oracles severe Were daily thunder'd in our gen'ral's ear; That by his daughter's blood we must appease Diana's kindled wrath, and free the seas. Affection, int'rest, fame, his heart assail'd: But soon the father o'er the king prevail'd: Bold, on himself he took the pious crime, As angry with the Gods, as they with him. No subject cou'd sustain their sov'reign's look, 'Till this hard enterprize I undertook: I only durst th' imperial pow'r controul, And undermin'd the parent in his soul; Forc'd him t' exert the king for common good, And pay our ransom with his daughter's blood. Never was cause more difficult to plead, Than where the judge against himself decreed: Yet this I won by dint of argument; The wrongs his injur'd brother underwent, And his own office, sham'd him to consent. 'Tis harder yet to move the mother's mind, And to this heavy task was I design'd: Reasons against her love I knew were vain; I circumvented whom I could not gain: Had Ajax been employ'd, our slacken'd sails Had still at Aulis waited happy gales. Arriv'd at Troy, your choice was fix'd on me, A fearless envoy, fit for a bold embassy: Secure, I enter'd through the hostile court, Glitt'ring with steel, and crowded with resort: There, in the midst of arms, I plead our cause, Urge the foul rape, and violated laws; Accuse the foes, as authors of the strife, Reproach the ravisher, demand the wife. Priam, Antenor, and the wiser few, I mov'd; but Paris, and his lawless crew Scarce held their hands, and lifted swords; but stood In act to quench their impious thirst of blood: This Menelaus knows; expos'd to share With me the rough preludium of the war. Endless it were to tell, what I have done, In arms, or council, since the siege begun: The first encounter's past, the foe repell'd, They skulk'd within the town, we kept the field. War seem'd asleep for nine long years; at length Both sides resolv'd to push, we try'd our strength Now what did Ajax, while our arms took breath, Vers'd only in the gross mechanick trade of death? If you require my deeds, with ambush'd arms I trapp'd the foe, or tir'd with false alarms; Secur'd the ships, drew lines along the plain, The fainting chear'd, chastis'd the rebel-train, Provided forage, our spent arms renew'd; Employ'd at home, or sent abroad, the common cause pursu'd. The king, deluded in a dream by Jove, Despair'd to take the town, and order'd to remove. What subject durst arraign the Pow'r supream, Producing Jove to justifie his dream? Ajax might wish the soldiers to retain From shameful flight, but wishes were in vain: As wanting of effect had been his words, Such as of course his thundring tongue affords. But did this boaster threaten, did he pray, Or by his own example urge their stay? None, none of these: but ran himself away. I saw him run, and was asham'd to see; Who ply'd his feet so fast to get aboard, as he? Then speeding through the place, I made a stand, And loudly cry'd, O base degenerate band, To leave a town already in your hand! After so long expence of blood, for fame, To bring home nothing, but perpetual shame! These words, or what I have forgotten since (For grief inspir'd me then with eloquence), Reduc'd their minds; they leave the crowded port, And to their late forsaken camp resort: Dismay'd the council met: this man was there, But mute, and not recover'd of his fear: Thersites tax'd the king, and loudly rail'd, But his wide opening mouth with blows I seal'd. Then, rising, I excite their souls to fame, And kindle sleeping virtue into flame. From thence, whatever he perform'd in fight Is justly mine, who drew him back from flight. Which of the Grecian chiefs consorts with thee? But Diomede desires my company, And still communicates his praise with me. As guided by a God, secure he goes, Arm'd with my fellowship, amid the foes: And sure no little merit I may boast, Whom such a man selects from such an hoast; Unforc'd by lots I went without affright, To dare with him the dangers of the night: On the same errand sent, we met the spy Of Hector, double-tongu'd, and us'd to lie; Him I dispatch'd, but not 'till undermin'd, I drew him first to tell, what treach'rous Troy design'd: My task perform'd, with praise I had retir'd, But not content with this, to greater praise aspir'd: Invaded Rhesus, and his Thracian crew, And him, and his, in their own strength I slew; Return'd a victor, all my vows compleat, With the king's chariot, in his royal seat: Refuse me now his arms, whose fiery steeds Were promis'd to the spy for his nocturnal deeds: Yet let dull Ajax bear away my right, When all his days out-balance this one night. Nor fought I darkling still: the sun beheld With slaughter'd Lycians when I strew'd the field: You saw, and counted as I pass'd along, Alastor, Chromius, Ceranos the strong, Alcander, Prytanis, and Halius, Noemon, Charopes, and Ennomus; Coon, Chersidamas; and five beside, Men of obscure descent, but courage try'd: All these this hand laid breathless on the ground; Nor want I proofs of many a manly wound: All honest, all before: believe not me; Words may deceive, but credit what you see. At this he bar'd his breast, and show'd his scars, As of a furrow'd field, well plow'd with wars; Nor is this part unexercis'd, said he; That gyant-bulk of his from wounds is free: Safe in his shield he fears no foe to try, And better manages his blood, than I: But this avails me not; our boaster strove Not with our foes alone, but partial Jove, To save the fleet: this I confess is true (Nor will I take from any man his due): But thus assuming all, he robs from you. Some part of honour to your share will fall, He did the best indeed, but did not all. Patroclus in Achilles' arms, and thought The chief he seem'd, with equal ardour fought; Preserv'd the fleet, repell'd the raging fire, And forc'd the fearful Trojans to retire. But Ajax boasts, that he was only thought A match for Hector, who the combat sought: Sure he forgets the king, the chiefs, and me: All were as eager for the fight, as he: He but the ninth, and not by publick voice, Or ours preferr'd, was only Fortune's choice: They fought; nor can our hero boast th' event, For Hector from the field unwounded went. Why am I forc'd to name that fatal day, That snatch'd the prop and pride of Greece away? I saw Pelides sink, with pious grief, And ran in vain, alas! to his relief; For the brave soul was fled: full of my friend I rush'd amid the war, his relicks to defend: Nor ceas'd my toil, 'till I redeem'd the prey, And, loaded with Achilles, march'd away: Those arms, which on these shoulders then I bore, 'Tis just you to these shoulders should restore. You see I want not nerves, who cou'd sustain The pond'rous ruins of so great a man: Or if in others equal force you find, None is endu'd with a more grateful mind. Did Thetis then, ambitious in her care, These arms thus labour'd for her son prepare; That Ajax after him the heav'nly gift shou'd wear! For that dull soul to stare with stupid eyes, On the learn'd unintelligible prize! What are to him the sculptures of the shield, Heav'n's planets, Earth, and Ocean's watry field? The Pleiads, Hyads; less, and greater Bear, Undipp'd in seas; Orion's angry star; Two diff'ring cities, grav'd on either hand; Would he wear arms he cannot understand? Beside, what wise objections he prepares Against my late accession to the wars? Does not the fool perceive his argument Is with more force against Achilles bent? For if dissembling be so great a crime, The fault is common, and the same in him: And if he taxes both of long delay, My guilt is less, who sooner came away. His pious mother, anxious for his life, Detain'd her son; and me, my pious wife. To them the blossoms of our youth were due, Our riper manhood we reserv'd for you. But grant me guilty, 'tis not much my care, When with so great a man my guilt I share: My wit to war the matchless hero brought, But by this fool I never had been caught. Nor need I wonder, that on me he threw Such foul aspersions, when he spares not you: If Palamede unjustly fell by me, Your honour suffer'd in th' unjust decree: I but accus'd, you doom'd: and yet he dy'd, Convinc'd of treason, and was fairly try'd: You heard not he was false; your eyes beheld The traytor manifest; the bribe reveal'd. That Philoctetes is on Lemnos left, Wounded, forlorn, of human aid bereft, Is not my crime, or not my crime alone; Defend your justice, for the fact's your own: 'Tis true, th' advice was mine; that staying there He might his weary limbs with rest repair, From a long voyage free, and from a longer war. He took the counsl, and he lives at least; Th' event declares I counsell'd for the best: Though faith is all in ministers of state; For who can promise to be fortunate? Now since his arrows are the Fate of Troy, Do not my wit, or weak address, employ; Send Ajax there, with his persuasive sense, To mollifie the man, and draw him thence: But Xanthus shall run backward; Ida stand A leafless mountain; and the Grecian band Shall fight for Troy; if, when my councils fail, The wit of heavy Ajax can prevail. Hard Philoctetes, exercise thy spleen Against thy fellows, and the king of men; Curse my devoted head, above the rest, And wish in arms to meet me breast to breast: Yet I the dang'rous task will undertake, And either die my self, or bring thee back. Nor doubt the same success, as when before The Phrygian prophet to these tents I bore, Surpriz'd by night, and forc'd him to declare In what was plac'd the fortune of the war, Heav'n's dark decrees, and answers to display, And how to take the town, and where the secret lay: Yet this I compass'd, and from Troy convey'd The fatal image of their guardian-maid; That work was mine; for Pallas, though our friend, Yet while she was in Troy, did Troy defend. Now what has Ajax done, or what design'd? A noisie nothing, and an empty wind. If he be what he promises in show, Why was I sent, and why fear'd he to go? Our boasting champion thought the task not light To pass the guards, commit himself to night; Not only through a hostile town to pass, But scale, with steep ascent, the sacred place; With wand'ring steps to search the cittadel, And from the priests their patroness to steal: Then through surrounding foes to force my way, And bear in triumph home the heavn'ly prey; Which had I not, Ajax in vain had held, Before that monst'rous bulk, his sev'nfold shield. That night to conquer Troy I might be said, When Troy was liable to conquest made. Why point'st thou to my partner of the war? Tydides had indeed a worthy share In all my toil, and praise; but when thy might Our ships protected, did'st thou singly fight? All join'd, and thou of many wert but one; I ask'd no friend, nor had, but him alone: Who, had he not been well assur'd, that art, And conduct were of war the better part, And more avail'd than strength, my valiant friend Had urg'd a better right, than Ajax can pretend: As good at least Eurypilus may claim, And the more mod'rate Ajax of the name: The Cretan king, and his brave charioteer, And Menelaus bold with sword, and spear: All these had been my rivals in the shield, And yet all these to my pretensions yield. Thy boist'rous hands are then of use, when I With this directing head those hands apply. Brawn without brain is thine: my prudent care Foresees, provides, administers the war: Thy province is to fight; but when shall be The time to fight, the king consults with me: No dram of judgment with thy force is join'd: Thy body is of profit, and my mind. By how much more the ship her safety owes To him who steers, than him that only rows; By how much more the captain merits praise, Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys; By so much greater is my worth than thine, Who canst but execute, what I design. What gain'st thou, brutal man, if I confess Thy strength superior, when thy wit is less? Mind is the man: I claim my whole desert, From the mind's vigour, and th' immortal part. But you, o Grecian chiefs, reward my care, Be grateful to your watchman of the war: For all my labours in so long a space, Sure I may plead a title to your grace: Enter the town, I then unbarr'd the gates, When I remov'd their tutelary Fates. By all our common hopes, if hopes they be Which I have now reduc'd to certainty; By falling Troy, by yonder tott'ring tow'rs, And by their taken Gods, which now are ours; Or if there yet a farther task remains, To be perform'd by prudence, or by pains; If yet some desp'rate action rests behind, That asks high conduct, and a dauntless mind; If ought be wanting to the Trojan doom, Which none but I can manage, and o'ercome, Award, those arms I ask, by your decree: Or give to this, what you refuse to me. He ceas'd: and ceasing with respect he bow'd, And with his hand at once the fatal statue show'd. Heav'n, air and ocean rung, with loud applause, And by the gen'ral vote he gain'd his cause. Thus conduct won the prize, when courage fail'd, And eloquence o'er brutal force prevail'd. The Death of Ajax He who cou'd often, and alone, withstand The foe, the fire, and Jove's own partial hand, Now cannot his unmaster'd grief sustain, But yields to rage, to madness, and disdain; Then snatching out his fauchion, Thou, said he, Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to thee. O often try'd, and ever-trusty sword, Now do thy last kind office to thy lord: 'Tis Ajax who requests thy aid, to show None but himself, himself cou'd overthrow: He said, and with so good a will to die, Did to his breast the fatal point apply, It found his heart, a way 'till then unknown, Where never weapon enter'd, but his own. No hands cou'd force it thence, so fix'd it stood, 'Till out it rush'd, expell'd by streams of spouting blood. The fruitful blood produc'd a flow'r, which grew On a green stem; and of a purple hue: Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew: Inscrib'd in both, the letters are the same, But those express the grief, and these the name. The Story of Polyxena and Hecuba The victor with full sails for Lemnos stood (Once stain'd by matrons with their husbands' blood), Thence great Alcides' fatal shafts to bear, Assign'd to Philoctetes' secret care. These with their guardian to the Greeks convey'd, Their ten years' toil with wish'd success repaid. With Troy old Priam falls: his queen survives; 'Till all her woes compleat, transform'd she grieves In borrow'd sounds, nor with an human face, Barking tremendous o'er the plains of Thrace. Still Ilium's flames their pointed columns raise, And the red Hellespont reflects the blaze. Shed on Jove's altar are the poor remains Of blood, which trickl'd from old Priam's veins. Cassandra lifts her hands to Heav'n in vain, Drag'd by her sacred hair; the trembling train Of matrons to their burning temples fly: There to their Gods for kind protection cry; And to their statues cling 'till forc'd away, The victor Greeks bear off th' invidious prey. From those high tow'rs Astyanax is thrown, Whence he was wont with pleasure to look down. When oft his mother with a fond delight Pointed to view his father's rage in fight, To win renown, and guard his country's right. The winds now call to sea; brisk northern gales Sing in the shrowds, and court the spreading sails. Farewel, dear Troy, the captive matrons cry; Yes, we must leave our long-lov'd native sky. Then prostrate on the shore they kiss the sand, And quit the smoking ruines of the land. Last Hecuba on board, sad sight! appears; Found weeping o'er her children's sepulchres: Drag'd by Ulysses from her slaughter'd sons, Whilst yet she graspt their tombs, and kist their mouldring bones. Yet Hector's ashes from his urn she bore, And in her bosom the sad relique wore: Then scatter'd on his tomb her hoary hairs, A poor oblation mingled with her tears. Oppos'd to Ilium lye the Thracian plains, Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns. King Priam to his care commits his son, Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun. A wise precaution! had not gold, consign'd For the child's use, debauch'd the tyrant's mind. When sinking Troy to its last period drew, With impious hands his royal charge he slew; Then in the sea the lifeless coarse is thrown; As with the body he the guilt could drown. The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore, 'Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor. Here the wide-op'ning Earth to sudden view Disclos'd Achilles, great as when he drew The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain, As when he sought Briseis to regain; When stern debate, and rash injurious strife Unsheath'd his sword, to reach Atrides' life. And will ye go? he said. Is then the name Of the once great Achilles lost to fame? Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue In vain for honours to my Manes due. For this just end, Polyxena I doom With victim-rites to grace my slighted tomb. The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey'd, And to the tomb led the devoted maid Snatch'd from her mother, who with pious care Cherish'd this last relief of her despair. Superior to her sex, the fearless maid, Approach'd the altar, and around survey'd The cruel rites, and consecrated knife, Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life, Then as with stern amaze intent he stood, "Now strike," she said; "now spill my genr'ous blood; Deep in my breast, or throat, your dagger sheath, Whilst thus I stand prepar'd to meet my death. For life on terms of slav'ry I despise: Yet sure no God approves this sacrifice. O cou'd I but conceal this dire event From my sad mother, I should dye content. Yet should she not with tears my death deplore, Since her own wretched life demands them more. But let not the rude touch of man pollute A virgin-victim; 'tis a modest suit. It best will please, whoe'er demands my blood, That I untainted reach the Stygian flood. Yet let one short, last, dying prayer be heard; To Priam's daughter pay this last regard; 'Tis Priam's daughter, not a captive, sues; Do not the rites of sepulture refuse. To my afflicted mother, I implore, Free without ransom my dead corpse restore: Nor barter me for gain, when I am cold; But be her tears the price, if I am sold: Time was she could have ransom'd me with gold". Thus as she pray'd, one common shower of tears Burst forth, and stream'd from ev'ry eye but hers. Ev'n the priest wept, and with a rude remorse Plung'd in her heart the steel's resistless force. Her slacken'd limbs sunk gently to the ground, Dauntless her looks, unalter'd by the wound. And as she fell, she strove with decent pride To hide, what suits a virgin's care to hide. The Trojan matrons the pale corpse receive, And the whole slaughter'd race of Priam grieve, Sad they recount the long disastrous tale; Then with fresh tears, thee, royal maid, bewail; Thy widow'd mother too, who flourish'd late The royal pride of Asia's happier state: A captive lot now to Ulysses born; Whom yet the victor would reject with scorn, Were she not Hector's mother: Hector's fame Scarce can a master for his mother claim! With strict embrace the lifeless coarse she view'd; And her fresh grief that flood of tears renew'd, With which she lately mourn'd so many dead; Tears for her country, sons, and husb and shed. With the thick gushing stream she bath'd the wound; Kiss'd her pale lips; then weltring on the ground, With wonted rage her frantick bosom tore; Sweeping her hair amidst the clotted gore; Whilst her sad accents thus her loss deplore. "Behold a mother's last dear pledge of woe! Yes, 'tis the last I have to suffer now. Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown: Already in thy Fate, I feel my own. 'Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed One should unslaughter'd fall, even thou must bleed: And yet I hop'd thy sex had been thy guard; But neither has thy tender sex been spar'd. The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate Thy brothers fell, urg'd thy untimely fate! The same Achilles, whose destructive rage Laid waste my realms, has robb'd my childless age. When Paris' shafts with Phoebus' certain aid At length had pierc'd this dreaded chief, I said, Secure of future ills, he can no more: But see, he still pursues me as before. With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn; And his yet murd'ring ghost my wretched house must mourn. This tyrant's lust of slaughter I have fed With large supplies from my too-fruitful bed. Troy's tow'rs lye waste; and the wide ruin ends The publick woe; but me fresh woe attends. Troy still survives to me; to none but me; And from its ills I never must be free. I, who so late had power, and wealth, and ease, Bless'd with my husband, and a large encrease, Must now in poverty an exile mourn; Ev'n from the tombs of my dead offspring torn: Giv'n to Penelope, who proud of spoil, Allots me to the loom's ungrateful toil; Points to her dames, and crys with scorning mien: See Hector's mother, and great Priam's queen! And thou, my child, sole hope of all that's lost, Thou now art slain, to sooth this hostile ghost. Yes, my child falls an offering to my foe! Then what am I, who still survive this woe? Say, cruel Gods! for what new scenes of death Must a poor aged wretch prolong this hated breath? Troy fal'n, to whom could Priam happy seem? Yet was he so; and happy must I deem His death; for O! my child, he saw not thine, When he his life did with his Troy resign. Yet sure due obsequies thy tomb might grace; And thou shalt sleep amidst thy kingly race. Alas! my child, such fortune does not wait Our suffering house in this abandon'd state. A foreign grave, and thy poor mother's tears Are all the honours that attend thy herse. All now is lost!- Yet no; one comfort more Of life remains, my much-lov'd Polydore. My youngest hope: here on this coast he lives, Nurs'd by the guardian-king, he still survives. Then let me hasten to the cleansing flood, And wash away these stains of guiltless blood." Streit to the shore her feeble steps repair With limping pace, and torn dishevell'd hair Silver'd with age. "Give me an urn," she cry'd, "To bear back water from this swelling tide": When on the banks her son in ghastly hue Transfix'd with Thracian arrows strikes her view. The matrons shriek'd; her big-swoln grief surpast The pow'r of utterance; she stood aghast; She had nor speech, nor tears to give relief; Excess of woe suppress'd the rising grief. Lifeless as stone, on Earth she fix'd her eyes; And then look'd up to Heav'n with wild surprise. Now she contemplates o'er with sad delight Her son's pale visage; then her aking sight Dwells on his wounds: she varys thus by turns, Wild as the mother-lion, when among The haunts of prey she seeks her ravish'd young: Swift flies the ravisher; she marks his trace, And by the print directs her anxious chase. So Hecuba with mingled grief, and rage Pursues the king, regardless of her age. She greets the murd'rer with dissembled joy Of secret treasure hoarded for her boy. The specious tale th' unwary king betray'd. Fir'd with the hopes of prey: "Give quick," he said With soft enticing speech, "the promis'd store: Whate'er you give, you give to Polydore. Your son, by the immortal Gods I swear, Shall this with all your former bounty share." She stands attentive to his soothing lyes, And darts avenging horrour from her eyes. Then full resentment fires her boyling blood: She springs upon him, 'midst the captive crowd (Her thirst of vengeance want of strength supplies): Fastens her forky fingers in his eyes: Tears out the rooted balls; her rage pursues, And in the hollow orbs her hand imbrews. The Thracians, fir'd, at this inhuman scene, With darts, and stones assail the frantick queen. She snarls, and growls, nor in an human tone; Then bites impatient at the bounding stone; Extends her jaws, as she her voice would raise To keen invectives in her wonted phrase; But barks, and thence the yelping brute betrays. Still a sad monument the place remains, And from this monstrous change its name obtains: Where she, in long remembrance of her ills, With plaintive howlings the wide desart fills. Greeks, Trojans, friends, and foes, and Gods above Her num'rous wrongs to just compassion move. Ev'n Juno's self forgets her ancient hate, And owns, she had deserv'd a milder fate. The Funeral of Memnon Yet bright Aurora, partial as she was To Troy, and those that lov'd the Trojan cause, Nor Troy, nor Hecuba can now bemoan, But weeps a sad misfortune, more her own. Her offspring Memnon, by Achilles slain, She saw extended on the Phrygian plain: She saw, and strait the purple beams, that grace The rosie morning, vanish'd from her face; A deadly pale her wonted bloom invades, And veils the lowring skies with mournful shades. But when his limbs upon the pile were laid, The last kind duty that by friends is paid, His mother to the skies directs her flight, Nor cou'd sustain to view the doleful sight: But frantick, with her loose neglected hair, Hastens to Jove, and falls a suppliant there. O king of Heav'n, o father of the skies, The weeping Goddess passionately cries, Tho' I the meanest of immortals am, And fewest temples celebrate my fame, Yet still a Goddess, I presume to come Within the verge of your etherial dome: Yet still may plead some merit, if my light With purple dawn controuls the Pow'rs of night; If from a female hand that virtue springs, Which to the Gods, and men such pleasure brings. Yet I nor honours seek, nor rites divine, Nor for more altars, or more fanes repine; Oh! that such trifles were the only cause, From whence Aurora's mind its anguish draws! For Memnon lost, my dearest only child, With weightier grief my heavy heart is fill'd; My warrior son! that liv'd but half his time, Nipt in the bud, and blasted in his prime; Who for his uncle early took the field, And by Achilles' fatal spear was kill'd. To whom but Jove shou'd I for succour come? For Jove alone cou'd fix his cruel doom. O sov'reign of the Gods accept my pray'r, Grant my request, and sooth a mother's care; On the deceas'd some solemn boon bestow, To expiate the loss, and ease my woe. Jove, with a nod, comply'd with her desire; Around the body flam'd the fun'ral fire; The pile decreas'd, that lately seem'd so high, And sheets of smoak roll'd upward to the sky: As humid vapours from a marshy bog, Rise by degrees, condensing into fog, That intercept the sun's enliv'ning ray, And with a cloud infect the chearful day. The sooty ashes wafted by the air, Whirl round, and thicken in a body there; Then take a form, which their own heat, and fire With active life, and energy inspire. Its lightness makes it seem to fly, and soon It skims on real wings, that are its own; A real bird, it beats the breezy wind, Mix'd with a thousand sisters of the kind, That, from the same formation newly sprung, Up-born aloft on plumy pinions hung. Thrice round the pile advanc'd the circling throng. Thrice, with their wings, a whizzing consort rung. In the fourth flight their squadron they divide, Rank'd in two diff'rent troops, on either side: Then two, and two, inspir'd with martial rage, From either troop in equal pairs engage. Each combatant with beak, and pounces press'd, In wrathful ire, his adversary's breast; Each falls a victim, to preserve the fame Of that great hero, whence their being came. From him their courage, and their name they take, And, as they liv'd, they dye for Memnon's sake. Punctual to time, with each revolving year, In fresh array the champion birds appear; Again, prepar'd with vengeful minds, they come To bleed, in honour of the souldier's tomb. Therefore in others it appear'd not strange, To grieve for Hecuba's unhappy change: But poor Aurora had enough to do With her own loss, to mind another's woe; Who still in tears, her tender nature shews, Besprinkling all the world with pearly dews. The Voyage of Aeneas Troy thus destroy'd, 'twas still deny'd by Fate, The hopes of Troy should perish with the state. His sire, the son of Cytherea bore, And household-Gods from burning Ilium's shore, The pious prince (a double duty paid) Each sacred bur then thro' the flames convey'd. With young Ascanius, and this only prize, Of heaps of wealth, he from Antandros flies; But struck with horror, left the Thracian shore, Stain'd with the blood of murder'd Polydore. The Delian isle receives the banish'd train, Driv'n by kind gales, and favour'd by the main. Here pious Anius, priest, and monarch reign'd, And either charge, with