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1.008_-_The_Spoils

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   3 Sri Aurobindo
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   2 Murray Bookchin
   2 Laurell K Hamilton
   2 F Scott Fitzgerald
   2 Edward Gibbon
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*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:The haggard aspect of the little old man was wonderfully suited to the place; he might have groped among old churches and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with himself nothing that looked older or more worn than he. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove

2:But the best argument of all [for evangelism] is to be found in the wounds of Jesus. You want to honor Him, you desire to put many crowns upon His head, and this you can best do by winning souls for Him. These are the spoils that He covets, these are the trophies for which He fights, these are the jewels that shall be His best adornment. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Rich with the spoils of time. ~ Thomas Gray,

2:The youth are the spoils of war. ~ Laini Taylor,

3:To the victors belong the spoils. ~ Andrew Jackson,

4:the victor belongs to the spoils ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

5:The victor belongs to the spoils. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

6:The greater the battle - the greater the spoils. ~ T D Jakes,

7:Some kind of internecine conflict, over the spoils. ~ Lee Child,

8:The lives lost are of less consequence than the spoils gained. ~ Hugh Howey,

9:I believe in the old warrior's credo that "to the victor go the spoils." ~ Pope Francis,

10:What your profession might call trophies we marines call the spoils of war ~ Mingo Kane,

11:The innocent suffered while evil thrived, and to the victors went the spoils. ~ Joe Schreiber,

12:I do not show mercy or make bargains. I take what I want and revel in the spoils ~ Ashlan Thomas,

13:If a thief helps a poor man out of the spoils of his thieving, we must not call that charity. ~ Dante Alighieri,

14:I would never judge someone's intrigue with the spoils of fame, because I went through that. ~ Alanis Morissette,

15:The spoils of vice are a burdensome responsibility. - Will Yet one you seem strangely able to bear. - Jem ~ Cassandra Clare,

16:True power comes when others offer it to you and you merely accept it as a gift, not as the spoils of some personal war. ~ Laurell K Hamilton,

17:The victors always think they are righteous. But then, they always seem to start a mighty unrighteous squabbling over the spoils. ~ Stephen L Carter,

18:It’s always the same war. Only the names of the dead change. It’s always about one thing: which group of rich men get to divvy up the spoils. ~ A G Riddle,

19:It’s always the same war. Only the names of the dead change. It’s always about one thing: which group of rich men get to divvy up the spoils. ========== ~ Anonymous,

20:the spoils are carried along in the procession. They are called cultural treasures, and a historical materialist views them with cautious detachment. ~ Walter Benjamin,

21:Above their rooftops Nature is doing her best to keep up, and the clouds in colors of saffron and apricot echo the spoils of the glorious republic. Nella ~ Jessie Burton,

22:Socialism and capitalism are both essentially materialist, just different ways of approaching the lifeless world of matter and deciding how to share the spoils. ~ Iain McGilchrist,

23:This is a different war—” “It’s always the same war. Only the names of the dead change. It’s always about one thing: which group of rich men get to divvy up the spoils. ~ A G Riddle,

24:Yet if our chief for plunder only fight, The spoils of Ilion shall thy loss requite, Whene'er, by Jove's decree, our conquering powers Shall humble to the dust her lofty towers. ~ Homer,

25:But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. ~ Thomas Gray,

26:Lessons learned are like bridges burned you only need to cross them but once. Is the knowledge gained worth the price of the pain, are the spoils worth the cost of the hunt? ~ Dan Fogelberg,

27:There exists in the Middle East a state, Syria, that emerged from the decisions of a Franco-British diplomatic duo whose job was to divide the spoils of the Ottoman Empire. ~ Bernard Henri L vy,

28:Instead of 150 million Russians sharing the spoils of mass privatization, Russia wound up with twenty-two oligarchs owning 39 percent of the economy and everyone else living in poverty. ~ Bill Browder,

29:And he shall spread forth his hands in the midst of them, as he that swimmeth spreadeth forth his hands to swim: and he shall bring down their pride together with the spoils of their hands. ~ Anonymous,

30:It’s always the same war. Only the names of the dead change. It’s always about one thing: which group of rich men get to divvy up the spoils. They call it ‘The Great War’—clever marketing. ~ A G Riddle,

31:Some portion of the Gothic treasures might be the gift of friendship, or the tribute of obedience; but the far greater part had been the fruits of war and rapine, the spoils of the empire, and perhaps of Rome. ~ Edward Gibbon,

32:At some point, while you were roaming the globe, making treaties and dividing the spoils of war, I quietly declared my own independence. I am the sovereign nation of Clio now. And there will be no terms of surrender. ~ Tessa Dare,

33:The division of the spoils between the victors will also provide employment for a powerful office, whose doorsteps the greedy adventurers and jealous concession hunters of twenty or thirty nations will crowd and defile. ~ John Maynard Keynes,

34:From an over-arching point-of-view, in war there is heroism on both sides. Obviously, the victor gets the spoils, the victor gets to write history, but there's heroism and compassion on both sides, and to me that's very important. ~ Russell Crowe,

35:Why are we always the ones running away and you are the ones chasing after us? Why is it always that we surrender and you take the spoils? Why is it that even in the way you beg, there is dominance, and pity in the way we refuse? ~ Sabahattin Ali,

36:Isaiah the prophet, Isaiah's second son was - his symbolic name was Mahershalalhashbaz. And Isaiah was - the Prophet Isaiah was instructed to write the name in all capital letters as a prophecy. And it means hasten to the spoils, speedy as the prey. ~ Mahershala Ali,

37:But what can women do in times of war? They help, they cheer, they inspire, and if their cause is lost they must accept death or worse. Few women have the courage for self-destruction. "To the victor belong the spoils," and women have ever been the spoils of war. ~ Zane Grey,

38:Thus, more than ever before, society was divided into two classes: those who became steadily poorer and more destitute, and those who built up their prosperity on the spoils of the ruined Empire—real drones, who lived on the toil and travail of other classes. To ~ Peter R L Brown,

39:Reasons are the spoils of victory. When you've destroyed the enemy, then your leaders write down the reasons in books, and give moving speeches about them. If you've done your job, then there aren't any of the enemy left to dispute your leader's reasons. At least not until the next war. ~ Terry Goodkind,

40:One of the many reasons that Padma will always be a secondary power on the Council is his belief that all power must be taken, that all power must come through fear. True power comes when others offer it to you and you merely accept it as a gift, not as the spoils of some personal war. ~ Laurell K Hamilton,

41:Then to the victor go the spoils. You rise up by lifting, you know, each other up. You win. And so isn't this the time to be magnanimous like Donald Trump is and not to be, you know, predicting or projecting on to the press how they must cover him. They're going to cover him how they see fit. ~ Megyn Kelly,

42:Welcome to the ring. Enter those who dare, and let them share the spoils. Only they have earned it. Will you win? The ring offers no promises. But one thing’s for sure: unless you get in the ring today, you don’t even stand a damn chance. Decide what really matters, and get in the ring for it—now. ~ Julien Smith,

43:The haggard aspect of the little old man was wonderfully suited to the place; he might have groped among old churches and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with himself nothing that looked older or more worn than he. ~ Charles Dickens,

44:The poets, when they speak of war, talk of the shield wall, they talk of the spears and arrows flying, of the blade beating on the shield, of the heroes who fall and the spoils of the victors, but I was to discover that war was really about food. About feeding men and horses. About finding food. The army that eats wins. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

45:This was the time when the rush for the spoils filled a corner of the forest with the yelping of hounds, the cracking of whips, the flaring of torches. The appetites let loose were satisfied at last, shamelessly, amid the sound of crumbling neighbourhoods and fortunes made in six months. The city had become an orgy of gold and women. ~ mile Zola,

46:The city belongs to the black man. The white man was a convenient target until there were no white men left in Detroit. What used to be black and white is now gray. Whites got the suburbs and everything else. The black machine’s got the city and the black machine’s at war with itself. The spoils go to the one who understands that. ~ Charlie LeDuff,

47:There are two choices: to be human, made in the image of God, with Jesus; warp to be in human, consumed with greed and on aware of the pain that is inflicted upon others. Put in simple options, it is to be human and forgive, make peace in spite of all hatred, or to be in human and kill, dividing the spoils. To be dead before you die. ~ Megan McKenna,

48:But the best argument of all [for evangelism] is to be found in the wounds of Jesus. You want to honor Him, you desire to put many crowns upon His head, and this you can best do by winning souls for Him. These are the spoils that He covets, these are the trophies for which He fights, these are the jewels that shall be His best adornment. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

49:Clay found himself smiling, recalling the first time he and his bandmates had paraded the spoils of their own Heartwyld tour down this very same street –not that there was much to recall, since they’d all been blind drunk at the time. Moog had slept through most of it; Matrick had fallen from the wagon into the crowd and was missing for three days. ~ Nicholas Eames,

50:Throughout the Pacific, one could find an illicit trade in “torpedo juice,” the high-proof fuel used in torpedoes. Beer was usually rationed at two cans a week. When a larger quantity of beer was obtained by backhanded means, it could be chilled by taking it to high altitude for thirty minutes. Pilots would provide that service in exchange for a share of the spoils. ~ Ian W Toll,

51:Unions are important. They might not be revolutionary organizations, but they are labor’s primary vehicle in the battle with capital over the spoils of production. Today, despite organizing just 11 percent of the US workforce, unions are still the only institutions capable of exerting political pressure at the scale required to push back against national elites. ~ Bhaskar Sunkara,

52:Only 5 percent of entrepreneurship is the big idea, the business model, the whiteboard strategizing, and the splitting up of the spoils. The other 95 percent is the gritty work that is measured by innovation accounting: product prioritization decisions, deciding which customers to target or listen to, and having the courage to subject a grand vision to constant testing and feedback. ~ Eric Ries,

53:it is easy to imagine the widespread pleasure when in 167 BCE Rome became a tax-free state: the treasury was so overflowing – thanks, in particular, to the spoils from the recent victory over Macedon – that direct taxation of Roman citizens was suspended except in emergencies, although they remained liable to a range of other levies, such as customs dues or a special tax charged on freeing slaves. ~ Mary Beard,

54:I made the house steward unlock the cellar so I could browse over the wine collection,” West remarked. “It’s gloriously well provisioned. Among the spoils, there are at least ten varieties of important champagne, twenty cabernets, at least that many of bordeaux, and a large quantity of French brandy.” “Perhaps if I drink enough of it,” Devon said, “I won’t notice the house falling down around our ears. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

55:A number of the heads of the offices were slippery politicians of a low moral grade, themselves appointed under the spoils system, and anxious, directly or indirectly, to break down the merit system and to pay their own political debts by appointing their henchmen and supporters to the positions under them. Occasionally these men acted with open and naked brutality. Ordinarily they sought by cunning to evade the law. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,

56:I think men get nervous when women start counting the number of female senators, and whites become edgy when they hear the next Supreme Court seat will probably go to a Latino. This isn't always because they object to sharing the spoils, by the way; it just reminds us that the melting pot may not be working, and we haven't yet achieved the ambiguous national dream of becoming a nation of indistinguishable beige atheists. ~ Dahlia Lithwick,

57:I hear of boys thinking that a coal miner should be treated with the same respect as a landowner! And my own younger sister hopes to go to university and study medicine! She doesn't even wish to get married! These are the spoils of the so-called progressive mind. I love being spoiled [thought Maisie] We must defend our small island against those who would attempt to call it home, while having no right to it. We are the true Britons! ~ Sarah Jane Stratford,

58:The judge asked the question on everyone’s mind: What possibly could have occupied his time—2½ years of absence from work? What was he doing? “Exercising,” he said. Doing house projects. Beale told investigators he would usually get some reading or bicycling done, too. There it was. John Beale lied for more than a decade and spent the spoils of his charade as anyone else would spend a lazy Sunday. The judge gave him 32 months. ~ Various,

59:With his rearmament programme already under way, Hitler's logical next step was to disrupt the League of Nations. He told Hindenburg that it was so firmly anchored in the Diktat of Versailles that it resembled nothing if not a ganging-up by the victors to ensure that the spoils and booty of the World War were exacted from the vanquished. He would have cooperated with the League if they had accepted Germany as an equal; but as they would not, he proposed to withdraw on October 14, 1933. ~ David Irving,

60:If a king cannot have a son, if he cannot do that, it matters not what else he can do. The victories, the spoils of victory, the just laws he makes, the famous courts he holds, these are as nothing.’ It is true. To maintain the stability of the realm: this is the compact a king makes with his people. If he cannot have a son of his own, he must find an heir, name him before his country falls into doubt and confusion, faction and conspiracy. And who can Henry name, that will not be laughed ~ Hilary Mantel,

61:The people copy their rules, just as children ape their parents. Violence is a symptom of a dysfunctional system, where people have no patience for or confidence in due process. The poor don't believe they can get justice from the courts, because usually they can't; the elite know the system is rigged because they rigged it. The ones at the top keep the door shut because they don't want to share the spoils of office. Actual violence, or the thread of it, helps to keep the populace in check, just as poverty does. ~ Helon Habila,

62:Proud With The Spoils Of Royal Cully Proud with the spoils of royal cully, With false pretence to wit and parts, She swaggers like a batter'd bully To try the tempers of men's hearts. Tho' she appears as gay and fine As jet and gems and paint can make her, She ne'er shall win a heart like mine -The devil or Sir Davy take her. Her bed is like the Scripture feast, Where none who were invited came, So disappointed of her guest, She took up with the blind and lame. ~ Charles Sackville,

63:Roque...lined his men up and had them produce all the clothing, jewels, money, and other objects that they had stolen since the last time they had divided the spoils. Having made a hasty appraisal and reduced to terms of money those items that could not be divided, he split the whole into shares with such equity and exactitude that in not a single instance did he go beyond or fall short of a strict distributive justice. They were all well satisfied with the payment received, indeed they were quite well pleased; and Roque then turned to Don Quixote. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

64:In our own time we have seen domination spread over the social landscape to a point where it is beyond all human control. Compared to this stupendous mobilization of materials, of wealth, of human intellect, of human labor for the single goal of domination, all other recent human achievements pale to almost trivial significance. Our art, science, medicine, literature, music and charitable acts seem like mere droppings from a table on which gory feasts on the spoils of conquest have engaged the attention of a system whose appetite for rule is utterly unrestrained. ~ Murray Bookchin,

65:Politicians, a moribund labor movement, and the mass media—either cowed or in the service of corporate power—assure the population that the old prosperity is still attainable, but via a different route. Prosperity will no longer come from expanding the manufacturing base, which characterized the very real prosperity of working men and women immediately after World War II. The neoliberal version of the promise of rising living standards is based on the fallacy of economic deregulation and financialization. Let us be rich, the elites say, and you will share in the spoils. ~ Chris Hedges,

66:In our own time we have seen domination spread over the social landscape to a point where it is beyond all human control.... Compared to this stupendous mobilization of materials, of wealth, of human intellect, of human labor for the single goal of domination, all other recent human achievements pale to almost trivial significance. Our art, science, medicine, literature, music and "charitable" acts seem like mere droppings from a table on which gory feasts on the spoils of conquest have engaged the attention of a system whose appetite for rule is utterly unrestrained. ~ Murray Bookchin,

67:In the siege of Viminiacum, he had lost, according to his own account, his fortune and liberty; he became the slave of Onegesius; but his faithful services, against the Romans and the Acatzires, had gradually raised him to the rank of the native Huns; to whom he was attached by the domestic pledges of a new wife and several children. The spoils of war had restored and improved his private property; he was admitted to the table of his former lord; and the apostate Greek blessed the hour of his captivity, since it had been the introduction to a happy and independent state; ~ Edward Gibbon,

68:Oh, come on,” she countered. “All women, especially New Yorkers, do that, Susannah. We’re competitive. Seriously, don’t be so hard on yourself. Just try not to do it again.” Mackenzie would later admit she was concerned not by the act of snooping itself but by my overreaction to having done it. I spotted Paul smoking nearby and posed the same question. I could depend on him to tell it to me straight. “No, you’re not crazy,” he assured me. “And you shouldn’t be worried. Every guy keeps pictures or something from their exes. It’s the spoils of war,” he explained helpfully. Paul could always be counted on for a man’s perspective, ~ Susannah Cahalan,

69:Joshua and Caleb stayed outside the camp of Israel for seven days of purification, along with Othniel and all the men who had killed anyone in the destruction of Midian. It was required of Yahweh as a consecration of his holiness. Even the spoils that they captured would have to be purified. They killed every male, adult and child, and every woman who had lain with a man, since these were the ones who had seduced the sons of Israel into their idolatry. The young girls who had not lain with men were taken as captives. These captives as well as their clothes, and personal items were all cleansed in the waters of baptism, along with the Israelite soldiers. ~ Brian Godawa,

70:The demands for vengeance, short of death, however, were so insistent that the wise counsels of Edward, the giver of victory, were swept aside. His brother, Edmund, who had played no part in the fighting, clamoured for the utmost severity, being rewarded himself with the earldom of Leicester and the state offices of the dead holder. Nothing in the way of punishment and confiscation was sweeping enough for the rapacious Mortimer, the demanding Gifford of Bath, the King’s Men and the Queen’s Men, who returned with outstretched palms for a share of the spoils. Henry himself was in favor of wholesale confiscation, which would relieve his debt. His hands itched for the feel, if not of the throat of London, at least its pockets. ~ Thomas B Costain,

71:Look Up, Desponding Hearts! See, Morning Sallies Look up, desponding hearts! See, Morning sallies From out her tents behind the screening hill, And speeds her glittering lances on the valleys Where hostile mists, unconscious, slumber still. Roused from their vain security, they clamber Up the far slopes and seek the open sky, Till hill and dale are tinged with gold and amber, The spoils of victory from those that fly. Thus when, as though surrendered to the Night, Men's spirits sleep, shall wakeful Freedom burst With piercing ray even here, and flood with light Each skulking nook by loutish custom curst; But in the glow of victory will spare, Turning all ill to good, all foul to fair. ~ Alfred Austin,

72:the " scramble of politicians and speculators " did more than anything else " to disgust Madison with the administration party and drive him into opposition." Madison himself, in writing to Jefferson, in July, 1791, said: " The subscriptions (to the bank) are consequently a mere scramble for so much public plunder, which will be engrossed by those already loaded with the spoils of individuals. It pretty clearly appears, also, in what proportion the public debt lies in the country, what sort of hands hold it, and by whom the people of the United States are to be governed. Of all the shameful circumstances of this business, it is among the greatest to see the members of the legislature (congress) who were most active in pushing this job openly grasping its emoluments. ~ Anonymous,

73:The Train Dogs Out of the night and the north; Savage of breed and of bone, Shaggy and swift comes the yelping band, Freighters of fur from the voiceless land That sleeps in the Arctic zone. Laden with skins from the north, Beaver and bear and raccoon, Marten and mink from the polar belts, Otter and ermine and sable pelts-The spoils of the hunter's moon. Out of the night and the north, Sinewy, fearless and fleet, Urging the pack through the pathless snow, The Indian driver, calling low, Follows with moccasined feet. Ships of the night and the north, Freighters on prairies and plains, Carrying cargoes from field and flood They scent the trail through their wild red blood, The wolfish blood in their veins. ~ Emily Pauline Johnson,

74:He was sitting in the midst of a children's party at Harold's Cross. His silent watchful manner had grown upon him and he took little part in the games. The children, wearing the spoils of their crackers, danced and romped noisily and, though he tried to share their merriment, he felt himself a gloomy figure amid the gay cocked hats and sunbonnets. But when he had sung his song and withdrawn into a snug corner of the room he began to taste the joy of his loneliness. The mirth, which in the beginning of the evening had seemed to him false and trivial, was like a sothing air to him, passing gaily by his senses, hiding from other eyes the feverish agitation of his blood while through the circling of the dancers and amid the music and laughter her glance travelled to his corner, flattering, taunting, searching, exciting his heart. ~ James Joyce,

75:Petrarch, poet laureate of the empire, described the papal court in Avignon scornfully as "the shame of mankind, a sink of vice, a sewer where is gathered all the filth of the world. There God is held in contempt, money alone is worshipped and the laws of God and men are trampled under foot. Everything there breathes a lie: the air, the earth, the houses and above all the bedrooms." Referring to Avignon as "the Babylon of the West," Petrarch declared:       Here reign the successors of the poor fishermen of Galilee. . . loaded with gold and clad in purple, boasting of the spoils of princes and nations. Instead of holy solitude we find a criminal host. . . instead of soberness, licentious banquets. . . instead of the bare feet of the apostles. . . horses decked in gold and fed on gold, soon to be shod with gold, if the Lord does not check this slavish luxury.25 ~ Dave Hunt,

76:In late 2014, Minecraft creator Markus “Notch” Persson sold his company to Microsoft for $2.5 billion. Notch published a depressive justification for his desire to recede from public life thanks to the impossibility of satisfying the onslaught of demands from his customers and fans—another thing that can turn on you, it turns out. Then he bought a $70 million Beverly Hills mansion, along with all the furnishings, accessories, art, even the cases of champagne and tequila, even the ultraluxury vehicles the real estate speculator who built the place had installed within its sprawling garage for staging. Notch, the man who made a blank canvas world in which you could make anything, used the spoils to buy a prepackaged, off-the-shelf billionaire’s life. As for his fans, undeterred, they dutifully reconstructed a version of the $70 million mansion in Minecraft.16 It’s an addict’s logic: only one more hand, only one more hit, then I’ll be satisfied. Then I can stop. But, of course, that’s not how addiction works. With every repetition, the effect of a compulsion reduces, requiring even more stimulation to produce formerly intoxicating results. Such ~ Ian Bogost,

77:A goal is a specific objective that you either achieve or don't sometime in the future. A system is something you do on a regular basis that increases your odds of happiness in the long run. If you do something every day, its a system. If you're waiting to achieve it someday in the future, it's a goal. If you achieve your goal, you celebrate and feel terrific, but only until you realize you just lost the thing that gave you purpose and direction. Your options are to feel empty and useless, perhaps enjoying the spoils of your success until they bore you, or set new goals and reenter the cycle of permanent presuccess failure. All I'm suggesting is that thinking of goals and systems as very different concepts has power. Goal-oriented people exist in a state of continuous presuccess failure at best, and permanent failure at worst if things never work out. Systems people succeed every time they apply their systems, in the sense that they did what they intended to do. The goals people are fighting the feeling of discouragement at each turn. The systems people are feeling good everytime they apply their system. That's a big difference in terms of maintaining your personal energy in the right direction. ~ Scott Adams,

78:Later in the evening, Devon and West had dinner in the dilapidated splendor of the dining room. The meal was of far better quality than they had expected, consisting of cold cucumber soup, roast pheasant dressed with oranges, and puddings rolled in sweetened bread crumbs. “I made the house steward unlock the cellar so I could browse over the wine collection,” West remarked. “It’s gloriously well provisioned. Among the spoils, there are at least ten varieties of important champagne, twenty cabernets, at least that many of bordeaux, and a large quantity of French brandy.” “Perhaps if I drink enough of it,” Devon said, “I won’t notice the house falling down around our ears.” “There are no obvious signs of weakness in the foundation. No walls out of plumb, for example, nor any visible cracks in the exterior stone that I’ve seen so far.” Devon glanced at him with mild surprise. “For a man who’s seldom more than half sober, you’ve noticed a great deal.” “Have I?” West looked perturbed. “Forgive me--I seem to have become accidentally lucid.” He reached for his wineglass. “Eversby Priory is one of the finest sporting estates in England. Perhaps we should shoot grouse tomorrow.” “Splendid,” Devon said. “I would enjoy beginning the day with killing something. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

79:Some say freedom is a gift placed in our hands by our forefathers. Some say freedom is a human right that none should be denied. Some say freedom is a privilege that can and will be seized if taken for granted. Some say freedom is the key that opens doors otherwise meant to imprison. Some say freedom is power to do, to be, to say, and to accomplish what the oppressed cannot. Some say freedom is a responsibility—a weight to be carried and shared by those willing to protect it. Perhaps freedom is all these things. But in my eyes, I see freedom as a treasure. It is a gem so rare and precious the fiercest battles rage over it. The blood of thousands is spilled for it—past, present, and future. Where true and unblemished freedom exists, it shines with perfect clarity, drawing the greedy masses, both those who desire a portion of the spoils and those who would rob the possessor of the treasure, hoping to bury it away. Without freedom I am a slave in shackles on a ship lost at sea. With freedom I am a captain; I am a pirate; I am an admiral; I am a scout; I am the eagle souring overhead; I am the north star guiding a crew; I am the ship itself; I am whatever I choose to be. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

80:We're not very different from one another, not different at all, in fact. We're all just people with the same needs, the same desires, the same feelings. It's a lie about us being different. It's something they cooked up so we'd be fighting one another instead of them, the ones who keep us down and make their fortunes off our labor, the same ones who send us off to war when they get to fighting among themselves over the spoils. You'll find that out someday. They'll be calling on you to go to war for them, you can be sure of that, because there's going to be lots more wars in the future. I got in one myself, as you know. I saw men getting killed and wounded and crippled, and I must have killed a lot of men myself, and I'm just sick every time I think of it. Why? Because we were fighting one another instead of those who'd sent us out there. Oh, they're clever, those capitalists. It's hard to beat them at their game. They've fooled us with words like patriotism and duty and honor, and they've got us divided up into classes and religions so that each one of us figures he's better than the other. But it'll all change, 'arry. Believe me, it will. People get smarter. The human brain has a potential for development. Someday it will grow big enough so that everybody will see and understand the truth, and then we won't act like a bunch of sheep, and then that wall that separates the two sides of our street will crumble. ~ Harry Bernstein,

81:The Landing Of The Pilgrim Fathers The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tost; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and water o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear, They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean-eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. 235 What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of the seas? the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found Freedom to worship God! ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

82:O Fabricius! What would your great soul have thought, if to your own misfortune you had been called back to life and had seen the pompous face of this Rome saved by your efforts and which your honourable name had distinguished more than all its conquests? 'Gods,' you would have said, 'what has happened to those thatched roofs and those rustic dwelling places where, back then, moderation and virtue lived? What fatal splendour has succeeded Roman simplicity? What is this strange language? What are these effeminate customs? What do these statues signify, these paintings, these buildings? You mad people, what have you done? You, masters of nations, have you turned yourself into the slaves of the frivolous men you conquered? Are you now governed by rhetoricians? Was it to enrich architects, painters, sculptors, and comic actors that you soaked Greece and Asia with your blood? Are the spoils of Carthage trophies for a flute player? Romans, hurry up and tear down these amphitheatres, break up these marbles, burn these paintings, chase out these slaves who are subjugating you, whose fatal arts are corrupting you. Let other hands distinguish themselves with vain talents. The only talent worthy of Rome is that of conquering the world and making virtue reign there. When Cineas took our Senate for an assembly of kings, he was not dazzled by vain pomp or by affected elegance. He did not hear there this frivolous eloquence, the study and charm of futile men. What then did Cineas see that was so majestic? O citizens! He saw a spectacle which your riches or your arts could never produce, the most beautiful sight which has ever appeared under heaven, an assembly of two hundred virtuous men, worthy of commanding in Rome and governing the earth. ~ Jean Jacques Rousseau,

83:Pax Britannica Behind her rolling ramparts England lay, Impregnable, and girt by cliff-built towers, Weaving to peace and plenty, day by day, The long-drawn hours. In peace Spring freed her flocks and showered her grain, Summer sate smiling under peaceful leaves, And Autumn piled on the unwarlike wain Her sickled sheaves. And white-winged keels flew fluttering to her shore, Laden with Eastern bale or Southern fleece, And from the fields of far-off labour bore The spoils of Peace. Then, seeing Her within her waves so blest, The jealous nations, panoplied alike, Said, ``Look, She wears no armour on her breast: What if we strike?'' But She, of their base greed and armed array Haughtily heedless, moated by her main, Still across ocean ploughed her peaceful way In strong disdain. Then each to other muttered, ``Now at last Her splendour shall be ours, and we shall slake Our envy. She is pillowed on her Past, And will not wake.'' Slowly as stirs a lion from his bed, Lengthens his limbs, and crisps his mane, She rose, Then shook out all her strength, and, flashing, said, ``Where are my foes?'' Thus to herself She did herself reveal, Swiftly yet calmly put her armour on, And, round her Empire sentinelled in steel, Like morning shone! 372 From field and forge there thronged embattled hosts, And that one struck the anvil, this the lyre, And from the furnaces of war her coasts Were fringed with fire. Dazed and dismayed, they veiled their futile vow; Some fain would be her friend, and some would nurse Their hate till they could curb the might that now They could but curse. But they who watch from where the west wind blows, Since great themselves, proud that their kith are great, Said, ``See what comes when England with her foes Speaks at the gate!'' Then back to loom and share her people poured, Chanting peace-paeans as they reaped and gleaned, While, gazing worldward, on her undrawn sword Watchful She leaned. ~ Alfred Austin,

84:Will you dare to say so?–Have you never erred?–Have you never felt one impure sensation?–Have you never indulged a transient feeling of hatred, or malice, or revenge?–Have you never forgot to do the good you ought to do,–or remembered to do the evil you ought not to have done?–Have you never in trade overreached a dealer, or banquetted on the spoils of your starving debtor?–Have you never, as you went to your daily devotions, cursed from your heart the wanderings of your heretical brethren,–and while you dipped your fingers in the holy water, hoped that every drop that touched your pores, would be visited on them in drops of brimstone and sulphur?–Have you never, as you beheld the famished, illiterate, degraded populace of your country, exulted in the wretched and temporary superiority your wealth has given you,–and felt that the wheels of your carriage would not roll less smoothly if the way was paved with the heads of your countrymen? Orthodox Catholic–old Christian–as you boast yourself to be,–is not this true?–and dare you say you have not been an agent of Satan? I tell you, whenever you indulge one brutal passion, one sordid desire, one impure imagination–whenever you uttered one word that wrung the heart, or embittered the spirit of your fellow-creature–whenever you made that hour pass in pain to whose flight you might have lent wings of down–whenever you have seen the tear, which your hand might have wiped away, fall uncaught, or forced it from an eye which would have smiled on you in light had you permitted it–whenever you have done this, you have been ten times more an agent of the enemy of man than all the wretches whom terror, enfeebled nerves, or visionary credulity, has forced into the confession of an incredible compact with the author of evil, and whose confession has consigned them to flames much more substantial than those the imagination of their persecutors pictured them doomed to for an eternity of suffering! Enemy of mankind!' the speaker continued,–'Alas! how absurdly is that title bestowed on the great angelic chief,–the morning star fallen from its sphere! What enemy has man so deadly as himself? If he would ask on whom he should bestow that title aright, let him smite his bosom, and his heart will answer,–Bestow it here! ~ Charles Robert Maturin,

85:Will you want an estimate of all the livestock, my lord?” “Naturally.” “Not my horse.” A new voice entered the conversation. All four men looked to the doorway, where Kathleen stood as straight and rigid as a blade. She stared at Devon with open loathing. “The Arabian belongs to me.” Everyone rose to his feet except for Devon, who remained seated at the desk. “Do you ever enter a room the ordinary way?” he asked curtly, “or is it your usual habit to slink past the threshold and pop up like a jack-in-the-box?” “I only want to make it clear that while you’re tallying the spoils, you will remove my horse from the list.” “Lady Trenear,” Mr. Fogg interceded, “I regret to say that on your wedding day, you relinquished all rights to your movable property.” Kathleen’s eyes narrowed. “I’m entitled to keep my jointure and all the possessions I brought to the marriage.” “Your jointure,” Totthill agreed, “but not your possessions. I assure you that no court in England will regard a married woman as a separate legal being. The horse was your husband’s, and now it belongs to Lord Trenear.” Kathleen’s face went skull-white, and then red. “Lord Trenear is stripping the estate like a jackal with a rotting carcass. Why must he be given a horse that my father gave to me?” Infuriated that Kathleen would show him so little deference in front of the others, Devon stood from the desk and approached her in a few strides. To her credit, she didn’t cower, even though he was twice her size. “Devil take you,” he snapped, “none of this is my fault.” “Of course it is. You’ll seize on any excuse to sell Eversby Priory because you don’t want to take on a challenge.” “It’s only a challenge when there’s some small hope of success. This is a debacle. The list of creditors is longer than my bloody arm, the coffers are empty, and the annual yields have been cut in half.” “I don’t believe you. You’re planning to sell the estate to settle personal debts that have nothing to do with Eversby Priory.” Devon’s hands knotted with the urge to destroy something. His rising bloodlust would only be satisfied with the sound of shattering objects. He had never faced a situation like this, and there was no one to give him trustworthy advice, no kindly aristocratic relation, no knowledgeable friends in the peerage. And this woman could only accuse and insult him. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

86:You never asked. How would I like you to kill it? You are a captain in the Red Army, for goodness’ sake. What do they teach you there?” “How to kill human beings. Not mice.” She barely touched her food. “Well, throw a grenade at it. Use your rifle. I don’t know. But do something.” Alexander shook his head. “You went out into the streets of Leningrad while the Germans were throwing five-hundred-kilo bombs that blew arms and legs off the women standing ahead of you in line, you stood fearless in front of cannibals, you jumped off a moving train to go and find your brother, but you are afraid of mice?” “Now you got it,” Tatiana said defiantly. “It doesn’t make sense,” Alexander said. “If a person is fearless in the big things—” “You’re wrong. Again. Are you done with your questions? Anything else you want to ask? Or add?” “Just one thing.” Alexander kept his face serious. “It looks like,” he said slowly, his voice calm, “we’ve found three uses for that too-high potato countertop I built yesterday.” And he burst out laughing. “Go ahead, laugh,” Tatiana said. “Go ahead. I’m here for your amusement.” Her eyes twinkled. Putting his own plate on the bench, Alexander took the plate out of her hands and brought her to him to stand between his legs. Reluctantly she came. “Tania, do you have any idea how funny you are?” He kissed her chest, looking up at her. “I adore you.” “If you really adored me,” she said, trying to twist herself out of his arms, unsuccessfully, “you wouldn’t be sitting here idly flirting when you could be militarizing that cabin.” Alexander stood up. “Just to point out,” he said, “it’s not called flirting once you’ve made love to the girl.” After Alexander went inside, a smiling Tatiana sat on the bench and finished her food. In a few minutes he emerged from the cabin holding his rifle in one hand, his pistol in the other, and a bayonet attachment between his teeth. The dead mouse was swinging at the end of the bayonet. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “How did I do?” Tatiana failed to keep a straight face. “All right, all right,” she said, chortling. “You didn’t have to bring out the spoils of war.” “Ah, but I know you wouldn’t believe in a dead mouse unless you saw it with your own eyes.” “Will you stop quoting me back to me? Shura, you tell me, I will believe it,” said Tatiana. “Now, go on, get out of here with that thing.” “One last question.” “Oh, no,” said Tatiana, covering her face, trying not to laugh. “Do you think this dead mouse is worth the price of a…killed mouse?” “Will you just go?” Tatiana heard his boisterous laughter all the way to the woods and back. ~ Paullina Simons,

87:What troubles me most about my vegetarianism is the subtle way it alienates me from other people and, odd as this might sound, from a whole dimension of human experience. Other people now have to accommodate me, and I find this uncomfortable: My new dietary restrictions throw a big wrench into the basic host-guest relationship. As a guest, if I neglect to tell my host in advance that I don’t eat meat, she feels bad, and if I do tell her, she’ll make something special for me, in which case I’ll feel bad. On this matter I’m inclined to agree with the French, who gaze upon any personal dietary prohibition as bad manners. Even if the vegetarian is a more highly evolved human being, it seems to me he has lost something along the way, something I’m not prepared to dismiss as trivial. Healthy and virtuous as I may feel these days, I also feel alienated from traditions I value: cultural traditions like the Thanksgiving turkey, or even franks at the ballpark, and family traditions like my mother’s beef brisket at Passover. These ritual meals link us to our history along multiple lines—family, religion, landscape, nation, and, if you want to go back much further, biology. For although humans no longer need meat in order to survive (now that we can get our B-12 from fermented foods or supplements), we have been meat eaters for most of our time on earth. This fact of evolutionary history is reflected in the design of our teeth, the structure of our digestion, and, quite possibly, in the way my mouth still waters at the sight of a steak cooked medium rare. Meat eating helped make us what we are in a physical as well as a social sense. Under the pressure of the hunt, anthropologists tell us, the human brain grew in size and complexity, and around the hearth where the spoils of the hunt were cooked and then apportioned, human culture first flourished. This isn’t to say we can’t or shouldn’t transcend our inheritance, only that it is our inheritance; whatever else may be gained by giving up meat, this much at least is lost. The notion of granting rights to animals may lift us up from the brutal, amoral world of eater and eaten—of predation—but along the way it will entail the sacrifice, or sublimation, of part of our identity—of our own animality. (This is one of the odder ironies of animal rights: It asks us to acknowledge all we share with animals, and then to act toward them in a most unanimalistic way.) Not that the sacrifice of our animality is necessarily regrettable; no one regrets our giving up raping and pillaging, also part of our inheritance. But we should at least acknowledge that the human desire to eat meat is not, as the animal rightists would have it, a trivial matter, a mere gastronomic preference. By the same token we might call sex—also now technically unnecessary for reproduction—a mere recreational preference. Rather, our meat eating is something very deep indeed. ~ Michael Pollan,

88:Moscow can be a cold, hard place in winter. But the big old house on Tverskoy Boulevard had always seemed immune to these particular facts, the way that it had seemed immune to many things throughout the years. When breadlines filled the streets during the reign of the czars, the big house had caviar. When the rest of Russia stood shaking in the Siberian winds, that house had fires and gaslight in every room. And when the Second World War was over and places like Leningrad and Berlin were nothing but rubble and crumbling walls, the residents of the big house on Tverskoy Boulevard only had to take up a hammer and drive a single nail—to hang a painting on the landing at the top of the stairs—to mark the end of a long war. The canvas was small, perhaps only eight by ten inches. The brushstrokes were light but meticulous. And the subject, the countryside near Provence, was once a favorite of an artist named Cézanne. No one in the house spoke of how the painting had come to be there. Not a single member of the staff ever asked the man of the house, a high-ranking Soviet official, to talk about the canvas or the war or whatever services he may have performed in battle or beyond to earn such a lavish prize. The house on Tverskoy Boulevard was not one for stories, everybody knew. And besides, the war was over. The Nazis had lost. And to the victors went the spoils. Or, as the case may be, the paintings. Eventually, the wallpaper faded, and soon few people actually remembered the man who had brought the painting home from the newly liberated East Germany. None of the neighbors dared to whisper the letters K-G-B. Of the old Socialists and new socialites who flooded through the open doors for parties, not one ever dared to mention the Russian mob. And still the painting stayed hanging, the music kept playing, and the party itself seemed to last—echoing out onto the street, fading into the frigid air of the night. The party on the first Friday of February was a fund-raiser—though for what cause or foundation, no one really knew. It didn’t matter. The same people were invited. The same chef was preparing the same food. The men stood smoking the same cigars and drinking the same vodka. And, of course, the same painting still hung at the top of the stairs, looking down on the partygoers below. But one of the partygoers was not, actually, the same. When she gave the man at the door a name from the list, her Russian bore a slight accent. When she handed her coat to a maid, no one seemed to notice that it was far too light for someone who had spent too long in Moscow’s winter. She was too short; her black hair framed a face that was in every way too young. The women watched her pass, eyeing the competition. The men hardly noticed her at all as she nibbled and sipped and waited until the hour grew late and the people became tipsy. When that time finally came, not one soul watched as the girl with the soft pale skin climbed the stairs and slipped the small painting from the nail that held it. She walked to the window. And jumped. And neither the house on Tverskoy Boulevard nor any of its occupants ever saw the girl or the painting again. ~ Ally Carter,

89:I was born free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting them see me, I have by words undeceived, and if their longings live on hope—and I have given none to Chrysostom or to any other—it cannot justly be said that the death of any is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that killed him; and if it be made a charge against me that his wishes were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield to them, I answer that when on this very spot where now his grave is made he declared to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to live in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he chose to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified him, I should have acted against my own better resolution and purpose. He was persistent in spite of warning, he despaired without being hated. Bethink you now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my charge. Let him who has been deceived complain, let him give way to despair whose encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself whom I shall entice, let him boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or homicide to whom I make no promise, upon whom I practise no deception, whom I neither entice nor receive. It has not been so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve for each of my suitors on his own account, and let it be understood from this time forth that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for she who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to any, and candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something noxious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his service; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me cruel, pursue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostom's impatience and violent passion killed him, why should my modest behaviour and circumspection be blamed? If I preserve my purity in the society of the trees, why should he who would have me preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I have, as you know, wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others; my taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I neither love nor hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or trifle with one or play with another. The modest converse of the shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care of my goats are my recreations; my desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps by which the soul travels to its primeval abode. ~ Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,

90:Fragments In that fair capital where Pleasure, crowned Amidst her myriad courtiers, riots and rules, I too have been a suitor. Radiant eyes Were my life's warmth and sunshine, outspread arms My gilded deep horizons. I rejoiced In yielding to all amorous influence And multiple impulsion of the flesh, To feel within my being surge and sway The force that all the stars acknowledge too. Amid the nebulous humanity Where I an atom crawled and cleaved and sundered, I saw a million motions, but one law; And from the city's splendor to my eyes The vapors passed and there was nought but Love, A ferment turbulent, intensely fair, Where Beauty beckoned and where Strength pursued. II There was a time when I thought much of Fame, And laid the golden edifice to be That in the clear light of eternity Should fitly house the glory of my name. But swifter than my fingers pushed their plan, Over the fair foundation scarce begun, While I with lovers dallied in the sun, The ivy clambered and the rose-vine ran. And now, too late to see my vision, rise, In place of golden pinnacles and towers, Only some sunny mounds of leaves and flowers, Only beloved of birds and butterflies. My friends were duped, my favorers deceived; 29 But sometimes, musing sorrowfully there, That flowered wreck has seemed to me so fair I scarce regret the temple unachieved. III For there were nights . . . my love to him whose brow Has glistened with the spoils of nights like those, Home turning as a conqueror turns home, What time green dawn down every street uprears Arches of triumph! He has drained as well Joy's perfumed bowl and cried as I have cried: Be Fame their mistress whom Love passes by. This only matters: from some flowery bed, Laden with sweetness like a homing bee, If one have known what bliss it is to come, Bearing on hands and breast and laughing lips The fragrance of his youth's dear rose. To him The hills have bared their treasure, the far clouds Unveiled the vision that o'er summer seas Drew on his thirsting arms. This last thing known, He can court danger, laugh at perilous odds, And, pillowed on a memory so sweet, Unto oblivious eternity Without regret yield his victorious soul, The blessed pilgrim of a vow fulfilled. IV What is Success? Out of the endless ore Of deep desire to coin the utmost gold Of passionate memory; to have lived so well That the fifth moon, when it swims up once more Through orchard boughs where mating orioles build And apple flowers unfold, Find not of that dear need that all things tell The heart unburdened nor the arms unfilled. O Love, whereof my boyhood was the dream, 30 My youth the beautiful novitiate, Life was so slight a thing and thou so great, How could I make thee less than all-supreme! In thy sweet transports not alone I thought Mingled the twain that panted breast to breast. The sun and stars throbbed with them; they were caught Into the pulse of Nature and possessed By the same light that consecrates it so. Love! -- 'tis the payment of the debt we owe The beauty of the world, and whensoe'er In silks and perfume and unloosened hair The loveliness of lovers, face to face, Lies folded in the adorable embrace, Doubt not as of a perfect sacrifice That soul partakes whose inspiration fills The springtime and the depth of summer skies, The rainbow and the clouds behind the hills, That excellence in earth and air and sea That makes things as they are the real divinity. ~ Alan Seeger,

91:Ode On The Istallation Of The Duke Of Devonshire Hence a while, severer Muses; Spare your slaves till drear October. Hence; for Alma Mater chooses Not to be for ever sober: But, like stately matron gray, Calling child and grandchild round her, Will for them at least be gay; Share for once their holiday; And, knowing she will sleep the sounder, Cheerier-hearted on the morrow Rise to grapple care and sorrow, Grandly leads the dance adown, and joins the children's play. So go, for in your places Already, as you see, (Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried), Venus holds court among her sinless graces, With many a nymph from many a park and lea. She, pensive, waits the merrier faces Of those your wittier sisters three, O'er jest and dance and song who still preside, To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide; And bids us, as she smiles or sighs, Tune our fancies by her eyes. Then let the young be glad, Fair girl and gallant lad, And sun themselves to-day By lawn and garden gay; 'Tis play befits the noon Of rosy-girdled June: Who dare frown if heaven shall smile? Blest, who can forget a while; The world before them, and above The light of universal love. Go, then, let the young be gay; From their heart as from their dress Let darkness and let mourning pass away, While we the staid and worn look on and bless. 62 Health to courage firm and high! Health to Granta's chivalry! Wisely finding, day by day, Play in toil, and toil in play. Granta greets them, gliding down On by park and spire and town; Humming mills and golden meadows, Barred with elm and poplar shadows; Giant groves, and learned halls; Holy fanes and pictured walls. Yet she bides not here; around Lies the Muses' sacred ground. Most she lingers, where below Gliding wherries come and go; Stalwart footsteps shake the shores; Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars; Rings aloft the exultant cry For the bloodless victory. There she greets the sports, which breed Valiant lads for England's need; Wisely finding, day by day, Play in toil, and toil in play. Health to courage, firm and high! Health to Granta's chivalry! Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay, For you, too, have your rightful parts to-day. Known long to you, and known through you to fame, Are Chatsworth's halls, and Cavendish's name. You too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet A worthy patron for your ancient seat; And bid her sons from him example take, Of learning purely sought for learning's sake, Of worth unboastful, power in duty spent; And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent. Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir; Fit thy notes to our desire. Long may he sit the chiefest here, Meet us and greet us, year by year; Long inherit, sire and son, All that their race has wrought and won, 63 Since that great Cavendish came again, Round the world and over the main, Breasting the Thames with his mariners bold, Past good Queen Bess's palace of old; With jewel and ingot packed in his hold, And sails of damask and cloth of gold; While never a sailor-boy on board But was decked as brave as a Spanish lord, With the spoils he had won In the Isles of the Sun, And the shores of Fairy-land, And yet held for the crown of the goodly show, That queenly smile from the Palace window, And that wave of a queenly hand. Yes, let the young be gay, And sun themselves to-day;And from their hearts, as from their dress, Let mourning pass away. But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing, And snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our being. Can we forget one friend, Can we forget one face, Which cheered us toward our end, Which nerved us for our race? Oh sad to toil, and yet forego One presence which has made us know To Godlike souls how deep our debt! We would not, if we could, forget. Severer Muses, linger yet; Speak out for us one pure and rich regret. Thou, Clio, who, with awful pen, Gravest great names upon the hearts of men, Speak of a fate beyond our ken; A gem late found and lost too soon; {306} A sun gone down at highest noon; A tree from Odin's ancient root, Which bore for men the ancient fruit, Counsel, and faith and scorn of wrong, And cunning lore, and soothing song, Snapt in mid-growth, and leaving unaware The flock unsheltered and the pasture bare 64 Nay, let us take what God shall send, Trusting bounty without end. God ever lives; and Nature, Beneath His high dictature, Hale and teeming, can replace Strength by strength, and grace by grace, Hope by hope, and friend by friend: Trust; and take what God shall send. So shall Alma Mater see Daughters fair and wise Train new lands of liberty Under stranger skies; Spreading round the teeming earth English science, manhood, worth. 1862. ~ Charles Kingsley,