equal care sustain'd, His subjects rul'd, to Phoebus homage pay'd, His God obeying, and by those obey'd. The priest displays his hospitable gate, And shows the riches of his church, and state The sacred shrubs, which eas'd Latona's pain, The palm, and olive, and the votive fane. Here grateful flames with fuming incense fed, And mingled wine, ambrosial odours shed; Of slaughter'd steers the crackling entrails burn'd: And then the strangers to the court return'd. On beds of tap'stry plac'd aloft, they dine With Ceres' gift, and flowing bowls of wine; When thus Anchises spoke, amidst the feast: Say, mitred monarch, Phoebus' chosen priest, Or (e'er from Troy by cruel Fate expell'd) When first mine eyes these sacred walls beheld, A son, and twice two daughters crown'd thy bliss? Or errs my mem'ry, and I judge amiss? The royal prophet shook his hoary head, With snowy fillets bound, and sighing, said: Thy mem'ry errs not, prince; thou saw'st me then, The happy father of so large a train; Behold me now (such turns of chance befall The race of man!), almost bereft of all. For (ah!) what comfort can my son bestow, What help afford, to mitigate my woe! While far from hence, in Andros' isle he reigns, (From him so nam'd) and there my place sustains. Him Delius praescience gave; the twice-born God A boon more wond'rous on the maids bestow'd. Whate'er they touch'd, he gave them to transmute (A gift past credit, and above their suit) To Ceres, Bacchus, and Minerva's fruit. How great their value, and how rich their use, Whose only touch such treasures could produce! The dire destroyer of the Trojan reign, Fierce Agamemnon, such a prize to gain (A proof we also were design'd by Fate To feel the tempest, that o'erturn'd your state), With force superior, and a ruffian crew, From these weak arms, the helpless virgins drew: And sternly bad them use the grant divine, To keep the fleet in corn, and oil, and wine. Each, as they could, escap'd: two strove to gain Euboea's isle, and two their brother's reign. The soldier follows, and demands the dames; If held by force, immediate war proclaims. Fear conquer'd Nature in their brother's mind, And gave them up to punishment assign'd. Forgive the deed; nor Hector's arm was there, Nor thine, Aeneas, to maintain the war; Whose only force upheld your Ilium's tow'rs, For ten long years, against the Grecian pow'rs. Prepar'd to bind their captive arms in bands, To Heav'n they rear'd their yet unfetter'd hands, Help, Bacchus, author of the gift, they pray'd; The gift's great author gave immediate aid; If such destruction of their human frame By ways so wond'rous, may deserve the name; Nor could I hear, nor can I now relate Exact, the manner of their alter'd state; But this in gen'ral of my loss I knew, Transform'd to doves, on milky plumes they flew, Such as on Ida's mount thy consort's chariot drew. With such discourse, they entertain'd the feast; Then rose from table, and withdrew to rest. The following morn, ere Sol was seen to shine, Th' inquiring Trojans sought the sacred shrine; The mystick Pow'r commands them to explore Their ancient mother, and a kindred shore. Attending to the sea, the gen'rous prince Dismiss'd his guests with rich munificence, In old Anchises' hand a sceptre plac'd, A vest, and quiver young Ascanius grac'd, His sire, a cup; which from th' Aonian coast, Ismenian Therses sent his royal host. Alcon of Myle made what Therses sent, And carv'd thereon this ample argument. A town with sev'n distinguish'd gates was shown, Which spoke its name, and made the city known; Before it, piles, and tombs, and rising flames, The rites of death, and quires of mourning dames, Who bar'd their breasts, and gave their hair to flow, The signs of grief, and marks of publick woe. Their fountains dry'd, the weeping Naiads mourn'd, The trees stood bare, with searing cankers burn'd, No herbage cloath'd the ground, a ragged flock Of goats half-famish'd, lick'd the naked rock, Of manly courage, and with mind serene, Orion's daughters in the town were seen; One heav'd her chest to meet the lifted knife, One plung'd the poyniard thro' the seat of life, Their country's victims; mourns the rescu'd state, The bodies burns, and celebrates their Fate. To save the failure of th' illustrious line, From the pale ashes rose, of form divine, Two gen'rous youths; these, fame Coronae calls, Who join the pomp, and mourn their mother's falls. These burnish'd figures form'd of antique mold, Shone on the brass, with rising sculpture bold; A wreath of gilt Acanthus round the brim was roll'd. Nor less expence the Trojan gifts express'd; A fuming censer for the royal priest, A chalice, and a crown of princely cost, With ruddy gold, and sparkling gems emboss'd. Now hoisting sail, to Crete the Trojans stood, Themselves remembring sprung from Teucer's blood; But Heav'n forbids, and pestilential Jove From noxious skies, the wand'ring navy drove. Her hundred cities left, from Crete they bore, And sought the destin'd land, Ausonia's shore; But toss'd by storms at either Strophas lay, 'Till scar'd by Harpies from the faithless bay. Then passing onward with a prosp'rous wind, Left sly Ulysses' spacious realms behind; Ambracia's state, in former ages known. The strife of Gods, the judge transform'd to stone They saw; for Actian Phoebus since renown'd, Who Caesar's arms with naval conquest crown'd; Next pass'd Dodona, wont of old to boast Her vocal forest; and Chaonia's coast, Where king Molossus' sons on wings aspir'd, And saw secure the harmless fewel fir'd. Now to Phaeacia's happy isle they came, For fertile orchards known to early fame; Epirus past, they next beheld with joy A second Ilium, and fictitious Troy; Here Trojan Helenus the sceptre sway'd, Who show'd their fate and mystick truths display'd. By him confirm'd Sicilia's isle they reach'd, Whose sides to sea three promontories stretch'd, Pachynos to the stormy south is plac'd, On Lilybaeum blows the gentle west, Peloro's cliffs the northern bear survey, Who rolls above, and dreads to touch the sea. By this they steer, and favour'd by the tide, Secure by night in Zancle's harbour ride. Here cruel Scylla guards the rocky shore, And there the waves of loud Charybdis roar: This sucks, and vomits ships, and bodies drown'd; And rav'nous dogs the womb of that surround, In face a virgin; and (if ought be true By bards recorded) once a virgin too. A train of youths in vain desir'd her bed; By sea-nymphs lov'd, to nymphs of seas she fled; The maid to these, with female pride, display'd Their baffled courtship, and their love betray'd. When Galatea thus bespoke the fair (But first she sigh'd), while Scylla comb'd her hair: You, lovely maid, a gen'rous race pursues, Whom safe you may (as now you do) refuse; To me, tho' pow'rful in a num'rous train Of sisters, sprung from Gods, who rule the main, My native seas could scarce a refuge prove, To shun the fury of the Cyclops' love, Tears choak'd her utt'rance here; the pity'ng maid With marble fingers wip'd them off, and said: My dearest Goddess, let thy Scylla know, (For I am faithful) whence these sorrows flow. The maid's intreaties o'er the nymph prevail, Who thus to Scylla tells the mournful tale. The Story of Acis, Polyphemus and Galatea Acis, the lovely youth, whose loss I mourn, From Faunus, and the nymph Symethis born, Was both his parents' pleasure; but, to me Was all that love could make a lover be. The Gods our minds in mutual bands did join: I was his only joy, and he was mine. Now sixteen summers the sweet youth had seen; And doubtful down began to shade his chin: When Polyphemus first disturb'd our joy; And lov'd me fiercely, as I lov'd the boy. Ask not which passion in my soul was high'r, My last aversion, or my first desire: Nor this the greater was, nor that the less; Both were alike, for both were in excess. Thee, Venus, thee both Heav'n, and Earth obey; Immense thy pow'r, and boundless is thy sway. The Cyclops, who defy'd th' aetherial throne, And thought no thunder louder than his own, The terror of the woods, and wilder far Than wolves in plains, or bears in forests are, Th' inhuman host, who made his bloody feasts On mangl'd members of his butcher'd guests, Yet felt the force of love, and fierce desire, And burnt for me, with unrelenting fire. Forgot his caverns, and his woolly care, Assum'd the softness of a lover's air; And comb'd, with teeth of rakes, his rugged hair. Now with a crooked scy the his beard he sleeks; And mows the stubborn stubble of his cheeks: Now in the crystal stream he looks, to try His simagres, and rowls his glaring eye. His cruelty, and thirst of blood are lost; And ships securely sail along the coast. The prophet Telemus (arriv'd by chance Where Aetna's summets to the seas advance, Who mark'd the tracts of every bird that flew, And sure presages from their flying drew) Foretold the Cyclops, that Ulysses' hand In his broad eye shou'd thrust a flaming brand. The giant, with a scornful grin, reply'd, Vain augur, thou hast falsely prophesy'd; Already love his flaming brand has tost; Looking on two fair eyes, my sight I lost, Thus, warn'd in vain, with stalking pace he strode, And stamp'd the margin of the briny flood With heavy steps; and weary, sought agen The cool retirement of his gloomy den. A promontory, sharp'ning by degrees, Ends in a wedge, and overlooks the seas: On either side, below, the water flows; This airy walk the giant lover chose. Here on the midst he sate; his flocks, unled, Their shepherd follow'd, and securely fed. A pine so burly, and of length so vast, That sailing ships requir'd it for a mast, He wielded for a staff, his steps to guide: But laid it by, his whistle while he try'd. A hundred reeds of a prodigious growth, Scarce made a pipe, proportion'd to his mouth: Which when he gave it wind, the rocks around, And watry plains, the dreadful hiss resound. I heard the ruffian-shepherd rudely blow, Where, in a hollow cave, I sat below; On Acis' bosom I my head reclin'd: And still preserve the poem in my mind. Oh lovely Galatea, whiter far Than falling snows, and rising lillies are; More flowry than the meads, as chrystal bright: Erect as alders, and of equal height: More wanton than a kid, more sleek thy skin, Than orient shells, that on the shores are seen, Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade; Pleasing, as winter suns, or summer shade: More grateful to the sight, than goodly plains; And softer to the touch, than down of swans; Or curds new turn'd; and sweeter to the taste Than swelling grapes, that to the vintage haste: More clear than ice, or running streams, that stray Through garden plots, but ah! more swift than they. Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke Than bullocks, unreclaim'd, to bear the yoke, And far more stubborn, than the knotted oak: Like sliding streams, impossible to hold; Like them, fallacious, like their fountains, cold. More warping, than the willow, to decline My warm embrace, more brittle, than the vine; Immovable, and fixt in thy disdain: Tough, as these rocks, and of a harder grain. More violent, than is the rising flood; And the prais'd peacock is not half so proud. Fierce, as the fire, and sharp, as thistles are, And more outragious, than a mother-bear: Deaf, as the billows to the vows I make; And more revengeful, than a trodden snake. In swiftness fleeter, than the flying hind, Or driven tempests, or the driving wind. All other faults, with patience I can bear; But swiftness is the vice I only fear. Yet if you knew me well, you wou'd not shun My love, but to my wish'd embraces run: Wou'd languish in your turn, and court my stay; And much repent of your unwise delay. My palace, in the living rock, is made By Nature's hand; a spacious pleasing shade: Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade. My garden fill'd with fruits you may behold, And grapes in clusters, imitating gold; Some blushing bunches of a purple hue: And these, and those, are all reserv'd for you. Red strawberries, in shades, expecting stand, Proud to be gather'd by so white a hand. Autumnal cornels latter fruit provide; And plumbs, to tempt you, turn their glossy side: Not those of common kinds; but such alone, As in Phaeacian orchards might have grown: Nor chestnuts shall be wanting to your food, Nor garden-fruits, nor wildings of the wood; The laden boughs for you alone shall bear; And yours shall be the product of the year. The flocks you see, are all my own; beside The rest that woods, and winding vallies hide; And those that folded in the caves abide. Ask not the numbers of my growing store; Who knows how many, knows he has no more. Nor will I praise my cattle; trust not me, But judge your self, and pass your own decree: Behold their swelling dugs; the sweepy weight Of ewes, that sink beneath the milky freight; In the warm folds their tender lambkins lye; Apart from kids, that call with human cry. New milk in nut-brown bowls is duely serv'd For daily drink; the rest for cheese reserv'd. Nor are these household dainties all my store: The fields, and forests will afford us more; The deer, the hare, the goat, the savage boar. All sorts of ven'son; and of birds the best; A pair of turtles taken from the nest. I walk'd the mountains, and two cubs I found (Whose dam had left 'em on the naked ground), So like, that no distinction could be seen: So pretty, they were presents for a queen; And so they shall; I took them both away; And keep, to be companions of your play. Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above The waves; nor scorn my presents, and my love. Come, Galatea, come, and view my face; I late beheld it, in the watry glass; And found it lovelier, than I fear'd it was. Survey my towring stature, and my size: Not Jove, the Jove you dream, that rules the skies, Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread: My locks (the plenteous harvest of my head) Hang o'er my manly face; and dangling down, As with a shady grove, my shoulders crown. Nor think, because my limbs and body bear A thick-set underwood of bristling hair, My shape deform'd; what fouler sight can be, Than the bald branches of a leafless tree? Foul is the steed without a flowing mane: And birds, without their feathers, and their train. Wool decks the sheep; and Man receives a grace From bushy limbs, and from a bearded face. My forehead with a single eye is fill'd, Round, as a ball, and ample, as a shield. The glorious lamp of Heav'n, the radiant sun, Is Nature's eye; and she's content with one. Add, that my father sways your seas, and I, Like you, am of the watry family. I make you his, in making you my own; You I adore; and kneel to you alone: Jove, with his fabled thunder, I despise, And only fear the lightning of your eyes. Frown not, fair nymph; yet I cou'd bear to be Disdain'd, if others were disdain'd with me. But to repulse the Cyclops, and prefer The love of Acis (Heav'ns!) I cannot bear. But let the stripling please himself; nay more, Please you, tho' that's the thing I most abhor; The boy shall find, if e'er we cope in fight, These giant limbs, endu'd with giant might. His living bowels from his belly torn, And scatter'd limbs shall on the flood be born: Thy flood, ungrateful nymph; and fate shall find, That way for thee, and Acis to be join'd. For oh! I burn with love, and thy disdain Augments at once my passion, and my pain. Translated Aetna flames within my heart, And thou, inhuman, wilt not ease my smart. Lamenting thus in vain, he rose, and strode With furious paces to the neighb'ring wood: Restless his feet, distracted was his walk; Mad were his motions, and confus'd his talk. Mad, as the vanquish'd bull, when forc'd to yield His lovely mistress, and forsake the field. Thus far unseen I saw: when fatal chance, His looks directing, with a sudden glance, Acis and I were to his sight betray'd; Where, nought suspecting, we securely play'd. From his wide mouth a bellowing cry he cast, I see, I see; but this shall be your last: A roar so loud made Aetna to rebound: And all the Cyclops labour'd in the sound. Affrighted with his monstrous voice, I fled, And in the neighbouring ocean plung'd my head. Poor Acis turn'd his back, and Help, he cry'd, Help, Galatea, help, my parent Gods, And take me dying to your deep abodes. The Cyclops follow'd; but he sent before A rib, which from the living rock he tore: Though but an angle reach'd him of the stone, The mighty fragment was enough alone, To crush all Acis; 'twas too late to save, But what the Fates allow'd to give, I gave: That Acis to his lineage should return; And rowl, among the river Gods, his urn. Straight issu'd from the stone a stream of blood; Which lost the purple, mingling with the flood, Then, like a troubled torrent, it appear'd: The torrent too, in little space, was clear'd. The stone was cleft, and through the yawning chink New reeds arose, on the new river's brink. The rock, from out its hollow womb, disclos'd A sound like water in its course oppos'd, When (wond'rous to behold), full in the flood, Up starts a youth, and navel high he stood. Horns from his temples rise; and either horn Thick wreaths of reeds (his native growth) adorn. Were not his stature taller than before, His bulk augmented, and his beauty more, His colour blue; for Acis he might pass: And Acis chang'd into a stream he was, But mine no more; he rowls along the plains With rapid motion, and his name retains. The Story of Glaucus and Scylla Here ceas'd the nymph; the fair assembly broke, The sea-green Nereids to the waves betook: While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main, Swift to the safer shore returns again. There o'er the sandy margin, unarray'd, With printless footsteps flies the bounding maid; Or in some winding creek's secure retreat She baths her weary limbs, and shuns the noonday's heat. Her Glaucus saw, as o'er the deep he rode, New to the seas, and late receiv'd a God. He saw, and languish'd for the virgin's love; With many an artful blandishment he strove Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove. The more he sues, the more she wings her flight, And nimbly gains a neighb'ring mountain's height. Steep shelving to the margin of the flood, A neighb'ring mountain bare, and woodless stood; Here, by the place secur'd, her steps she stay'd, And, trembling still, her lover's form survey'd. His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appall, And dropping locks that o'er his shoulders fall; She sees his face divine, and manly brow, End in a fish's wreathy tail below: She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind, Whether he comes of God, or monster kind. This Glaucus soon perceiv'd; and, Oh! forbear (His hand supporting on a rock lay near), Forbear, he cry'd, fond maid, this needless fear. Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main, But equal with the watry Gods I reign; Nor Proteus, nor Palaemon me excell, Nor he whose breath inspires the sounding shell. My birth, 'tis true, I owe to mortal race, And I my self but late a mortal was: Ev'n then in seas, and seas alone, I joy'd; The seas my hours, and all my cares employ'd, In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew; Now skilfully the slender line I threw, And silent sat the moving float to view. Not far from shore, there lies a verdant mead, With herbage half, and half with water spread: There, nor the horned heifers browsing stray, Nor shaggy kids, nor wanton lambkins play; There, nor the sounding bees their nectar cull, Nor rural swains their genial chaplets pull, Nor flocks, nor herds, nor mowers haunt the place, To crop the flow'rs, or cut the bushy grass: Thither, sure first of living race came I, And sat by chance, my dropping nets to dry. My scaly prize, in order all display'd, By number on the greensward there I lay'd, My captives, whom or in my nets I took, Or hung unwary on my wily hook. Strange to behold! yet what avails a lye? I saw 'em bite the grass, as I sate by; Then sudden darting o'er the verdant plain, They spread their finns, as in their native main: I paus'd, with wonder struck, while all my prey Left their new master, and regain'd the sea. Amaz'd, within my secret self I sought, What God, what herb the miracle had wrought: But sure no herbs have pow'r like this, I cry'd; And strait I pluck'd some neighb'ring herbs, and try'd. Scarce had I bit, and prov'd the wond'rous taste, When strong convulsions shook my troubled breast; I felt my heart grow fond of something strange, And my whole Nature lab'ring with a change. Restless I grew, and ev'ry place forsook, And still upon the seas I bent my look. Farewel for ever! farewel, land! I said; And plung'd amidst the waves my sinking head. The gentle Pow'rs, who that low empire keep, Receiv'd me as a brother of the deep; To Tethys, and to Ocean old, they pray To purge my mortal earthy parts away. The watry parents to their suit agreed, And thrice nine times a secret charm they read, Then with lustrations purify my limbs, And bid me ba the beneath a hundred streams: A hundred streams from various fountains run, And on my head at once come rushing down. Thus far each passage I remember well, And faithfully thus far the tale I tell; But then oblivion dark, on all my senses fell. Again at length my thought reviving came, When I no longer found my self the same; Then first this sea-green beard I felt to grow, And these large honours on my spreading brow; My long-descending locks the billows sweep, And my broad shoulders cleave the yielding deep; My fishy tail, my arms of azure hue, And ev'ry part divinely chang'd, I view. But what avail these useless honours now? What joys can immortality bestow? What, tho' our Nereids all my form approve? What boots it, while fair Scylla scorns my love? Thus far the God; and more he wou'd have said; When from his presence flew the ruthless maid. Stung with repulse, in such disdainful sort, He seeks Titanian Circe's horrid court. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE THIRTEENTH ,

731:Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric Dramatis Personae HUGO, a Norman Baron and a Scholar. ERIC, a friend of Hugo's. THURSTON, | EUSTACE, | RALPH, | Followers of Hugo. HENRY, a Page. LUKE, | HUBERT, | Monks living in a Norman Chapel. BASIL, Abbot of a Convent on the Rhine. CYRIL, a Monk of the same Convent. OSRIC, a Norwegian Adventurer, and formerly a Corsair. RUDOLPH, an Outlawed Count, and the Captain of a Band of Robbers. DAGOBERT, the Captain of some predatory Soldiers called "Free Lances". HAROLD, a Danish Knight. ORION. THORA, AGATHA, ELSPETH, a Nurse of Thora's, URSULA, Abbess of the Convent on the Rhine, | NUNS, etc. | Women. Men-at-arms, Soldiers, and Robbers; Monks, Friars, and Churchmen, Spirits, etc. SCENE — A Castle in Normandy. A Study in a Tower; HUGO seated at a table covered with maps and charts of the heavens, astronomical instruments, books, manuscripts, Enter HENRY, a Page. Hugo: Well, boy, what is it? 27 Henry: The feast is spread. Hugo: Why tarry the guests for me? Let Eric sit at the table's head; Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] What share have I at their festive board? Their mirth I can only mar; To me no pleasure their cups afford, Their songs on my silence jar. With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, And yet with a hopeful heart, I must toil and strain with the planets again When the rays of the sun depart; He who must needs with the topers tope, And the feasters feast in the hall, How can he hope with a matter to cope That is immaterial? Orion: He who his appetite stints and curbs, Shut up in the northern wing, With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, And his draught from the tasteless spring, Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. There are some good things upon earth — Pleasure and power and fair renown, And wisdom of worldly worth! There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, In follies that light the eyes, But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence Is alone by the fool termed wise. Hugo: Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; Perchance, having jeer'd and scoff'd To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; I wot thou hast served me oft. This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; What errors canst thou detect? 28 Orion: Nay, the constellations are misplaced, And the satellites incorrect; Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek An hour of needful rest, The night is young and the planets are weak; See, the sun still reddens the west. Hugo: I fear I shall sleep too long. Orion: If you do It matters not much; the sky Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; Now, list to my lullaby. [Hugo reclines on a couch.] (Sings.) Still the darkling skies are red, Though the day-god's course is run; Heavenly night-lamps overhead Flash and twinkle one by one. Idle dreamer — earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? From the tree of knowledge first, Since his parents pluck'd the fruit, Man, with partial knowledge curs'd, Of the tree still seeks the root; Musty volumes crowd thy shelf — Which of these true knowledge brings? Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Will the stars from heaven descend? Can the earth-worm soar and rise? Can the mortal comprehend Heaven's own hallow'd mysteries? Greed and glory, power and pelf — These are won by clowns and kings; Wherefore weariest thou thyself 29 With thy vain imaginings? Sow and reap, and toil and spin; Eat and drink, and dream and die; Man may strive, yet never win, And I laugh the while and cry — Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, Whatever dreams it has brought him — [Looks at the plans.] If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, He's wiser than one who taught him. Why does he number the Pole-star thus? Or the Pleiades why combine? And what is he doing with Sirius, In the devil's name or in mine? Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, That the sins of his youth are slain, When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back To his old pet sins again. SCENE — The Same. HUGO waking, ORION seated near him. Daybreak. Hugo: Oh, weary spirit! oh, cloudy eyes! Oh, heavy and misty brain! Yon riddle that lies 'twixt earth and skies, Ye seek to explore in vain! See, the east is grey; put those scrolls away, And hide them far from my sight; I will toil and study no more by day, I will watch no longer by night; I have labour'd and long'd, and now I seem No nearer the mystic goal; 30 Orion, I fain would devise some scheme To quiet this restless soul; To distant climes I would fain depart — I would travel by sea or land. Orion: Nay, I warn'd you of this, "Short life, long art", The proverb, though stale, will stand; Full many a sage from youth to age Has toil'd to obtain what you Would master at once. In a pilgrimage, Forsooth, there is nothing new; Though virtue, I ween, in change of scene, And vigour in change of air, Will always be, and has always been, And travel is a tonic rare. Still, the restless, discontented mood For the time alone is eased; It will soon return with hunger renew'd, And appetite unappeased. Nathless I could teach a shorter plan To win that wisdom you crave, That lore that is seldom attain'd by man From the cradle down to the grave. Hugo: Such lore I had rather do without, It hath nothing mystic nor awful In my eye. Nay, I despise and doubt The arts that are term'd unlawful; 'Twixt science and magic the line lies plain, I shall never wittingly pass it; There is now no compact between us twain. Orion: But an understanding tacit. You have prospered much since the day we met; You were then a landless knight; You now have honour and wealth, and yet I never can serve you right. Hugo: Enough; we will start this very day, 31 Thurston, Eric, and I, And the baffled visions will pass away, And the restless fires will die. Orion: Till the fuel expires that feeds those fires They smoulder and live unspent; Give a mortal all that his heart desires, He is less than ever content. SCENE — A Cliff on the Breton Coast, Overhanging the Sea. HUGO. Hugo: Down drops the red sun; through the gloaming They burst — raging waves of the sea, Foaming out their own shame — ever foaming Their leprosy up with fierce glee; Flung back from the stone, snowy fountains Of feathery flakes, scarcely flag Where, shock after shock, the green mountains Explode on the iron-grey crag. The salt spray with ceaseless commotion Leaps round me. I sit on the verge Of the cliff — 'twixt the earth and the ocean — With feet overhanging the surge. In thy grandeur, oh, sea! we acknowledge, In thy fairness, oh, earth! we confess, Hidden truths that are taught in no college, Hidden songs that no parchments express. Were they wise in their own generations, Those sages and sagas of old? They have pass'd; o'er their names and their nations Time's billows have silently roll'd; They have pass'd, leaving little to their children, Save histories of a truth far from strict; Or theories more vague and bewildering, 32 Since three out of four contradict. Lost labour! vain bookworms have sat in The halls of dull pedants who teach Strange tongues, the dead lore of the Latin, The scroll that is god-like and Greek: Have wasted life's springtide in learning Things long ago learnt all in vain; They are slow, very slow, in discerning That book lore and wisdom are twain. Pale shades of a creed that was mythic, By time or by truth overcome, Your Delphian temples and Pythic Are ruins deserted and dumb; Your Muses are hush'd, and your Graces Are bruised and defaced; and your gods, Enshrin'd and enthron'd in high places No longer, are powerless as clods; By forest and streamlet, where glisten'd Fair feet of the Naiads that skimm'd The shallows; where the Oreads listen'd, Rose-lipp'd, amber-hair'd, marble-limb'd, No lithe forms disport in the river, No sweet faces peer through the boughs, Elms and beeches wave silent for ever, Ever silent the bright water flows. (Were they duller or wiser than we are, Those heathens of old? Who shall say? Worse or better? Thy wisdom, O "Thea Glaucopis", was wise in thy day; And the false gods alluring to evil, That sway'd reckless votaries then, Were slain to no purpose; they revel Re-crowned in the hearts of us men.) Dead priests of Osiris and Isis, And Apis! that mystical lore, Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisis Of fever, is studied no more; 33 Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spangles The arch of yon firmament vast Looks calm, like a host of white angels, On dry dust of votaries past. On seas unexplored can the ship shun Sunk rocks? Can man fathom life's links, Past or future, unsolved by Egyptian Or Theban, unspoken by Sphinx? The riddle remains still unravell'd By students consuming night oil. Oh, earth! we have toil'd, we have travail'd, How long shall we travail and toil? How long? The short life that fools reckon So sweet, by how much is it higher Than brute life? — the false gods still beckon, And man, through the dust and the mire, Toils onward, as toils the dull bullock, Unreasoning, brutish, and blind, With Ashtaroth, Mammon, and Moloch In front, and Alecto behind. The wise one of earth, the Chaldean, Serves folly in wisdom's disguise; And the sensual Epicurean, Though grosser, is hardly less wise; 'Twixt the former, half pedant, half pagan, And the latter, half sow and half sloth, We halt, choose Astarte or Dagon, Or sacrifice freely to both. With our reason that seeks to disparage, Brute instinct it fails to subdue; With our false illegitimate courage, Our sophistry, vain and untrue; Our hopes that ascend so and fall so, Our passions, fierce hates and hot loves, We are wise (aye, the snake is wise also) — Wise as serpents, NOT harmless as doves. Some flashes, like faint sparks from heaven, 34 Come rarely with rushing of wings; We are conscious at times we have striven, Though seldom, to grasp better things; These pass, leaving hearts that have falter'd, Good angels with faces estranged, And the skin of the Ethiop unalter'd, And the spots of the leopard unchanged. Oh, earth! pleasant earth! have we hanker'd To gather thy flowers and thy fruits? The roses are wither'd, and canker'd The lilies, and barren the roots Of the fig-tree, the vine, the wild olive, Sharp thorns and sad thistles that yield Fierce harvest — so WE live, and SO live The perishing beasts of the field. And withal we are conscious of evil And good — of the spirit and the clod, Of the power in our hearts of a devil, Of the power in our souls of a God, Whose commandments are graven in no cypher, But clear as His sun — from our youth One at least we have cherished — "An eye for An eye, and a tooth for a tooth." Oh, man! of thy Maker the image; To passion, to pride, or to wealth, Sworn bondsman, from dull youth to dim age, Thy portion the fire or the filth, Dross seeking, dead pleasure's death rattle Thy memories' happiest song, And thy highest hope — scarce a drawn battle With dark desperation. How long? Roar louder! leap higher! ye surf-beds, And sprinkle your foam on the furze; Bring the dreams that brought sleep to our turf-beds, To camps of our long ago years, With the flashing and sparkling of broadswords, 35 With the tossing of banners and spears, With the trampling of hard hoofs on hard swards, With the mingling of trumpets and cheers. The gale has gone down; yet outlasting The gale, raging waves of the sea, Casting up their own foam, ever casting Their leprosy up with wild glee, Still storm; so in rashness and rudeness Man storms through the days of his grace; Yet man cannot fathom God's goodness, Exceeding God's infinite space. And coldly and calmly and purely Grey rock and green hillock lie white In star-shine dream-laden — so surely Night cometh — so cometh the night When we, too, at peace with our neighbour, May sleep where God's hillocks are piled, Thanking HIM for a rest from day's labour, And a sleep like the sleep of a child! SCENE — The Castle in Normandy. THORA working at embroidery, ELSPETH spinning. Thora (sings): We severed in autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder'd one misty morning, Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain, Through the flowers those hills adorning — Thou comest not back again. My heart is heavy and weary With the weight of a weary soul; 36 The mid-day glare grows dreary, And dreary the midnight scroll. The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 'Neath the load of the golden grain; I sigh for a mate more fickle — Thou comest not back again. The warm sun riseth and setteth, The night bringeth moistening dew, But the soul that longeth forgetteth The warmth and the moisture too; In the hot sun rising and setting There is naught save feverish pain; There are tears in the night-dews wetting — Thou comest not back again. Thy voice in mine ear still mingles With the voices of whisp'ring trees; Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles At each kiss of the summer breeze; While dreams of the past are thronging For substance of shades in vain, I am waiting, watching, and longing — Thou comest not back again. Waiting and watching ever, Longing and lingering yet, Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, Winds murmur and waters fret; No answer they bring, no greeting, No speech save that sad refrain, Nor voice, save an echo repeating — He cometh not back again. Elspeth: Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max; With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot. If the husbands vanish'd, and left no tracks, Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot? Thora: How well I remember that dreary ride; 37 How I sigh'd for the lands of ice and snow, In the trackless wastes of the desert wide, With the sun o'erhead and the sand below; 'Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms, How I sigh'd for the forest of sheltering firs, Whose shadows environ'd the Danish farms, Where I sang and sported in childish years. On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimage We stayed at the foot of a sandhill high; Our fever'd thirst we could scarce assuage At the brackish well that was nearly dry, And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set, And we rode all the day through a desert land, And we camp'd where the lake and the river met, On sedge and shingle and shining sand: Enfolded in Hugo's cloak I slept, Or watch'd the stars while I lay awake; And close to our feet the staghound crept, And the horses were grazing beside the lake; Now we own castles and serving men, Lands and revenues. What of that? Hugo the Norman was kinder then, And happier was Thora of Armorat. Elspeth: Nay, I warn'd thee, with Norman sails unfurl'd Above our heads, when we wished thee joy, That men are the same all over the world, They will worship only the newest toy; Yet Hugo is kind and constant too, Though somewhat given to studies of late; Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue, And worse than thine is thy sisters' fate. But a shadow darkens the chamber door. Enter THURSTON. Thurston: 'Tis I, Lady Thora; our lord is near. My horse being fresher, I rode before; Both he and Eric will soon be here. 38 Thora: Good Thurston, give me your hand. You are Most welcome. What has delayed you thus? Thurston: Both by sea and land we have travell'd far, Yet little of note has happened to us — We were wreck'd on the shores of Brittany, Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound; The rocks were steep and the surf ran high, Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown'd. By a swarm of knaves we were next beset, Who took us for corsairs; then released By a Breton count, whose name I forget. Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast. [He goes out.] Elspeth: That man is rude and froward of speech: My ears are good, though my sight grows dim. Thora: Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teach Courtly nor servile manners to him. SCENE — The Castle Hall. THURSTON, RALPH, EUSTACE, and other followers of HUGO, seated at a long table. HAROLD seated apart. Thurston: Who is that stranger, dark and tall, On the wooden settle next to the wall — Mountebank, pilgrim, or wandering bard? Eustace: To define his calling is somewhat hard; Lady Thora has taken him by the hand Because he has come from the Holy Land. 39 Pilgrims and palmers are all the rage With her, since she shared in that pilgrimage With Hugo. The stranger came yesterday, And would have gone on, but she bade him stay. Besides, he sings in the Danish tongue The songs she has heard in her childhood sung. That's all I know of him, good or bad; In my own opinion he's somewhat mad. You must raise your voice if you speak with him, And he answers as though his senses were dim. Thurston (to Harold): Good-morrow, sir stranger. Harold: Good-morrow, friend. Thurston: Where do you come from? and whither wend? Harold: I have travelled of late with the setting sun At my back; and as soon as my task is done I purpose to turn my face to the north — Yet we know not what a day may bring forth. Thurston: Indeed we don't. (To Eustace, aside): Nay, I know him now By that ugly scar that crosses his brow; And the less we say to him the better. Your judgment is right to the very letter — The man is mad. Eustace: But harmless, I think; He eats but little, eschews strong drink, And only speaks when spoken to first. Thurston: Harmless or not, he was once the worst And bitterest foe Lord Hugo had; And yet his story is somewhat sad. 40 Eustace: May I hear it? Thurston: Nay, I never reveal What concerns me not. Our lord may conceal Or divulge at pleasure his own affairs, — Not even his comrade Eric shares His secrets; though Eric thinks him wise, Which is more than I do, for I despise That foolish science he learnt in Rome. He dreams and mopes when he sits at home, And now he's not much better abroad; 'Tis hard to follow so tame a lord. 'Twixt us two, he won't be worth a rush If he will persist in his studies —— Eustace: Hush! Ralph has persuaded our guest to sing. Thurston: I have known the day when his voice would ring Till the rafters echoed. Eustace: 'Tis pleasant still, Though far too feeble this hall to fill. Harold (sings): On the current, where the wide Windings of the river Eddy to the North Sea tide, Shall I in my shallop glide, As I have done at her side? Never! never! never! In the forest, where the firs, Pines, and larches quiver To the northern breeze that stirs, Shall my lips be press'd to hers, As they were in by-gone years? Never! never! never! 41 In the battle on the plain, Where the lance-shafts shiver, And the sword-strokes fall like rain, Shall I bear her scarf again As I have done — not in vain? Never! never! never! In a fairer, brighter land, Where the saints rest ever, Shall I once more see her stand, White, amidst a white-robed band, Harp and palm-branch in her hand? Never! never! never! SCENE — The Same. EUSTACE, THURSTON, and followers of HUGO. HAROLD. Enter, by the hall door, HUGO, ERIC, and THORA. Eustace (and others standing up): Welcome, Lord Hugo! Hugo: Welcome or not, Thanks for your greeting all. Ha, Eustace! what complaints hast thou got? What grievances to recall? Eustace: Count William came with a numerous band, Ere the snows began to fall, And slew a buck on your lordship's land, Within a league of the wall. Hugo: Count William has done to us no more Than we to him. In his vineyard Last summer, or later, maybe, a boar Was slaughter'd by Thurston's whinyard. 42 Thurston: Aye, Hugo! But William kept the buck, I will wager marks a score, Though the tale is new to me; and, worse luck, You made me give back the boar. Harold (advancing): Lord Hugo! Hugo: What! Art thou living yet? I scarcely knew thee, Sir Dane! And 'tis not so very long since we met. Harold: 'Twill be long ere we meet again. (gives a letter) This letter was traced by one now dead In the Holy Land; and I Must wait till his dying request is read, And in his name ask the reply. Thora (aside): Who is that stranger, Hugo? Hugo: By birth He is a countryman of thine, Thora. What writing is this on earth? I can scarce decipher a line. Harold: The pen in the clutch of death works ill. Hugo: Nay, I read now; the letters run More clearly. Harold: Wilt grant the request? Hugo: I will. Harold: Enough! Then my task is done. (He holds out his hand.) Hugo, I go to a far-off land, 43 Wilt thou say, "God speed thee!" now? Hugo: Sir Harold, I cannot take thy hand, Because of my ancient vow. Harold: Farewell, then. Thora: Friend, till the morning wait. On so wild a night as this Thou shalt not go from my husband's gate; The path thou wilt surely miss. Harold: I go. Kind lady, some future day Thy care will requited be. Thora: Speak, Hugo, speak. Hugo: He may go or stay, It matters little to me. [Harold goes out.] Thora: Husband, that man is ill and weak; On foot he goes and alone Through a barren moor in a night-storm bleak. Eric: Now I wonder where he has gone! Hugo: Indeed, I have not the least idea; The man is certainly mad. He wedded my sister, Dorothea, And used her cruelly bad. He was once my firmest and surest friend, And once my deadliest foe; But hate and friendship both find their end — Now I heed not where he may go. 44 SCENE — A Chamber in the Castle. HUGO, THORA, and ERIC. Hugo: That letter that came from Palestine, By the hands of yon wandering Dane, Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine. Thora: Wilt thou travel so soon again? Hugo: I can scarce refuse the dying request Of my comrade, Baldwin, now; His bones are dust. May his soul find rest He once made a foolish vow, That at Englemehr, 'neath the watchful care Of the Abbess, his child should stay, For a season at least. To escort her there I must start at the break of day. Thora: Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare? Hugo: Nay, Clare is dwelling in Spain With her spouse. Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair, I am told; but giddy and vain. Eric: Some musty tales on my memory grow Concerning Count Baldwin's vow; Thou knew'st his daughter? Hugo: Aye, years ago. I should scarcely know her now. 45 It seems, when her father's vow was made, She was taken sorely ill; Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd; He could never his oath fulfil. Eric: If rightly I've heard, 'twas Agatha That fled with some Danish knight — I forget the name. Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; She returned again that night. Thora: For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed. Hugo: That is no affair of mine. My task is over, my word fulfilled, Should I bring her safe to the Rhine. Come, Thora, sing. Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, Nor would I now if I could. Sing thou. Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring No sound save a discord rude. (Sings.) Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, The pine lies low in the dust; And the corn is withered and blighted, Where the fields are red with the rust; Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, Where its petals the violet rears, And the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. The strong in their strength are shaken, The wise in their wisdom fall; And the bloom of beauty is taken — Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, 46 They vanish, their lot fulfilling, Their doom approaches and nears, But the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 'Tis the will of a Great Creator, He is wise, His will must be done, And it cometh sooner or later; And one shall be taken, and one Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, In this vale of sorrows and tears, Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Tell me, mine own one, tell me, The shadows of life and the fears Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, While I can avert thy tears: Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling To realise lonely years? Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Enter HENRY. Henry: My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight, He has come on foot from the chapel; Some stranger perished beside his gate When the dawn began to dapple. SCENE — A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo's Castle. HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD. Luke: When the dawn was breaking, Came a faint sound, waking Hubert and myself; we hurried to the door, Found the stranger lying 47 At the threshold, dying. Somewhere have I seen a face like his before. Hugo: Harold he is hight. Only yester-night From our gates he wander'd, in the driving hail; Well his face I know, Both as friend and foe; Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale. Luke: Few the words he said, Faint the signs he made, Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn'd. This is retribution, Seek for absolution; Answer me — then cast thy sorrows to the wind. Do their voices reach thee, Friends who failed to teach thee, In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong? Charges 'gainst thee cited, Cares all unrequited, Counsels spurned and slighted — do they press and throng?" But he shook his head. "'Tis not so," he said; "They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore. If their counsels good, Rashly I withstood; Having suffered longer, I have suffered more." "Do their curses stun thee? Foes who failed to shun thee, Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career, As the barbed arrow Cleaveth bone and marrow, From those chambers narrow — do they pierce thine ear?" And he made reply, Laughing bitterly, "Did I fear them living — shall I fear them dead? Blood that I have spilt Leaveth little guilt; 48 On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head." "Is there one whom thou May'st have wronged ere now, Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart? By some saint in heaven, Sanctified and shriven, Would'st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?" Not a word he said, But he bowed his head Till his temples rested on the chilly sods And we heard him groan — "Ah! mine own, mine own! If I had thy pardon I might ask for God's." Hubert raised him slowly, Sunrise, faint and holy, Lit the dead face, placid as a child's might be. May the troubled spirit, Through Christ's saving merit, Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee. Hugo: God o'erruleth fate. I had cause for hate; In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong, Joined by priestly vows, He became the spouse Of my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong. And he wrought her woe, Making me his foe; Not alone unfaithful — brutal, too, was he. She had scarce been dead Three months, ere he fled With Count Baldwin's daughter, then betrothed to me. Fortune straight forsook him, Vengeance overtook him; Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment. All his strength was shatter'd, Even his wits were scatter'd, Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went. We are unforgiving 49 While our foes are living; Yet his retribution weigh'd so heavily That I feel remorse, Gazing on his corpse, For my rudeness when he left our gates to die. And his grave shall be 'Neath the chestnut tree, Where he met my sister many years ago; Leave that tress of hair On his bosom there — Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go. SCENE — A Room in the Castle. HUGO and ERIC. Early morning. Hugo: The morn is fair, the weary miles Will shorten 'neath the summer's wiles; Pomona in the orchard smiles, And in the meadow, Flora! And I have roused a chosen band For escort through the troubled land; And shaken Elspeth by the hand, And said farewell to Thora. Comrade and kinsman — for thou art Comrade and kin to me — we part Ere nightfall, if at once we start, We gain the dead Count's castle. The roads are fair, the days are fine, Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine. Forsooth, no friend to me or mine Is that same Abbot Basil; I thought he wronged us by his greed. My father sign'd a foolish deed For lack of gold in time of need, And thus our lands went by us; Yet wrong on our side may have been: As far as my will goes, I ween, 'Tis past, the grudge that lay between 50 Us twain. Men call him pious — And I have prosper'd much since then, And gain'd for one lost acre ten; And even the ancient house and glen Rebought with purchase-money. He, too, is wealthy; he has got By churchly rights a fertile spot, A land of corn and wine, I wot, A land of milk and honey. Now, Eric, change thy plans and ride With us; thou hast no ties, no bride. Eric: Nay, ties I have, and time and tide, Thou knowest, wait for no man; And I go north; God's blessing shuns The dwellings of forgetful sons, That proverb he may read who runs, In Christian lore or Roman. My good old mother she hath heard, For twelve long months, from me no word; At thought of her my heart is stirr'd, And even mine eyes grow moister. Greet Ursula from me; her fame Is known to all. A nobler dame, Since days of Clovis, ne'er became The inmate of a cloister. Our paths diverge, yet we may go Together for a league or so; I, too, will join thy band below When thou thy bugle windest. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: From weaknesses we stand afar, On us unpleasantly they jar; And yet the stoutest-hearted are The gentlest and the kindest. My mother loved me tenderly; Alas! her only son was I. I shudder'd, but my lids were dry, By death made orphan newly. 51 A braver man than me, I swear, Who never comprehended fear, Scarce names his mother, and the tear, Unbidden, springs unruly. SCENE — A Road on the Norman Frontiers. HUGO, AGATHA, ORION, THURSTON, and armed attendants, riding slowly. Agatha: Sir Knight, what makes you so grave and glum? At times I fear you are deaf or dumb, Or both. Hugo: And yet, should I speak the truth, There is little in common 'twixt us, forsooth; You would think me duller, and still more vain, If I uttered the thoughts that fill my brain; Since the matters with which my mind is laden Would scarcely serve to amuse a maiden. Agatha: I am so foolish and you are so wise, 'Tis the meaning your words so ill disguise. Alas! my prospects are sad enough: I had rather listen to speeches rough Than muse and meditate silently On the coming loss of my liberty. Sad hope to me can my future bring, Yet, while I may, I would prattle and sing, Though it only were to try and assuage The dreariness of my pilgrimage. Hugo: Prattle and sing to your heart's content, And none will offer impediment. Agatha (sings): We were playmates in childhood, my sister and I, Whose playtime with childhood is done; 52 Through thickets where briar and bramble grew high, Barefooted I've oft seen her run. I've known her, when mists on the moorland hung white, Bareheaded past nightfall remain; She has followed a landless and penniless knight Through battles and sieges in Spain. But I pulled the flower, and shrank from the thorn, Sought the sunshine, and fled from the mist; My sister was born to face hardship with scorn — I was born to be fondled and kiss'd. Hugo (aside): She has a sweet voice. Orion: And a sweet face, too — Be candid for once, and give her her due. Agatha: Your face grows longer, and still more long, Sir Scholar! how did you like my song? Hugo: I thought it rather a silly one. Agatha: You are far from a pleasant companion. SCENE — An Apartment in a Wayside Inn. HUGO and AGATHA. Evening. Hugo: I will leave you now — we have talked enough, And for one so tenderly reared and nursed This journey is wearisome, perhaps, and rough. Agatha: Will you not finish your story first? 53 Hugo: I repent me that I began it now, 'Tis a dismal tale for a maiden's ears; Your cheek is pale already, your brow Is sad, and your eyes are moist with tears. Agatha: It may be thus, I am lightly vexed, But the tears will lightly come and go; I can cry one moment and laugh the next, Yet I have seen terrors, as well you know. I remember that flight through moss and fern, The moonlit shadows, the hoofs that rolled In fierce pursuit, and the ending stern, And the hawk that left his prey on the wold. Hugo: I have sorrowed since that I left you there: Your friends were close behind on the heath, Though not so close as I thought they were. (Aside.) Now I will not tell her of Harold's death. Agatha: 'Tis true, I was justly punished, and men, As a rule, of pity have little share; Had I died you had cared but little then. Hugo: But little then, yet now I should care More than you think for. Now, good-night. Tears still? Ere I leave you, child, alone, Must I dry your cheeks? Agatha: Nay, I am not quite Such a child but what I can dry my own. [Hugo goes out. Agatha retires.] Orion (singing outside the window of Agatha's chamber): 'Neath the stems with blossoms laden, 'Neath the tendrils curling, I, thy servant, sing, oh, maiden! I, thy slave, oh, darling! 