92:Priam's castle-walls had sunk, Troy in dust and ashes lay, And each Greek, with triumph drunk, Richly laden with his prey, Sat upon his ship's high prow, On the Hellespontic strand, Starting on his journey now, Bound for Greece, his own fair land. Raise the glad exulting shout! Toward the land that gave them birth Turn they now the ships about, As they seek their native earth. And in rows, all mournfully, Sat the Trojan women there, Beat their breasts in agony, Pallid, with dishevelled hair. In the feast of joy so glad Mingled they the song of woe, Weeping o'er their fortunes sad, In their country's overthrow. "Land beloved, oh, fare thee well! By our foreign masters led, Far from home we're doomed to dwell, Ah, how happy are the dead!" Soon the blood by Calchas spilt On the altar heavenward smokes; Pallas, by whom towns are built And destroyed, the priest invokes; Neptune, too, who all the earth With his billowy girdle laves, Zeus, who gives to terror birth, Who the dreaded Aegis waves. Now the weary fight is done, Ne'er again to be renewed; Time's wide circuit now is run, And the mighty town subdued! Atreus' son, the army's head, Told the people's numbers o'er, Whom he, as their captain, led To Scamander's vale of yore. Sorrow's black and heavy clouds Passed across the monarch's brow: Of those vast and valiant crowds, Oh, how few were left him now! Joyful songs let each one raise, Who will see his home again, In whose veins the life-blood plays, For, alas! not all remain! "All who homeward wend their way, Will not there find peace of mind; On their household altars, they Murder foul perchance may find. Many fall by false friend's stroke, Who in fight immortal proved:" So Ulysses warning spoke, By Athene's spirit moved. Happy he, whose faithful spouse Guards his home with honor true! Woman ofttimes breaks her vows, Ever loves she what is new. And Atrides glories there In the prize he won in fight, And around her body fair Twines his arms with fond delight. Evil works must punished be. Vengeance follows after crime, For Kronion's just decree Rules the heavenly courts sublime. Evil must in evil end; Zeus will on the impious band Woe for broken guest-rights send, Weighing with impartial hand. "It may well the glad befit," Cried Olleus' valiant son, "To extol the Gods who sit On Olympus' lofty throne! Fortune all her gifts supplies, Blindly, and no justice knows, For Patroclus buried lies, And Thersites homeward goes! Since she blindly throws away Each lot in her wheel contained, Let him shout with joy to-day Who the prize of life has gained." "Ay, the wars the best devour! Brother, we will think of thee, In the fight a very tower, When we join in revelry! When the Grecian ships were fired, By thine arm was safety brought; Yet the man by craft inspired Won the spoils thy valor sought. Peace be to thine ashes blest! Thou wert vanquished not in fight: Anger 'tis destroys the best, Ajax fell by Ajax' might!" Neoptolemus poured then, To his sire renowned the wine "'Mongst the lots of earthly men, Mighty father, prize I thine! Of the goods that life supplies, Greatest far of all is fame; Though to dust the body flies, Yet still lives a noble name. Valiant one, thy glory's ray Will immortal be in song; For, though life may pass away, To all time the dead belong!" "Since the voice of minstrelsy Speaks not of the vanquished man, I will Hector's witness be," Tydeus' noble son began: "Fighting bravely in defence Of his household-gods he fell. Great the victor's glory thence, He in purpose did excel! Battling for his altars dear, Sank that rock, no more to rise; E'en the foemen will revere One whose honored name ne'er dies." Nestor, joyous reveller old, Who three generations saw, Now the leaf-crowned cup of gold Gave to weeping Hecuba. "Drain the goblet's draught so cool, And forget each painful smart! Bacchus' gifts are wonderful, Balsam for a broken heart. Drain the goblet's draught so cool, And forget each painful smart! Bacchus' gifts are wonderful, Balsam for a broken heart. "E'en to Niobe, whom Heaven Loved in wrath to persecute, Respite from her pangs was given, Tasting of the corn's ripe fruit. Whilst the thirsty lip we lave In the foaming, living spring, Buried deep in Lethe's wave Lies all grief, all sorrowing! Whilst the thirsty lip we lave In the foaming, living spring, Swallowed up in Lethe's wave Is all grief, all sorrowing!" And the Prophetess inspired By her God, upstarted now, Toward the smoke of homesteads fired, Looking from the lofty prow. "Smoke is each thing here below; Every worldly greatness dies, As the vapory columns go, None are fixed but Deities! Cares behind the horseman sit Round about the vessel play; Lest the morrow hinder it, Let us, therefore, live to-day." ~ Friedrich Schiller, Feast Of Victory ,

93:Was then far hardier in the old champaign, As well he should be, since a hardier earth Had him begotten; builded too was he Of bigger and more solid bones within, And knit with stalwart sinews through the flesh, Nor easily seized by either heat or cold, Or alien food or any ail or irk. And whilst so many lustrums of the sun Rolled on across the sky, men led a life After the roving habit of wild beasts. Not then were sturdy guiders of curved ploughs, And none knew then to work the fields with iron, Or plant young shoots in holes of delved loam, Or lop with hooked knives from off high trees The boughs of yester-year. What sun and rains To them had given, what earth of own accord Created then, was boon enough to glad Their simple hearts. Mid acorn-laden oaks Would they refresh their bodies for the nonce; And the wild berries of the arbute-tree, Which now thou seest to ripen purple-red In winter time, the old telluric soil Would bear then more abundant and more big. And many coarse foods, too, in long ago The blooming freshness of the rank young world Produced, enough for those poor wretches there. And rivers and springs would summon them of old To slake the thirst, as now from the great hills The water's down-rush calls aloud and far The thirsty generations of the wild. So, too, they sought the grottos of the Nymphs- The woodland haunts discovered as they ranged- From forth of which they knew that gliding rills With gush and splash abounding laved the rocks, The dripping rocks, and trickled from above Over the verdant moss; and here and there Welled up and burst across the open flats. As yet they knew not to enkindle fire Against the cold, nor hairy pelts to use And clothe their bodies with the spoils of beasts; But huddled in groves, and mountain-caves, and woods, And 'mongst the thickets hid their squalid backs, When driven to flee the lashings of the winds And the big rains. Nor could they then regard The general good, nor did they know to use In common any customs, any laws: Whatever of booty fortune unto each Had proffered, each alone would bear away, By instinct trained for self to thrive and live. And Venus in the forests then would link The lovers' bodies; for the woman yielded Either from mutual flame, or from the man's Impetuous fury and insatiate lust, Or from a bribe- as acorn-nuts, choice pears, Or the wild berries of the arbute-tree. And trusting wondrous strength of hands and legs, They'd chase the forest-wanderers, the beasts; And many they'd conquer, but some few they fled, A-skulk into their hiding-places With the flung stones and with the ponderous heft Of gnarled branch. And by the time of night O'ertaken, they would throw, like bristly boars, Their wildman's limbs naked upon the earth, Rolling themselves in leaves and fronded boughs. Nor would they call with lamentations loud Around the fields for daylight and the sun, Quaking and wand'ring in shadows of the night; But, silent and buried in a sleep, they'd wait Until the sun with rosy flambeau brought The glory to the sky. From childhood wont Ever to see the dark and day begot In times alternate, never might they be Wildered by wild misgiving, lest a night Eternal should posses the lands, with light Of sun withdrawn forever. But their care Was rather that the clans of savage beasts Would often make their sleep-time horrible For those poor wretches; and, from home y-driven, They'd flee their rocky shelters at approach Of boar, the spumy-lipped, or lion strong, And in the midnight yield with terror up To those fierce guests their beds of out-spread leaves. And yet in those days not much more than now Would generations of mortality Leave the sweet light of fading life behind. Indeed, in those days here and there a man, More oftener snatched upon, and gulped by fangs, Afforded the beasts a food that roared alive, Echoing through groves and hills and forest trees, Even as he viewed his living flesh entombed Within a living grave; whilst those whom flight Had saved, with bone and body bitten, shrieked, Pressing their quivering palms to loathsome sores, With horrible voices for eternal death- Until, forlorn of help, and witless what Might medicine their wounds, the writhing pangs Took them from life. But not in those far times Would one lone day give over unto doom A soldiery in thousands marching on Beneath the battle-banners, nor would then The ramping breakers of the main seas dash Whole argosies and crews upon the rocks. But ocean uprisen would often rave in vain, Without all end or outcome, and give up Its empty menacings as lightly too; Nor soft seductions of a serene sea Could lure by laughing billows any man Out to disaster: for the science bold Of ship-sailing lay dark in those far times. Again, 'twas then that lack of food gave o'er Men's fainting limbs to dissolution: now 'Tis plenty overwhelms. Unwary, they Oft for themselves themselves would then outpour The poison; now, with nicer art, themselves They give the drafts to others. author class:Lucretius ~ man, Origins And Savage Period Of Mankind ,

94:The Disappointment 1. One Day the Amarous Lisander, By an impatient Passion sway'd, Surpris'd fair Cloris, that lov'd Maid, Who cou'd defend her self no longer; All things did with his Love conspire, The gilded Planet of the Day, In his gay Chariot, drawn by Fire, War now descending to the Sea, And left no Light to guide the World, But what from Cloris brighter Eves was hurl'd. 2. In alone Thicket, made for Love, Silent as yielding Maids Consent, She with a charming Languishment Permits his force, yet gently strove? Her Hands his Bosom softly meet, But not to put him back design'd, Rather to draw him on inclin'd, Whilst he lay trembling at her feet; Resistance 'tis to late to shew, She wants the pow'r to sav - Ah! what do you do? 3. Her bright Eyes sweat, and yet Severe, Where Love and Shame confus'dly strive, Fresh Vigor to Lisander give: And whispring softly in his Ear, She Cry'd - Cease - cease - your vain desire, Or I'll call out - What wou'd you do? My dearer Honour, ev'n to you, I cannot - must not give - retire, Or take that Life whose chiefest part I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart. 17 4. But he as much unus'd to fear, As he was capable of Love, The blessed Minutes to improve, Kisses her Lips, her Neck, her Hair! Each touch her new Desires alarms! His burning trembling Hand he prest Upon her melting Snowy Breast, While she lay panting in his Arms! All her unguarded Beauties lie The Spoils and Trophies of the Enemy. 5. And now, without Respect or Fear, He seeks the Objects of his Vows; His Love no Modesty allows: By swift degrees advancing where His daring Hand that Alter seiz'd, Where Gods of Love do Sacrifice; That awful Throne, that Paradise, Where Rage is tam'd, and Anger pleas'd; That Living Fountain, from whose Trills The melted Soul in liquid Drops distils. 6. Her balmy Lips encountring his, Their Bodies as their Souls are joyn'd, Where both in Transports were confin'd, Extend themselves upon the Moss. Cloris half dead and breathless lay, Her Eyes appear'd like humid Light, Such as divides the Day and Night; Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay; And now no signs of Life she shows, But what in short-breath-sighs returns and goes. 7. He saw how at her length she lay, 18 He saw her rising Bosom bare, Her loose thin Robes, through which appear A Shape design'd for Love and Play; Abandon'd by her Pride and Shame, She do's her softest Sweets dispence, Offring her Virgin-Innocence A Victim to Loves Sacred Flame; Whilst th' or'e ravish'd Shepherd lies, Unable to perform the Sacrifice. 8. Ready to taste a Thousand Joys, Thee too transported hapless Swain, Found the vast Pleasure turn'd to Pain: Pleasure, which too much Love destroys! The willing Garments by he laid, And Heav'n all open to his view; Mad to possess, himself he threw On the defenceless lovely Maid. But oh! what envious Gods conspire To snatch his Pow'r, yet leave him the Desire! 9. Natures support, without whose Aid She can no humane Being give, It self now wants the Art to live, Faintness it slacken'd Nerves invade: In vain th' enraged Youth assaid To call his fleeting Vigour back, No Motion 'twill from Motion take, Excess of Love his Love betray'd; In vain he Toils, in vain Commands, Th' Insensible fell weeping in his Hands. 10. In this so Am'rous cruel strife, Where Love and Fate were too severe, The poor Lisander in Despair, Renounc'd his Reason with his Life. 19 Now all the Brisk and Active Fire That should the Nobler Part inflame, Unactive Frigid, Dull became, And left no Spark for new Desire; Not all her Naked Charms cou'd move, Or calm that Rage that had debauch'd his Love. 11. Cloris returning from the Trance Which Love and soft Desire had bred, Her tim'rous Hand she gently laid, Or guided by Design or Chance, Upon that Fabulous Priapus, That Potent God (as Poets feign.) But never did young Shepherdess (Garth'ring of Fern upon the Plain) More nimbly draw her Fingers back, Finding beneath the Verdant Leaves a Snake. 12. Then Cloris her fair Hand withdrew, Finding that God of her Desires Disarm'd of all his pow'rful Fires, And cold as Flow'rs bath'd in the Morning-dew. Who can the Nymphs Confusion guess? The Blood forsook the kinder place, And strew'd with Blushes all her Face, Which both Disdain and Shame express; And from Lisanders Arms she fled, Leaving him fainting on the gloomy Bed. 13. Like Lightning through the Grove she hies, Or Daphne from the Delphick God; No Print upon the Grassie Road She leaves, t' instruct pursuing Eyes. The Wind that wanton'd in her Hair, And with her ruffled Garments plaid, Discover'd in the flying Maid 20 All that the Gods e're made of Fair. So Venus, when her Love was Slain, With fear and haste flew o're the fatal Plain. 14. The Nymphs resentments, none but I Can well imagin, and Condole; But none can guess Lisander's Soul, But those who sway'd his Destiny: His silent Griefs, swell up to Storms, And not one God, his Fury spares, He Curst his Birth, his Fate, his Stars, But more the Shepherdesses Charms; Whose soft bewitching influence, Had Damn'd him to the Hell of Impotence. ~ Aphra Behn,

95:From The First Act Of The Aminta Of Tasso Daphne's Answer to Sylvia, declaring she should esteem all as Enemies, who should talk to her of LOVE. THEN, to the snowy Ewe, in thy esteem, The Father of the Flock a Foe must seem, The faithful Turtles to their yielding Mates. The cheerful Spring, which Love and Joy creates, That reconciles the World by soft Desires, And tender Thoughts in ev'ry Breast inspires, To you a hateful Season must appear, Whilst Love prevails, and all are Lovers here. Observe the gentle Murmurs of that Dove, And see, how billing she confirms her Love! For this, the Nightingale displays her Throat, And Love, Love, Love, is all her Ev'ning Note. The very Tygers have their tender Hours, And prouder Lyons bow beneath Love's Pow'rs. Thou, prouder yet than that imperious Beast, Alone deny'st him Shelter in thy Breast. But why should I the Creatures only name That Sense partake, as Owners of this Flame? Love farther goes, nor stops his Course at these: The Plants he moves, and gently bends the Trees. See how those Willows mix their am'rous Boughs; And, how that Vine clasps her supporting Spouse! The silver Firr dotes on the stately Pine; By Love those Elms, by Love those Beeches join. But view that Oak; behold his rugged Side: Yet that rough Bark the melting Flame do's hide. All, by their trembling Leaves, in Sighs declare And tell their Passions to the gath'ring Air. Which, had but Love o'er Thee the least Command, Thou, by their Motions, too might'st understand. AMINTOR, being ask'd by THIRSIS 74 Who is the Object of his Love? speaks as follows. Amint. THIRSIS! to Thee I mean that Name to show, Which, only yet our Groves, and Fountains know: That, when my Death shall through the Plains be told, Thou with the wretched Cause may'st that unfold To every-one, who shall my Story find Carv'd by thy Hand, in some fair Beeches rind; Beneath whose Shade the bleeding Body lay: That, when by chance she shall be led that way, O'er my sad Grave the haughty Nymph may go, And the proud Triumph of her Beauty shew To all the Swains, to Strangers as they pass; And yet at length she may (but Oh! alas! I fear, too high my flatt'ring Hopes do soar) Yet she at length may my sad Fate deplore; May weep me Dead, may o'er my Tomb recline, And sighing, wish were he alive and Mine! But mark me to the End– Thir. Go on; for well I do thy Speech attend, Perhaps to better Ends, than yet thou know'st. Amint. Being now a Child, or but a Youth at most, When scarce to reach the blushing Fruit I knew, Which on the lowest bending Branches grew; Still with the dearest, sweetest, kindest Maid Young as myself, at childish Sports I play'd. The Fairest, sure, of all that Lovely Kind, Who spread their golden Tresses to the Wind; Cydippe's Daughter, and Montano's Heir, Whose Flocks and Herds so num'rous do appear; The beauteous Sylvia; She, 'tis She I love, Warmth of all Hearts, and Pride of ev'ry Grove. With Her I liv'd, no Turtles e'er so fond. Our Houses met, but more our Souls were join'd. Together Nets for Fish, and Fowl we laid; Together through the spacious Forest stray'd; Pursu'd with equal Speed the flying Deer, And of the Spoils there no Divisions were. But whilst I from the Beasts their Freedom won, Alas! I know not how, my Own was gone. By unperceiv'd Degrees the Fire encreas'd, 75 Which fill'd, at last, each corner of my Breast; As from a Root, tho' scarce discern'd so small, A Plant may rise, that grows amazing tall. From Sylvia's Presence now I could not move, And from her Eyes took in full Draughts of Love, Which sweetly thro' my ravish'd Mind distill'd; Yet in the end such Bitterness wou'd yield, That oft I sigh'd, ere yet I knew the cause, And was a Lover, ere I dream'd I was. But Oh! at last, too well my State I knew; And now, will shew thee how this Passion grew. Then listen, while the pleasing Tale I tell. THIRSIS persuades AMINTOR not to despair upon the redictions of Mopsus discov'ring him to be an Impostor. Thirsis. Why dost thou still give way to such Despair! Amintor. Too just, alas! the weighty Causes are. Mopsus, wise Mopsus, who in Art excels, And of all Plants the secret Vertue tells, Knows, with what healing Gifts our Springs abound, And of each Bird explains the mystick Sound; 'Twas He, ev'n He! my wretched Fate foretold. Thir. Dost thou this Speech then of that Mopsus hold, Who, whilst his Smiles attract the easy View, Drops flatt'ring Words, soft as the falling Dew; Whose outward Form all friendly still appears, Tho' Fraud and Daggers in his Thoughts he wears, And the unwary Labours to surprize With Looks affected, and with riddling Lyes. If He it is, that bids thy Love despair, I hope the happier End of all thy Care. So far from Truth his vain Predictions fall. Amint. If ought thou know'st, that may my Hopes recall, Conceal it not; for great I've heard his Fame, And fear'd his Words– Thir. –When hither first I came, And in these Shades the false Imposter met, Like Thee I priz'd, and thought his Judgment great; On all his study'd Speeches still rely'd, 76 Nor fear'd to err, whilst led by such a Guide: When on a Day, that Bus'ness and Delight My Steps did to the Neighb'ring Town invite, Which stands upon that rising Mountain's side, And from our Plains this River do's divide, He check'd me thus–Be warn'd in time, My Son, And that new World of painted Mischiefs shun, Whose gay Inhabitants thou shalt behold Plum'd like our Birds, and sparkling all in Gold; Courtiers, that will thy rustick Garb despise, And mock thy Plainness with disdainful Eyes. But above all, that Structure see thou fly, Where hoarded Vanities and Witchcrafts lie; To shun that Path be thy peculiar Care. I ask, what of that Place the Dangers are: To which he soon replies, there shalt thou meet Of soft Enchantresses th' Enchantments sweet, Who subt'ly will thy solid Sense bereave, And a false Gloss to ev'ry Object give. Brass to thy Sight as polish'd Gold shall seem, And Glass thou as the Diamond shalt esteem. Huge Heaps of Silver to thee shall appear, Which if approach'd, will prove but shining Air. The very Walls by Magick Art are wrought, And Repitition to all Speakers taught: Not such, as from our Ecchoes we obtain, Which only our last Words return again; But Speech for Speech entirely there they give, And often add, beyond what they receive. There downy Couches to false Rest invite, The Lawn is charm'd, that faintly bars the Light. No gilded Seat, no iv'ry Board is there, But what thou may'st for some Delusion fear: Whilst, farther to abuse thy wond'ring Eyes, Strange antick Shapes before them shall arise; Fantastick Fiends, that will about thee flock, And all they see, with Imitation mock. Nor are these Ills the worst. Thyself may'st be Transform'd into a Flame, a Stream, a Tree; A Tear, congeal'd by Art, thou may'st remain, 'Till by a burning Sigh dissolv'd again. 77 Thus spake the Wretch; but cou'd not shake my Mind. My way I take, and soon the City find, Where above all that lofty Fabrick stands, Which, with one View, the Town and Plains commands. Here was I stopt, for who cou'd quit the Ground, That heard such Musick from those Roofs resound! Musick! beyond th' enticing Syrene's Note; Musick! beyond the Swan's expiring Throat; Beyond the softest Voice, that charms the Grove, And equal'd only by the Spheres above. My Ear I thought too narrow for the Art, Nor fast enough convey'd it to my Heart: When in the Entrance of the Gate I saw A Man Majestick, and commanding Awe; Yet temper'd with a Carriage, so refin'd That undetermin'd was my doubtful Mind, Whether for Love, or War, that Form was most design'd. With such a Brow, as did at once declare A gentle Nature, and a Wit severe; To view that Palace me he ask'd to go, Tho' Royal He, and I Obscure and Low. But the Delights my Senses there did meet, No rural Tongue, no Swain can e'er repeat. Celestial Goddesses, or Nymphs as Fair, In unveil'd Beauties, to all Eyes appear Sprinkl'd with Gold, as glorious to the View, As young Aurora, deck'd with pearly Dew; Bright Rays dispensing, as along they pass'd, And with new Light the shining Palace grac'd. Phoebus was there by all the Muses met, And at his Feet was our Elpino set. Ev'n humble Me their Harmony inspir'd, My Breast expanded, and my Spirits fir'd. Rude Past'ral now, no longer I rehearse, But Heroes crown with my exalted Verse. Of Arms I sung, of bold advent'rous Wars; And tho' brought back by my too envious Stars, Yet kept my Voice and Reed those lofty Strains, And sent loud Musick through the wond'ring Plains: Which Mopsus hearing, secretly malign'd, 78 And now to ruin Both at once design'd. Which by his Sorceries he soon brought to pass; And suddenly so clogg'd, and hoarse I was, That all our Shepherds, at the Change amaz'd, Believ'd, I on some Ev'ning-Wolf had gaz'd: When He it was, my luckless Path had crost, By whose dire Look, my Skill awhile was lost. This have I told, to raise thy Hopes again, And render, by distrust, his Malice vain. From the AMINTA of TASSO. THO' we, of small Proportion see And slight the armed Golden Bee; Yet if her Sting behind she leaves, No Ease th' envenom'd Flesh receives. Love, less to Sight than is this Fly, In a soft Curl conceal'd can lie; Under an Eyelid's lovely Shade, Can form a dreadful Ambuscade; Can the most subtil Sight beguile Hid in the Dimples of a Smile. But if from thence a Dart he throw, How sure, how mortal is the Blow! How helpless all the Pow'r of Art To bind, or to restore the Heart! From the AMINTA of TASSO. Part of the Description of the Golden Age. THEN, by some Fountains flow'ry side The Loves unarm'd, did still abide. Then, the loos'd Quiver careless hung, The Torch extinct, the Bow unstrung. Then, by the Nymphs no Charms were worn, But such as with the Nymphs were born. The Shepherd cou'd not, then, complain, Nor told his am'rous Tale in vain. 79 No Veil the Beauteous Face did hide, Nor harmless Freedom was deny'd. Then, Innocence and Virtue reign'd Pure, unaffected, unconstrain'd. Love was their Pleasure, and their Praise, The soft Employment of their Days. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