54 Lo! the shaft that slew the red deer, At the elk may fly too. Spare them not! The dead are dead, dear, Let the living die too. Where the wiles of serpent mingle, And the looks of dove lie, Where small hands in strong hands tingle, Loving eyes meet lovely: Where the harder natures soften, And the softer harden — Certes! such things have been often Since we left Eve's garden. Sweeter follies herald sadder Sins — look not too closely; Tongue of asp and tooth of adder Under leaf of rose lie. Warned, advised in vain, abandon Warning and advice too, Let the child lay wilful hand on Den of cockatrice too. I, thy servant, or thy master, One or both — no matter; If the former — firmer, faster, Surer still the latter — Lull thee, soothe thee with my singing, Bid thee sleep, and ponder On my lullabies still ringing Through thy dreamland yonder. SCENE — A Wooded Rising Ground, Near the Rhine. HUGO and AGATHA resting under the trees. THURSTON, EUSTACE, and followers a little apart. ORION. (Noonday.) The Towers of the Convent in the distance. Agatha: I sit on the greensward, and hear the bird sing, 55 'Mid the thickets where scarlet and white blossoms cling; And beyond the sweet uplands all golden with flower, It looms in the distance, the grey convent tower. And the emerald earth and the sapphire-hued sky Keep telling me ever my spring has gone by; Ah! spring premature, they are tolling thy knell, In the wind's soft adieu, in the bird's sweet farewell. Oh! why is the greensward with garlands so gay, That I quail at the sight of my prison-house grey? Oh! why is the bird's note so joyous and clear? The caged bird must pine in a cage doubly drear. Hugo: May the lances of Dagobert harry their house, If they coax or intimidate thee to take vows; May the freebooters pillage their shrines, should they dare Touch with their scissors thy glittering hair. Our short and sweet journey now draws to an end, And homeward my sorrowful way I must wend; Oh, fair one! oh, loved one! I would I were free, To squander my life in the greenwood with thee. Orion (aside): Ho! seeker of knowledge, so grave and so wise, Touch her soft curl again — look again in her eyes; Forget for the nonce musty parchments, and learn How the slow pulse may quicken — the cold blood may burn. Ho! fair, fickle maiden, so blooming and shy! The old love is dead, let the old promise die! Thou dost well, thou dost wise, take the word of Orion, "A living dog always before a dead lion!" Thurston: Ye varlets, I would I knew which of ye burst Our wine-skin — what, ho! must I perish with thirst! Go, Henry, thou hast a glib tongue, go and ask Thy lord to send Ralph to yon inn for a flask. Henry: Nay, Thurston, not so; I decline to disturb 56 Our lord for the present; go thou, or else curb Thy thirst, or drink water, as I do. Thurston: Thou knave Of a page, dost thou wish me the colic to have? Orion (aside): That clown is a thoroughbred Saxon. He thinks With pleasure on naught save hard blows and strong drinks; In hell he will scarce go athirst if once given An inkling of any good liquors in heaven. Hugo: Our Pontiff to manhood at Englemehr grew, The priests there are many, the nuns are but few. I love not the Abbot — 'tis needless to tell My reason; but all of the Abbess speak well. Agatha: Through vineyards and cornfields beneath us, the Rhine Spreads and winds, silver-white, in the merry sunshine; And the air, overcharged with a subtle perfume, Grows faint from the essence of manifold bloom. Hugo: And the tinkling of bells, and the bleating of sheep, And the chaunt from the fields, where the labourers reap The earlier harvest, comes faint on the breeze, That whispers so faintly in hedgerows and trees. Orion: And a waggon wends slow to those turrets and spires, To feed the fat monks and the corpulent friars; It carries the corn, and the oil, and the wine, The honey and milk from the shores of the Rhine. The oxen are weary and spent with their load, They pause, but the driver doth recklessly goad; Up yon steep, flinty rise they have staggered and reeled, Even devils may pity dumb beasts of the field. 57 Agatha (sings): Oh! days and years departed, Vain hopes, vain fears that smarted, I turn to you sad-hearted — I turn to you in tears! Your daily sun shone brightly, Your happy dreams came nightly, Flowers bloomed and birds sang lightly, Through all your hopes and fears! You halted not, nor tarried, Your hopes have all miscarried, And even your fears are buried, Since fear with hope must die. You halted not, but hasted, And flew past, childhood wasted, And girlhood scarcely tasted, Now womanhood is nigh. Yet I forgive your wronging, Dead seasons round me thronging, With yearning and with longing, I call your bitters sweet. Vain longing, and vain yearning, There now is no returning; Oh! beating heart and burning, Forget to burn and beat! Oh! childish suns and showers, Oh! girlish thorns and flowers, Oh! fruitless days and hours, Oh! groundless hopes and fears: The birds still chirp and twitter, And still the sunbeams glitter: Oh! barren years and bitter, Oh! bitter, barren years! SCENE — The Summit of a Burning Mountain. Night. A terrific storm. ORION (undisguised). 58 Orion (sings): From fathomless depths of abysses, Where fires unquenchable burst, From the blackness of darkness, where hisses The brood of the serpent accurs'd; From shrines where the hymns are the weeping And wailing and gnashing of teeth, Where the palm is the pang never sleeping, Where the worm never dying is the wreath; Where all fruits save wickedness wither, Whence naught save despair can be gleaned — Come hither! come hither! come hither! Fall'n angel, fell sprite, and foul fiend. Come hither! the bands are all broken, And loosed in hell's innermost womb, When the spell unpronounceable spoken Divides the unspeakable gloom. Evil Spirits approach. The storm increases. Evil Spirits (singing): We hear thee, we seek thee, on pinions That darken the shades of the shade; Oh! Prince of the Air, with dominions Encompass'd, with powers array'd, With majesty cloth'd as a garment, Begirt with a shadowy shine, Whose feet scorch the hill-tops that are meant As footstools for thee and for thine. Orion (sings): How it swells through each pause of the thunder, And mounts through each lull of the gust, Through the crashing of crags torn asunder, And the hurtling of trees in the dust; With a chorus of loud lamentations, With its dreary and hopeless refrain! 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations, That suffer and shudder in vain. 59 Evil Spirits (singing): 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations; Our song shall chime in with their strain; Lost spirits blend their wild exultations With the sighing of mortals in pain. Orion (sings): With just light enough to see sorrows In this world, and terrors beyond, 'Twixt the day's bitter pangs and the morrow's Dread doubts, to despair and despond, Man lingers through toils unavailing For blessings that baffle his grasp; To his cradle he comes with a wailing, He goes to his grave with a gasp. Evil Spirits (singing): His birth is a weeping and wailing, His death is a groan and a gasp; O'er the seed of the woman prevailing, Thus triumphs the seed of the asp. SCENE — Chamber of a Wayside Inn. HUGO sitting alone. Evening. Hugo: And now the parting is over, The parting should end the pain; And the restless heart may recover, And so may the troubled brain. I am sitting within the chamber Whose windows look on the porch, Where the roses cluster and clamber; We halted here on our march With her to the convent going, And now I go back alone: Ye roses, budding and blowing, Ye heed not though she is flown. 60 I remember the girlish gesture, The sportive and childlike grace, With which she crumpled and pressed your Rose leaves to her rose-hued face. Shall I think on her ways hereafter — On those flashes of mirth and grief, On that April of tears and laughter, On our parting, bitterly brief? I remember the bell at sunrise, That sounded so solemnly, Bidding monk, and prelate, and nun rise; I rose ere the sun was high. Down the long, dark, dismal passage, To the door of her resting-place I went, on a farewell message, I trod with a stealthy pace. There was no one there to see us When she opened her chamber door. "Miserere, mei Deus", Rang faint from the convent choir. I remember the dark and narrow And scantily-furnished room; And the gleam, like a golden arrow — The gleam that lighted the gloom. One couch, one seat, and one table, One window, and only one — It stands in the eastern gable, It faces the rising sun; One ray shot through it, and one light On doorway and threshold played. She stood within in the sunlight, I stood without in the shade. I remember that bright form under The sheen of that slanting ray. I spoke — "For life we must sunder, Let us sunder without delay. Let us sever without preamble, As brother and sister part, For the sake of one pleasant ramble, 61 That will live in at least one heart." Still the choir in my ears rang faintly, In the distance dying away, Sweetly and sadly and saintly, Through arch and corridor grey! And thus we parted for ever, Between the shade and the shine; Not as brother and sister sever — I fondled her hands in mine. Still the choir in my ears rang deaden'd And dull'd, though audible yet; And she redden'd, and paled, and redden'd — Her lashes and lids grew wet. Not as brother severs from sister, My lips clung fast to her lips; She shivered and shrank when I kissed her. On the sunbeam drooped the eclipse. I remember little of the parting With the Abbot, down by the gate, My men were eager for starting; I think he pressed me to wait. From the lands where convent and glebe lie, From manors, and Church's right, Where I fought temptation so feebly, I, too, felt eager for flight. Alas! the parting is over — The parting, but not the pain — Oh! sweet was the purple clover, And sweet was the yellow grain; And sweet were the woody hollows On the summery Rhineward track; But a winter untimely swallows All sweets as I travel back. Yet I feel assured, in some fashion, Ere the hedges are crisp with rime, I shall conquer this senseless passion, 'Twill yield to toil and to time. I will fetter these fancies roaming; Already the sun has dipped; 62 I will trim the lamps in the gloaming, I will finish my manuscript. Through the nightwatch unflagging study Shall banish regrets perforce; As soon as the east is ruddy Our bugle shall sound "To Horse!" SCENE — Another Wayside House, Near the Norman Frontier. HUGO and ORION in a chamber. Evening. Orion: Your eyes are hollow, your step is slow, And your cheek is pallid as though from toil, Watching or fasting, by which I know That you have been burning the midnight oil. Hugo: Aye, three nights running. Orion: 'Twill never do To travel all day, and study all night; Will you join in a gallop through mist and dew, In a flight that may vie with the eagle's flight? Hugo: With all my heart. Shall we saddle "Rollo"? Orion: Nay, leave him undisturb'd in his stall; I have steeds he would hardly care to follow. Hugo: Follow, forsooth! he can lead them all. Orion: Touching his merits we will not quarrel; But let me mount you for once; enough Of work may await your favourite sorrel, And the paths we must traverse to-night are rough. 63 But first let me mix you a beverage, To invigorate your enfeebled frame. [He mixes a draught and hands it to Hugo.] All human ills this draught can assuage. Hugo: It hisses and glows like liquid flame; Say, what quack nostrum is this thou'st brewed? Speak out; I am learned in the chemist's lore. Orion: There is nothing but what will do you good; And the drugs are simples; 'tis hellebore, Nepenthe, upas, and dragon's blood, Absinthe, and mandrake, and mandragore. Hugo: I will drink it, although, by mass and rood, I am just as wise as I was before. SCENE — A Rough, Hilly Country. HUGO and ORION riding at speed on black horses. Mountains in the distance. Night. Hugo: See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes make A fiery track that gleams in our wake; Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots, Our horses fly. Orion: They are useful brutes, Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit'ning The crest and rein of my courser "Lightning"; He pulls to-night, being short of work, And takes his head with a sudden jerk; Still heel and steady hand on the bit, For that is "Tempest" on which you sit. Hugo: 64 'Tis the bravest steed that ever I back'd; Did'st mark how he crossed yon cataract? From hoof to hoof I should like to measure The space he clear'd. Orion: He can clear at leisure A greater distance. Observe the chasm We are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasm As we flew over it? Hugo: Not at all. Orion: Nathless 'twas an ugly place for a fall. Hugo: Let us try a race to yon mountain high, That rears its dusky peak 'gainst the sky. Orion: I won't disparage your horsemanship, But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip, And is hasty and hard to steer at times. We must travel far ere the midnight chimes; We must travel back ere the east is grey. Ho! "Lightning"! "Tempest"! Away! Away! [They ride on faster.] SCENE — A Peak in a Mountainous Country Overhanging a Rocky Pass. HUGO and ORION on black horses. Midnight. Hugo: These steeds are sprung from no common race, Their vigour seems to annihilate space; What hast thou brought me here to see? Orion: No boisterous scene of unhallow'd glee, No sabbat of witches coarse and rude, 65 But a mystic and musical interlude; You have long'd to explore the scrolls of Fate, Dismount, as I do, and listen and wait. [They dismount.] Orion (chanting): Spirits of earth, and air, and sea, Spirits unclean, and spirits untrue, By the symbols three that shall nameless be, One of your masters calls on you. Spirits (chanting in the distance): From the bowels of earth, where gleams the gold; From the air where the powers of darkness hold Their court; from the white sea-foam, Whence the white rose-tinted goddess sprung, Whom poets of every age have sung, Ever we come! we come! Hugo: How close to our ears the thunder peals! How the earth beneath us shudders and reels! A Voice (chanting): Woe to the earth! Where men give death! And women give birth! To the sons of Adam, by Cain or Seth! Plenty and dearth! To the daughters of Eve, who toil and spin, Barren of worth! Let them sigh, and sicken, and suffer sin! Woe to the earth! Hugo: What is yon phantom large and dim That over the mountain seems to swim? Orion: 'Tis the scarlet woman of Babylon! Hugo: Whence does she come? Where has she gone? 66 And who is she? Orion: You would know too much; These are subjects on which I dare not touch; And if I were to try and enlighten you, I should probably fail, and possibly frighten you. You had better ask some learned divine, Whose opinion is p'rhaps worth as much as mine, In his own conceit; and who, besides, Could tell you the brand of the beast she rides. What can you see in the valley yonder? Speak out; I can hear you, for all the thunder. Hugo: I see four shadowy altars rise, They seem to swell and dilate in size; Larger and clearer now they loom, Now fires are lighting them through the gloom. A Voice (chanting): The first a golden-hued fire shows, A blood-red flame on the second glows, The blaze on the third is tinged like the rose, From the fourth a column of black smoke goes. Orion: Can you see all this? Hugo: I see and hear; The lights and hues are vivid and clear. Spirits (sing at the first altar): Hail, Mammon! while man buys and barters, Thy kingdom in this world is sure; Thy prophets thou hast and thy martyrs, Great things in thy name they endure; Thy fetters of gold crush the miser, The usurer bends at thy shrine, And the wealthier nations and the wiser Bow with us at this altar of thine. Spirits (sing at the second altar): 67 Hail, Moloch! whose banner floats blood-red, From pole to equator unfurl'd, Whose laws redly written have stood red, And shall stand while standeth this world; Clad in purple, with thy diadem gory, Thy sceptre the blood-dripping steel, Thy subjects with us give thee glory, With us at thine altar they kneel. Spirits (sing at the third altar): Hail, Sovereign! whose fires are kindled By sparks from the bottomless pit, Has thy worship diminish'd or dwindled? Do the yokes of thy slaves lightly sit? Nay, the men of all climes and all races Are stirr'd by the flames that now stir us; Then (as we do) they fall on their faces, Crying, "Hear us! Oh! Ashtaroth, hear us!" Spirits (all in chorus): The vulture her carrion swallows, Returns to his vomit the dog. In the slough of uncleanliness wallows The he-goat, and revels the hog. Men are wise with their schools and their teachers, Men are just with their creeds and their priests; Yet, in spite of their pedants and preachers, They backslide in footprints of beasts! Hugo: From the smoky altar there seems to come A stifled murmur, a droning hum. Orion: With that we have nothing at all to do, Or, at least, not now, neither I nor you; Though some day or other, possibly We may see it closer, both you and I; Let us visit the nearest altar first, Whence the yellow fires flicker and burst, Like the flames from molten ore that spring; We may stand in the pale of the outer ring, 68 But forbear to trespass within the inner, Lest the sins of the past should find out the sinner. [They approach the first altar, and stand within the outer circle which surrounds it, and near the inner.] Spirits (sing): Beneath us it flashes, The glittering gold, Though it turneth to ashes And dross in the hold; Yet man will endeavour, By fraud or by strife, To grasp it and never To yield it with life. Orion: What can you see? Hugo: Some decrepit shapes, That are neither dwarfs, nor demons, nor apes; In the hollow earth they appear to store And rake together great heaps of ore. Orion: These are the gnomes, coarse sprites and rough; Come on, of these we have seen enough. [They approach second altar and stand as before.] Spirits (singing): Above us it flashes, The glittering steel, Though the red blood splashes Where its victims reel; Yet man will endeavour To grapple the hilt, And to wield the blade ever Till his life be spilt. Orion: What see you now? Hugo: A rocky glen, 69 A horrid jumble of fighting men, And a face that somewhere I've seen before. Orion: Come on; there is naught worth seeing more, Except the altar of Ashtaroth. Hugo: To visit that altar I am loth. Orion: Why so? Hugo: Nay, I cannot fathom why, But I feel no curiosity. Orion: Come on. Stand close to the inner ring, And hear how sweetly these spirits sing. [They approach third altar.] Spirits (sing): Around us it flashes, The cestus of one Born of white foam, that dashes Beneath the white sun; Let the mortal take heart, he Has nothing to dare; She is fair, Queen Astarte, Her subjects are fair! Orion: What see you now, friend? Hugo: Wood and wold, And forms that look like the nymphs of old. There is nothing here worth looking at twice. I have seen enough. Orion: You are far too nice; Nevertheless, you must look again. Those forms will fade. 70 Hugo: They are growing less plain. They vanish. I see a door that seems To open; a ray of sunlight gleams From a window behind; a vision as fair As the flush of dawn is standing there. [He gazes earnestly.] Orion (sings): Higher and hotter the white flames glow, And the adamant may be thaw'd like snow, And the life for a single chance may go, And the soul for a certainty. Oh! vain and shallow philosopher, Dost feel them quicken, dost feel them stir, The thoughts that have stray'd again to HER From whom thou hast sought to fly? Lo! the furnace is heated till sevenfold; Is thy brain still calm? Is thy blood still cold To the curls that wander in ripples of gold, On the shoulders of ivory? Do the large, dark eyes, and the small, red mouth, Consume thine heart with a fiery drouth, Like the fierce sirocco that sweeps from the south, When the deserts are parch'd and dry? Aye, start and shiver and catch thy breath, The sting is certain, the venom is death, And the scales are flashing the fruit beneath, And the fang striketh suddenly. At the core the ashes are bitter and dead, But the rind is fair and the rind is red, It has ever been pluck'd since the serpent said, Thou shalt NOT SURELY die. [Hugo tries to enter the inner ring; Orion holds him back; they struggle.] Hugo: Unhand me, slave! or quail to the rod! Agatha! Speak! in the name of God! 71 [The vision disappears; the altars vanish. Hugo falls insensible.] SCENE — The Wayside House. HUGO waking in his chamber. ORION unseen at first. Morning. Hugo: Vanish, fair and fatal vision! Fleeting shade of fever'd sleep, Chiding one whose indecision Waking substance failed to keep; Picture into life half starting, As in life once seen before, Parting somewhat sadly, parting Slowly at the chamber door. Were my waking senses duller? Have I seen with mental eye Light and shade, and warmth and colour, Plainer than reality? Sunlight that on tangled tresses Every ripple gilds and tips; Balm and bloom, and breath of kisses, Warm on dewy, scarlet lips. Dark eyes veiling half their splendour 'Neath their lashes' darker fringe, Dusky, dreamy, deep and tender, Passing smile and passing tinge; Dimpling fast and flushing faster, Ivory chin and coral cheek, Pearly strings, by alabaster Neck and arms made faint and weak; Drooping, downcast lids enduring Gaze of man unwillingly; Sudden, sidelong gleams alluring, Partly arch and partly shy. 72 Do I bless or curse that beauty? Am I longing, am I loth? Is it passion, is it duty That I strive with, one or both? Round about one fiery centre Wayward thoughts like moths revolve. [He sees Orion.] Ha! Orion, thou didst enter Unperceived. I pray thee solve These two questions: Firstly, tell me, Must I strive for wrong or right? Secondly, what things befell me — Facts, or phantasies — last night? Orion: First, your strife is all a sham, you Know as well as I which wins; Second, waking sins will damn you, Never mind your sleeping sins; Both your questions thus I answer; Listen, ere you seek or shun: I at least am no romancer, What you long for may be won. Turn again and travel Rhineward, Tread once more the flowery path. Hugo: Aye, the flowery path that, sinward Pointing, ends in sin and wrath. Orion: Songs by love-birds lightly caroll'd, Even the just man may allure. Hugo: To his shame; in this wise Harold Sinn'd, his punishment was sure. Orion: Nay, the Dane was worse than you are, Base and pitiless to boot; 73 Doubtless all are bad, yet few are Cruel, false, and dissolute. Hugo: Some sins foreign to our nature Seem; we take no credit when We escape them. Orion: Yet the creature, Sin-created, lives to sin. Hugo: Be it so; come good, come evil, Ride we to the Rhine again! Orion (aside): 'Gainst the logic of the devil Human logic strives in vain. SCENE — A Camp Near the Black Forest. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, DAGOBERT, and followers. ORION disguised as one of the Free-lances. Mid-day. Osric: Now, by axe of Odin, and hammer of Thor, And by all the gods of the Viking's war, I swear we have quitted our homes in vain: We have nothing to look to, glory nor gain. Will our galley return to Norway's shore With heavier gold, or with costlier store? Will our exploits furnish the scald with a song? We have travell'd too far, we have tarried too long. Say, captains all, is there ever a village For miles around that is worth the pillage? Will it pay the costs of my men or yours To harry the homesteads of German boors? Have we cause for pride in our feats of arms When we plunder the peasants or sack the farms? I tell thee, Rudolph of Rothenstein, 74 That were thy soldiers willing as mine, And I sole leader of this array, I would give Prince Otto battle this day. Dost thou call thy followers men of war? Oh, Dagobert! thou whose ancestor On the neck of the Caesar's offspring trod, Who was justly surnamed "The Scourge of God". Yet in flight lies safety. Skirmish and run To forest and fastness, Teuton and Hun, From the banks of the Rhine to the Danube's shore, And back to the banks of the Rhine once more; Retreat from the face of an armed foe, Robbing garden and hen-roost where'er you go. Let the short alliance betwixt us cease, I and my Norsemen will go in peace! I wot it never will suit with us, Such existence, tame and inglorious; I could live no worse, living single-handed, And better with half my men disbanded. Rudolph: Jarl Osric, what would'st thou have me do? 'Gainst Otto's army our men count few; With one chance of victory, fight, say I! But not when defeat is a certainty. If Rudiger joins us with his free-lances, Our chance will be equal to many chances; For Rudiger is both prompt and wary; And his men are gallant though mercenary; But the knave refuses to send a lance Till half the money is paid in advance. Dagobert: May his avarice wither him like a curse! I guess he has heard of our late reverse; But, Rudolph, whether he goes or stays, There is reason in what Jarl Osric says; Of provisions we need a fresh supply, And our butts and flasks are shallow or dry; My men are beginning to grumble sadly, 'Tis no wonder, since they must fare so badly. 75 Rudolph: We have plenty of foragers out, and still We have plenty of hungry mouths to fill; And, moreover, by some means, foul or fair, We must raise money; 'tis little I care, So long as we raise it, whence it comes. Osric: Shall we sit till nightfall biting our thumbs? The shortest plan is ever the best; Has anyone here got aught to suggest? Orion: The cornfields are golden that skirt the Rhine, Fat are the oxen, strong is the wine, In those pleasant pastures, those cellars deep, That o'erflow with the tears that those vineyards weep; Is it silver you stand in need of, or gold? Ingot or coin? There is wealth untold In the ancient convent of Englemehr; That is not so very far from here. The Abbot, esteem'd a holy man, Will hold what he has and grasp what he can; The cream of the soil he loves to skim, Why not levy a contribution on him? Dagobert: The stranger speaks well; not far away That convent lies; and one summer's day Will suffice for a horseman to reach the gate; The garrison soon would capitulate, Since the armed retainers are next to none, And the walls, I wot, may be quickly won. Rudolph: I kept those walls for two months or more, When they feared the riders of Melchior! That was little over three years ago. Their Abbot is thrifty, as well I know; He haggled sorely about the price Of our service. 76 Dagobert: Rudolph, he paid thee twice. Rudolph: Well, what of that? Since then I've tried To borrow from him; now I know he lied When he told me he could not spare the sum I asked. If we to his gates should come, He could spare it though it were doubled; and still, This war with the Church I like it ill. Osric: The creed of our fathers is well-nigh dead, And the creed of the Christian reigns in its stead But the creed of the Christian, too, may die, For your creeds or your churches what care I! If there be plunder at Englemehr, Let us strike our tents and thitherward steer. SCENE — A Farm-house on the Rhine (About a mile from the Convent). HUGO in chamber alone. Enter ERIC. Eric: What, Hugo, still at the Rhine! I thought You were home. You have travell'd by stages short. Hugo (with hesitation): Our homeward march was labour in vain, We had to retrace our steps again; It was here or hereabouts that I lost Some papers of value; at any cost I must find them; and which way lies your course? Eric: I go to recruit Prince Otto's force. I cannot study as you do; I Am wearied with inactivity; So I carry a blade engrim'd with rust (That a hand sloth-slacken'd has, I trust, Not quite forgotten the way to wield), 77 To strike once more on the tented field. Hugo: Fighting is all a mistake, friend Eric, And has been so since the age Homeric, When Greece was shaken and Troy undone, Ten thousand lives for a worthless one. Yet I blame you not; you might well do worse; Better fight and perish than live to curse The day you were born; and such has been The lot of many, and shall, I ween, Be the lot of more. If Thurston chooses He may go with you. The blockhead abuses Me and the life I lead. Enter ORION. Orion: Great news! The Englemehr monks will shake in their shoes; In the soles of their callous feet will shake The barefooted friars. The nuns will quake. Hugo: Wherefore? Orion: The outlaw of Rothenstein Has come with his soldiers to the Rhine, Back'd by those hardy adventurers From the northern forests of pines and firs, And Dagobert's horse. They march as straight As the eagle swoops to the convent gate. Hugo: We must do something to save the place. Orion: They are sure to take it in any case, Unless the sum that they ask is paid. Eric: Some effort on our part must be made. Hugo: 78 'Tis not so much for the monks I care. Eric: Nor I; but the Abbess and nuns are there. Orion: 'Tis not our business; what can we do? They are too many, and we are too few; And yet, I suppose, you will save, if you can, That lady, your ward, or your kinswoman. Hugo: She is no kinswoman of mine; How far is Otto's camp from the Rhine? Orion: Too far for help in such time of need To be brought, though you used your utmost speed. Eric: Nay, that I doubt. Hugo: And how many men Have they? Orion: To your one they could muster ten. Eric: I know Count Rudolph, and terms may be made With him, I fancy; for though his trade Is a rough one now, gainsay it who can, He was once a knight and a gentleman. And Dagobert, the chief of the Huns, Bad as he is, will spare the nuns; Though neither he nor the Count could check Those lawless men, should they storm and sack The convent. Jarl Osric, too, I know; He is rather a formidable foe, And will likely enough be troublesome; But the others, I trust, to terms will come. Hugo: 79 Eric, how many men have you? I can count a score. Eric: I have only two. Hugo: At every hazard we must try to save The nuns. Eric: Count Rudolph shall think we have A force that almost equals his own, If I can confer with him alone. Orion: He is close at hand; by this time he waits The Abbot's reply at the convent gates. Hugo: We had better send him a herald. Eric: Nay, I will go myself. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: Orion, stay! So this is the reed on which I've leaned, These are the hopes thou hast fostered, these The flames thou hast fanned. Oh, lying fiend! Is it thus thou dost keep thy promises? Orion: Strong language, Hugo, and most unjust; You will cry out before you are hurt — You will live to recall your words, I trust. Fear nothing from Osric or Dagobert, These are your friends, if you only knew it, And would take the advice of a friend sincere; Neglect his counsels and you must rue it, For I know by a sign the crisis is near. Accept the terms of these outlaws all, And be thankful that things have fallen out Exactly as you would have had them fall — You may save the one that you care about; 80 Otherwise, how did you hope to gain Access to her — on what pretence? What were the schemes that worried your brain To tempt her there or to lure her thence? You must have bungled, and raised a scandal About your ears, that might well have shamed The rudest Hun, the veriest Vandal, Long or ever the bird was tamed. Hugo: The convent is scarce surrounded yet, We might reach and hold it against their force Till another sun has risen and set; And should I despatch my fleetest horse To Otto —— Orion: For Abbot, or Monk, or Friar, Between ourselves, 'tis little you care If their halls are harried by steel and fire: Their avarice left your heritage bare. Forsake them! Mitres, and cowls, and hoods Will cover vices while earth endures; Through the green and gold of the summer woods Ride out with that pretty bird of yours. If again you fail to improve your chance, Why, then, my friend, I can only say You are duller far than the dullest lance That rides in Dagobert's troop this day. "Faemina semper", frown not thus, The girl was always giddy and wild, Vain, and foolish, and frivolous, Since she fled from her father's halls, a child. I sought to initiate you once In the mystic lore of the old Chaldean; But I found you far too stubborn a dunce, And your tastes are coarser and more plebeian. Yet mark my words, for I read the stars, And trace the future in yonder sky; To the right are wars and rumours of wars, To the left are peace and prosperity. Fear naught. The world shall never detect The cloven hoof, so carefully hid 81 By the scholar so staid and circumspect, So wise for once to do as he's bid. Remember what pangs come year by year For opportunity that has fled; And Thora in ignorance. Hugo: Name not her! I am sorely tempted to strike thee dead! Orion: Nay, I hardly think you will take my life, The angel Michael was once my foe; He had a little the best of our strife, Yet he never could deal so stark a blow. SCENE — A Chamber in the Nuns' Apartments of the Convent. AGATHA and URSULA. Agatha: My sire in my childhood pledged my hand To Hugo — I know not why — They were comrades then, 'neath the Duke's command, In the wars of Lombardy. I thought, ere my summers had turned sixteen, That mine was a grievous case; Save once, for an hour, I had never seen My intended bridegroom's face; And maidens vows of their own will plight. Unknown to my kinsfolk all My love was vowed to a Danish knight, A guest in my father's hall. His foot fell lightest in merry dance, His shaft never missed the deer; He could fly a hawk, he could wield a lance, Our wildest colt he could steer. His deep voice ringing through hall or glen Had never its match in song; And little was known of his past life then, Or of Dorothea's wrong. 82 I loved him — Lady Abbess, I know That my love was foolish now; I was but a child five years ago, And thoughtless as bird on bough. One evening Hugo the Norman came, And, to shorten a weary tale, I fled that night (let me bear the blame) With Harold by down and dale. He had mounted me on a dappled steed, And another of coal-black hue He rode himself; and away at speed We fled through mist and dew. Of miles we had ridden some half a score, We had halted beside a spring, When the breeze to our ears through the still night bore A distant trample and ring; We listen'd one breathing space, and caught The clatter of mounted men, With vigour renewed by their respite short Our horses dash'd through the glen. Another league, and we listen'd in vain; The breeze to our ears came mute; But we heard them again on the spacious plain, Faint tidings of hot pursuit. In the misty light of a moon half hid By the dark or fleecy rack, Our shadows over the moorland slid, Still listening and looking back. So we fled (with a cheering word to say At times as we hurried on), From sounds that at intervals died away, And at intervals came anon. Another league, and my lips grew dumb, And I felt my spirit quailing, For closer those sounds began to come, And the speed of my horse was failing. "The grey is weary and lame to boot," Quoth Harold; "the black is strong, And their steeds are blown with their fierce pursuit, What wonder! our start was long. Now, lady, behind me mount the black, 83 The double load he can bear; We are safe when we reach the forest track, Fresh horses and friends wait there." Then I sat behind him and held his waist, And faster we seemed to go By moss and moor; but for all our haste Came the tramp of the nearing foe. A dyke through the mist before us hover'd, And, quicken'd by voice and heel, The black overleap'd it, stagger'd, recover'd; Still nearer that muffled peal. And louder on sward the hoof-strokes grew, And duller, though not less nigh, On deader sand; and a dark speck drew On my vision suddenly, And a single horseman in fleet career, Like a shadow appear'd to glide To within six lances' lengths of our rear, And there for a space to bide. Quoth Harold, "Speak, has the moon reveal'd His face?" I replied, "Not so! Yet 'tis none of my kinsfolk." Then he wheel'd In the saddle and scanned the foe, And mutter'd, still gazing in our wake, "'Tis he; now I will not fight The brother again, for the sister's sake, While I can escape by flight." "Who, Harold?" I asked; but he never spoke. By the cry of the bittern harsh, And the bull-frog's dull, discordant croak, I guess'd that we near'd the marsh; And the moonbeam flash'd on watery sedge As it broke from a strip of cloud, Ragged and jagged about the edge, And shaped like a dead man's shroud. And flagg'd and falter'd our gallant steed, 'Neath the weight of his double burden, As we splash'd through water and crash'd through reed; Then the soil began to harden, And again we gain'd, or we seem'd to gain, With our foe in the deep morass; But those fleet hoofs thunder'd, and gain'd again, 84 When they trampled the firmer grass, And I cried, and Harold again look'd back, And bade me fasten mine eyes on The forest, that loom'd like a patch of black Standing out from the faint horizon. "Courage, sweetheart! we are saved," he said; "With the moorland our danger ends, And close to the borders of yonder glade They tarry, our trusty friends." Where the mossy uplands rise and dip On the edge of the leafy dell, With a lurch, like the lurch of a sinking ship, The black horse toppled and fell. Unharm'd we lit on the velvet sward, And even as I lit I lay, But Harold uprose, unsheath'd his sword, And toss'd the scabbard away. And spake through his teeth, "Good brother-in-law, Forbearance, at last, is spent; The strife that thy soul hath lusted for Thou shalt have to thy soul's content!" While he spoke, our pursuer past us swept, Ere he rein'd his war-horse proud, To his haunches flung, then to the earth he leapt, And my lover's voice rang loud: "Thrice welcome! Hugo of Normandy, Thou hast come at our time of need, This lady will thank thee, and so will I, For the loan of thy sorrel steed!" And never a word Lord Hugo said, They clos'd 'twixt the wood and the wold, And the white steel flickered over my head In the moonlight calm and cold; 'Mid the feathery grasses crouching low, With face bow'd down to the dust, I heard the clash of each warded blow, The click of each parried thrust, And the shuffling feet that bruis'd the lawn, As they traversed here and there, And the breath through the clench'd teeth heavily drawn When breath there was none to spare; 85 Sharp ringing sword play, dull, trampling heel, Short pause, spent force to regain, Quick muffled footfall, harsh grating steel, Sharp ringing rally again; They seem'd long hours, those moments fleet, As I counted them one by one, Till a dead weight toppled across my feet, And I knew that the strife was done. When I looked up, after a little space, As though from a fearful dream, The moon was flinging on Harold's face A white and a weird-like gleam; And I felt mine ankles moist and warm With the blood that trickled slow From a spot on the doublet beneath his arm, From a ghastly gash on his brow; I heard the tread of the sorrel's hoof As he bore his lord away; They passed me slowly, keeping aloof, Like spectres, misty and grey. I thought Lord Hugo had left me there To die, but it was not so; Yet then for death I had little care, My soul seem'd numb'd by the blow; A faintness follow'd, a sickly swoon, A long and a dreamless sleep, And I woke to the light of a sultry noon In my father's castled keep. And thus, Lady Abbess, it came to pass That my father vow'd his vow; Must his daughter espouse the Church? Alas! Is she better or wiser now? For some are feeble and others strong, And feeble am I and frail. Mother! 'tis not that I love the wrong, 'Tis not that I loathe the veil, But with heart still ready to go astray, If assail'd by a fresh temptation, I could sin again as I sinned that day, For a girl's infatuation. 86 See! Harold, the Dane, thou say'st is dead, Yet I weep NOT BITTERLY; As I fled with the Dane, so I might have fled With Hugo of Normandy. Ursula: My child, I advise no hasty vows, Yet I pray that in life's brief span Thou may'st learn that our Church is a fairer spouse Than fickle and erring man; Though fenced for a time by the Church's pale, When that time expires thou'rt free; And we cannot force thee to take the veil, Nay, we scarce can counsel thee. Enter the ABBOT hastily. Basil (the Abbot): I am sorely stricken with shame and grief, It has come by the self-same sign, A summons brief from the outlaw'd chief, Count Rudolph of Rothenstein. Lady Abbess, ere worse things come to pass, I would speak with thee alone; Alack and alas! for by the rood and mass I fear we are all undone. SCENE — A Farm-house Near the Convent. A Chamber furnished with writing materials. HUGO, ERIC, and THURSTON on one side; on the other OSRIC, RUDOLPH, and DAGOBERT. Osric: We have granted too much, ye ask for more; I am not skill'd in your clerkly lore, I scorn your logic; I had rather die Than live like Hugo of Normandy: I am a Norseman, frank and plain; Ye must read the parchment over again. 87 Eric: Jarl Osric, twice we have read this scroll. Osric: Thou hast read a part. Eric: I have read the whole. Osric: Aye, since I attached my signature! Eric: Before and since! Rudolph: Nay, of this be sure, Thou hast signed; in fairness now let it rest. Osric: I had rather have sign'd upon Hugo's crest; He has argued the question mouth to mouth With the wordy lore of the subtle south; Let him or any one of his band Come and argue the question hand to hand. With the aid of my battle-axe I will show That a score of words are not worth one blow. Thurston: To the devil with thee and thy battle-axe; I would send the pair of ye back in your tracks, With an answer that even to thy boorish brain Would scarce need repetition again. Osric: Thou Saxon slave to a milksop knight, I will give thy body to raven and kite. Thurston: Thou liest; I am a freeborn man, And thy huge carcase — in cubit and span Like the giant's of Gath — 'neath Saxon steel, Shall furnish the kites with a fatter meal. 88 Osric: Now, by Odin! Rudolph: Jarl Osric, curb thy wrath; Our names are sign'd, our words have gone forth. Hugo: I blame thee, Thurston. Thurston: And I, too, blame Myself, since I follow a knight so tame! [Thurston goes out.] Osric: The Saxon hound, he said I lied! Rudolph: I pray thee, good Viking, be pacified. Osric: Why do we grant the terms they ask? To crush them all were an easy task. Dagobert: That know'st thou not; if it come to war, They are stronger, perhaps, than we bargain for. Eric: Jarl Osric, thou may'st recall thy words — Should we meet again. Osric: Should we meet with swords, Thou, too, may'st recall them to thy sorrow. Hugo: Eric! we dally. Sir Count, good-morrow. SCENE — The Guest Chamber of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. 89 Eric: Hugo, their siege we might have tried; This place would be easier fortified Than I thought at first; it is now too late, They have cut off our access to the gate. Hugo: I have weigh'd the chances and counted the cost, And I know by the stars that all is lost If we take up this quarrel. Eric: So let it be! I yield to one who is wiser than me. (Aside.) Nevertheless, I have seen the day When the stars would scarcely have bade us stay. Enter the ABBOT, CYRIL, and other Monks. Hugo: Lord Abbot, we greet thee. Good fathers all, We bring you greeting. Orion (aside): And comfort small. Abbot: God's benediction on you, my sons. Hugo: May He save you, too, from Norsemen and Huns! Since the gates are beleaguer'd and walls begirt By the forces of Osric and Dagobert; 'Tis a heavy price that the knaves demand. Abbot: Were we to mortgage the Church's land We never could raise what they would extort. Orion (aside): The price is too long and the notice too short. Eric: 90 And you know the stern alternative. Abbot: If we die we die, if we live we live; God's will be done; and our trust is sure In Him, though His chast'nings we endure. Two messengers rode from here last night, To Otto they carry news of our plight; On my swiftest horses I saw them go. Orion (aside): Then his swiftest horses are wondrous slow. Eric: One of these is captive and badly hurt; By the reckless riders of Dagobert He was overtaken and well-nigh slain, Not a league from here on the open plain. Abbot: But the other escap'd. Eric: It may be so; We had no word of him, but we know That unless you can keep these walls for a day At least, the Prince is too far away To afford relief. Abbot: Then a hopeless case Is ours, and with death we are face to face. Eric: You have arm'd retainers. Cyril (a Monk): Aye, some half score; And some few of the brethren, less or more, Have in youth the brunt of the battle bided, Yet our armoury is but ill provided. Hugo: We have terms of truce from the robbers in chief, Though the terms are partial, the truce but brief; 91 To Abbess, to nuns, and novices all, And to every woman within your wall, We can offer escort, and they shall ride From hence in safety whate'er betide. Abbot: What escort, Hugo, canst thou afford? Hugo: Some score of riders who call me lord Bide at the farm not a mile from here, Till we rejoin them they will not stir; My page and armourer wait below, And all our movements are watch'd by the foe. Strict stipulation was made, of course, That, except ourselves, neither man nor horse Should enter your gates — they were keen to shun The chance of increasing your garrison. Eric: I hold safe conduct here in my hand, Signed by the chiefs of that lawless band; See Rudolph's name, no disgrace to a clerk, And Dagobert's scrawl, and Osric's mark; Jarl signed sorely against his will, With a scratch like the print of a raven's bill; But the foe have muster'd in sight of the gate. For another hour they will scarcely wait; Bid Abbess and dame prepare with haste. Hugo: Lord Abbot, I tell thee candidly There is no great love between thou and I, As well thou know'st; but, nevertheless, I would we were more, or thy foes were less. Abbot: I will summon the Lady Abbess straight. [The Abbot and Monks go out.] Eric: 'Tis hard to leave these men to their fate, 92 Norsemen and Hun will never relent; Their day of grace upon earth is spent. [Hugo goes out, followed by Orion.] SCENE — The Corridor Outside the Guest Chamber. HUGO pacing up and down. ORION leaning against the wall. Hugo: My day of grace with theirs is past. I might have saved them; 'tis too late — Too late for both. The die is cast, And I resign me to my fate. God's vengeance I await. Orion: The boundary 'twixt right and wrong Is not so easy to discern; And man is weak, and fate is strong, And destiny man's hopes will spurn, Man's schemes will overturn. Hugo: Thou liest, thou fiend! Not unawares The sinner swallows Satan's bait, Nor pits conceal'd nor hidden snares Seeks blindly; wherefore dost thou prate Of destiny and fate? Orion: Who first named fate? But never mind, Let that pass by — to Adam's fall And Adam's curse look back, and find Iniquity the lot of all, And sin original. Hugo: But I have sinn'd, repented, sinn'd, Till seven times that sin may be By seventy multiplied; the wind 93 Is constant when compared with me, And stable is the sea! My hopes are sacrificed, for what? For days of folly, less or more, For years to see those dead hopes rot, Like dead weeds scatter'd on the shore, Beyond the surfs that roar! Orion: The wiles of Eve are swift to smite; Aye, swift to smite and not to spare — Red lips and round limbs sweet and white, Dark eyes and sunny, silken hair, Thy betters may ensnare. Hugo: Not so; the strife 'twixt hell and heaven I felt last night, and well I knew The crisis; but my aid was given To hell. Thou'st known the crisis too, For once thou'st spoken true. Having foretold it, there remains For grace no time, for hope no room; Even now I seem to feel the pains Of hell, that wait beyond the gloom Of my dishonour'd tomb. Thou who hast lived and died to save, Us sinners, Christ of Galilee! Thy great love pardon'd and forgave The dying thief upon the tree, Thou canst not pardon me! Dear Lord! hear Thou my latest prayer, For prayer must die since hope is dead; Thy Father's vengeance let me bear, Nor let my guilt be visited Upon a guiltless head! Ah! God is just! Full sure I am 94 He never did predestinate Our souls to hell. Ourselves we damn — [To Orion, with sudden passion] Serpent! I know thee now, too late; Curse thee! Work out thy hate! Orion: I hate thee not; thy grievous plight Would move my pity, but I bear A curse to which thy curse seems light! Thy wrong is better than my right, My day is darker than thy night; Beside the whitest hope I share How white is thy despair! SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. URSULA, AGATHA, Nuns and Novices. (Hymn of the Nuns): Jehovah! we bless Thee, All works of Thine hand Extol Thee, confess Thee; By sea and by land, By mountain and river, By forest and glen, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! The heathen are raging Against Thee, O Lord! The ungodly are waging Rash war against God! Arise, and deliver Us, sheep of Thy pen, Who praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thou Shepherd of Zion! 95 Thy firstlings didst tear From jaws of the lion, From teeth of the bear; Thy strength to deliver Is strong now as then. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thine arm hath delivered Thy servants of old, Hath scatter'd and shiver'd The spears of the bold, Hath emptied the quiver Of bloodthirsty men. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Nathless shall Thy right hand Those counsels fulfil Most wise in Thy sight, and We bow to Thy will; Thy children quail never For dungeon or den, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Though fierce tribulation Endure for a space, Yet God! our salvation! We gain by Thy grace, At end of life's fever, Bliss passing man's ken; There to praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! SCENE — The Guest Room of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. Enter URSULA, AGATHA, and Nuns. Ursula: 96 Hugo, we reject thine offers, Not that we can buy Safety from the Church's coffers, Neither can we fly. Far too great the price they seek is, Let their lawless throng Come, we wait their coming; weak is Man, but God is strong. Eric: Think again on our proposals: It will be too late When the robbers hold carousals On this side the gate. Ursula: For myself I speak and others Weak and frail as I; We will not desert our brothers In adversity. Hugo (to the Nuns): Does the Abbess thus advance her Will before ye all? A Nun: We will stay. Hugo: Is this thine answer, Agatha? The wall Is a poor protection truly, And the gates are weak, And the Norsemen most unruly. Come, then. A Nun (to Agatha): Sister, speak! Orion (aside to Hugo): Press her! She her fears dissembling, Stands irresolute; She will yield — her limbs are trembling, Though her lips are mute. 97 [A trumpet is heard without.] Eric: Hark! their savage war-horn blowing Chafes at our delay. Hugo: Agatha, we must be going. Come, girl! Agatha (clinging to Ursula): Must I stay? Ursula: Nay, my child, thou shalt not make me Judge; I cannot give Orders to a novice. Agatha: Take me, Hugo! Let me live! Eric (to Nuns): Foolish women! will ye tarry, Spite of all we say? Hugo: Must we use our strength and carry You by force away? Ursula: Bad enough thou art, Sir Norman, Yet thou wilt not do This thing. Shame! — on men make war, man, Not on women few. Eric: Heed her not — her life she barters, Of her free accord, For her faith; and, doubtless, martyrs Have their own reward. Ursula: In the Church's cause thy father 98 Never grudged his blade — Hugo, did he rue it? Orion: Rather! He was poorly paid. Hugo: Abbess, this is not my doing; I have said my say; How can I avert the ruin, Even for a day, Since they count two hundred fairly, While we count a score; And thine own retainers barely Count a dozen more? Agatha (kneeling to Ursula): Ah! forgive me, Lady Abbess, Bless me ere I go; She who under sod and slab is Lying, cold and low, Scarce would turn away in anger From a child so frail; Not dear life, but deadly danger, Makes her daughter quail. Hugo: Eric, will those faces tearful To God's judgment seat Haunt us? Eric: Death is not so fearful. Hugo: No, but life is sweet — Sweet for once, to me, though sinful. Orion (to Hugo): Earth is scant of bliss; Wisest he who takes his skinful When the chance is his. (To Ursula): Lady Abbess! stay and welcome 99 Osric's savage crew; Yet when pains of death and hell come, Thou thy choice may'st rue. Ursula (to Orion): What dost thou 'neath roof-trees sacred? Man or fiend, depart! Orion: Dame, thy tongue is sharp and acrid, Yet I bear the smart. Ursula (advancing and raising up a crucifix): I conjure thee by this symbol Leave us! [Orion goes out hastily.] Hugo: Ha! the knave, He has made an exit nimble; Abbess! thou art brave. Yet once gone, we're past recalling, Let no blame be mine. See, thy sisters' tears are falling Fast, and so are thine. Ursula: Fare you well! The teardrop splashes Vainly on the ice. Ye will sorrow o'er our ashes And your cowardice. Eric: Sorry am I, yet my sorrow Cannot alter fate; Should Prince Otto come to-morrow, He will come too late. Hugo: Nay, old comrade, she hath spoken Words we must not hear; Shall we pause for sign or token — Taunted twice with fear? 100 Yonder, hilt to hilt adjusted, Stand the swords in which we trusted Years ago. Their blades have rusted, So, perchance, have we. Ursula! thy words may shame us, Yet we once were counted famous, Morituri, salutamus, Aut victuri, te! [They go out.] SCENE — The Outskirts of Rudolph's Camp. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, and DAGOBERT. HUGO. Rudolph: Lord Hugo! thy speech is madness; Thou hast tax'd our patience too far; We offer'd thee peace — with gladness, We gladly accept thy war. Dagobert: And the clemency we extended To thee and thine we recall; And the treaty 'twixt us is ended — We are ready to storm the wall. Osric: Now tear yon parchment to tatters; Thou shalt make no further use Of our safeguard; the wind that scatters The scroll shall scatter the truce. Hugo: Jarl Osric, to save the spilling Of blood, and the waste of life, I am willing, if thou art willing, With thee to decide this strife; Let thy comrades draw their force back; I defy thee to single fight, I will meet thee on foot or horseback, And God shall defend the right. 101 Rudolph: No single combat shall settle This strife; thou art overbold — Thou hast put us all on our mettle, Now the game in our hands we hold. Dagobert: Our lances round thee have hover'd, Have seen where thy fellows bide; Thy weakness we have discover'd, Thy nakedness we have spied. Osric: And hearken, knight, to my story — When sack'd are the convent shrines, When the convent thresholds are gory, And quaff'd are the convent wines: When our beasts with pillage are laden, And the clouds of our black smoke rise From yon tower, one fair-haired maiden Is singled as Osric's prize. I will fit her with chain and collar Of red gold, studded with pearls; With bracelet of gold, Sir Scholar, The queen of my captive girls. Hugo (savagely): May the Most High God of battles The Lord and Ruler of fights, Who breaketh the shield that rattles, Who snappeth the sword that smites, In whose hands are footmen and horsemen, At whose breath they conquer or flee, Never show me His mercy, Norseman! If I show mercy to thee. Osric: What, ho! art thou drunk, Sir Norman? Has the wine made thy pale cheek red? Now, I swear by Odin and Thor, man, Already I count thee dead. 102 Rudolph: I crave thy pardon for baulking The flood of thine eloquence, But thou canst not scare us with talking, I therefore pray thee go hence. Osric: Though I may not take up thy gauntlet, Should we meet where the steel strikes fire, 'Twixt thy casque and thy charger's frontlet The choice will perplex thy squire. Hugo: When the Norman rowels are goading, When glitters the Norman glaive, Thou shalt call upon Thor and Odin: They shall not hear thee nor save. "Should we meet!" Aye, the chance may fall so, In the furious battle drive, So may God deal with me — more, also! If we separate, both alive! SCENE — The Court-yard of the Old Farm. EUSTACE and other followers of HUGO and ERIC lounging about. Enter THURSTON hastily, with swords under his arm. Thurston: Now saddle your horses and girth them tight, And see that your weapons are sharp and bright. Come, lads, get ready as fast as you can. Eustace: Why, what's this bustle about, old man? Thurston: Well, it seems Lord Hugo has changed his mind, As the weathercock veers with the shifting wind; He has gone in person to Osric's camp, 103 To tell him to pack up his tents and tramp! But I guess he won't. Eustace: Then I hope he will, They are plenty to eat us, as well as to kill. Ralph: And I hope he won't — I begin to feel A longing to moisten my thirsty steel. [They begin to saddle and make preparations for a skirmish.] Thurston: I've a couple of blades to look to here. In their scabbards I scarcely could make them stir At first, but I'll sharpen them both ere long. A Man-at-arms: Hurrah for a skirmish! Who'll give us a song? Thurston (sings, cleaning and sharpening): Hurrah! for the sword! I hold one here, And I scour at the rust and say, 'Tis the umpire this, and the arbiter, That settles in the fairest way; For it stays false tongues and it cools hot blood, And it lowers the proud one's crest; And the law of the land is sometimes good, But the law of the sword is best. In all disputes 'tis the shortest plan, The surest and best appeal; — What else can decide between man and man? (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of Hugo, our lord! 