96:The Kalevala - Rune Xix ILMARINEN'S WOOING. ILMARINEN, hero-blacksmith, The eternal metal-worker, Hastens forward to the court-room Of the hostess of Pohyola, Of the master of the Northland, Hastens through the open portals Into Louhi's home and presence. Servants come with silver pitchers, Filled with Northland's richest brewing; Honey-drink is brought and offered To the blacksmith of Wainola, Ilmarinen thus replying: 'I shall not in all my life-time Taste the drink that thou hast brought me, Till I see the Maid of Beauty, Fairy Maiden of the Rainbow; I will drink with her in gladness, For whose hand I journey hither.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Trouble does the one selected Give to him that wooes and watches; Not yet are her feet in sandals, Thine affianced is not ready. Only canst thou woo my daughter, Only canst thou win the maiden, When thou hast by aid of magic Plowed the serpent-field of Hisi, Plowed the field of hissing vipers, Touching neither beam nor handles. Once this field was plowed by Piru, Lempo furrowed it with horses, With a plowshare made of copper, With a beam of flaming iron; Never since has any hero Brought this field to cultivation.' Ilmarinen of Wainola 172 Straightway hastens to the chamber Of the Maiden of the Rainbow, Speaks these words in hesitation: 'Thou of Night and Dawn the daughter, Tell me, dost thou not remember When for thee I forged the Sampo, Hammered thee the lid in colors? Thou didst swear by oath the strougest, By the forge and by the anvil, By the tongs and by the hammer, In the ears of the Almighty, And before omniscient Ukko, Thou wouldst follow me hereafter, Be my bride, my life-companion, Be my honored wife forever. Now thy mother is exacting, Will not give to me her daughter, Till by means of magic only, I have plowed the field of serpents, Plowed the hissing soil of Hisi.' The affianced Bride of Beauty Gives this answer to the suitor: 'O, thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal wonder-forger, Forge thyself a golden plowshare, Forge the beam of shining silver, And of copper forge the handles; Then with ease, by aid of magic, Thou canst plow the field of serpents, Plow the hissing soil of Hisi.' Ilmarinen, welcome suitor, Straightway builds a forge and smithy, Places gold within the furnace, In the forge he lays the silver, Forges then a golden plowshare, Forges, too, a beam of silver, Forges handles out of copper, Forges boots and gloves of iron, Forges him a mail of metal, For his limbs a safe protection, Safe protection for his body. Then a horse of fire selecting, 173 Harnesses the flaming stallion, Goes to plow the field of serpents, Plow the viper-lands of Hisi. In the field were countless vipers, Serpents there of every species, Crawling, writhing, hissing, stinging, Harmless all against the hero, Thus he stills the snakes of Lempo: 'Vipers, ye by God created, Neither best nor worst of creatures, Ye whose wisdom comes from Ukko, And whose venom comes from Hisi, Ukko is your greater Master, By His will your heads are lifted; Get ye hence before my plowing, Writ-he ye through the grass and stubble, Crawl ye to the nearest thicket, Keep your heads beneath the heather, Hunt our holes to Mana's kingdom If your poison-heads be lifted, Then will mighty Ukko smite them 'With his iron-pointed arrows, With the lightning of his anger.' Thus the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Safely plows the field of serpents, Lifts the vipers in his plowing, Buries them beneath the furrow, Harmless all against his magic. When the task had been completed, Ilmarinen, quick returning, Thus addressed Pohyola's hostess: 'I have plowed the field of Hisi, Plowed the field of hissing serpents, Stilled and banished all the vipers; Give me, ancient dame, thy daughter, Fairest maiden of the Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Shall not grant to thee my daughter, Shall not give my lovely virgin, Till Tuoni's bear is muzzled, Till Manala's wolf is conquered, In the forests of the Death-land, 174 In the boundaries of Mana. Hundreds have been sent to hunt him, So one yet has been successful, All have perished in Manala.' Thereupon young Ilmarinen To the maiden's chamber hastens, Thus addresses his affianced: 'Still another test demanded, I must go to Tuonela, Bridle there the bear of Mana, Bring him from the Death-land forests, From Tuoni's grove and empire! This advice the maiden gives him: 'O thou artist, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forge of steel a magic bridle, On a rock beneath the water, In the foaming triple currents; Make the straps of steel and copper, Bridle then the bear of Mana, Lead him from Tuoni's forests.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Forged of steel a magic bridle, On a rock beneath the water, In the foam of triple currents; Made the straps of steel and copper, Straightway went the bear to muzzle, In the forests of the Death-land, Spake these words in supplication: 'Terhenetar, ether-maiden, Daughter of the fog and snow-flake, Sift the fog and let it settle O'er the bills and lowland thickets, Where the wild-bear feeds and lingers, That he may not see my coming, May not hear my stealthy footsteps!' Terhenetar hears his praying, Makes the fog and snow-flake settle On the coverts of the wild-beasts; Thus the bear he safely bridles, Fetters him in chains of magic, In the forests of Tuoni, 175 In the blue groves of Manala. When this task had been completed, Ilmarinen, quick returning, Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: 'Give me, worthy dame, thy daughter, Give me now my bride affianced, I have brought the bear of Mana From Tuoni's fields and forests.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola To the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'I will only give my daughter, Give to thee the Maid of Beauty, When the monster-pike thou catchest In the river of Tuoni, In Manala's fatal waters, Using neither hooks, nor fish-nets, Neither boat, nor fishing-tackle; Hundreds have been sent to catch him, No one yet has been successful, All have perished in Manala.' Much disheartened, Ilmarinen Hastened to the maiden's chamber, Thus addressed the rainbow-maiden: 'Now a third test is demanded, Much more difficult than ever; I must catch the pike of Mana, In the river of Tuoni, And without my fishing-tackle, Hard the third test of the hero! This advice the maiden gives him: 'O thou hero, Ilmarinen, Never, never be discouraged: In thy furnace, forge an eagle, From the fire of ancient magic; He will catch the pike of Mana, Catch the monster-fish in safety, From the death-stream of Tuoni, From Manala's fatal waters.' Then the suitor, Ilmarinen, The eternal artist-forgeman, In the furnace forged an eagle From the fire of ancient wisdom; 176 For this giant bird of magic Forged he talons out of iron, And his beak of steel and copper; Seats himself upon the eagle, On his back between the wing-bones, Thus addresses he his creature, Gives the bird of fire, this order: 'Mighty eagle, bird of beauty, Fly thou whither I direct thee, To Tuoni's coal-black river, To the blue deeps of the Death-stream, Seize the mighty fish of Mana, Catch for me this water-monster.' Swiftly flies the magic eagle, Giant-bird of worth and wonder, To the river of Tuoni, There to catch the pike of Mana; One wing brushes on the waters, While the other sweeps the heavens; In the ocean dips his talons, Whets his beak on mountain-ledges. Safely landing, Ilmarinen, The immortal artist-forger, Hunts the monster of the Death-stream, While the eagle hunts and fishes In the waters of Manala. From the river rose a monster, Grasped the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Tried to drag him to his sea-cave; Quick the eagle pounced upon him, With his metal-beak he seized him, Wrenched his head, and rent his body, Hurled him back upon the bottom Of the deep and fatal river, Freed his master, Ilmarinen. Then arose the pike of Mana, Came the water-dog in silence, Of the pikes was not the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest; Tongue the length of double hatchets, Teeth as long as fen-rake handles, Mouth as broad as triple streamlets, 177 Back as wide as seven sea-boats, Tried to snap the magic blacksmith, Tried to swallow Ilmarinen. Swiftly swoops the mighty eagle, Of the birds was not the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest; Mouth as wide as seven streamlets, Tongue as long as seven javelins, Like five crooked scythes his talons; Swoops upon the pike of Mana. Quick the giant fish endangered, Darts and flounders in the river, Dragging down the mighty eagle, Lashing up the very bottom To the surface of the river; When the mighty bird uprising Leaves the wounded pike in water, Soars aloft on worsted pinions To his home in upper ether; Soars awhile, and sails, and circles, Circles o'er the reddened waters, Swoops again on lightning-pinions, Strikes with mighty force his talons Into the shoulder of his victim; Strikes the second of his talons On the flinty mountain-ledges, On the rocks with iron hardened; From the cliffs rebound his talons, Slip the flinty rocks o'erhanging, And the monster-pike resisting Dives again beneath the surface To the bottom of the river, From the talons of the eagle; Deep, the wounds upon the body Of the monster of Tuoni. Still a third time soars the eagle, Soars, and sails, and quickly circles, Swoops again upon the monster, Fire out-shooting from his pinoins, Both his eyeballs flashing lightning; With his beak of steel and copper Grasps again the pike of Mana 178 Firmly planted are his talons In the rocks and in his victim, Drags the monster from the river, Lifts the pike above the waters, From Tuoni's coal-black river, From the blue-back of Manala. Thus the third time does the eagle Bring success from former failures; Thus at last the eagle catches Mana's pike, the worst of fishes, Swiftest swimmer of the waters, From the river of Tuoni; None could see Manala's river, For the myriad of fish-scales; Hardly could one see through ether, For the feathers of the eagle, Relicts of the mighty contest. Then the bird of copper talons Took the pike, with scales of silver, To the pine-tree's topmost branches, To the fir-tree plumed with needles, Tore the monster-fish in pieces, Ate the body of his victim, Left the head for Ilmarinen. Spake the blacksmith to the eagle: 'O thou bird of evil nature, What thy thought and what thy motive? Thou hast eaten what I needed, Evidence of my successes; Thoughtless eagle, witless instinct, Thus to mar the spoils of conquest!' But the bird of metal talons Hastened onward, soaring upward, Rising higher into ether, Rising, flying, soaring, sailing, To the borders of the long-clouds, Made the vault of ether tremble, Split apart the dome of heaven, Broke the colored bow of Ukko, Tore the Moon-horns from their sockets, Disappeared beyond the Sun-land, To the home of the triumphant. 179 Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Took the pike-head to the hostess Of the ever-dismal Northland, Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: 'Let this head forever serve thee As a guest-bench for thy dwelling, Evidence of hero-triumphs; I have caught the pike of Mana, I have done as thou demandest, Three my victories in Death-land, Three the tests of magic heroes; Wilt thou give me now thy daughter, Give to me the Maid of Beauty?' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Badly is the test accomplished, Thou has torn the pike in pieces, From his neck the head is severed, Of his body thou hast eaten, Brought to me this worthless relic! These the words of Ilmarinen: 'When the victory is greatest, Do we suffer greatest losses! From the river of Tuoni, From the kingdom of Manala, I have brought to thee this trophy, Thus the third task is completed. Tell me is the maiden ready, Wilt thou give the bride affianced? Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'I will give to thee my daughter, Will prepare my snow-white virgin, For the suitor, Ilmarinen; Thou hast won the Maid of Beauty, Bride is she of thine hereafter, Fit companion of thy fireside, Help and joy of all thy lifetime.' On the floor a child was sitting, And the babe this tale related. 'There appeared within this dwelling, Came a bird within the castle, From the East came flying hither, From the East, a monstrous eagle, 180 One wing touched the vault of heaven, While the other swept the ocean; With his tail upon the waters, Reached his beak beyond the cloudlets, Looked about, and eager watching, Flew around, and sailing, soaring, Flew away to hero-castle, Knocked three times with beak of copper On the castle-roof of iron; But the eagle could not enter. 'Then the eagle, looking round him, Flew again, and sailed, and circled, Flew then to the mothers' castle, Loudly rapped with heavy knocking On the mothers' roof of copper; But the eagle could not enter. 'Then the eagle, looking round him, Flew a third time, sailing, soaring, Flew then to the virgins' castle, Knocked again with beak of copper, On the virgins' roof of linen, Easy for him there to enter; Flew upon the castle-chimney, Quick descending to the chamber, Pulled the clapboards from the studding, Tore the linen from the rafters, Perched upon the chamber-window, Near the walls of many colors, On the cross-bars gaily-feathered, Looked upon the curly-beaded, Looked upon their golden ringlets, Looked upon the snow-white virgins, On the purest of the maidens, On the fairest of the daughters, On the maid with pearly necklace, On the maiden wreathed in flowers; Perched awhile, and looked, admiring, Swooped upon the Maid of Beauty, On the purest of the virgins, On the whitest, on the fairest, On the stateliest and grandest, Swooped upon the rainbow-daughter 181 Of the dismal Sariola; Grasped her in his mighty talons, Bore away the Maid of Beauty, Maid of fairest form and feature, Maid adorned with pearly necklace, Decked in feathers iridescent, Fragrant flowers upon her bosom, Scarlet band around her forehead, Golden rings upon her fingers, Fairest maiden of the Northland.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola, When the babe his tale had ended: 'Tell me bow, my child beloved, Thou hast learned about the maiden, Hast obtained the information, How her flaxen ringlets nestled, How the maiden's silver glistened, How the virgin's gold was lauded. Shone the silver Sun upon thee, Did the moonbeams bring this knowledge?' From the floor the child made answer: 'Thus I gained the information, Moles of good-luck led me hither, To the home, of the distinguished, To the guest-room of the maiden, Good-name bore her worthy father, He that sailed the magic vessel; Better-name enjoyed the mother, She that baked the bread of barley, She that kneaded wheaten biscuits, Fed her many guests in Northland. 'Thus the information reached me, Thus the distant stranger heard it, Heard the virgin had arisen: Once I walked within the court-yard, Stepping near the virgin's chamber, At an early hour of morning, Ere the Sun had broken slumber Whirling rose the soot in cloudlets, Blackened wreaths of smoke came rising From the chamber of the maiden, From thy daughter's lofty chimney; 182 There the maid was busy grinding, Moved the handles of the millstone Making voices like the cuckoo, Like the ducks the side-holes sounded, And the sifter like the goldfinch, Like the sea-pearls sang the grindstones. 'Then a second time I wandered To the border of the meadow In the forest was the maiden Rocking on a fragrant hillock, Dyeing red in iron vessels, And in copper kettles, yellow. 'Then a third time did I wander To the lovely maiden's window; There I saw thy daughter weaving, Heard the flying of her shuttle, Heard the beating of her loom-lathe, Heard the rattling of her treddles, Heard the whirring of her yarn-reel.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'Now alas! beloved daughter, I have often taught this lesson: 'Do not sing among the pine-trees, Do not call adown the valleys, Do not hang thy head in walking, Do not bare thine arms, nor shoulders, Keep the secrets of thy bosom, Hide thy beauty and thy power.' 'This I told thee in the autumn, Taught thee in the summer season, Sang thee in the budding spring-time, Sang thee when the snows were falling: 'Let us build a place for hiding, Let us build the smallest windows, Where may weave my fairest daughter, Where my maid may ply her shuttle, Where my joy may work unnoticed By the heroes of the Northland, By the suitors of Wainola.'' From the floor the child made answer, Fourteen days the young child numbered; 'Easy 'tis to hide a war-horse 183 In the Northland fields and stables; Hard indeed to hide a maiden, Having lovely form and features! Build of stone a distant castle In the middle of the ocean, Keep within thy lovely maiden, Train thou there thy winsome daughter, Not long hidden canst thou keep her. Maidens will not grow and flourish, Kept apart from men and heroes, Will not live without their suitors, Will not thrive without their wooers; Thou canst never hide a maiden, Neither on the land nor water.' Now the ancient Wainamoinen, Head down-bent and heavy-hearted, Wanders to his native country, To Wainola's peaceful meadows, To the plains of Kalevala, Chanting as he journeys homeward: 'I have passed the age for wooing, Woe is me, rejected suitor, Woe is me, a witless minstrel, That I did not woo and marry, When my face was young and winsome, When my hand was warm and welcome! Youth dethrones my age and station, Wealth is nothing, wisdom worthless, When a hero goes a-wooing With a poor but younger brother. Fatal error that a hero Does not wed in early manhood, In his youth does not be master Of a worthy wife and household.' Thus the ancient Wainamoinen Sends the edict to his people: 'Old men must not go a-wooing, Must not swim the sea of anger, Must not row upon a wager, Must not run a race for glory, With the younger sons of Northland.' 184 ~ Elias Lönnrot,

97: Book VII: The Book of the Woman So to the voice of their best they were bowed and obeyed undebating; Men whose hearts were burning yet with implacable passion Felt Odysseus strength and rose up clay to his counsels. King Agamemnon rose at his word, the wide-ruling monarch, Rose at his word the Cretan and Locrian, Thebes and Epirus, Nestor rose, the time-tired hoary chief of the Pylians. Round Agamemnon the Atreid Europe surged in her chieftains Forth from their tent on the shores of the Troad, splendid in armour, Into the golden blaze of the sun and the race of the sea-winds. Fierce and clear like a flame to the death-gods bright on its altar Shone in their eyes the lust of blood and of earth and of pillage; For in their hearts those fires replaced the passions of discord Forging a brittle peace by a common hatred and yearning. Joyous they were of mood; for their hopes were already in Troya Sating with massacre, plunder and rape and the groans of their foemen Death and Hell in our mortal bosoms seated and shrouded; There they have altars and seats, in mankind, in this fair-builded temple, Made for purer gods; but we turn from their luminous temptings; Vainly the divine whispers seek us; the heights are rejected. Man to his earth drawn always prefers his nethermost promptings, Man, devouring, devoured who is slayer and slain through the ages Since by the beast he soars held and exceeds not that pedestals measure. They now followed close on the steps of the mighty Atrides Glued like the forest pack to the war-scarred coat of its leader, Glued as the pack when wolves follow their prey like Doom that can turn not. Perfect forms and beautiful faces crowded the tent-door, Brilliant eyes and fierce of souls that remembered the forest, Wild-beasts touched by thought and savages lusting for beauty. Dire and fierce and formidable chieftains followed Atrides, Merciless kings of merciless men and the founders of Europe, Sackers of Troy and sires of the Par thenon, Athens and Caesar. Here they had come to destroy the ancient perishing cultures; For, it is said, from the savage we rose and were born to a wild-beast. So when the Eye supreme perceives that we rise up too swiftly, Drawn towards height but fullness contemning, called by the azure, Life when we fail in, poor in our base and forgetting our mother, Back we are hurled to our roots; we recover our sap from the savage. So were these sent by Zeus to destroy the old that was grandiose. Such were those frames of old as the sons of Heaven might have chosen Who in the dawn of eternity wedded the daughters of Nature, Cultures touched by the morning star, vast, bold and poetic, Titans works and joys, but thrust down from their puissance and pleasure Fainting now fell from the paces of Time or were left by his ages. So were these born from Zeus to found the new that should flower Lucid and slender and perfectly little as fit for this mortal Ever who sinks back fatigued from immortalitys stature; Man, repelled by the gulfs within him and shrinking from vastness, Form of the earth accepts and is glad of the lap of his mother. Safe through the infinite seas could his soul self-piloted voyage, Chasing the dawns and the wondrous horizons, eternitys secrets Drawn from her luminous gulfs! But he journeys rudderless, helmless, Driven and led by the breath of God who meets him with tempest, Hurls at him Night. The earth is safer, warmer its sunbeams; Death and limits are known; so he clings to them hating the summons. So might one dwell who has come to take joy in a fair-lighted prison; Amorous grown of its marble walls and its noble adornments, Lost to mightier cares and the spaces boundlessly calling Lust of the infinite skies he forgets and the kiss of the stormwind. So might one live who inured to his days of the field and the farm-yard Shrinks from the grandiose mountain-tops; shut up in lanes and in hedges Only his furrows he leads and only orders his gardens, Only his fleeces weaves and drinks of the yield of his vine-rows: Lost to his ear is the song of the waterfall, wind in the forests. Now to our earth we are bent and we study the skies for its image. That was Greece and its shining, that now is France and its keenness, That still is Europe though by the Christ-touch troubled and tortured, Seized by the East but clasping her chains and resisting our freedom. Then was all founded, on Phrygias coasts, round Ilions ramparts, Then by the spear of Achilles, then in the Trojan death-cry; Bearers mute of a future world were those armoured Achaians. So they arrived from Zeus, an army led by the death-god. So one can see them still who has sight from the gods in the trance-sleep Out from the tent emerging on Phrygias coasts in their armour; Those of the early seed Pelasgian slighter in stature, Dark-haired, hyacinth-curled from the isles of the sea and the southron, Soft-eyed men with pitiless hearts; bright-haired the Achaians, Hordes of the Arctic Dawn who had fled from the ice and the death-blast; Children of conquerors lured to the coasts and the breezes and olives, Noons of Mediterranean suns and the kiss of the southwind Mingled their brilliant force with the plastic warmth of the Hamite. There they shall rule and their children long till Fate and the Dorian Break down Hellene doors and trample stern through the passes. Mixed in a glittering rout on the Ocean beaches one sees them, Perfect and beautiful figures and fronts, not as now are we mortals Marred and crushed by our burden long of thought and of labour; Perfect were these as our race bright-imaged was first by the Thinker Seen who in golden lustres shapes all the glories we tarnish, Rich from the moulds of Gods and unmarred in their splendour and swiftness. Many and mighty they came over the beaches loud of the Aegean, Roots of an infant world and the morning stars of this Europe, Great Agamemnons kingly port and the bright Menelaus, Tall Idomeneus, Nestor, Odysseus Atlas-shouldered, Helmeted Ajax, his chin of the beast and his eyes of the dreamer. Over the sands they dispersed to their armies ranked by the Ocean. But from the Argive front Acirrous loosed by Tydides Parted as hastens a shaft from the string and he sped on intently Swift where the beaches were bare or threading the gaps of the nations; Crossing Thebes and Epirus he passed through the Lemnian archers, Ancient Gnossus hosts and Meriones leaderless legions. Heedless of cry and of laughter calling over the sea-sands Swiftly he laboured, wind in his hair and the sea to him crying, Straight he ran to the Myrmidon hosts and the tents of Achilles. There he beheld at his tent-door the Phthian gleaming in armour, Glittering-helmed with the sun that climbed now the cusp of Cronion, Nobly tall, excelling humanity, planned like Apollo. Proud at his side like a pillar upreared of snow or of marble, Golden-haired, hard and white was the boy Neoptolemus, fire-eyed. New were his feet to the Trojan sands from the ships and from Scyros: Led to this latest of all his fathers fights in the Troad He for his earliest battle waited, the son of Achilles. So in her mood had Fate brought them together, the son and the father, Even as our souls travelling different paths have met in the ages Each for its work and they cling for an hour to the names of affection, Then Times long waves bear them apart for new forms we shall know not, So these two long severed had met in the shadow of parting. Often he smote his hand on the thigh-piece for sound of the armour, Bent his ear to the plains or restless moved like a war-horse Curbed by his masters will, when he stands new-saddled for battle Hearing the voice of the trumpets afar and pawing the meadows. Over the sands Acirrous came to them running and toiling, Known from far off, for he ran unhelmeted. High on the hero Sunlike smiled the golden Achilles and into the tent-space Seized by the hand and brought him and seated. War-shaft of Troezen, Whence was thy speed, Acirrous? Comst thou, O friend, to my tent-side Spurred by thy eager will or the trusted stern Diomedes? Or from the Greeks like the voice still loved from a heart that is hollow? What say the banded princes of Greece to the single Achilles? Bringest thou flattery pale or an empty and futureless menace? But to the strength of Pelides the hero Acirrous answered: Response none make the Greeks to thy high-voiced message and challenge; Only their shout at thy side will reply when thou leapst into Troya. So have their chieftains willed and the wisdom calm of Odysseus. But with a haughty scorn made answer the high-crested Hellene: Wise is Odysseus, wise are the hearts of Achaias chieftains. Ilions chiefs are enough for their strength and life is too brittle Hurrying Fate to advance on the spear of the Phthian Achilles. Not from the Greeks have I sped to thy tents, their friendship or quarrel Urged not my feet; but Tiryns chieftain strong Diomedes Sent me claiming a word long old that first by his war-car Young Neoptolemus come from island Scyros should enter Far-crashing into the fight that has lacked this shoot of Achilles, Pressing in front with his fathers strength in the playground of Ares, Shouting his fathers cry as he clashed to his earliest battle. So let Achilles son twin-carred fight close by Tydides, Seal of the ancient friendship new-sworn twixt your sires in their boyhood Then when they learned the spear to guide and strove in the wrestle. So he spoke recalling other times and regretted And to the Argives word consented the strength of Pelides. He on the shoulder white of his son with a gesture of parting Laid his fateful hand and spoke from his prescient spirit: Pyrrhus, go. No mightier guide couldst thou hope into battle Opening the foemens ranks than the hero stern Diomedes. Noble that rugged heart, thy fathers friend and his fathers. Journey through all wide Greece, seek her prytanies, schools and palaestras, Traverse Oceans rocks and the cities that dream on his margin, Phocian dales, Aetolias cliffs and Arcadys pastures, Never a second man wilt thou find, but alone Diomedes. Pyrrhus, follow his counsels always losing thy father, If in this battle I fall and Fate has denied to me Troya. Pyrrhus, be like thy father in virtue, thou canst not excel him; Noble be in peace, invincible, brave in the battle, Stern and calm to thy foe, to the suppliant merciful. Mortal Favour and wrath as thou walkst heed never, son of Achilles. Always thy will and the right impose on thy friend and thy foeman. Count not life nor death, defeat nor triumph, Pyrrhus. Only thy soul regard and the gods in thy joy or thy labour. Pyrrhus heard and erect with a stride that was rigid and stately Forth with Acirrous went from his sire to the joy of the battle. Little he heeded the word of death that the god in our bosom Spoke from the lips of Achilles, but deemed at sunset returning, Slaying Halamus, Paris or dangerous mighty Aeneas, Proudly to lay at his fathers feet the spoils of the foeman. But in his lair alone the godlike doomed Pelides Turned to the door of his tent and was striding forth to the battle, When from her inner chamber Briseis parting the curtain, Long had she stood there spying and waiting her lonely occasion, Came and caught and held his hand like a creeper detaining Vainly a moment the deathward stride of the kings of the forest. Tarry awhile, Achilles; not yet have the war-horns clamoured, Nor have the scouts streamed yet from Xanthus fierily running. Lose a moment for her who has only thee under heaven. Nay, had war sounded, thou yet wouldst squander that moment, Achilles, Hearkening a womans fears and the voice of a dream in the midnight. Art thou not gentle even as terrible, lion of Hellas? Others have whispered the deeds of thy wrath; we have heard, but not seen it; Marvelling much at their pallor and awe we have listened and wondered. Never with thrall or slavegirl or captive saw I thee angered, Hero, nor any humble heart ever trembled to near thee. Pardoning rather our many faults and our failures in service Lightly thou layedst thy yoke on us kind as the clasp of a lover Sparing the weak as thou breakest the mighty, O godlike Achilles. Only thy equals have felt all the dread of the death-god within thee; We have presumed and have played with the strength at which nations have trembled. Lo, thou hast leaned thy mane to the clutch of the boys and the maidens. But to Briseis white-armed made answer smiling Achilles: Something sorely thou needst, for thou flatterest long, O Briseis. Tell me, O woman, thy fear or thy dream that my touch may dispel it, White-armed net of bliss slipped down from the gold Aphrodite. And to Achilles answered the captive white Briseis: Long have they vexed my soul in the tents of the Greeks, O Achilles, Telling of Thetis thy mother who bore thee in caves of the Ocean Clasped by a mortal and of her fear from the threats of the Ancients, Weavers of doom who play with our hopes and smile at our passions Painting Time with the red of our hearts on the web they have woven, How on the Oceans bosom she hid thee in vine-tangled Scyros Clothed like a girl among girls with the daughters of King Lycomedes, Art thou not fairer than womans beauty, yet great as Apollo? Fearing Paris shafts and the anger of Delian Phoebus. Now in the night has a vision three times besieged me from heaven. Over the sea in my dream an argent bow was extended; Nearing I saw a terror august over moonlit waters, Cloud and a fear and a face that was young and lovely and hostile. Then three times I heard arise in the grandiose silence, Still was the sky and still was the land and still were the waters, Echoing a mighty voice, Take back, O King, what thou gavest; Strength, take thy strong man, sea, take thy wave, till the warfare eternal Need him again to thunder through Asias plains to the Ganges. That fell silent, but nearer the beautiful Terror approached me, Clang I heard of the argent bow and I gazed on Apollo. Shrilly I cried; it was thee that the shaft of the heavens had yearned for, Thee that it sought like a wild thing in anger straight at its quarry, Quivering into thy heel. I awoke and found myself trembling, Held thee safe in my arms, yet hardly believed that thou livest. Lo, in the night came this dream; on the morn thou arisest for battle. But to Briseis white-armed made answer the golden Achilles: This was a dream indeed, O princess, daughter of Brises! Will it restrain Achilles from fight, the lion from preying? Come, thou hast heard of my prowess and knowest what man is Achilles. Deemst thou so near my end? or does Polyxena vex thee, Jealousy shaping thy dreams to frighten me back from her capture? Passionate, vexed Briseis, smiting his arm with her fingers, Yet with a smile half-pleased made answer to mighty Achilles. Thinkst thou I fear thee at all? I am brave and will chide thee and threaten. See that thou recklessly throw not, Achilles, thy life into battle Hurting this body, my world, nor venture sole midst thy foemen, Leaving thy shielders behind as oft thou art wont in thy war-rage Lured by thy tempting gods who seek their advantage to slay thee, Fighting divinely, careless of all but thy spear and thy foeman. Cover thy limbs with thy shield, speed slowly restraining thy coursers. Dost thou not know all the terrible void and cold desolation Once again my life must become if I lose thee, Achilles? Twice then thus wilt thou smite me, O hero, a desolate woman? I will not stay behind on an earth that is empty and kingless. Into the grave I will leap, through the fire I will burn, I will follow Down into Hades depths or wherever thy footsteps go clanging, Hunting thee always,didst thou not seize me here for thy pleasure? Stronger there by my love as thou than I here, O Achilles. Thou shalt not dally alone with Polyxena safe in the shadows. But to Briseis answered the hero, mighty Pelides, Holding her delicate hands like gathered flowers in his bosom, Pressing her passionate mouth like a rose that trembles with beauty. There then follow me even as I would have drawn thee, O woman, Voice that chimes with my soul and hands that are eager for service, Beautiful spoil beloved of my foemen, perfect Briseis But for the dreams that come to us mortals sleeping or waking, Shadows are these from our souls and who shall discern what they figure? Fears from the heart speak voiced like Zeus, take shape as Apollo. But were they truer than Delphis cavern voice or Dodonas Moan that seems wind in his oaks immemorable, how should they alter Fate that the stern gods have planned from the first when the earth was unfashioned, Shapeless the gyre of the sun? For dream or for oracle adverse Why should man swerve from the path of his feet? The gods have invented Only one way for a man through the world, O my slavegirl Briseis, Valiant to be and noble and truthful and just to the humble, Only one way for a woman, to love and serve and be faithful. This observe, thy task in thy destiny noble or fallen; Time and result are the gods; with these things be not thou troubled. So he spoke and kissed her lips and released her and parted. Out from the tent he strode and into his chariot leaping Seized the reins and shouted his cry and drove with a far-borne Sound of wheels mid the clamour of hooves and the neigh of the war-steeds Swift through the line of the tents and forth from the heart of the leaguer. Over the causeway Troyward thundered the wheels of Achilles. After him crashing loud with a fierce and resonant rumour Chieftains impetuous prone to the mellay and swift at the war-cry Came, who long held from the lust of the spear and the joy of the war-din Rushed over earth like hawks released through the air; a shouting Limitless rolled behind, for nations followed each war-cry. Lords renowned of the northern hills and the plains and the coast-lands, Many a Dorian, many a Phthian, many a Hellene, Names now lost to the ear though then reputed immortal! Night has swallowed them, Zeus has devoured the light of his children; Drawn are they back to his bosom vast whence they came in their fierceness Thinking to conquer the earth and dominate Time and his ages. Nor on their left less thick came numerous even as the sea-sands Forth from the line of the leaguer that skirted the far-sounding waters, Ranked behind Tydeus son and the Spartan, bright Menelaus, Ithacas chief and Epeus, Idomeneus lord of the Cretans, Acamas, Nestor, Neleus son, and the brave Ephialtus, Prothous, Meges, Leitus the bold and the king Prothonor, Wise Alcestes son and the Lemnian, stern Philoctetes, These and unnumbered warlike captains marching the Argives. Last in his spacious car drove shaping the tread of his armies, Even as a shepherd who follows his flock to the green of the pastures, Atreus far-famed son, the monarch great Agamemnon. They on the plain moved out and gazing far over the pastures Saw behind Xanthus rolling with dust like a cloud full of thunder, Ominous, steadily nearing, shouting their war-cry the Trojans. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 7 - The Book of the Woman ,

98:Gotham - Book Iii Can the fond mother from herself depart? Can she forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed; To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live? Yes, from herself the mother may depart, She may forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed, To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live; But I cannot forget, whilst life remains, And pours her current through these swelling veins, Whilst Memory offers up at Reason's shrine; But I cannot forget that Gotham's mine. Can the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast tear her young child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone? Yes, the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast may tear her child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone; But I, (forbid it, Heaven!) but I can ne'er The love of Gotham from this bosom tear; Can ne'er so far true royalty pervert From its fair course, to do my people hurt. With how much ease, with how much confidence-As if, superior to each grosser sense, Reason had only, in full power array'd, To manifest her will, and be obey'd-Men make resolves, and pass into decrees The motions of the mind! with how much ease, In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw, And bring to nothing what was raised to law! In empire young, scarce warm on Gotham's throne, The dangers and the sweets of power unknown, Pleased, though I scarce know why, like some young child, 55 Whose little senses each new toy turns wild, How do I hold sweet dalliance with my crown, And wanton with dominion, how lay down, Without the sanction of a precedent, Rules of most large and absolute extent; Rules, which from sense of public virtue spring, And all at once commence a Patriot King! But, for the day of trial is at hand, And the whole fortunes of a mighty land Are staked on me, and all their weal or woe Must from my good or evil conduct flow, Will I, or can I, on a fair review, As I assume that name, deserve it too? Have I well weigh'd the great, the noble part I'm now to play? have I explored my heart, That labyrinth of fraud, that deep dark cell, Where, unsuspected e'en by me, may dwell Ten thousand follies? have I found out there What I am fit to do, and what to bear? Have I traced every passion to its rise, Nor spared one lurking seed of treacherous vice? Have I familiar with my nature grown? And am I fairly to myself made known? A Patriot King!--why, 'tis a name which bears The more immediate stamp of Heaven; which wears The nearest, best resemblance we can show Of God above, through all his works below. To still the voice of Discord in the land; To make weak Faction's discontented band, Detected, weak, and crumbling to decay, With hunger pinch'd, on their own vitals prey; Like brethren, in the self-same interests warm'd, Like different bodies, with one soul inform'd; To make a nation, nobly raised above All meaner thought, grow up in common love; To give the laws due vigour, and to hold That secret balance, temperate, yet bold, With such an equal hand, that those who fear May yet approve, and own my justice clear; To be a common father, to secure The weak from violence, from pride the poor; Vice and her sons to banish in disgrace, 56 To make Corruption dread to show her face; To bid afflicted Virtue take new state, And be at last acquainted with the great; Of all religions to elect the best, Nor let her priests be made a standing jest; Rewards for worth with liberal hand to carve, To love the arts, nor let the artists starve; To make fair Plenty through the realm increase, Give fame in war, and happiness in peace; To see my people virtuous, great, and free, And know that all those blessings flow from me; Oh! 'tis a joy too exquisite, a thought Which flatters Nature more than flattery ought; 'Tis a great, glorious task, for man too hard; But no less great, less glorious the reward, The best reward which here to man is given, 'Tis more than earth, and little short of heaven; A task (if such comparison may be) The same in Nature, differing in degree, Like that which God, on whom for aid I call, Performs with ease, and yet performs to all. How much do they mistake, how little know Of kings, of kingdoms, and the pains which flow From royalty, who fancy that a crown, Because it glistens, must be lined with down! With outside show, and vain appearance caught, They look no further, and, by Folly taught, Prize high the toys of thrones, but never find One of the many cares which lurk behind. The gem they worship which a crown adorns, Nor once suspect that crown is lined with thorns. Oh, might Reflection Folly's place supply, Would we one moment use her piercing eye, Then should we find what woe from grandeur springs, And learn to pity, not to envy kings! The villager, born humbly and bred hard, Content his wealth, and Poverty his guard, In action simply just, in conscience clear, By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear, His means but scanty, and his wants but few, Labour his business, and his pleasure too, Enjoys more comforts in a single hour 57 Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power. Call'd up by health, he rises with the day, And goes to work, as if he went to play, Whistling off toils, one half of which might make The stoutest Atlas of a palace quake; 'Gainst heat and cold, which make us cowards faint, Harden'd by constant use, without complaint He bears what we should think it death to bear; Short are his meals, and homely is his fare; His thirst he slakes at some pure neighbouring brook, Nor asks for sauce where appetite stands cook. When the dews fall, and when the sun retires Behind the mountains, when the village fires, Which, waken'd all at once, speak supper nigh, At distance catch, and fix his longing eye, Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood Of raw-boned cubs enjoys that clean, coarse food, Which, season'd with good-humour, his fond bride 'Gainst his return is happy to provide; Then, free from care, and free from thought, he creeps Into his straw, and till the morning sleeps. Not so the king--with anxious cares oppress'd His bosom labours, and admits not rest: A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight Of majesty, and gives up ease for state. E'en when his smiles, which, by the fools of pride, Are treasured and preserved from side to side, Fly round the court, e'en when, compell'd by form, He seems most calm, his soul is in a storm. Care, like a spectre, seen by him alone, With all her nest of vipers, round his throne By day crawls full in view; when Night bids sleep, Sweet nurse of Nature! o'er the senses creep; When Misery herself no more complains, And slaves, if possible, forget their chains; Though his sense weakens, though his eyes grow dim, That rest which comes to all, comes not to him. E'en at that hour, Care, tyrant Care, forbids The dew of sleep to fall upon his lids; From night to night she watches at his bed; Now, as one moped, sits brooding o'er his head; Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings, 58 Croaks forth aloud--'Sleep was not made for kings!' Thrice hath the moon, who governs this vast ball, Who rules most absolute o'er me and all; To whom, by full conviction taught to bow, At new, at full, I pay the duteous vow; Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since, (bless'd be that season, for before I was a mere, mere mortal, and no more, One of the herd, a lump of common clay, Inform'd with life, to die and pass away) Since I became a king, and Gotham's throne, With full and ample power, became my own; Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since sleep, kind sleep! who like a friend supplies New vigour for new toil, hath closed these eyes. Nor, if my toils are answer'd with success, And I am made an instrument to bless The people whom I love, shall I repine; Theirs be the benefit, the labour mine. Mindful of that high rank in which I stand, Of millions lord, sole ruler in the land, Let me,--and Reason shall her aid afford,-Rule my own spirit, of myself be lord. With an ill grace that monarch wears his crown, Who, stern and hard of nature, wears a frown 'Gainst faults in other men, yet all the while Meets his own vices with a partial smile. How can a king (yet on record we find Such kings have been, such curses of mankind) Enforce that law 'gainst some poor subject elf Which conscience tells him he hath broke himself? Can he some petty rogue to justice call For robbing one, when he himself robs all? Must not, unless extinguish'd, Conscience fly Into his cheek, and blast his fading eye, To scourge the oppressor, when the State, distress'd And sunk to ruin, is by him oppress'd? Against himself doth he not sentence give; If one must die, t' other's not fit to live. Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, 59 Which takes not solid virtue for its ground. All envy power in others, and complain Of that which they would perish to obtain. Nor can those spirits, turbulent and bold, Not to be awed by threats, nor bought with gold, Be hush'd to peace, but when fair legal sway Makes it their real interest to obey; When kings, and none but fools can then rebel, Not less in virtue, than in power, excel. Be that my object, that my constant care, And may my soul's best wishes centre there; Be it my task to seek, nor seek in vain, Not only how to live, but how to reign; And to those virtues which from Reason spring, And grace the man, join those which grace the king. First, (for strict duty bids my care extend And reach to all who on that care depend, Bids me with servants keep a steady hand, And watch o'er all my proxies in the land) First, (and that method Reason shall support) Before I look into, and purge my court, Before I cleanse the stable of the State, Let me fix things which to myself relate. That done, and all accounts well settled here, In resolution firm, in honour clear, Tremble, ye slaves! who dare abuse your trust, Who dare be villains, when your king is just. Are there, amongst those officers of state, To whom our sacred power we delegate, Who hold our place and office in the realm, Who, in our name commission'd, guide the helm; Are there, who, trusting to our love of ease, Oppress our subjects, wrest our just decrees, And make the laws, warp'd from their fair intent, To speak a language which they never meant; Are there such men, and can the fools depend On holding out in safety to their end? Can they so much, from thoughts of danger free, Deceive themselves, so much misdeem of me, To think that I will prove a statesman's tool, And live a stranger where I ought to rule? What! to myself and to my state unjust, 60 Shall I from ministers take things on trust, And, sinking low the credit of my throne, Depend upon dependants of my own? Shall I,--most certain source of future cares,-Not use my judgment, but depend on theirs? Shall I, true puppet-like, be mock'd with state, Have nothing but the name of being great; Attend at councils which I must not weigh; Do what they bid, and what they dictate, say; Enrobed, and hoisted up into my chair, Only to be a royal cipher there? Perish the thought--'tis treason to my throne-And who but thinks it, could his thoughts be known Insults me more than he, who, leagued with Hell, Shall rise in arms, and 'gainst my crown rebel. The wicked statesman, whose false heart pursues A train of guilt; who acts with double views, And wears a double face; whose base designs Strike at his monarch's throne; who undermines E'en whilst he seems his wishes to support; Who seizes all departments; packs a court; Maintains an agent on the judgment-seat, To screen his crimes, and make his frauds complete; New-models armies, and around the throne Will suffer none but creatures of his own, Conscious of such his baseness, well may try, Against the light to shut his master's eye, To keep him coop'd, and far removed from those Who, brave and honest, dare his crimes disclose, Nor ever let him in one place appear, Where truth, unwelcome truth, may wound his ear. Attempts like these, well weigh'd, themselves proclaim, And, whilst they publish, balk their author's aim. Kings must be blind into such snares to run, Or, worse, with open eyes must be undone. The minister of honesty and worth Demands the day to bring his actions forth; Calls on the sun to shine with fiercer rays, And braves that trial which must end in praise. None fly the day, and seek the shades of night, But those whose actions cannot bear the light; None wish their king in ignorance to hold 61 But those who feel that knowledge must unfold Their hidden guilt; and, that dark mist dispell'd By which their places and their lives are held, Confusion wait them, and, by Justice led, In vengeance fall on every traitor's head. Aware of this, and caution'd 'gainst the pit Where kings have oft been lost, shall I submit, And rust in chains like these? shall I give way, And whilst my helpless subjects fall a prey To power abused, in ignorance sit down, Nor dare assert the honour of my crown? When stern Rebellion, (if that odious name Justly belongs to those whose only aim, Is to preserve their country; who oppose, In honour leagued, none but their country's foes; Who only seek their own, and found their cause In due regard for violated laws) When stern Rebellion, who no longer feels Nor fears rebuke, a nation at her heels, A nation up in arms, though strong not proud, Knocks at the palace gate, and, calling loud For due redress, presents, from Truth's fair pen, A list of wrongs, not to be borne by men: How must that king be humbled, how disgrace All that is royal in his name and place, Who, thus call'd forth to answer, can advance No other plea but that of ignorance! A vile defence, which, was his all at stake, The meanest subject well might blush to make; A filthy source, from whence shame ever springs; A stain to all, but most a stain to kings. The soul with great and manly feelings warm'd, Panting for knowledge, rests not till inform'd; And shall not I, fired with the glorious zeal, Feel those brave passions which my subjects feel? Or can a just excuse from ignorance flow To me, whose first great duty is--to know? Hence, Ignorance!--thy settled, dull, blank eye Would hurt me, though I knew no reason why. Hence, Ignorance!--thy slavish shackles bind The free-born soul, and lethargise the mind. Of thee, begot by Pride, who look'd with scorn 62 On every meaner match, of thee was born That grave inflexibility of soul, Which Reason can't convince, nor Fear control; Which neither arguments nor prayers can reach, And nothing less than utter ruin teach. Hence, Ignorance!--hence to that depth of night Where thou wast born, where not one gleam of light May wound thine eye--hence to some dreary cell Where monks with superstition love to dwell; Or in some college soothe thy lazy pride, And with the heads of colleges reside; Fit mate for Royalty thou canst not be, And if no mate for kings, no mate for me. Come, Study! like a torrent swell'd with rains, Which, rushing down the mountains, o'er the plains Spreads horror wide, and yet, in horror kind, Leaves seeds of future fruitfulness behind; Come, Study!--painful though thy course, and slow, Thy real worth by thy effects we know-Parent of Knowledge, come!--Not thee I call, Who, grave and dull, in college or in hall Dost sit, all solemn sad, and moping weigh Things which, when found, thy labours can't repay-Nor, in one hand, fit emblem of thy trade, A rod; in t' other, gaudily array'd, A hornbook gilt and letter'd, call I thee, Who dost in form preside o'er A, B, C: Nor (siren though thou art, and thy strange charms, As 'twere by magic, lure men to thine arms) Do I call thee, who, through a winding maze, A labyrinth of puzzling, pleasing ways, Dost lead us at the last to those rich plains, Where, in full glory, real Science reigns; Fair though thou art, and lovely to mine eye, Though full rewards in thy possession lie To crown man's wish, and do thy favourites grace; Though (was I station'd in an humbler place) I could be ever happy in thy sight, Toil with thee all the day, and through the night, Toil on from watch to watch, bidding my eye, Fast rivetted on Science, sleep defy; Yet (such the hardships which from empire flow) 63 Must I thy sweet society forego, And to some happy rival's arms resign Those charms which can, alas! no more be mine! No more from hour to hour, from day to day, Shall I pursue thy steps, and urge my way Where eager love of science calls; no more Attempt those paths which man ne'er trod before; No more, the mountain scaled, the desert cross'd, Losing myself, nor knowing I was lost, Travel through woods, through wilds, from morn to night, From night to morn, yet travel with delight, And having found thee, lay me down content, Own all my toil well paid, my time well spent. Farewell, ye Muses too!--for such mean things Must not presume to dwell with mighty kings-Farewell, ye Muses! though it cuts my heart E'en to the quick, we must for ever part. When the fresh morn bade lusty Nature wake; When the birds, sweetly twittering through the brake, Tune their soft pipes; when, from the neighbouring bloom Sipping the dew, each zephyr stole perfume; When all things with new vigour were inspired, And seem'd to say they never could be tired; How often have we stray'd, whilst sportive rhyme Deceived the way and clipp'd the wings of Time, O'er hill, o'er dale; how often laugh'd to see, Yourselves made visible to none but me, The clown, his works suspended, gape and stare, And seem to think that I conversed with air! When the sun, beating on the parched soil, Seem'd to proclaim an interval of toil; When a faint langour crept through every breast, And things most used to labour wish'd for rest, How often, underneath a reverend oak, Where safe, and fearless of the impious stroke, Some sacred Dryad lived; or in some grove, Where, with capricious fingers, Fancy wove Her fairy bower, whilst Nature all the while Look'd on, and view'd her mockeries with a smile, Have we held converse sweet! How often laid, Fast by the Thames, in Ham's inspiring shade, Amongst those poets which make up your train, 64 And, after death, pour forth the sacred strain, Have I, at your command, in verse grown gray, But not impair'd, heard Dryden tune that lay Which might have drawn an angel from his sphere, And kept him from his office listening here! When dreary Night, with Morpheus in her train, Led on by Silence to resume her reign, With darkness covering, as with a robe, The scene of levity, blank'd half the globe; How oft, enchanted with your heavenly strains, Which stole me from myself; which in soft chains Of music bound my soul; how oft have I, Sounds more than human floating through the sky, Attentive sat, whilst Night, against her will, Transported with the harmony, stood still! How oft in raptures, which man scarce could bear, Have I, when gone, still thought the Muses there; Still heard their music, and, as mute as death, Sat all attention, drew in every breath, Lest, breathing all too rudely, I should wound, And mar that magic excellence of sound; Then, Sense returning with return of day, Have chid the Night, which fled so fast away! Such my pursuits, and such my joys of yore, Such were my mates, but now my mates no more. Placed out of Envy's walk, (for Envy, sure, Would never haunt the cottage of the poor, Would never stoop to wound my homespun lays) With some few friends, and some small share of praise, Beneath oppression, undisturb'd by strife, In peace I trod the humble vale of life. Farewell, these scenes of ease, this tranquil state; Welcome the troubles which on empire wait! Light toys from this day forth I disavow; They pleased me once, but cannot suit me now: To common men all common things are free, What honours them, might fix disgrace on me. Call'd to a throne, and o'er a mighty land Ordain'd to rule, my head, my heart, my hand, Are all engross'd; each private view withstood, And task'd to labour for the public good: Be this my study; to this one great end 65 May every thought, may every action tend! Let me the page of History turn o'er, The instructive page, and needfully explore What faithful pens of former times have wrote Of former kings; what they did worthy note, What worthy blame; and from the sacred tomb Where righteous monarchs sleep, where laurels bloom, Unhurt by Time, let me a garland twine, Which, robbing not their fame, may add to mine. Nor let me with a vain and idle eye Glance o'er those scenes, and in a hurry fly, Quick as the post, which travels day and night; Nor let me dwell there, lured by false delight; And, into barren theory betray'd, Forget that monarchs are for action made. When amorous Spring, repairing all his charms, Calls Nature forth from hoary Winter's arms, Where, like a virgin to some lecher sold, Three wretched months she lay benumb'd, and cold; When the weak flower, which, shrinking from the breath Of the rude North, and timorous of death, To its kind mother earth for shelter fled, And on her bosom hid its tender head, Peeps forth afresh, and, cheer'd by milder sties, Bids in full splendour all her beauties rise; The hive is up in arms--expert to teach, Nor, proudly, to be taught unwilling, each Seems from her fellow a new zeal to catch; Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch, The bee goes forth; from herb to herb she flies, From flower to flower, and loads her labouring thighs With treasured sweets, robbing those flowers, which, left, Find not themselves made poorer by the theft, Their scents as lively, and their looks as fair, As if the pillager had not been there. Ne'er doth she flit on Pleasure's silken wing; Ne'er doth she, loitering, let the bloom of Spring Unrifled pass, and on the downy breast Of some fair flower indulge untimely rest; Ne'er doth she, drinking deep of those rich dews Which chemist Night prepared, that faith abuse Due to the hive, and, selfish in her toils, 66 To her own private use convert the spoils. Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam, And to the stock she brings her booty home. Be this my pattern--as becomes a king, Let me fly all abroad on Reason's wing; Let mine eye, like the lightning, through the earth Run to and fro, nor let one deed of worth, In any place and time, nor let one man, Whose actions may enrich dominion's plan, Escape my note; be all, from the first day Of Nature to this hour, be all my prey. From those whom Time, at the desire of Fame, Hath spared, let Virtue catch an equal flame; From those who, not in mercy, but in rage, Time hath reprieved, to damn from age to age, Let me take warning, lesson'd to distil, And, imitating Heaven, draw good from ill. Nor let these great researches, in my breast A monument of useless labour rest; No--let them spread--the effects let Gotham share, And reap the harvest of their monarch's care: Be other times, and other countries known, Only to give fresh blessings to my own. Let me, (and may that God to whom I fly, On whom for needful succour I rely In this great hour, that glorious God of truth, Through whom I reign, in mercy to my youth, Assist my weakness, and direct me right; From every speck which hangs upon the sight Purge my mind's eye, nor let one cloud remain To spread the shades of Error o'er my brain!) Let me, impartial, with unwearied thought, Try men and things; let me, as monarchs ought, Examine well on what my power depends; What are the general principles and ends Of government; how empire first began; And wherefore man was raised to reign o'er man. Let me consider, as from one great source We see a thousand rivers take their course, Dispersed, and into different channels led, Yet by their parent still supplied and fed, That Government, (though branch'd out far and wide, 67 In various modes to various lands applied) Howe'er it differs in its outward frame, In the main groundwork's every where the same; The same her view, though different her plan, Her grand and general view--the good of man. Let me find out, by Reason's sacred beams, What system in itself most perfect seems, Most worthy man, most likely to conduce To all the purposes of general use; Let me find, too, where, by fair Reason tried, It fails, when to particulars applied; Why in that mode all nations do not join, And, chiefly, why it cannot suit with mine. Let me the gradual rise of empires trace, Till they seem founded on Perfection's base; Then (for when human things have made their way To excellence, they hasten to decay) Let me, whilst Observation lends her clue Step after step to their decline pursue, Enabled by a chain of facts to tell Not only how they rose, but why they fell. Let me not only the distempers know Which in all states from common causes grow, But likewise those, which, by the will of Fate, On each peculiar mode of empire wait; Which in its very constitution lurk, Too sure at last to do its destined work: Let me, forewarn'd, each sign, each symptom learn, That I my people's danger may discern, Ere 'tis too late wish'd health to reassure, And, if it can be found, find out a cure. Let me, (though great, grave brethren of the gown Preach all Faith up, and preach all Reason down, Making those jar whom Reason meant to join, And vesting in themselves a right divine), Let me, through Reason's glass, with searching eye, Into the depth of that religion pry Which law hath sanction'd; let me find out there What's form, what's essence; what, like vagrant air, We well may change; and what, without a crime, Cannot be changed to the last hour of time. Nor let me suffer that outrageous zeal 68 Which, without knowledge, furious bigots feel, Fair in pretence, though at the heart unsound, These separate points at random to confound. The times have been when priests have dared to tread, Proud and insulting, on their monarch's head; When, whilst they made religion a pretence, Out of the world they banish'd common-sense; When some soft king, too open to deceit, Easy and unsuspecting join'd the cheat, Duped by mock piety, and gave his name To serve the vilest purposes of shame. Pear not, my people! where no cause of fear Can justly rise--your king secures you here; Your king, who scorns the haughty prelate's nod, Nor deems the voice of priests the voice of God. Let me, (though lawyers may perhaps forbid Their monarch to behold what they wish hid, And for the purposes of knavish gain, Would have their trade a mystery remain) Let me, disdaining all such slavish awe, Dive to the very bottom of the law; Let me (the weak, dead letter left behind) Search out the principles, the spirit find, Till, from the parts, made master of the whole, I see the Constitution's very soul. Let me, (though statesmen will no doubt resist, And to my eyes present a fearful list Of men, whose wills are opposite to mine, Of men, great men, determined to resign) Let me, (with firmness, which becomes a king. Conscious from what a source my actions spring, Determined not by worlds to be withstood, When my grand object is my country's good) Unravel all low ministerial scenes, Destroy their jobs, lay bare their ways and means, And track them step by step; let me well know How places, pensions, and preferments go; Why Guilt's provided for when Worth is not, And why one man of merit is forgot; Let me in peace, in war, supreme preside, And dare to know my way without a guide. Let me, (though Dignity, by nature proud, 69 Retires from view, and swells behind a cloud,-As if the sun shone with less powerful ray, Less grace, less glory, shining every day,-Though when she comes forth into public sight, Unbending as a ghost, she stalks upright, With such an air as we have often seen, And often laugh'd at, in a tragic queen, Nor, at her presence, though base myriads crook The supple knee, vouchsafes a single look) Let me, (all vain parade, all empty pride, All terrors of dominion laid aside, All ornament, and needless helps of art, All those big looks, which speak a little heart) Know (which few kings, alas! have ever known) How Affability becomes a throne, Destroys all fear, bids Love with Reverence live, And gives those graces Pride can never give. Let the stern tyrant keep a distant state, And, hating all men, fear return of hate, Conscious of guilt, retreat behind his throne, Secure from all upbraidings but his own: Let all my subjects have access to me, Be my ears open, as my heart is free; In full fair tide let information flow; That evil is half cured, whose cause we know. And thou, where'er thou art, thou wretched thing, Who art afraid to look up to a king, Lay by thy fears; make but thy grievance plain, And, if I not redress thee, may my reign Close up that very moment. To prevent The course of Justice from her vain intent, In vain my nearest, dearest friend shall plead, In vain my mother kneel; my soul may bleed, But must not change. When Justice draws the dart, Though it is doom'd to pierce a favourite's heart, 'Tis mine to give it force, to give it aim-I know it duty, and I feel it fame. ~ Charles Churchill,