'Tis a trusty friend and a true; It has held its own on a grassy sward, When its blade shone bright and blue, Though it never has stricken in anger hard, 104 And has scarcely been cleansed from rust, Since the day when it broke through Harold's guard With our favourite cut and thrust; Yet Osric's crown will look somewhat red, And his brain will be apt to reel, Should the trenchant blade come down on his head — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of our ally bold, It has done good service to him; It has held its own on an open wold, When its edge was in keener trim. It may baffle the plots of the wisest skull, It may slacken the strongest limb, Make the brains full of forethought void and null, And the eyes full of far-sight dim; And the hasty hands are content to wait, And the knees are compelled to kneel, Where it falls with the weight of a downstroke straight — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword — I've one of my own; And I think I may safely say, Give my enemy his, let us stand alone, And our quarrel shall end one way; One way or the other — it matters not much, So the question be fairly tried. Oh! peacemaker good, bringing peace with a touch, Thy clients will be satisfied. As a judge, thou dost judge — as a witness, attest, And thou settest thy hand and seal, And the winner is blest, and the loser at rest — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! [Hugo and Eric enter during the last verse 105 of the song.] Hugo: Boot and saddle, old friend, Their defiance they send; Time is short — make an end Of thy song. Let the sword in this fight Strike as hard for the right As it once struck for might Leagued with wrong. Ha! Rollo, thou champest Thy bridle and stampest, For the rush of the tempest Dost long? Ho! the kites will grow fatter On the corpses we scatter, In the paths where we shatter Their throng. Where Osric, the craven, Hath reared the black raven 'Gainst monks that are shaven And cowl'd: Where the Teuton and Hun sit, In the track of our onset, Will the wolves, ere the sunset, Have howl'd. Retribution is good, They have revell'd in blood, Like the wolves of the wood They have prowl'd. Birds of prey they have been, And of carrion unclean, And their own nests (I ween) They have foul'd. Eric: Two messengers since Yestermorn have gone hence, 106 And ere long will the Prince Bring relief. Shall we pause? — they are ten To our one, but their men Are ill-arm'd, and scarce ken Their own chief; And for this we give thanks: Their disorderly ranks, If assail'd in the flanks, Will as lief Run as fight — loons and lords. Hugo: Mount your steeds! draw your swords! Take your places! My words Shall be brief: Ride round by the valley, Through pass and gorge sally — The linden trees rally Beneath. Then, Eric and Thurston, Their ranks while we burst on, Try which will be first on The heath. (Aside) Look again, mother mine, Through the happy starshine, For my sins dost thou pine? With my breath, See! thy pangs are all done, For the life of thy son: Thou shalt never feel one For his death. [They all go out but Hugo, who lingers to tighten his girths. Orion appears suddenly in the gateway.] Orion: Stay, friend! I keep guard on Thy soul's gates; hold hard on Thy horse. Hope of pardon 107 Hath fled! Bethink once, I crave thee, Can recklessness save thee? Hell sooner will have thee Instead. Hugo: Back! My soul, tempest-toss'd, Hath her Rubicon cross'd, She shall fly — saved or lost! Void of dread! Sharper pang than the steel, Thou, oh, serpent! shalt feel, Should I set the bruised heel On thy head. [He rides out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent Tower Overlooking the Gate. URSULA at the window. AGATHA and Nuns crouching or kneeling in a corner. Ursula: See, Ellinor! Agatha! Anna! While yet for the ladders they wait, Jarl Osric hath rear'd the black banner Within a few yards of the gate; It faces our window, the raven, The badge of the cruel sea-kings, That has carried to harbour and haven Destruction and death on its wings. Beneath us they throng, the fierce Norsemen, The pikemen of Rudolph behind Are mustered, and Dagobert's horsemen With faces to rearward inclined; Come last, on their coursers broad-chested, Rough-coated, short-pastern'd and strong, Their casques with white plumes thickly crested, Their lances barb-headed and long: They come through the shades of the linden, Fleet riders and war-horses hot: 108 The Normans, our friends — we have sinn'd in Our selfishness, sisters, I wot — They come to add slaughter to slaughter, Their handful can ne'er stem the tide Of our foes, and our fate were but shorter Without them. How fiercely they ride! And "Hugo of Normandy!" "Hugo!" "A rescue! a rescue!" rings loud, And right on the many the few go! A sway and a swerve of the crowd! A springing and sparkling of sword-blades! A crashing and 'countering of steeds! And the white feathers fly 'neath their broad blades Like foam-flakes! the spear-shafts like reeds! A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Alas! I have striven To pray, but the lips move in vain When the heart with such terror is riven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: As leaves fall by wintry gusts scatter'd, As fall by the sickle ripe ears, As the pines by the whirlwind fall shatter'd, As shatter'd by bolt fall the firs — To the right hand they fall, to the left hand They yield! They go down! they give back! And their ranks are divided and cleft, and Dispers'd and destroy'd in the track! Where, stirrup to stirrup, and bridle To bridle, down-trampling the slain! Our friends, wielding swords never idle, Hew bloody and desperate lane Through pikemen, so crowded together They scarce for their pikes can find room, Led by Hugo's gilt crest, the tall feather Of Thurston, and Eric's black plume! A Nun (to Agatha): 109 Pray, sister! Agatha: First pray thou that heaven Will lift this dull weight from my brain, That crushes like crime unforgiven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: Close under the gates men are fighting On foot where the raven is rear'd! 'Neath that sword-stroke, through helm and skull smiting, Jarl Osric falls, cloven to the beard! And Hugo, the hilt firmly grasping, His heel on the throat of his foe, Wrenches back. I can hear the dull rasping, The steel through the bone grating low! And the raven rocks! Thurston has landed Two strokes, well directed and hard, On the standard pole, wielding, two-handed, A blade crimson'd up to the guard. Like the mast cut in two by the lightning, The black banner topples and falls! Bewildering! back-scattering! affright'ning! It clears a wide space next the walls. A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Does the sinner unshriven, With naught beyond this life to gain, Pray for mercy on earth or in heaven? Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: The gates are flung open, and straightway, By Ambrose and Cyril led on, Our own men rush out through the gateway; One charge, and the entrance is won! No! our foes block the gate and endeavour To force their way in! Oath and yell, Shout and war-cry wax wilder than ever! Those children of Odin fight well; 110 And my ears are confused by the crashing, The jarring, the discord, the din; And mine eyes are perplex'd by the flashing Of fierce lights that ceaselessly spin; So when thunder to thunder is calling, Quick flash follows flash in the shade, So leaping and flashing and falling, Blade flashes and follows on blade! While the sward, newly plough'd, freshly painted, Grows purple with blood of the slain, And slippery! Has Agatha fainted? Agatha: Not so, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: No more from the window; in the old years I have look'd upon strife. Now I go To the court-yard to rally our soldiers As I may — face to face with the foe. [She goes out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent. THURSTON seated near a small fire. Enter EUSTACE. Eustace: We have come through this skirmish with hardly a scratch. Thurston: And without us, I fancy, they have a full batch Of sick men to look to. Those robbers accurs'd Will soon put our soundest on terms with our worst. Nathless I'd have bartered, with never a frown, Ten years for those seconds when Osric went down. Where's Ethelwolf? Eustace: Dying. 111 Thurston: And Reginald? Eustace: Dead. And Ralph is disabled, and Rudolph is sped. He may last till midnight — not longer. Nor Tyrrel, Nor Brian will ever see sunrise. Thurston: That Cyril, The monk, is a very respectable fighter. Eustace: Not bad for a monk. Yet our loss had been lighter Had he and his fellows thrown open the gate A little more quickly. And now, spite of fate, With thirty picked soldiers their siege we might weather, But the Abbess is worth all the rest put together. [Enter Ursula.] Thurston: Here she comes. Ursula: Can I speak with your lord? Eustace: 'Tis too late, He was dead when we carried him in at the gate. Thurston: Nay, he spoke after that, for I heard him myself; But he won't speak again, he must lie on his shelf. Ursula: Alas! is he dead, then? Thurston: As dead as St. Paul. And what then? to-morrow we, too, one and all, Die, to fatten these ravenous carrion birds. I knelt down by Hugo and heard his last words: "How heavy the night hangs — how wild the waves dash; Say a mass for my soul — and give Rollo a mash." Ursula: 112 Nay, Thurston, thou jestest. Thurston: Ask Eric. I swear We listened and caught every syllable clear. Eustace: Why, his horse was slain, too. Thurston: 'Neath the linden trees grey, Ere the onset, young Henry rode Rollo away; He will hasten the Prince, and they may reach your gate To-morrow — though to-morrow for us is too late. Hugo rode the boy's mare, and she's dead — if you like — Disembowel'd by the thrust of a freebooter's pike. Eustace: Neither Henry nor Rollo we ever shall see. Ursula: But we may hold the walls till to-morrow. Thurston: Not we. In an hour or less, having rallied their force, They'll storm your old building — and take it, of course, Since of us, who alone in war's science are skill'd, One-third are disabled, and two-thirds are kill'd. Ursula: Art thou hurt? Thurston: At present I feel well enough, But your water is brackish, unwholesome and rough; Bring a flask of your wine, dame, for Eustace and I, Let us gaily give battle and merrily die. [Enter Eric, with arm in sling.] Eric: Thou art safe, Lady Abbess! The convent is safe! To be robbed of their prey how the ravens will chafe! The vanguard of Otto is looming in sight! At the sheen of their spears, see! thy foemen take flight, Their foremost are scarce half a mile from the wall. 113 Thurston: Bring the wine, lest those Germans should swallow it all. SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. Dirge of the Monks: Earth to earth, and dust to dust, Ashes unto ashes go. Judge not. He who judgeth just, Judgeth merciful also. Earthly penitence hath fled, Earthly sin hath ceased to be; Pile the sods on heart and head, Miserere Domine! Hominum et angelorum, Domine! precamur te Ut immemor sis malorum — Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Will the fruits of life brought forth, Pride and greed, and wrath and lust, Profit in the day of wrath, When the dust returns to dust? Evil flower and thorny fruit Load the wild and worthless tree. Lo! the axe is at the root, Miserere Domine! Spes, fidesque, caritasque, Frustra fatigant per se, Frustra virtus, forsque, fasque, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Fair without and foul within, When the honey'd husks are reft From the bitter sweets of sin, 114 Bitterness alone is left; Yet the wayward soul hath striven Mostly hell's ally to be, In the strife 'twixt hell and heaven, Miserere Domine! Heu! heu! herba latet anguis — Caro herba — carni vae — Solum purgat, Christi sanguis, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Pray that in the doubtful fight Man may win through sore distress, By His goodness infinite, And His mercy fathomless. Pray for one more of the weary, Head bow'd down and bended knee, Swell the requiem, Miserere! Miserere Domine! Bonum, malum, qui fecisti Mali imploramus te, Salve fratrem, causa Christi, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) [End of Ashtaroth.] ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

732:Obiit Mdcccxxxiii (Entire) Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 414 Forgive what seem’d my sin in me; What seem’d my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. I. I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match? Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch The far-off interest of tears? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, Let darkness keep her raven gloss: Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, ‘Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn.’ II. 415 Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom: And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee. III. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? ‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run; A web is wov’n across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun: ‘And all the phantom, Nature, stands– With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own,– A hollow form with empty hands.’ And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind? 416 IV. To Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark; I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say: O heart, how fares it with thee now, That thou should’st fail from thy desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire, ‘What is it makes me beat so low?’ Something it is which thou hast lost, Some pleasure from thine early years. Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darken’d eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, ‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’ V. I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold: But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. 417 VI. One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’ That ‘Loss is common to the race’– And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe’er thou be, Who pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still’d the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor,–while thy head is bow’d, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought; Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, ‘here to-day,’ Or ‘here to-morrow will he come.’ O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father’s chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking ‘this will please him best,’ She takes a riband or a rose; 418 For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn’d, the curse Had fallen, and her future Lord Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford, Or kill’d in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end? And what to me remains of good? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend. VII. Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp’d no more– Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. VIII. A happy lover who has come To look on her that loves him well, Who ’lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home; 419 He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight: So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber and the street, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there In those deserted walks, may find A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she foster'd up with care; So seems it in my deep regret, O my forsaken heart, with thee And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet. But since it pleased a vanish’d eye, I go to plant it on his tomb, That if it can it there may bloom, Or dying, there at least may die. IX. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur’s loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro’ early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 420 Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love; My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me. X. I hear the noise about thy keel; I hear the bell struck in the night: I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel. Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife, And travell’d men from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands; And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life. So bring him: we have idle dreams: This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies: O to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems To rest beneath the clover sod, That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God; Than if with thee the roaring wells Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp’d in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells. XI. 421 Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro’ the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground: Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold: Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main: Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair: Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep. XII. Lo, as a dove when up she springs To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe, Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsation of her wings; Like her I go; I cannot stay; I leave this mortal ark behind, A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large, And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge, 422 And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend? Is this the end of all my care?’ And circle moaning in the air: ‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’ And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away. XIII. Tears of the widower, when he sees A late-lost form that sleep reveals, And moves his doubtful arms, and feels Her place is empty, fall like these; Which weep a loss for ever new, A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have prest and closed, Silence, till I be silent too. Which weeps the comrade of my choice, An awful thought, a life removed, The human-hearted man I loved, A Spirit, not a breathing voice. Come Time, and teach me, many years, I do not suffer in a dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears; My fancies time to rise on wing, And glance about the approaching sails, As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales, And not the burthen that they bring. XIV. 423 If one should bring me this report, That thou hadst touch’d the land to-day, And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port; And standing, muffled round with woe, Should see thy passengers in rank Come stepping lightly down the plank, And beckoning unto those they know; And if along with these should come The man I held as half-divine; Should strike a sudden hand in mine, And ask a thousand things of home; And And And And I should tell him all my pain, how my life had droop’d of late, he should sorrow o’er my state marvel what possess’d my brain; And I perceived no touch of change, No hint of death in all his frame, But found him all in all the same, I should not feel it to be strange. XV. To-night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skies; The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash’d on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world: And but for fancies, which aver That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass, I scarce could brook the strain and stir 424 That makes the barren branches loud; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire. XVI. What words are these have fall’n from me? Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be? Or doth she only seem to take The touch of change in calm or storm; But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake That holds the shadow of a lark Hung in the shadow of a heaven? Or has the shock, so harshly given, Confused me like the unhappy bark That strikes by night a craggy shelf, And staggers blindly ere she sink? And stunn’d me from my power to think And all my knowledge of myself; And made me that delirious man Whose fancy fuses old and new, And flashes into false and true, And mingles all without a plan? XVII. 425 Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze Compell’d thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas. For I in spirit saw thee move Thro’ circles of the bounding sky, Week after week: the days go by: Come quick, thou bringest all I love. Henceforth, wherever thou may’st roam, My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home. So may whatever tempest mars Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars. So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run. XVIII. ’Tis well; ’tis something; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. ’Tis little; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead. 426 Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing thro’ his lips impart The life that almost dies in me; That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again. XIX. The Danube to the Severn gave The darken’d heart that beat no more; They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills; That salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. The Wye is hush’d nor moved along, And hush’d my deepest grief of all, When fill’d with tears that cannot fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls; My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then. XX. The lesser griefs that may be said, That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead; 427 Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind: ‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to find Another service such as this.’ My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze; For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: But open converse is there none, So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think, ‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’ XXI. I sing to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave, I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak: ‘This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.’ Another answers, ‘Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy.’ A third is wroth: ‘Is this an hour For private sorrow’s barren song, When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power? 428 ‘A time to sicken and to swoon, When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon?’ Behold, ye speak an idle thing: Ye never knew the sacred dust: I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing: And one is glad; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged; And one is sad; her note is changed, Because her brood is stol’n away. XXII. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow: And we with singing cheer’d the way, And, crown’d with all the season lent, From April on to April went, And glad at heart from May to May: But where the path we walk’d began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear’d of man; Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull’d the murmur on thy lip, And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste, And think, that somewhere in the waste 429 The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXIII. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came, Or on to where the pathway leads; And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan: When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood; And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV. And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say? The very source and fount of Day 430 Is dash’d with wandering isles of night. If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never look’d to human eyes Since our first Sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of grief Makes former gladness loom so great? The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief? Or that the past will always win A glory from its being far; And orb into the perfect star We saw not, when we moved therein? XXV. I know that this was Life,–the track Whereon with equal feet we fared; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love: Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him. XXVI. Still onward winds the dreary way; I with it; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love, Whatever fickle tongues may say. 431 And if that eye which watches guilt And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder’d tree, And towers fall’n as soon as built– Oh, if indeed that eye foresee Or see (in Him is no before) In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be, Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That Shadow waiting with the keys, To shroud me from my proper scorn. XXVII. I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. XXVIII. 432 The time draws near the birth of Christ: The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound: Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish’d no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again: But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll’d me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule. XXIX. With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve; Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shower’d largess of delight In dance and song and game and jest? Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, That guard the portals of the house; 433 Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time? They too will die. XXX. With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; A rainy cloud possess’d the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol’d, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all. We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho’ every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang: We ceased: a gentler feeling crept Upon us: surely rest is meet: ‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’ And silence follow’d, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: ‘They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change; ‘Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather’d power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.’ 434 Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born. XXXI. When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary’s house return’d, Was this demanded–if he yearn’d To hear her weeping by his grave? ‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days?’ There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill’d with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown’d The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unreveal’d; He told it not; or something seal’d The lips of that Evangelist. XXXII. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother’s face, And rests upon the Life indeed. 435 All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? XXXIII. O thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach’d a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views; Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro’ form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good: Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine! See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev’n for want of such a type. XXXIV. My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is; This round of green, this orb of flame, 436 Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim. What then were God to such as I? ’Twere hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die; ’Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease. XXXV. Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house, ‘The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:’ Might I not say? ‘Yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive:’ But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Æonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be; And Love would answer with a sigh, ‘The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half-dead to know that I shall die.’ O me, what profits it to put And idle case? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been, Or been in narrowest working shut, 437 Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush’d the grape, And bask’d and batten’d in the woods. XXXVI. Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin; For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, Where truth in closest words shall fail, When truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef. XXXVII. Urania speaks with darken’d brow: ‘Thou pratest here where thou art least; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. ‘Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill.’ And my Melpomene replies, 438 A touch of shame upon her cheek: ‘I am not worthy ev’n to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries; ‘For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues; ‘But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine To dying lips is all he said), ‘I murmur’d, as I came along, Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d; And loiter’d in the master’s field, And darken’d sanctities with song.’ XXXVIII. With weary steps I loiter on, Tho’ always under alter’d skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render’d free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX. Old warder of these buried bones, 439 And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head, To thee too comes the golden hour When flower is feeling after flower; But Sorrow–fixt upon the dead, And darkening the dark graves of men,– What whisper’d from her lying lips? Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, And passes into gloom again. XL. Could we forget the widow’d hour And look on Spirits breathed away, As on a maiden in the day When first she wears her orange-flower! When crown’d with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home, And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes; And doubtful joys the father move, And tears are on the mother’s face, As parting with a long embrace She enters other realms of love; Her office there to rear, to teach, Becoming as is meet and fit A link among the days, to knit The generations each with each; And, doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In those great offices that suit The full-grown energies of heaven. Ay me, the difference I discern! 440 How often shall her old fireside Be cheer’d with tidings of the bride, How often she herself return, And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those that miss’d her most Shall count new things as dear as old: But thou and I have shaken hands, Till growing winters lay me low; My paths are in the fields I know, And thine in undiscover’d lands. XLI. The spirit ere our fatal loss Did ever rise from high to higher; As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, As flies the lighter thro’ the gross. But thou art turn’d to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound Thy changes; here upon the ground, No more partaker of thy change. Deep folly! yet that this could be– That I could wing my will with might To leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee. For tho’ my nature rarely yields To that vague fear implied in death; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, The howlings from forgotten fields; Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor An inner trouble I behold, A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more, 441 Tho’ following with an upward mind The wonders that have come to thee, Thro’ all the secular to-be, But evermore a life behind. XLII. I vex my heart with fancies dim: He still outstript me in the race; It was but unity of place That made me dream I rank’d with him. And so may Place retain us still, And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train To riper growth the mind and will: And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit’s inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows? XLIII. If Sleep and Death be truly one, And every spirit’s folded bloom Thro’ all its intervital gloom In some long trance should slumber on; Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the colour of the flower: So then were nothing lost to man; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began; And love will last as pure and whole 442 As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul. XLIV. How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish’d, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs), May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. XLV. The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that ‘this is I:’ But as he grows he gathers much, And learns the use of ‘I,’ and ‘me,’ And finds ‘I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch.’ So rounds he to a separate mind From whence clear memory may begin, 443 As thro’ the frame that binds him in His isolation grows defined. This use may lie in blood and breath, Which else were fruitless of their due, Had man to learn himself anew Beyond the second birth of Death. XLVI. We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, thorn and flower, Is shadow’d by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looking back. So be it: there no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb, But clear from marge to marge shall bloom The eternal landscape of the past; A lifelong tract of time reveal’d; The fruitful hours of still increase; Days order’d in a wealthy peace, And those five years its richest field. O Love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far; Look also, Love, a brooding star, A rosy warmth from marge to marge. XLVII. That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; 444 And I shall know him when we meet: And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other’s good: What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away, Some landing-place, to clasp and say, ‘Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.’ XLVIII. If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here proposed, Then these were such as men might scorn: Her care is not to part and prove; She takes, when harsher moods remit, What slender shade of doubt may flit, And makes it vassal unto love: And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law, And holds it sin and shame to draw The deepest measure from the chords: Nor dare she trust a larger lay, But rather loosens from the lip Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away. XLIX. From art, from nature, from the schools, Let random influences glance, Like light in many a shiver’d lance 445 That breaks about the dappled pools: The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy’s tenderest eddy wreathe, The slightest air of song shall breathe To make the sullen surface crisp. And look thy look, and go thy way, But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break, The tender-pencil’d shadow play. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, Whose muffled motions blindly drown The bases of my life in tears. L. Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a Fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day. LI. 446 Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame And I be lessen’d in his love? I wrong the grave with fears untrue: Shall love be blamed for want of faith? There must be wisdom with great Death: The dead shall look me thro’ and thro’. Be near us when we climb or fall: Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. LII. I cannot love thee as I ought, For love reflects the thing beloved; My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought. ‘Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’ The Spirit of true love replied; ‘Thou canst not move me from thy side, Nor human frailty do me wrong. ‘What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears? What record? not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue: ‘So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash’d with flecks of sin. Abide: thy wealth is gather’d in, When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’ 447 LIII. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green: And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown, The soil, left barren, scarce had grown The grain by which a man may live? Or, if we held the doctrine sound For life outliving heats of youth, Yet who would preach it as a truth To those that eddy round and round? Hold thou the good: define it well: For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. LIV. Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy’d, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another’s gain. 448 Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last–far off–at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. LV. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world’s altar-stairs That slope thro’ darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. LVI. 449 ‘So careful of the type?’ but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. ‘Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more.’ And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation’s final law– Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek’d against his creed– Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal’d within the iron hills? No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match’d with him. O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil. LVII. Peace; come away: the song of woe Is after all an earthly song: Peace; come away: we do him wrong To sing so wildly: let us go. 450 Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale; But half my life I leave behind: Methinks my friend is richly shrined; But I shall pass; my work will fail. Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look’d with human eyes. I hear it now, and o’er and o’er, Eternal greetings to the dead; And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave,’ said, ‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore. LVIII. In those sad words I took farewell: Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls In vaults and catacombs, they fell; And, falling, idly broke the peace Of hearts that beat from day to day, Half-conscious of their dying clay, And those cold crypts where they shall cease. The high Muse answer’d: ‘Wherefore grieve Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? Abide a little longer here, And thou shalt take a nobler leave.’ LIX. O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me No casual mistress, but a wife, My bosom-friend and half of life; As I confess it needs must be; O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 451 Be sometimes lovely like a bride, And put thy harsher moods aside, If thou wilt have me wise and good. My centred passion cannot move, Nor will it lessen from to-day; But I’ll have leave at times to play As with the creature of my love; And set thee forth, for thou art mine, With so much hope for years to come, That, howsoe’er I know thee, some Could hardly tell what name were thine. LX. He past; a soul of nobler tone: My spirit loved and loves him yet, Like some poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. He mixing with his proper sphere, She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what, And envying all that meet him there. The little village looks forlorn; She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways, In that dark house where she was born. The foolish neighbours come and go, And tease her till the day draws by: At night she weeps, ‘How vain am I! How should he love a thing so low?’ LXI. If, in thy second state sublime, 452 Thy ransom’d reason change replies With all the circle of the wise, The perfect flower of human time; And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly character’d and slight, How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night, How blanch'd with darkness must I grow! Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, Where thy first form was made a man: I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. LXII. Tho’ if an eye that’s downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale, And fading legend of the past; And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy, On some unworthy heart with joy, But lives to wed an equal mind; And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies, Or in the light of deeper eyes Is matter for a flying smile. LXIII. Yet pity for a horse o’er-driven, And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart In its assumptions up to heaven; And I am so much more than these, As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy, 453 And I would set their pains at ease. So mayst thou watch me where I weep, As, unto vaster motions bound, The circuits of thine orbit round A higher height, a deeper deep. LXIV. Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green; Who breaks his birth’s invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state’s decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne; And moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortune’s crowning slope The pillar of a people’s hope, The centre of a world’s desire; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream, The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He play’d at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate; Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labour of his hands, 454 Or in the furrow musing stands; ‘Does my old friend remember me?’ LXV. Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With ‘Love’s too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.’ And in that solace can I sing, Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing: Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends. LXVI. You thought my heart too far diseased; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased. The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost; Whose feet are guided thro’ the land, Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand: He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky; His inner day can never die, 455 His night of loss is always there. LXVII. When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o’er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. LXVIII. When in the down I sink my head, Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath; Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead: I walk as ere I walk’d forlorn, When all our path was fresh with dew, And all the bugle breezes blew Reveillée to the breaking morn. But what is this? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can my dream resolve the doubt: 456 But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth; It is the trouble of my youth That foolish sleep transfers to thee. LXIX. I dream’d there would be Spring no more, That Nature’s ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter’d trifles at the door: I wander’d from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs: I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown: I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs: They call’d me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns: They call’d me fool, they call’d me child: I found an angel of the night; The voice was low, the look was bright; He look’d upon my crown and smiled: He reach’d the glory of a hand, That seem’d to touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief, The words were hard to understand. LXX. I cannot see the features right, When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night; 457 Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker’d faces drive; Dark bulks that tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores; Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll, And thro’ a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still. LXXI. Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance And madness, thou hast forged at last A night-long Present of the Past In which we went thro’ summer France. Hadst thou such credit with the soul? Then bring an opiate trebly strong, Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong That so my pleasure may be whole; While now we talk as once we talk’d Of men and minds, the dust of change, The days that grow to something strange, In walking as of old we walk’d Beside the river’s wooded reach, The fortress, and the mountain ridge, The cataract flashing from the bridge, The breaker breaking on the beach. LXXII. 458 Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white, And lash with storm the streaming pane? Day, when my crown’d estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sicken’d every living bloom, And blurr’d the splendour of the sun; Who usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower; Who might’st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play’d A chequer-work of beam and shade Along the hills, yet look’d the same. As wan, as chill, as wild as now; Day, mark’d as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro’ time, And cancell’d nature’s best: but thou, Lift as thou may’st thy burthen’d brows Thro’ clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner’d sheaf afar, And sow the sky with flying boughs, And up thy vault with roaring sound Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, And hide thy shame beneath the ground. LXXIII. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 459 The fame is quench’d that I foresaw, The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. LXXIV. As sometimes in a dead man’s face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before, Comes out–to some one of his race: So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old. But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee. LXXV. I leave thy praises unexpress’d In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess’d; What practice howsoe’er expert 460 In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert? I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise. Thy leaf has perish’d in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been. So here shall silence guard thy fame; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate’er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. LXXVI. Take wings of fancy, and ascend, And in a moment set thy face Where all the starry heavens of space Are sharpen’d to a needle’s end; Take wings of foresight; lighten thro’ The secular abyss to come, And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb Before the mouldering of a yew; And if the matin songs, that woke The darkness of our planet, last, Thine own shall wither in the vast, Ere half the lifetime of an oak. Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; And what are they when these remain The ruin’d shells of hollow towers? 461 LXXVII. What hope is here for modern rhyme To him, who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshorten’d in the tract of time? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden’s locks; Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find, And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that? My darken’d ways Shall ring with music all the same; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. LXXVIII. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possess’d the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture’s breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind. Who show’d a token of distress? 462 No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? O grief, can grief be changed to less? O last regret, regret can die! No–mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry. LXXIX. ‘More than my brothers are to me,’– Let this not vex thee, noble heart! I know thee of what force thou art To hold the costliest love in fee. But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature’s mint; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For us the same cold streamlet curl’d Thro’ all his eddying coves; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer’d vows, One lesson from one book we learn’d, Ere childhood’s flaxen ringlet turn’d To black and brown on kindred brows. And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich where I was poor, And he supplied my want the more As his unlikeness fitted mine. LXXX. If any vague desire should rise, 463 That holy Death ere Arthur died Had moved me kindly from his side, And dropt the dust on tearless eyes; Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, The grief my loss in him had wrought, A grief as deep as life or thought, But stay’d in peace with God and man. I make a picture in the brain; I hear the sentence that he speaks; He bears the burthen of the weeks But turns his burthen into gain. His credit thus shall set me free; And, influence-rich to soothe and save, Unused example from the grave Reach out dead hands to comfort me. LXXXI. Could I have said while he was here, ‘My love shall now no further range; There cannot come a mellower change, For now is love mature in ear.’ Love, then, had hope of richer store: What end is here to my complaint? This haunting whisper makes me faint, ‘More years had made me love thee more.’ But Death returns an answer sweet: ‘My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain, It might have drawn from after-heat.’ LXXXII. I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; 464 No lower life that earth’s embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith. Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter’d stalks, Or ruin’d chrysalis of one. Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak. LXXXIII. Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year delaying long; Thou doest expectant nature wrong; Delaying long, delay no more. What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons? Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell’s darling blue, Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. O thou, new-year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud And flood a fresher throat with song. 465 LXXXIV. When I contemplate all alone The life that had been thine below, And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown; I see thee sitting crown’d with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, On all the branches of thy blood; Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on, When thou should’st link thy life with one Of mine own house, and boys of thine Had babbled ‘Uncle’ on my knee; But that remorseless iron hour Made cypress of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. I seem to meet their least desire, To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fire. I see myself an honour’d guest, Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk, Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; While now thy prosperous labour fills The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days Descend below the golden hills With promise of a morn as fair; And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of growing powers, To reverence and the silver hair; Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 466 Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; What time mine own might also flee, As link’d with thine in love and fate, And, hovering o’er the dolorous strait To the other shore, involved in thee, Arrive at last the blessed goal, And He that died in Holy Land Would reach us out the shining hand, And take us as a single soul. What reed was that on which I leant? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content. LXXXV. This truth came borne with bier and pall, I felt it, when I sorrow’d most, ’Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all– O true in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief To this which is our common grief, What kind of life is that I lead; And whether trust in things above Be dimm’d of sorrow, or sustain’d; And whether love for him have drain’d My capabilities of love; Your words have virtue such as draws A faithful answer from the breast, Thro’ light reproaches, half exprest, And loyal unto kindly laws. 467 My blood an even tenor kept, Till on mine ear this message falls, That in Vienna’s fatal walls God’s finger touch’d him, and he slept. The great Intelligences fair That range above our mortal state, In circle round the blessed gate, Received and gave him welcome there; And led him thro’ the blissful climes, And show'd him in the fountain fresh All knowledge that the sons of flesh Shall gather in the cycled times. But I remained, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. friendship, equal poised control, heart, with kindliest motion warm, sacred essence, other form, solemn ghost, O crowned soul! Yet none could better know than I, How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, I felt and feel, tho’ left alone, His being working in mine own, The footsteps of his life in mine; A life that all the Muses decked With gifts of grace, that might express All comprehensive tenderness, All-subtilising intellect: And so my passion hath not swerved To works of weakness, but I find 468 An image comforting the mind, And in my grief a strength reserved. Likewise the imaginative woe, That loved to handle spiritual strife, Diffused the shock thro’ all my life, But in the present broke the blow. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. I woo your love: I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had master’d Time; Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears: The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this: But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods, And every pulse of wind and wave Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb, And my prime passion in the grave: My old affection of the tomb, A part of stillness, yearns to speak: ‘Arise, and get thee forth and seek A friendship for the years to come. ‘I watch thee from the quiet shore; Thy spirit up to mine can reach; But in dear words of human speech We two communicate no more.’ 469 And I, ‘Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free? How is it? Canst thou feel for me Some painless sympathy with pain?’ And lightly does the whisper fall; ‘’Tis hard for thee to fathom this; I triumph in conclusive bliss, And that serene result of all.’ So hold I commerce with the dead; Or so methinks the dead would say; Or so shall grief with symbols play And pining life be fancy-fed. Now looking to some settled end, That these things pass, and I shall prove A meeting somewhere, love with love, I crave your pardon, O my friend; If not so fresh, with love as true, I, clasping brother-hands aver I could not, if I would, transfer The whole I felt for him to you. For which be they that hold apart The promise of the golden hours? First love, first friendship, equal powers, That marry with the virgin heart. Still mine, that cannot but deplore, That beats within a lonely place, That yet remembers his embrace, But at his footstep leaps no more, My heart, tho’ widow’d, may not rest Quite in the love of what is gone, But seeks to beat in time with one That warms another living breast. Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 470 Knowing the primrose yet is dear, The primrose of the later year, As not unlike to that of Spring. LXXXVI. Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening over brake and bloom And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below Thro’ all the dewy-tassell’d wood, And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life that feeds thy breath Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly From belt to belt of crimson seas On leagues of odour streaming far, To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper ‘Peace.’ LXXXVII. I past beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gown; I roved at random thro’ the town, And saw the tumult of the halls; And heard one more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake The prophet blazon’d on the panes; And caught one more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars 471 Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt. Another name was on the door: I linger’d; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crash’d the glass and beat the floor; Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labour, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land; When one would aim an arrow fair, But send it slackly from the string; And one would pierce an outer ring, And one an inner, here and there; And last the master-bowman, he, Would cleave the mark. A willing ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear The rapt oration flowing free From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face, And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly wise; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo. LXXXVIII. 