99: 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 ,

100: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 ,

101:class:Classics BOOK THE NINTH The Story of Achelous and Hercules Theseus requests the God to tell his woes, Whence his maim'd brow, and whence his groans arose Whence thus the Calydonian stream reply'd, With twining reeds his careless tresses ty'd: Ungrateful is the tale; for who can bear, When conquer'd, to rehearse the shameful war? Yet I'll the melancholy story trace; So great a conqu'ror softens the disgrace: Nor was it still so mean the prize to yield, As great, and glorious to dispute the field. Perhaps you've heard of Deianira's name, For all the country spoke her beauty's fame. Long was the nymph by num'rous suitors woo'd, Each with address his envy'd hopes pursu'd: I joyn'd the loving band; to gain the fair, Reveal'd my passion to her father's ear. Their vain pretensions all the rest resign, Alcides only strove to equal mine; He boasts his birth from Jove, recounts his spoils, His step-dame's hate subdu'd, and finish'd toils. Can mortals then (said I), with Gods compare? Behold a God; mine is the watry care: Through your wide realms I take my mazy way, Branch into streams, and o'er the region stray: No foreign guest your daughter's charms adores, But one who rises in your native shores. Let not his punishment your pity move; Is Juno's hate an argument for love? Though you your life from fair Alcmena drew, Jove's a feign'd father, or by fraud a true. Chuse then; confess thy mother's honour lost, Or thy descent from Jove no longer boast. While thus I spoke, he look'd with stern disdain, Nor could the sallies of his wrath restrain, Which thus break forth. This arm decides our right; Vanquish in words, be mine the prize in fight. Bold he rush'd on. My honour to maintain, I fling my verdant garments on the plain, My arms stretch forth, my pliant limbs prepare, And with bent hands expect the furious war. O'er my sleek skin now gather'd dust he throws, And yellow sand his mighty muscles strows. Oft he my neck, and nimble legs assails, He seems to grasp me, but as often fails. Each part he now invades with eager hand; Safe in my bulk, immoveable I stand. So when loud storms break high, and foam and roar Against some mole that stretches from the shore; The firm foundation lasting tempests braves, Defies the warring winds, and driving waves. A-while we breathe, then forward rush amain, Renew the combat, and our ground maintain; Foot strove with foot, I prone extend my breast, Hands war with hands, and forehead forehead prest. Thus have I seen two furious bulls engage, Inflam'd with equal love, and equal rage; Each claims the fairest heifer of the grove, And conquest only can decide their love: The trembling herds survey the fight from far, 'Till victory decides th' important war. Three times in vain he strove my joints to wrest, To force my hold, and throw me from his breast; The fourth he broke my gripe, that clasp'd him round, Then with new force he stretch'd me on the ground; Close to my back the mighty bur then clung, As if a mountain o'er my limbs were flung. Believe my tale; nor do I, boastful, aim By feign'd narration to extol my fame. No sooner from his grasp I freedom get, Unlock my arms, that flow'd with trickling sweat, But quick he seized me, and renew'd the strife, As my exhausted bosom pants for life: My neck he gripes, my knee to earth he strains; I fall, and bite the sand with shame, and pains. O'er-match'd in strength, to wiles, and arts I take, And slip his hold, in form of speckled snake; Who, when I wreath'd in spires my body round, Or show'd my forky tongue with hissing sound, Smiles at my threats: Such foes my cradle knew, He cries, dire snakes my infant hand o'erthrew; A dragon's form might other conquests gain, To war with me you take that shape in vain. Art thou proportion'd to the Hydra's length, Who by his wounds receiv'd augmented strength? He rais'd a hundred hissing heads in air; When one I lopt, up-sprung a dreadful pair. By his wounds fertile, and with slaughter strong, Singly I quell'd him, and stretch'd dead along. What canst thou do, a form precarious, prone, To rouse my rage with terrors not thy own? He said; and round my neck his hands he cast, And with his straining fingers wrung me fast; My throat he tortur'd, close as pincers clasp, In vain I strove to loose the forceful grasp. Thus vanquish'd too, a third form still remains, Chang'd to a bull, my lowing fills the plains. Strait on the left his nervous arms were thrown Upon my brindled neck, and tugg'd it down; Then deep he struck my horn into the sand, And fell'd my bulk among the dusty land. Nor yet his fury cool'd; 'twixt rage and scorn, From my maim'd front he tore the stubborn horn: This, heap'd with flow'rs, and fruits, the Naiads bear, Sacred to plenty, and the bounteous year. He spoke; when lo, a beauteous nymph appears, Girt like Diana's train, with flowing hairs; The horn she brings in which all Autumn's stor'd, And ruddy apples for the second board. Now morn begins to dawn, the sun's bright fire Gilds the high mountains, and the youths retire; Nor stay'd they, 'till the troubled stream subsides, And in its bounds with peaceful current glides. But Achelous in his oozy bed Deep hides his brow deform'd, and rustick head: No real wound the victor's triumph show'd, But his lost honours griev'd the watry God; Yet ev'n that loss the willow's leaves o'erspread, And verdant reeds, in garlands, bind his head. The Death of Nessus the Centaur This virgin too, thy love, O Nessus, found, To her alone you owe the fatal wound. As the strong son of Jove his bride conveys, Where his paternal lands their bulwarks raise; Where from her slopy urn, Evenus pours Her rapid current, swell'd by wintry show'rs, He came. The frequent eddies whirl'd the tide, And the deep rolling waves all pass deny'd. As for himself, he stood unmov'd by fears, For now his bridal charge employ'd his cares, The strong-limb'd Nessus thus officious cry'd (For he the shallows of the stream had try'd), Swim thou, Alcides, all thy strength prepare, On yonder bank I'll lodge thy nuptial care. Th' Aonian chief to Nessus trusts his wife, All pale, and trembling for her heroe's life: Cloath'd as he stood in the fierce lion's hide, The laden quiver o'er his shoulder ty'd (For cross the stream his bow and club were cast), Swift he plung'd in: These billows shall be past, He said, nor sought where smoother waters glide, But stem'd the rapid dangers of the tide. The bank he reach'd; again the bow he bears; When, hark! his bride's known voice alarms his ears. Nessus, to thee I call (aloud he cries) Vain is thy trust in flight, be timely wise: Thou monster double-shap'd, my right set free; If thou no rev'rence owe my fame and me, Yet kindred should thy lawless lust deny; Think not, perfidious wretch, from me to fly, Tho' wing'd with horse's speed; wounds shall pursue; Swift as his words the fatal arrow flew: The centaur's back admits the feather'd wood, And thro' his breast the barbed weapon stood; Which when, in anguish, thro' the flesh he tore, From both the wounds gush'd forth the spumy gore Mix'd with Lernaean venom; this he took, Nor dire revenge his dying breast forsook. His garment, in the reeking purple dy'd, To rouse love's passion, he presents the bride. The Death of Hercules Now a long interval of time succeeds, When the great son of Jove's immortal deeds, And step-dame's hate, had fill'd Earth's utmost round; He from Oechalia, with new lawrels crown'd, In triumph was return'd. He rites prepares, And to the King of Gods directs his pray'rs; When Fame (who falshood cloaths in truth's disguise, And swells her little bulk with growing lies) Thy tender ear, o Deianira, mov'd, That Hercules the fair Iole lov'd. Her love believes the tale; the truth she fears Of his new passion, and gives way to tears. The flowing tears diffus'd her wretched grief, Why seek I thus, from streaming eyes, relief? She cries; indulge not thus these fruitless cares, The harlot will but triumph in thy tears: Let something be resolv'd, while yet there's time; My bed not conscious of a rival's crime. In silence shall I mourn, or loud complain? Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain? What tho', ally'd to Meleager's fame, I boast the honours of a sister's name? My wrongs, perhaps, now urge me to pursue Some desp'rate deed, by which the world shall view How far revenge, and woman's rage can rise, When weltring in her blood the harlot dies. Thus various passions rul'd by turns her breast, She now resolves to send the fatal vest, Dy'd with Lernaean gore, whose pow'r might move His soul anew, and rouse declining love. Nor knew she what her sudden rage bestows, When she to Lychas trusts her future woes; With soft endearments she the boy commands, To bear the garment to her husband's hands. Th' unwitting hero takes the gift in haste, And o'er his shoulders Lerna's poison cast, As first the fire with frankincense he strows, And utters to the Gods his holy vows; And on the marble altar's polish'd frame Pours forth the grapy stream; the rising flame Sudden dissolves the subtle pois'nous juice, Which taints his blood, and all his nerves bedews. With wonted fortitude he bore the smart, And not a groan confess'd his burning heart. At length his patience was subdu'd by pain, He rends the sacred altar from the plain; Oete's wide forests echo with his cries: Now to rip off the deathful robe he tries. Where-e'er he plucks the vest, the skin he tears, The mangled muscles, and huge bones he bares (A ghastful sight!), or raging with his pain, To rend the sticking plague he tugs in vain. As the red iron hisses in the flood, So boils the venom in his curdling blood. Now with the greedy flame his entrails glow, And livid sweats down all his body flow; The cracking nerves burnt up are burst in twain, The lurking venom melts his swimming brain. Then, lifting both his hands aloft, he cries, Glut thy revenge, dread Empress of the skies; Sate with my death the rancour of thy heart, Look down with pleasure, and enjoy my smart. Or, if e'er pity mov'd a hostile breast (For here I stand thy enemy profest), Take hence this hateful life, with tortures torn, Inur'd to trouble, and to labours born. Death is the gift most welcome to my woe, And such a gift a stepdame may bestow. Was it for this Busiris was subdu'd, Whose barb'rous temples reek'd with strangers' blood? Press'd in these arms his fate Antaeus found, Nor gain'd recruited vigour from the ground. Did I not triple-form'd Geryon fell? Or did I fear the triple dog of Hell? Did not these hands the bull's arm'd forehead hold? Are not our mighty toils in Elis told? Do not Stymphalian lakes proclaim thy fame? And fair Par thenian woods resound thy name? Who seiz'd the golden belt of Thermodon? And who the dragon-guarded apples won? Could the fierce centaur's strength my force withstand, Or the fell boar that spoil'd th' Arcadian land? Did not these arms the Hydra's rage subdue, Who from his wounds to double fury grew? What if the Thracian horses, fat with gore, Who human bodies in their mangers tore, I saw, and with their barb'rous lord o'erthrew? What if these hands Nemaea's lion slew? Did not this neck the heav'nly globe sustain? The female partner of the Thunderer's reign Fatigu'd, at length suspends her harsh commands, Yet no fatigue hath slack'd these valiant hands. But now new plagues pursue me, neither force, Nor arms, nor darts can stop their raging course. Devouring flame thro' my rack'd entrails strays, And on my lungs and shrivel'd muscles preys. Yet still Eurystheus breathes the vital air. What mortal now shall seek the Gods with pray'r? The Transformation of Lychas into a Rock The hero said; and with the torture stung, Furious o'er Oete's lofty hills he sprung. Stuck with the shaft, thus scours the tyger round, And seeks the flying author of his wound. Now might you see him trembling, now he vents His anguish'd soul in groans, and loud laments; He strives to tear the clinging vest in vain, And with up-rooted forests strows the plain; Now kindling into rage, his hands he rears, And to his kindred Gods directs his pray'rs. When Lychas, lo, he spies; who trembling flew, And in a hollow rock conceal'd from view, Had shun'd his wrath. Now grief renew'd his pain, His madness chaf'd, and thus he raves again. Lychas, to thee alone my fate I owe, Who bore the gift, the cause of all my woe. The youth all pale, with shiv'ring fear was stung, And vain excuses falter'd on his tongue. Alcides snatch'd him, as with suppliant face He strove to clasp his knees, and beg for grace: He toss'd him o'er his head with airy course, And hurl'd with more than with an engine's force; Far o'er th' Eubaean main aloof he flies, And hardens by degrees amid the skies. So showry drops, when chilly tempests blow, Thicken at first, then whiten into snow, In balls congeal'd the rolling fleeces bound, In solid hail result upon the ground. Thus, whirl'd with nervous force thro' distant air, The purple tide forsook his veins, with fear; All moisture left his limbs. Transform'd to stone, In ancient days the craggy flint was known; Still in the Eubaean waves his front he rears, Still the small rock in human form appears, And still the name of hapless Lychas bears. The Apotheosis of Hercules But now the hero of immortal birth Fells Oete's forests on the groaning Earth; A pile he builds; to Philoctetes' care He leaves his deathful instruments of war; To him commits those arrows, which again Shall see the bulwarks of the Trojan reign. The son of Paean lights the lofty pyre, High round the structure climbs the greedy fire; Plac'd on the top, thy nervous shoulders spread With the Nemaean spoils, thy careless head Rais'd on a knotty club, with look divine, Here thou, dread hero, of celestial line, Wert stretch'd at ease; as when a chearful guest, Wine crown'd thy bowls, and flow'rs thy temples drest. Now on all sides the potent flames aspire, And crackle round those limbs that mock the fire A sudden terror seiz'd th' immortal host, Who thought the world's profess'd defender lost. This when the Thund'rer saw, with smiles he cries, 'Tis from your fears, ye Gods, my pleasures rise; Joy swells my breast, that my all-ruling hand O'er such a grateful people boasts command, That you my suff'ring progeny would aid; Tho' to his deeds this just respect be paid, Me you've oblig'd. Be all your fears forborn, Th' Oetean fires do thou, great hero, scorn. Who vanquish'd all things, shall subdue the flame. That part alone of gross maternal frame Fire shall devour; while what from me he drew Shall live immortal, and its force subdue; That, when he's dead, I'll raise to realms above; May all the Pow'rs the righteous act approve. If any God dissent, and judge too great The sacred honours of the heav'nly seat, Ev'n he shall own his deeds deserve the sky, Ev'n he reluctant, shall at length comply. Th' assembled Pow'rs assent. No frown 'till now Had mark'd with passion vengeful Juno's brow, Mean-while whate'er was in the pow'r of flame Was all consum'd; his body's nervous frame No more was known, of human form bereft, Th' eternal part of Jove alone was left. As an old serpent casts his scaly vest, Wreathes in the sun, in youthful glory drest; So when Alcides mortal mold resign'd, His better part enlarg'd, and grew refin'd; August his visage shone; almighty Jove In his swift carr his honour'd offspring drove; High o'er the hollow clouds the coursers fly, And lodge the hero in the starry sky. The Transformation of Galanthis Atlas perceiv'd the load of Heav'n's new guest. Revenge still rancour'd in Eurystheus' breast Against Alcides' race. Alcmena goes To Iole, to vent maternal woes; Here she pours forth her grief, recounts the spoils Her son had bravely reap'd in glorious toils. This Iole, by Hercules' commands, Hyllus had lov'd, and joyn'd in nuptial bands. Her swelling womb the teeming birth confess'd, To whom Alcmena thus her speech address'd. O, may the Gods protect thee, in that hour, When, 'midst thy throws, thou call'st th' Ilithyan Pow'r! May no delays prolong thy racking pain, As when I su'd for Juno's aid in vain. When now Alcides' mighty birth drew nigh, And the tenth sign roll'd forward on the sky, My womb extends with such a mighty load, As Jove the parent of the bur then show'd. I could no more th' encreasing smart sustain, My horror kindles to recount the pain; Cold chills my limbs while I the tale pursue, And now methinks I feel my pangs anew. Seven days and nights amidst incessant throws, Fatigu'd with ills I lay, nor knew repose; When lifting high my hands, in shrieks I pray'd, Implor'd the Gods, and call'd Lucina's aid. She came, but prejudic'd, to give my Fate A sacrifice to vengeful Juno's hate. She hears the groaning anguish of my fits, And on the altar at my door she sits. O'er her left knee her crossing leg she cast, Then knits her fingers close, and wrings them fast: This stay'd the birth; in mutt'ring verse she pray'd, The mutt'ring verse th' unfinish'd birth delay'd. Now with fierce struggles, raging with my pain, At Jove's ingratitude I rave in vain. How did I wish for death! such groans I sent, As might have made the flinty heart relent. Now the Cadmeian matrons round me press, Offer their vows, and seek to bring redress; Among the Theban dames Galanthis stands, Strong limb'd, red hair'd, and just to my commands: She first perceiv'd that all these racking woes From the persisting hate of Juno rose. As here and there she pass'd, by chance she sees The seated Goddess; on her close-press'd knees Her fast-knit hands she leans; with chearful voice Galanthis cries, Whoe'er thou art, rejoyce, Congratulate the dame, she lies at rest, At length the Gods Alcmena's womb have blest. Swift from her seat the startled Goddess springs, No more conceal'd, her hands abroad she flings; The charm unloos'd, the birth my pangs reliev'd; Galanthis' laughter vex'd the Pow'r deceiv'd. Fame says, the Goddess dragg'd the laughing maid Fast by the hair; in vain her force essay'd Her grov'ling body from the ground to rear; Chang'd to fore-feet her shrinking arms appear: Her hairy back her former hue retains, The form alone is lost; her strength remains; Who, since the lye did from her mouth proceed, Shall from her pregnant mouth bring forth her breed; Nor shall she quit her long-frequented home, But haunt those houses where she lov'd to roam. The Fable of Dryope She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs; When the fair consort of her son replies; Since you a servant's ravish'd form bemoan, And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own, Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate. No nymph of all Oechaloa could compare For beauteous form with Dryope the fair; Her tender mother's only hope and pride (My self the offspring of a second bride), This nymph, compress'd by him who rules the day, Whom Delphi, and the Delian isle obey, Andraemon lov'd; and blest in all those charms That pleas'd a God, succeeded to her arms. A lake there was, with shelving banks around, Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown'd. Those shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought; And to the Naiads flow'ry garlands brought; Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she prest Between her arms, and nourish'd at her breast. Not distant far a watry lotos grows; The Spring was new, and all the verdant boughs, Acorn'd with blossoms, promis'd fruits that vye In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye. Of these she cropt, to please her infant son, And I my self the same rash act had done, But, lo! I saw (as near her side I stood) The violated blossoms drop with blood; Upon the tree I cast a frightful look, The trembling tree with sudden horror shook. Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true) As from Priapus' lawless lust she flew, Forsook her form; and fixing here became A flow'ry plant, which still preserves her name. This change unknown, astonish'd at the sight, My trembling sister strove to urge her flight; Yet first the pardon of the Nymphs implor'd, And those offended Sylvan pow'rs ador'd: But when she backward would have fled, she found Her stiff'ning feet were rooted to the ground: In vain to free her fasten'd feet she strove, And as she struggles only moves above; She feels th' incroaching bark around her grow, By slow degrees, and cover all below: Surpriz'd at this, her trembling hand she heaves To rend her hair; her hand is fill'd with leaves; Where late was hair, the shooting leaves are seen To rise, and shade her with a sudden green. The Child Amphisus, to her bosom prest, Perceiv'd a colder and a harder breast, And found the springs, that n'er 'till then deny'd Their milky moisture, on a sudden dry'd. I saw, unhappy, what I now relate, And stood the helpless witness of thy fate; Embrac'd thy boughs, the rising bark delay'd, There wish'd to grow, and mingle shade with shade. Behold Andraemon, and th' unhappy sire Appear, and for their Dryope enquire; A springing tree for Dryope they find, And print warm kisses on the panting rind; Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew, And close embrac'd, as to the roots they grew; The face was all that now remain'd of thee; No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree: Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear, From ev'ry leaf distills a trickling tear; And strait a voice, while yet a voice remains, Thus thro' the trembling boughs in sighs complains. If to the wretched any faith be giv'n, I swear by all th' unpitying Pow'rs of Heav'n, No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred, In mutual innocence our lives we led. If this be false, let these new greens decay, Let sounding axes lop my limbs away, And crackling flames on all my honours prey. Now from my branching arms this infant bear, Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care; Yet to his mother let him oft be led, Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed; Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name, To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes, Within this plant my hapless parent lies; And when in youth he seeks the shady woods, Oh, let him fly the chrystal lakes and floods, Nor touch the fatal flow'rs; but warn'd by me, Believe a Goddess shrin'd in ev'ry tree. My sire, my sister, and my spouse farewel! If in your breasts or love, or pity, dwell, Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel The browzing cattle, or the piercing steel. Farewel! and since I cannot bend to join My lips to yours, advance at least to mine. My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive, While yet thy mother has a kiss to give. I can no more; the creeping rind invades My closing lips, and hides my head in shades: Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice, Without their aid, to seal these dying eyes. She ceas'd at once to speak, and ceas'd to be; And all the nymph was lost within the tree: Yet latent life thro' her new branches reign'd, And long the plant a human heat retain'd. Iolaus restor'd to Youth While Iole the fatal change declares, Alcmena's pitying hand oft wip'd her tears. Grief too stream'd down her cheeks; soon sorrow flies, And rising joy the trickling moisture dries, Lo Iolaus stands before their eyes. A youth he stood; and the soft down began O'er his smooth chin to spread, and promise man. Hebe submitted to her husband's pray'rs, Instill'd new vigour, and restor'd his years. The Prophecy of Themis Now from her lips a solemn oath had past, That Iolaus this gift alone shou'd taste, Had not just Themis thus maturely said (Which check'd her vow, and aw'd the blooming maid). Thebes is embroil'd in war. Capaneus stands Invincible, but by the Thund'rer's hands. Ambition shall the guilty brothers fire, Both rush to mutual wounds, and both expire. The reeling Earth shall ope her gloomy womb, Where the yet breathing bard shall find his tomb. The son shall bath his hands in parents' blood, And in one act be both unjust, and good. Of home, and sense depriv'd, where-e'er he flies, The Furies, and his mother's ghost he spies. His wife the fatal bracelet shall implore, And Phegeus stain his sword in kindred gore. Callirhoe shall then with suppliant pray'r Prevail on Jupiter's relenting ear. Jove shall with youth her infant sons inspire, And bid their bosoms glow with manly fire. The Debate of the Gods When Themis thus with prescient voice had spoke, Among the Gods a various murmur broke; Dissention rose in each immortal breast, That one should grant, what was deny'd the rest. Aurora for her aged spouse complains, And Ceres grieves for Jason's freezing veins; Vulcan would Erichthonius' years renew, Her future race the care of Venus drew, She would Anchises' blooming age restore; A diff'rent care employ'd each heav'nly Pow'r: Thus various int'rests did their jars encrease, 'Till Jove arose; he spoke, their tumults cease. Is any rev'rence to our presence giv'n, Then why this discord 'mong the Pow'rs of Heav'n? Who can the settled will of Fate subdue? 'Twas by the Fates that Iolaus knew A second youth. The Fates' determin'd doom Shall give Callirhoe's race a youthful bloom. Arms, nor ambition can this pow'r obtain; Quell your desires; ev'n me the Fates restrain. Could I their will controul, no rolling years Had Aeacus bent down with silver hairs; Then Rhadamanthus still had youth possess'd, And Minos with eternal bloom been bless'd. Jove's words the synod mov'd; the Pow'rs give o'er, And urge in vain unjust complaint no more. Since Rhadamanthus' veins now slowly flow'd, And Aeacus, and Minos bore the load; Minos, who in the flow'r of youth, and fame, Made mighty nations tremble at his name, Infirm with age, the proud Miletus fears, Vain of his birth, and in the strength of years, And now regarding all his realms as lost, He durst not force him from his native coast. But you by choice, Miletus, fled his reign, And thy swift vessel plow'd th' Aegean main; On Asiatick shores a town you frame, Which still is honour'd with the founder's name. Here you Cyanee knew, the beauteous maid, As on her father's winding banks she stray'd: Caunus and Byblis hence their lineage trace, The double offspring of your warm embrace. The Passion of of Byblis Let the sad fate of wretched Byblis prove A dismal warning to unlawful love; One birth gave being to the hapless pair, But more was Caunus than a sister's care; Unknown she lov'd, for yet the gentle fire Rose not in flames, nor kindled to desire, 'Twas thought no sin to wonder at his charms, Hang on his neck, and languish in his arms; Thus wing'd with joy, fled the soft hours away, And all the fatal guilt on harmless Nature lay. But love (too soon from piety declin'd) Insensibly deprav'd her yielding mind. Dress'd she appears, with nicest art adorn'd, And ev'ry youth, but her lov'd brother, scorn'd; For him alone she labour'd to be fair, And curst all charms that might with hers compare. 'Twas she, and only she, must Caunus please, Sick at her heart, yet knew not her disease: She call'd him lord, for brother was a name Too cold, and dull for her aspiring flame; And when he spoke, if sister he reply'd, For Byblis change that frozen word, she cry'd. Yet waking still she watch'd her strugling breast, And love's approaches were in vain address'd, 'Till gentle sleep an easy conquest made, And in her soft embrace the conqueror was laid. But oh too soon the pleasing vision fled, And left her blushing on the conscious bed: Ah me! (she cry'd) how monstrous do I seem? Why these wild thoughts? and this incestuous dream? Envy herself ('tis true) must own his charms, But what is beauty in a sister's arms? Oh were I not that despicable she, How bless'd, how pleas'd, how happy shou'd I be! But unregarded now must bear my pain, And but in dreams, my wishes can obtain. O sea-born Goddess! with thy wanton boy! Was ever such a charming scene of joy? Such perfect bliss! such ravishing delight! Ne'er hid before in the kind shades of night. How pleas'd my heart! in what sweet raptures tost! Ev'n life it self in the soft combat lost, While breathless he on my heav'd bosom lay, And snatch'd the treasures of my soul away. If the bare fancy so affects my mind, How shou'd I rave if to the substance join'd? Oh, gentle Caunus! quit thy hated line, Or let thy parents be no longer mine! Oh that in common all things were enjoy'd, But those alone who have our hopes destroy'd. Were I a princess, thou an humble swain, The proudest kings shou'd rival thee in vain. It cannot be, alas! the dreadful ill Is fix'd by Fate, and he's my brother still. Hear me, ye Gods! I must have friends in Heav'n, For Jove himself was to a sister giv'n: But what are their prerogatives above, To the short liberties of human love? Fantastick thoughts! down, down, forbidden fires, Or instant death extinguish my desires. Strict virtue, then, with thy malicious leave, Without a crime I may a kiss receive: But say shou'd I in spight of laws comply, Yet cruel Caunus might himself deny, No pity take of an afflicted maid (For love's sweet game must be by couples play'd). Yet why shou'd youth, and charms like mine, despair? Such fears ne'er startled the Aeolian pair; No ties of blood could their full hopes destroy, They broke thro' all, for the prevailing joy; And who can tell but Caunus too may be Rack'd and tormented in his breast for me? Like me, to the extreamest anguish drove, Like me, just waking from a dream of love? But stay! Oh whither wou'd my fury run! What arguments I urge to be undone! Away fond Byblis, quench these guilty flames; Caunus thy love but as brother claims; Yet had he first been touch'd with love of me, The charming youth cou'd I despairing see? Oppress'd with grief, and dying by disdain? Ah no! too sure I shou'd have eas'd his pain! Since then, if Caunus ask'd me, it were done; Asking my self, what dangers can I run? But canst thou ask? and see that right betray'd, From Pyrrha down to thy whole sex convey'd? That self-denying gift we all enjoy, Of wishing to be won, yet seeming to be coy. Well then, for once, let a fond mistress woo; The force of love no custom can subdue; This frantick passion he by words shall know, Soft as the melting heart from whence they flow. The pencil then in her fair hand she held, By fear discourag'd, but by love compell'd She writes, then blots, writes on, and blots again, Likes it as fit, then razes it as vain: Shame, and assurance in her face appear, And a faint hope just yielding to despair; Sister was wrote, and blotted as a word Which she, and Caunus too (she hop'd) abhorr'd; But now resolv'd to be no more controul'd By scrup'lous virtue, thus her grief she told. Thy lover (gentle Caunus) wishes thee That health, which thou alone canst give to me. O charming youth! the gift I ask bestow, Ere thou the name of the fond writer know; To thee without a name I would be known, Since knowing that, my frailty I must own. Yet why shou'd I my wretched name conceal? When thousand instances my flames reveal: Wan looks, and weeping eyes have spoke my pain, And sighs discharg'd from my heav'd heart in vain; Had I not wish'd my passion might be seen, What cou'd such fondness and embraces mean? Such kisses too! (Oh heedless lovely boy) Without a crime no sister cou'd enjoy: Yet (tho' extreamest rage has rack'd my soul, And raging fires in my parch'd bosom roul) Be witness, Gods! how piously I strove, To rid my thoughts of this enchanting love. But who cou'd scape so fierce, and sure a dart, Aim'd at a tender, and defenceless heart? Alas! what maid cou'd suffer, I have born, Ere the dire secret from my breast was torn; To thee a helpless vanquish'd wretch I come, 'Tis you alone can save, or give my doom; My life, or death this moment you may chuse. Yet think, oh think, no hated stranger sues, No foe; but one, alas! too near ally'd, And wishing still much nearer to be ty'd. The forms of decency let age debate, And virtue's rules by their cold morals state; Their ebbing joys give leisure to enquire, And blame those noble flights our youth inspire: Where Nature kindly summons let us go, Our sprightly years no bounds in love shou'd know, Shou'd feel no check of guilt, and fear no ill; Lovers, and Gods act all things at their will: We gain one blessing from our hated kin, Since our paternal freedom hides the sin; Uncensur'd in each other's arms we lye, Think then how easie to compleat our joy. Oh, pardon and oblige a blushing maid, Whose rage the pride of her vain sex betray'd; Nor let my tomb thus mournfully complain, Here Byblis lies, by her lov'd Caunus slain. Forc'd here to end, she with a falling tear Temper'd the pliant wax, which did the signet bear: The curious cypher was impress'd by art, But love had stamp'd one deeper in her heart; Her page, a youth of confidence, and skill, (Secret as night) stood waiting on her will; Sighing (she cry'd): Bear this, thou faithful boy, To my sweet partner in eternal joy: Here a long pause her secret guilt confess'd, And when at length she would have spoke the rest, Half the dear name lay bury'd in her breast. Thus as he listned to her vain command, Down fell the letter from her trembling hand. The omen shock'd her soul. Yet go, she cry'd; Can a request from Byblis be deny'd? To the Maeandrian youth this message's born, The half-read lines by his fierce rage were torn; Hence, hence, he cry'd, thou pandar to her lust, Bear hence the triumph of thy impious trust: Thy instant death will but divulge her shame, Or thy life's blood shou'd quench the guilty flame. Frighted, from threatning Caunus he withdrew, And with the dreadful news to his lost mistress flew. The sad repulse so struck the wounded fair, Her sense was bury'd in her wild despair; Pale was her visage, as the ghastly dead; And her scar'd soul from the sweet mansion fled; Yet with her life renew'd, her love returns, And faintly thus her cruel fate she mourns: 'Tis just, ye Gods! was my false reason blind? To write a secret of this tender kind? With female craft I shou'd at first have strove, By dubious hints to sound his distant love; And try'd those useful, tho' dissembled, arts, Which women practise on disdainful hearts: I shou'd have watch'd whence the black storm might rise; Ere I had trusted the unfaithful skies. Now on the rouling billows I am tost, And with extended sails, on the blind shelves am lost. Did not indulgent Heav'n my doom foretell, When from my hand the fatal letter fell? What madness seiz'd my soul? and urg'd me on To take the only course to be undone? I cou'd my self have told the moving tale With such alluring grace as must prevail; Then had his eyes beheld my blushing fears, My rising sighs, and my descending tears; Round his dear neck these arms I then had spread, And, if rejected, at his feet been dead: If singly these had not his thoughts inclin'd, Yet all united would have shock'd his mind. Perhaps, my careless page might be in fault, And in a luckless hour the fatal message brought; Business, and worldly thoughts might fill his breast, Sometimes ev'n love itself may be an irksome guest: He cou'd not else have treated me with scorn, For Caunus was not of a tygress born; Nor steel, nor adamant has fenc'd his heart; Like mine, 'tis naked to the burning dart. Away false fears! he must, he shall be mine; In death alone I will my claim resign; 'Tis vain to wish my written crime unknown, And for my guilt much vainer to atone. Repuls'd and baffled, fiercer still she burns, And Caunus with disdain her impious love returns. He saw no end of her injurious flame, And fled his country to avoid the shame. Forsaken Byblis, who had hopes no more; Burst out in rage, and her loose robes she tore; With her fair hands she smote her tender breast, And to the wond'ring world her love confess'd; O'er hills and dales, o'er rocks and streams she flew, But still in vain did her wild lust pursue: Wearied at length, on the cold earth she fell, And now in tears alone could her sad story tell. Relenting Gods in pity fix'd her there, And to a fountain turn'd the weeping fair. The Fable of Iphis and Ian the The fame of this, perhaps, thro' Crete had flown: But Crete had newer wonders of her own, In Iphis chang'd; for, near the Gnossian bounds (As loud report the miracle resounds), At Phaestus dwelt a man of honest blood, But meanly born, and not so rich as good; Esteem'd, and lov'd by all the neighbourhood; Who to his wife, before the time assign'd For child-birth came, thus bluntly spoke his mind. If Heav'n, said Lygdus, will vouchsafe to hear, I have but two petitions to prefer; Short pains for thee, for me a son and heir. Girls cost as many throes in bringing forth; Beside, when born, the titts are little worth; Weak puling things, unable to sustain Their share of labour, and their bread to gain. If, therefore, thou a creature shalt produce, Of so great charges, and so little use (Bear witness, Heav'n, with what reluctancy), Her hapless innocence I doom to die. He said, and common tears the common grief display, Of him who bad, and her who must obey. Yet Telethusa still persists, to find Fit arguments to move a father's mind; T' extend his wishes to a larger scope, And in one vessel not confine his hope. Lygdus continues hard: her time drew near, And she her heavy load could scarcely bear; When slumbring, in the latter shades of night, Before th' approaches of returning light, She saw, or thought she saw, before her bed, A glorious train, and Isis at their head: Her moony horns were on her forehead plac'd, And yellow shelves her shining temples grac'd: A mitre, for a crown, she wore on high; The dog, and dappl'd bull were waiting by; Osyris, sought along the banks of Nile; The silent God: the sacred crocodile; And, last, a long procession moving on, With timbrels, that assist the lab'ring moon. Her slumbers seem'd dispell'd, and, broad awake, She heard a voice, that thus distinctly spake. My votary, thy babe from death defend, Nor fear to save whate'er the Gods will send. Delude with art thy husband's dire decree: When danger calls, repose thy trust on me: And know thou hast not serv'd a thankless deity. This promise made, with night the Goddess fled; With joy the woman wakes, and leaves her bed; Devoutly lifts her spotless hands on high, And prays the Pow'rs their gift to ratifie. Now grinding pains proceed to bearing throes, 'Till its own weight the burden did disclose. 'Twas of the beauteous kind, and brought to light With secrecy, to shun the father's sight. Th' indulgent mother did her care employ, And past it on her husb and for a boy. The nurse was conscious of the fact alone; The father paid his vows as for a son; And call'd him Iphis, by a common name, Which either sex with equal right may claim. Iphis his grandsire was; the wife was pleas'd, Of half the fraud by Fortune's favour eas'd: The doubtful name was us'd without deceit, And truth was cover'd with a pious cheat. The habit show'd a boy, the beauteous face With manly fierceness mingled female grace. Now thirteen years of age were swiftly run, When the fond father thought the time drew on Of settling in the world his only son. Ian the was his choice; so wondrous fair, Her form alone with Iphis cou'd compare; A neighbour's daughter of his own degree, And not more bless'd with Fortune's goods than he. They soon espous'd; for they with ease were join'd, Who were before contracted in the mind. Their age the same, their inclinations too; And bred together, in one school they grew. Thus, fatally dispos'd to mutual fires, They felt, before they knew, the same desires. Equal their flame, unequal was their care; One lov'd with hope, one languish'd in despair. The maid accus'd the lingring day alone: For whom she thought a man, she thought her own. But Iphis bends beneath a greater grief; As fiercely burns, but hopes for no relief. Ev'n her despair adds fuel to her fire; A maid with madness does a maid desire. And, scarce refraining tears, Alas, said she, What issue of my love remains for me! How wild a passion works within my breast, With what prodigious flames am I possest! Could I the care of Providence deserve, Heav'n must destroy me, if it would preserve. And that's my fate, or sure it would have sent Some usual evil for my punishment: Not this unkindly curse; to rage, and burn, Where Nature shews no prospect of return. Nor cows for cows consume with fruitless fire; Nor mares, when hot, their fellow-mares desire: The father of the fold supplies his ewes; The stag through secret woods his hind pursues; And birds for mates the males of their own species chuse. Her females Nature guards from female flame, And joins two sexes to preserve the game: Wou'd I were nothing, or not what I am! Crete, fam'd for monsters, wanted of her store, 'Till my new love produc'd one monster more. The daughter of the sun a bull desir'd, And yet ev'n then a male a female fir'd: Her passion was extravagantly new, But mine is much the madder of the two. To things impossible she was not bent, But found the means to compass her intent. To cheat his eyes she took a different shape; Yet still she gain'd a lover, and a leap. Shou'd all the wit of all the world conspire, Shou'd Daedalus assist my wild desire, What art can make me able to enjoy, Or what can change Ian the to a boy? Extinguish then thy passion, hopeless maid, And recollect thy reason for thy aid. Know what thou art, and love as maidens ought, And drive these golden wishes from thy thought. Thou canst not hope thy fond desires to gain; Where hope is wanting, wishes are in vain. And yet no guards against our joys conspire; No jealous husb and hinders our desire; My parents are propitious to my wish, And she herself consenting to the bliss. All things concur to prosper our design; All things to prosper any love but mine. And yet I never can enjoy the fair; 'Tis past the pow'r of Heav'n to grant my pray'r. Heav'n has been kind, as far as Heav'n can be; Our parents with our own desires agree; But Nature, stronger than the Gods above, Refuses her assistance to my love; She sets the bar that causes all my pain; One gift refus'd, makes all their bounty vain. And now the happy day is just at hand, To bind our hearts in Hymen's holy band: Our hearts, but not our bodies: thus accurs'd, In midst of water I complain of thirst. Why com'st thou, Juno, to these barren rites, To bless a bed defrauded of delights? But why shou'd Hymen lift his torch on high, To see two brides in cold embraces lye? Thus love-sick Iphis her vain passion mourns; With equal ardour fair Ian the burns, Invoking Hymen's name, and Juno's pow'r, To speed the work, and haste the happy hour. She hopes, while Telethusa fears the day, And strives to interpose some new delay: Now feigns a sickness, now is in a fright For this bad omen, or that boding sight. But having done whate'er she could devise, And empty'd all her magazine of lies, The time approach'd; the next ensuing day The fatal secret must to light betray. Then Telethusa had recourse to pray'r, She, and her daughter with dishevel'd hair; Trembling with fear, great Isis they ador'd, Embrac'd her altar, and her aid implor'd. Fair queen, who dost on fruitful Egypt smile, Who sway'st the sceptre of the Pharian isle, And sev'n-fold falls of disemboguing Nile, Relieve, in this our last distress, she said, A suppliant mother, and a mournful maid. Thou, Goddess, thou wert present to my sight; Reveal'd I saw thee by thy own fair light: I saw thee in my dream, as now I see, With all thy marks of awful majesty: The glorious train that compass'd thee around; And heard the hollow timbrels holy sound. Thy words I noted, which I still retain; Let not thy sacred oracles be vain. That Iphis lives, that I myself am free From shame, and punishment, I owe to thee. On thy protection all our hopes depend. Thy counsel sav'd us, let thy pow'r defend. Her tears pursu'd her words; and while she spoke, The Goddess nodded, and her altar shook: The temple doors, as with a blast of wind, Were heard to clap; the lunar horns that bind The brows of Isis cast a blaze around; The trembling timbrel made a murm'ring sound. Some hopes these happy omens did impart; Forth went the mother with a beating heart: Not much in fear, nor fully satisfy'd; But Iphis follow'd with a larger stride: The whiteness of her skin forsook her face; Her looks embolden'd with an awful grace; Her features, and her strength together grew, And her long hair to curling locks withdrew. Her sparkling eyes with manly vigour shone, Big was her voice, audacious was her tone. The latent parts, at length reveal'd, began To shoot, and spread, and burnish into man. The maid becomes a youth; no more delay Your vows, but look, and confidently pay. Their gifts the parents to the temple bear: The votive tables this inscription wear; Iphis the man, has to the Goddess paid The vows, that Iphis offer'd when a maid. Now when the star of day had shewn his face, Venus and Juno with their presence grace The nuptial rites, and Hymen from above Descending to compleat their happy love; The Gods of marriage lend their mutual aid; And the warm youth enjoys the lovely maid. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE NINTH ,