472 Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks, O tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet, Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy: And I–my harp would prelude woe– I cannot all command the strings; The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go. LXXXIX. Witch-elms that counterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; And thou, with all thy breadth and height Of foliage, towering sycamore; How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town: He brought an eye for all he saw; He mixt in all our simple sports; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusty purlieus of the law. O joy to him in this retreat, Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark The landscape winking thro’ the heat: O sound to rout the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust that round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 473 O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn: Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung, Or here she brought the harp and flung A ballad to the brightening moon: Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss’d the books to love or hate, Or touch’d the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream; But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For ‘ground in yonder social mill We rub each other’s angles down, ‘And merge’ he said ‘in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man.’ We talk’d: the stream beneath us ran, The wine-flask lying couch’d in moss, Or cool’d within the glooming wave; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fall’n into her father’s grave, And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honied hours. 474 XC. He tasted love with half his mind, Nor ever drank the inviolate spring Where nighest heaven, who first could fling This bitter seed among mankind; That could the dead, whose dying eyes Were closed with wail, resume their life, They would but find in child and wife An iron welcome when they rise: ’Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, To pledge them with a kindly tear, To talk them o’er, to wish them here, To count their memories half divine; But if they came who past away, Behold their brides in other hands; The hard heir strides about their lands, And will not yield them for a day. Yea, tho’ their sons were none of these, Not less the yet-loved sire would make Confusion worse than death, and shake The pillars of domestic peace. Ah dear, but come thou back to me: Whatever change the years have wrought, I find not yet one lonely thought That cries against my wish for thee. XCI. When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March; Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers; The hope of unaccomplish’d years 475 Be large and lucid round thy brow. When summer’s hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat, That ripple round the lonely grange; Come: not in watches of the night, But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, beauteous in thine after form, And like a finer light in light. XCII. If any vision should reveal Thy likeness, I might count it vain As but the canker of the brain; Yea, tho’ it spake and made appeal To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind Of memory murmuring the past. Yea, tho’ it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year; And tho’ the months, revolving near, Should prove the phantom-warning true, They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments, And such refraction of events As often rises ere they rise. XCIII. I shall not see thee. Dare I say No spirit ever brake the band That stays him from the native land 476 Where first he walk’d when claspt in clay? No visual shade of some one lost, But he, the Spirit himself, may come Where all the nerve of sense is numb; Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. O, therefore from thy sightless range With gods in unconjectured bliss, O, from the distance of the abyss Of tenfold-complicated change, Descend, and touch, and enter; hear The wish too strong for words to name; That in this blindness of the frame My Ghost may feel that thine is near. XCIV. How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour’s communion with the dead. In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all. They haunt the silence of the breast, Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest: But when the heart is full of din, And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates, And hear the household jar within. XCV. 477 By night we linger’d on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o’er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn; And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering: not a cricket chirr’d: The brook alone far-off was heard, And on the board the fluttering urn: And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel’d or lit the filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; While now we sang old songs that peal’d From knoll to knoll, where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field. But when those others, one by one, Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light Went out, and I was all alone, A hunger seized my heart; I read Of that glad year which once had been, In those fall’n leaves which kept their green, The noble letters of the dead: And strangely on the silence broke The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love’s dumb cry defying change To test his worth; and strangely spoke The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro’ wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell. So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch’d me from the past, 478 And all at once it seem’d at last The living soul was flash’d on mine, And mine in this was wound, and whirl’d About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world, Æonian music measuring out The steps of Time–the shocks of Chance– The blows of Death. At length my trance Was cancell’d, stricken thro’ with doubt. Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech, Or ev’n for intellect to reach Thro’ memory that which I became: Till now the doubtful dusk reveal’d The knolls once more where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field: And suck’d from out the distant gloom A breeze began to tremble o’er The large leaves of the sycamore, And fluctuate all the still perfume, And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock’d the full-foliaged elms, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung The lilies to and fro, and said ‘The dawn, the dawn,’ and died away; And East and West, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day. XCVI. 479 You say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. I know not: one indeed I knew In many a subtle question versed, Who touch’d a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true: Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gather’d strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them: thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinaï’s peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Altho’ the trumpet blew so loud. XCVII. My love has talk’d with rocks and trees; He finds on misty mountain-ground His own vast shadow glory-crown’d; He sees himself in all he sees. Two partners of a married life– I look’d on these and thought of thee In vastness and in mystery, And of my spirit as of a wife. 480 These two–they dwelt with eye on eye, Their hearts of old have beat in tune, Their meetings made December June, Their every parting was to die. Their love has never past away; The days she never can forget Are earnest that he loves her yet, Whate’er the faithless people say. Her life is lone, he sits apart, He loves her yet, she will not weep, Tho’ rapt in matters dark and deep He seems to slight her simple heart. He He He He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, reads the secret of the star, seems so near and yet so far, looks so cold: she thinks him kind. She keeps the gift of years before, A wither’d violet is her bliss: She knows not what his greatness is, For that, for all, she loves him more. For him she plays, to him she sings Of early faith and plighted vows; She knows but matters of the house, And he, he knows a thousand things. Her faith is fixt and cannot move, She darkly feels him great and wise, She dwells on him with faithful eyes, ‘I cannot understand: I love.’ XCVIII. You leave us: you will see the Rhine, And those fair hills I sail’d below, When I was there with him; and go 481 By summer belts of wheat and vine To where he breathed his latest breath, That City. All her splendour seems No livelier than the wisp that gleams On Lethe in the eyes of Death. Let her great Danube rolling fair Enwind her isles, unmark’d of me: I have not seen, I will not see Vienna; rather dream that there, A treble darkness, Evil haunts The birth, the bridal; friend from friend Is oftener parted, fathers bend Above more graves, a thousand wants Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey By each cold hearth, and sadness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings: And yet myself have heard him say, That not in any mother town With statelier progress to and fro The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown Of lustier leaves; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud With sport and song, in booth and tent, Imperial halls, or open plain; And wheels the circled dance, and breaks The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain. XCIX. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, 482 So thick with lowings of the herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men; Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling red On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past, And woodlands holy to the dead; Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care, And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves; Who wakenest with thy balmy breath To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads more, of death. O wheresoever those may be, Betwixt the slumber of the poles, To-day they count as kindred souls; They know me not, but mourn with me. C. I climb the hill: from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend; No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy wold; Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench’d along the hill And haunted by the wrangling daw; Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 483 To left and right thro’ meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die. CI. Unwatch’d, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star; Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove; Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger’s child; As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. 484 CII. We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky; The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden-walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, ‘Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird In native hazels tassel-hung.’ The other answers, ‘Yea, but here Thy feet have stray’d in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear.’ These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not yield each other way. I turn to go: my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms; They mix in one another’s arms To one pure image of regret. CIII. On that last night before we went From out the doors where I was bred, I dream’d a vision of the dead, Which left my after-morn content. Methought I dwelt within a hall, And maidens with me: distant hills 485 From hidden summits fed with rills A river sliding by the wall. The hall with harp and carol rang. They sang of what is wise and good And graceful. In the centre stood A statue veil’d, to which they sang; And which, tho’ veil’d, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love For ever: then flew in a dove And brought a summons from the sea: And when they learnt that I must go They wept and wail’d, but led the way To where a little shallop lay At anchor in the flood below; And on by many a level mead, And shadowing bluff that made the banks, We glided winding under ranks Of iris, and the golden reed; And still as vaster grew the shore And roll’d the floods in grander space, The maidens gather’d strength and grace And presence, lordlier than before; And I myself, who sat apart And watch’d them, wax’d in every limb; I felt the thews of Anakim, The pulses of a Titan’s heart; As one would sing the death of war, And one would chant the history Of that great race, which is to be, And one the shaping of a star; Until the forward-creeping tides Began to foam, and we to draw From deep to deep, to where we saw A great ship lift her shining sides. 486 The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet us. Up the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck: Whereat those maidens with one mind Bewail’d their lot; I did them wrong: ‘We served thee here’ they said, ‘so long, And wilt thou leave us now behind?’ So rapt I was, they could not win An answer from my lips, but he Replying, ‘Enter likewise ye And go with us:’ they enter’d in. And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steer’d her toward a crimson cloud That landlike slept along the deep. CIV. The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist. A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know. Like strangers’ voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow’d ground. CV. 487 To-night ungather’d let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger’s land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. Our father’s dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone. No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past. But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Thro’ which the spirit breathes no more? Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch’d, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good. CVI. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; 488 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring Ring Ring Ring out old shapes of foul disease; out the narrowing lust of gold; out the thousand wars of old, in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. CVII. It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank 489 Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass; Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev’n as he were by; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate’er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. CVIII. I will not shut me from my kind, And, lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone, Nor feed with sighs a passing wind: What profit lies in barren faith, And vacant yearning, tho’ with might To scale the heaven’s highest height, Or dive below the wells of Death? What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns? 490 And on the depths of death there swims The reflex of a human face. I'll rather take what fruit may be Of sorrow under human skies: ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. CIX. Heart-affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry; The critic clearness of an eye, That saw thro’ all the Muses’ walk; Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man; Impassion’d logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course; High nature amorous of the good, But touch’d with no ascetic gloom; And passion pure in snowy bloom Thro’ all the years of April blood; A love of freedom rarely felt, Of freedom in her regal seat Of England; not the schoolboy heat, The blind hysterics of the Celt; And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unask’d, in thine, And find his comfort in thy face; All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have look’d on: if they look’d in vain, My shame is greater who remain, Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 491 CX. Thy converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years: The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung, The proud was half disarm’d of pride, Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his double tongue. The stern were mild when thou wert by, The flippant put himself to school And heard thee, and the brazen fool Was soften’d, and he knew not why; While I, thy nearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumph was as mine; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art; Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. CXI. The churl in spirit, up or down Along the scale of ranks, thro’ all, To him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown; The churl in spirit, howe’er he veil His want in forms for fashion’s sake, Will let his coltish nature break At seasons thro’ the gilded pale: For who can always act? but he, To whom a thousand memories call, 492 Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seem’d to be, Best seem’d the thing he was, and join’d Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind; Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye, Where God and Nature met in light; And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soil’d with all ignoble use. CXII. High wisdom holds my wisdom less, That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Set light by narrower perfectness. But thou, that fillest all the room Of all my love, art reason why I seem to cast a careless eye On souls, the lesser lords of doom. For what wert thou? some novel power Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracts of calm from tempest made, And world-wide fluctuation sway’d In vassal tides that follow’d thought. 493 CXIII. ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise; Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me, But served the seasons that may rise; For can I doubt, who knew thee keen In intellect, with force and skill To strive, to fashion, to fulfil– I doubt not what thou wouldst have been: life in civic action warm, soul on highest mission sent, potent voice of Parliament, pillar steadfast in the storm, Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming, when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth And roll it in another course, With thousand shocks that come and go, With agonies, with energies, With overthrowings, and with cries, And undulations to and fro. CXIV. Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire: She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain– She cannot fight the fear of death. 494 What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place; She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain; and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child: For she is earthly of the mind, But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. O, friend, who camest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity. CXV. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown’d in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 495 In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. CXVI. Is it, then, regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, and gives and takes The colours of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust In that which made the world so fair. Not all regret: the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone; And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine: Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead; Less yearning for the friendship fled, Than some strong bond which is to be. CXVII. O days and hours, your work is this To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace For fuller gain of after bliss: That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 496 And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue, For every grain of sand that runs, And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns. CXVIII. Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant labouring in his youth; Nor dream of human love and truth, As dying Nature’s earth and lime; But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say, The solid earth whereon we tread In tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man; Who throve and branch’d from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown’d with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter’d with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly 497 The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. CXIX. Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more; the city sleeps; I smell the meadow in the street; I hear a chirp of birds; I see Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light-blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand. CXX. I trust I have not wasted breath: I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries; not in vain, Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; Not only cunning casts in clay: Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto men, At least to me? I would not stay. Let him, the wiser man who springs Hereafter, up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape, But I was born to other things. 498 CXXI. Sad Hesper o’er the buried sun And ready, thou, to die with him, Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done: The team is loosen’d from the wain, The boat is drawn upon the shore; Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken’d in the brain. Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, By thee the world’s great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird; Behind thee comes the greater light: The market boat is on the stream, And voices hail it from the brink; Thou hear’st the village hammer clink, And see’st the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same. CXXII. Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearn’d to burst the folded gloom, To bare the eternal Heavens again, To feel once more, in placid awe, The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about my soul, In all her motion one with law; If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now, And enter in at breast and brow, 499 Till all my blood, a fuller wave, Be quicken’d with a livelier breath, And like an inconsiderate boy, As in the former flash of joy, I slip the thoughts of life and death; And all the breeze of Fancy blows, And every dew-drop paints a bow, The wizard lightnings deeply glow, And every thought breaks out a rose. CXXIII. There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it true; For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell. CXXIV. That which we dare invoke to bless; Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; He, They, One, All; within, without; The Power in darkness whom we guess; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye; Nor thro’ the questions men may try, The petty cobwebs we have spun: 500 If e’er when faith had fall’n asleep, I heard a voice ‘believe no more’ And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the Godless deep; A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason’s colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answer’d ‘I have felt.’ No, like a child in doubt and fear: But that blind clamour made me wise; Then was I as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near; And what I am beheld again What is, and no man understands; And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro’ nature, moulding men. CXXV. Whatever I have said or sung, Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, tho’ there often seem’d to live A contradiction on the tongue, Yet Hope had never lost her youth; She did but look through dimmer eyes; Or Love but play’d with gracious lies, Because he felt so fix’d in truth: And if the song were full of care, He breathed the spirit of the song; And if the words were sweet and strong He set his royal signet there; Abiding with me till I sail To seek thee on the mystic deeps, And this electric force, that keeps 501 A thousand pulses dancing, fail. CXXVI. Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring. Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho’ as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass’d by his faithful guard, And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well. CXXVII. And all is well, tho’ faith and form Be sunder’d in the night of fear; Well roars the storm to those that hear A deeper voice across the storm, Proclaiming social truth shall spread, And justice, ev’n tho’ thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine Should pile her barricades with dead. But ill for him that wears a crown, And him, the lazar, in his rags: They tremble, the sustaining crags; The spires of ice are toppled down, And molten up, and roar in flood; The fortress crashes from on high, The brute earth lightens to the sky, And the great Æon sinks in blood, 502 And compass’d by the fires of Hell; While thou, dear spirit, happy star, O’erlook’st the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well. CXXVIII. The love that rose on stronger wings, Unpalsied when he met with Death, Is comrade of the lesser faith That sees the course of human things. No doubt vast eddies in the flood Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade; Yet O ye mysteries of good, Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, If all your office had to do With old results that look like new; If this were all your mission here, To To To To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, fool the crowd with glorious lies, cleave a creed in sects and cries, change the bearing of a word, To shift an arbitrary power, To cramp the student at his desk, To make old bareness picturesque And tuft with grass a feudal tower; Why then my scorn might well descend On you and yours. I see in part That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil coöperant to an end. CXXIX. 503 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and weal; O loved the most, when most I feel There is a lower and a higher; Known and unknown; human, divine; Sweet human hand and lips and eye; Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; Strange friend, past, present, and to be; Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee. CXXX. Thy voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then? I cannot guess; But tho’ I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less: My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now; Tho’ mix’d with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I have thee still, and I rejoice; I prosper, circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee tho’ I die. CXXXI. 504 O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquer’d years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. _________ O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made 505 As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. But where is she, the bridal flower, That must he made a wife ere noon? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The ‘wilt thou’ answer’d, and again The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain 506 Her sweet ‘I will’ has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign’d, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them–maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days. Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy. 507 But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour’d horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look’d, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew. Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three, And last the dance;–till I retire: Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire: And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapour sail And pass the silent-lighted town, The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at every mountain head, And o’er the friths that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills; And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall; And breaking let the splendour fall To spangle all the happy shores By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, 508 A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds, And, moved thro’ life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge; under whose command Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book; No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer’d, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God, That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,