102: Book IV: The Book of Partings Eagerly, spurred by Ares swift in their souls to the war-cry, All now pressed to their homes for the food of their strength in the battle. Ilion turned her thoughts in a proud expectancy seaward Waiting to hear the sounds that she loved and the cry of the mellay. Now to their citadel Priams sons returned with their father, Now from the gates Talthybius issued grey in his chariot; But in the halls of Anchises Aeneas not doffing his breastpiece Hastily ate of the corn of his country, cakes of the millet Doubled with wild-deers flesh, from the quiet hands of Cresa. She, as he ate, with her calm eyes watching him smiled on her husband: Ever thou hastest to battle, O warrior, ever thou fightest Far in the front of the ranks and thou seekest out Locrian Ajax, Turnest thy ear to the roar for the dangerous shout of Tydides; There, once heard, leaving all thou drivest, O stark in thy courage. Yet am I blest among women who tremble not, left in thy mansion, Quiet at old Anchises feet when I see thee in vision Sole with the shafts hissing round thee and say to my quivering spirit, Now he is striking at Ajax, now he has met Diomedes. Such are the mighty twain who are ever near to protect thee, Phoebus, the Thunderers son, and thy mother, gold Aphrodite; Such are the Fates that demand thee, O destined head of the future. But though my thoughts for their own are not troubled, always, Aeneas, Sore is my heart with pity for other Ilian women Who in this battle are losing their children and well-loved husbands, Brothers too dear, for the eyes that are wet, for the hearts that are silent. Will not this war then end that thunders for ever round Troya? But to Cresa the hero answered, the son of Anchises: Surely the gods protect, yet is Death too always mighty. Most in his shadowy envy he strikes at the brave and the lovely, Grudging works to abridge their days and to widow the sunlight. Most, disappointed, he rages against the beloved of Heaven; Striking their lives through their hearts he mows down their loves and their pleasures. Truly thou sayst, thou needst not to fear for my life in the battle; Ever for thine I fear lest he find thee out in his anger, Missing my head in the fight, when he comes here crossed in his godhead. Yet shall Phoebus protect and my mother, gold Aphrodite. But to Aeneas answered the tranquil lips of Cresa: So may it be that I go before thee, seeing, Aeneas, Over my dying eyes thy lips bend down for the parting. Blissfullest end is this for a woman here mid earths sorrows; Afterwards there we hope that the hands shall join which were parted. So she spoke, not knowing the gods: but Aeneas departing Clasped his fathers knees, the ancient mighty Anchises. Bless me, my father; I go to the battle. Strong with thy blessing Even today may I hurl down Ajax, slay Diomedes, And on the morrow gaze on the empty beaches of Troas. Troubled and joyless, nought replying to warlike Aeneas Long Anchises sat unmoving, silent, sombre, Gazing into his soul with eyes that were closed to the sunlight. Prosper, Aeneas, slowly he answered him, son of a goddess, Prosper, Aeneas; and if for Troy some doom is preparing, Suffer always the will of the gods with a piety constant. Only they will what Necessity fashions compelled by the Silence. Labour and war she has given to man as the law of his transience. Work; she shall give thee the crown of thy deeds or their ending appointed, Whether glorious thou pass or in silent shadows forgotten. But what thy mother commands perform ever, loading thy vessels. Who can know what the gods have hid with the mist of our hopings? Then from the house of his fathers Aeneas rapidly striding Came to the city echoing now with the wheels of the chariots, Clanging with arms and astream with the warlike tramp of her thousands. Fast through the press he strode and men turning knew Aeneas, Greatened in heart and went on with loftier thoughts towards battle. He through the noise and the crowd to Antenors high-built mansion Striding came, and he turned to its courts and the bronze of its threshold Trod which had suffered the feet of so many princes departed. But as he crossed its brazen square from the hall there came running, Leaping up light to his feet and laughing with sudden pleasure, Eurus the youngest son of Polydamas. Clasping the fatal War-hardened hand with a palm that was smooth as a maidens or infants, Well art thou come, Aeneas, he said, and good fortune has sent thee! Now I shall go to the field; thou wilt speak with my grandsire Antenor And he shall hear thee though chid by his heart reluctant. Rejoicing I shall go forth in thy car or warring by Penthesilea, Famous, give to her grasp the spear that shall smite down Achilles. Smiling answered Aeneas, Surely will, Eurus, thy prowess Carry thee far to the front; thou shalt fight with Epeus and slay him. Who shall say that this hand was not chosen to pierce Menelaus? But for a while with the ball should it rather strive, O hero, Till in the play and the wrestle its softness is trained for the smiting. Eagerly Eurus answered, But they have told me, Aeneas, This is the last of our fights; for today will Penthesilea Meet Achilles in battle and slay him ending the Argives. Then shall I never have mixed in this war that is famous for ever. What shall I say when my hairs are white like the aged Antenors? Men will ask, And what were thy deeds in the warfare Titanic? Whom didst thou slay of the Argives, son of Polydamas, venging Bravely thy father? Then must I say, I lurked in the city. I was too young and only ascending the Ilian ramparts Saw the return or the flight, but never the deed and the triumph. Friend, if you take me not forth, I shall die of grief ere the sunset. Plucking the hand of Aeneas he drew him into the mansion Vast; and over the floor of the spacious hall they hastened Laughing, the gracious child and the mighty hero and statesman, Flower of a present stock and the burdened star of the future. Meanwhile girt by his sons and the sons of his sons in his chamber Cried to the remnants left of his blood the aged Antenor. Hearken you who are sprung from my loins and children, their offspring! None shall again go forth to the fight who is kin to Antenor. Weighed with my curse he shall go and the spear-points athirst of the Argives Meet him wroth; he shall die in his sin and his name be forgotten. Oft have I sent forth my blood to be spilled in vain in the battle Fighting for Troy and her greatness earned by my toil and my fathers. Now all the debt has been paid; she rejects us driven by the immortals. Much do we owe to the mother who bore us, much to our country; But at the last our life is ours and the gods and the futures. Gather the gold of my house and our kin, O ye sons of Antenor. Warned by a voice in my soul I will go forth tonight from this city Fleeing the doom and bearing my treasures; the ships shall receive them Gathered, new-keeled by my care and the gods, in the narrow Propontis. Over Gods waters guided, treading the rage of Poseidon, Bellying out with their sails let them cleave to the untravelled distance Oceans crests and resign to their Fates the doomed and the evil. So Antenor spoke and his children heard him in silence; Awed by his voice and the dread of his curse they obeyed, though in sorrow. Halamus only replied to his father: Dire are the white hairs Reverend, loved, of a father, dreadful his curse to his children. Yet in my heart there is one who cries, tis the voice of my country, She for whose sake I would be in Tartarus tortured for ever. Pardon me then, if thou wilt; if the gods can, then let them pardon. For I will sleep in the dust of Troy embracing her ashes, There where Polydamas sleeps and the many comrades I cherished. So let me go to the darkness remembered or wholly forgotten, Yet having fought for my country, true in my fall to my nation. Then in his aged wrath to Halamus answered Antenor: Go then and perish doomed with the doomed and the hated of heaven; Nor shall the gods forgive thee dying nor shall thy father. Out from the chamber Halamus strode with grief in his bosom Wrestling with wrath and he went to his doom nor looked back at his dear ones. Crossing the hall the son of Antenor and son of Anchises Met in the paths of their fates where they knotted and crossed for the parting, One with the curse of the gods and his sire fast wending to Hades, Fortunate, blessed the other; yet equal their minds were and virtues. Cypris son to the Antenorid: Thee I have sought and thy brothers, Bough of Antenor; sore is our need today of thy counsels, Endless our want of their arms that are strong and their hearts that recoil not Meeting myriads stark with the spear in unequal battle. Halamus answered him: I will go forth to the palace of Priam, There where Troy yet lives and far from the halls of my fathers; There will I speak, not here. For my kin they repose in the mansion Sitting unarmed in their halls while their brothers fall in the battle. Eurus eagerly answered the hero: Me rather, therefore, Take to the fight with you; I will make war on the Greeks for my uncles; One for all I will fill their place in the shock with the foemen. But from his chamber-door Antenor heard and rebuked him: Scamp of my heart, thou torment! in to thy chamber and rest there, Bound with cords lest thou cease, thou flutter-brain, scourged into quiet; So shall thy lust of the fight be healed and our mansion grow tranquil. Chid by the old man Eurus slunk from the hall discontented, Yet with a dubious smile like a moonbeam lighting his beauty. But to Antenor the Dardanid born from the white Aphrodite: Late the Antenorids learn to flinch from the spears of the Argives, Even this boy of their blood has Polydamas heart and his valour. Nor should a life that was honoured and noble be stained in its ending. Nay, then, the mood of a child would shame a grey-headed wisdom, If for the fault of the people virtue and Troy were forgotten. For, though the people hear us not, yet are we bound to our nation: Over the people the gods are; over a man is his country; This is the deity first adored by the hearths of the noble. For by our nations will we are ruled in the home and the battle And for our nations weal we offer our lives and our childrens. Not by their own wills led nor their passions men rise to their manhood, Selfishly seeking their good, but the gods and the States and the fathers. Wroth Antenor replied to the warlike son of Anchises: Great is the soul in thee housed and stern is thy will, O Aeneas; Onward it moves undismayed to its goal though a city be ruined. They too guide thee who deepest see of the ageless immortals, One with her heart and one in his spirit, Cypris and Phoebus. Yet might a man not knowing this think as he watched thee, Aeneas, Spurring Priams race to its fall he endangers this city, Hoping to build a throne out of ruins sole in the Troad. I too have gods who warn me and lead, Athene and Hera. Not as the ways of other mortals are theirs who are guided, They whose eyes are the gods and they walk by a light that is secret. Coldly Aeneas made answer, stirred into wrath by the taunting: High wert thou always, nurtured in wisdom, ancient Antenor. Walk then favoured and led, yet watch lest passion and evil Feign auguster names and mimic the gait of the deathless. And with a smile on his lips but wrath in his bosom answered, Wisest of men but with wisdom of mortals, aged Antenor: Led or misled we are mortals and walk by a light that is given; Most they err who deem themselves most from error excluded. Nor shalt thou hear in this battle the shout of the men of my lineage Holding the Greeks as once and driving back Fate from their country. His alone will be heard for a space while the stern gods are patient Even now who went forth a victim self-offered to Hades, Last whom their wills have plucked from the fated house of Antenor. They now with wrath in their bosoms sundered for ever and parted. Forth from the halls of Antenor Aeneas rapidly striding Passed once more through the city hurrying now with its car-wheels, Filled with a mightier rumour of war and the march of its thousands, Till at Troys upward curve he found the Antenorid crestward Mounting the steep incline that climbed to the palace of Priam White in her proud and armed citadel. Silent, ascending Hardly their feet had attempted the hill when behind them they hearkened Sweet-tongued a call and the patter and hurry of light-running sandals, Turning they beheld with a flush on his cheeks and a light on his lashes Challenging mutely and pleading the boyish beauty of Eurus. Racer to mischief, said Halamus, couldst thou not sit in thy chamber? Surely cords and the rod await thee, Eurus, returning. Answered with laughter the child, I have broken through ranks of the fighters, Dived under chariot-wheels to arrive here and I return not. I too for counsel of battle have come to the palace of Priam. Burdened with thought they mounted slowly the road of their fathers Breasting the Ilian hill where Laomedons mansion was seated, They from the crest down-gazing saw their countrys housetops Under their feet and heard the murmur of Troya below them. But in the palace of Priam coming and going of house-thralls Filled all the corridors; smoke from the kitchens curled in its plenty Rich with savour and breathed from the labouring lungs of Hephaestus. Far in the halls and the chambers voices travelled and clustered, Anklets jangling ran and sang back from doorway to doorway Mocking with music of speed and its laughters the haste of the happy, Sound came of arms, there was tread of the great, there were murmurs of women, Voices glad of the doomed in Laomedons marvellous mansion. Six were the halls of its splendour, a hundred and one were its chambers Lifted on high upon columns that soared like the thoughts of its dwellers, Thoughts that transcended the earth though they sank down at last into ashes; So had Apollo dreamed to his lyre; and its tops were a grandeur Domed, as if seeking to roof mens lives with a hint of the heavens; Marble his columns rose and with marble his roofs were appointed, Conquered wealth of the world in its largeness suffered, supporting Purities of marble, glories of gold. Nor only of matter Blazed there the brutal pomps, but images mystic or mighty Crowded ceiling and wall, a work that the gods even admire Hardly believing that forms like these were imagined by mortals Here upon earth where sight is a blur and the soul lives encumbered. Scrolls that remembered in gems the thoughts austere of the ancients Bordered the lines of the stone and the forms of serpent and Naiad Ran in relief on those walls of pride in the palace of Priam Mingled with Dryads who tempted and fled and Satyrs who followed, Sports of the nymphs in the sea and the woods and their meetings with mortals, Sessions and battles of Trojan demigods, deaths that were famous, Wars and loves of men and the deeds of the golden immortals. Pillars sculptured with gods and with giants soared up from bases Lion-carved or were seated on bulls and bore into grandeur Amply those halls where they soared, or in lordliness slenderly fashioned, Dressed in flowers and reeds like virgins standing on Ida, Guarded the screens of stone and divided alcove and chamber. Ivory carved and broidered robes and the riches of Indus Cherished in sandalwood triumphed and teemed in the palace of Priam; Doors that were carven and fragrant sheltered the joys of its princes. Here in a chamber of luminous privacy Paris was arming. Near him moved Helen, a whiteness divine, and intent on her labour Fastened his cuirass, bound the greaves and settled the hauberk Thrilling his limbs with her touch that was heaven to the yearning of mortals. She with her hands of delight caressing the senseless metal Pressed her lips to his brilliant armour; she bowed down, she whispered: Cuirass, allowed by the gods, protect the beauty of Paris; Keep for me that for which country was lost and my child and my brothers. Yearning she bent to his feet, to the sandal-strings of her lover; Then as she gazed up, changed grew her mood; for the Daemon within her Rose that had banded Greece and was burning Troy into ashes. Slowly a smile that was perfect and perilous over her beauty Dawned like the sunlight on Paradise; strangely she looked on her lover. So might a goddess have gazed as she played with the love of a mortal Passing an hour on the earth ere she rose up white to Olympus. So art thou winner, Paris, yet and thy spirit ascendant Leads this Troy where thou wilt, O thou mighty one veiled in thy beauty. First in the dance and the revel, first in the joy of the mellay, Who would not leave for thy sake and repent it not country and homestead? Winning thou reignest still over Troy, over Fate, over Helen. Always so canst thou win? Has Death no claim on thy beauty, Fate no scourge for thy sins? How the years have passed by in a glory, Years of this heaven of the gods, O ravisher, since from my hearthstone Seizing thou borest me compelled to thy ships and my joy on the waters. Troy is enringed with the spears, her children fall and her glories, Mighty souls of heroes have gone down prone to the darkness; Thou and I abide! the mothers wail for our pleasure. Wilt thou then keep me for ever, O son of Priam, in Troya? Fate was my mother, they say, and Zeus for this hour begot me. Art thou a god too, O hero, disguised in this robe of the mortal, Brilliant, careless of death and of sin as if sure of thy rapture? What then if Fate today were to lay her hands on thee, Paris? Calmly he looked on the face of which Greece was enamoured, the body For whose desire great Troy was a sacrifice, tranquil regarded Lovely and dire on the lips he loved that smile of a goddess, Saw the daughter of Zeus in the woman, yet was not shaken. Temptress of Argos, he answered, thou snare for the world to be seized in, Thou then hopst to escape! But the gods could not take thee, O Helen, How then thy will that to mine is a captive, or how, though with battle, He who has lost thee, unhappy, the Spartan, bright Menelaus? All things yield to a man and Zeus is himself his accomplice When like a god he wills without remorse or longing. Thou on this earth art mine since I claimed thee beheld, not speaking, But with thy lids that fell thou veiledst thy heart of compliance. Then in whatever beyond I shall know how to take thee, O Helen, Even as here upon earth I knew, in heaven as in Sparta; I on Elysian fields will enjoy thee as now in the Troad. Silent a moment she lingered like one who is lured by a music Rapturous, heard by himself alone and his lover in heaven, Then in her beauty compelling she rose up divine among women. Yes, it is good, she cried, what the gods do and actions of mortals; Good is this play of the world; it is good, the joy and the torture. Praised be the hour of the gods when I wedded bright Menelaus! Praised, more praised the keels that severed the seas towards Helen Churning the senseless waves that knew not the bliss of their burden! Praised to the end the hour when I passed through the doors of my husband Laughing with joy in my heart for the arms that bore and enchained me! Never can Death undo what life has done for us, Paris. Nor, whatsoever betide, can the hour be unlived of our rapture. This too is good that nations should meet in the shock of the battle, Heroes be slain and a theme be made for the songs of the poets, Songs that shall thrill with the name of Helen, the beauty of Paris. Well is this also that empires should fall for the eyes of a woman; Well that for Helen Hector ended, Memnon was slaughtered, Strong Sarpedon fell and Troilus ceased in his boyhood. Troy for Helen burning, her glory, her empire, her riches, This is the sign of the gods and the type of things that are mortal. Thou who art kin to the masters of heaven, unconstrained like thy kindred High on this ancient stage of the Troad with gods for spectators Play till the end thy part, O thou wondrous and beautiful actor: Fight and slay the Greeks, my countrymen; victor returning Take for reward of the play, thy delight of Argive Helen. Force from my bosom a hint of the joy denied to the death-claimed, Rob in the kiss of my lips a pang from the raptures of heaven. Clasping him wholly her arms of desire were a girdle of madness, Cestus divine of the dread Aphrodite. He with her kisses Flushed like the gods with unearthly wine and rejoiced in his ruin. Thus while they conversed now in this hour that was near to their parting Last upon earth, a fleet-footed slavegirl came to the chamber: Paris, thy father and mother desire thee; there in the strangers Outer hall Aeneas and Halamus wait for thy coming. So with the Argive he wended to Priams ample chamber Far in Laomedons house where Troy looked upwards to Ida. Priam and Hecuba there, the ancient grey-haired rulers, Waiting him sat in their chairs of ivory calm in their greatness; Hid in her robes at their feet lay Cassandra crouched from her visions. Since, O my father, said Paris, thy thoughts have been with me, thy blessing Surely shall help me today in my strife with the strength of Achilles. Surely the gods shall obey in the end the might of our spirits, Pallas and Hera, flame-sandalled Artemis, Zeus and Apollo. Ever serve the immortal brightnesses man when he stands up Firm with his will uplifted a steadfast flame towards the heavens, Ares works in his heart and Hephaestus burns in his labour. Priam replied to his son: Forewilled by the gods, Alexander, All things happen on earth and yet we must strive who are mortals, Knowing all vain, yet we strive; for our nature seizing us always Drives like the flock that is herded and urged towards shambles or pasture. So have the high gods fashioned these tools of their action and pleasure; Failure and grief are their engines no less than the might of the victor; They in the blow descend and resist in the sobs of the smitten. Such are their goads that I too must walk in the paths that are common, Even I who know must send for thee, moved by Cassandra. Speak, O my child, since Apollo has willed it, once, and be silent. But in her raiment hidden Cassandra answered her father: No, for my heart has changed since I cried for him, vexed by Apollo. Why should I speak? For who will believe me in Troy? who believed me Ever in Troy or the world? Event and disaster approve me Only, my comrades, not men in their thoughts, not my brothers and kinsmen. All by their hopes are gladly deceived and grow wroth with the warner, Half-blind prophets of hope entertained by the gods in the mortal! Wiser blind, if nothing they saw or only the darkness. I too once hoped when Apollo pursued me with love in his temple. Round me already there gleamed the ray of the vision prophetic, Thrill of that rapture I felt and the joy of the god in his seeing Nor did I know that the knowledge of mortals is bound unto blindness. Either only they walk mid the coloured dreams of the senses Treading the greenness of earth and deeming the touch of things real, Or if they see, by the curse of the gods their sight into falsehood Easily turns and leads them more stumbling astray than the sightless. So are we either blind in a darkness or dazzled by seeing. Thus have the gods protected their purpose and baffled the sages; Over the face of the Truth their shield of gold is extended. But I deemed otherwise, urged by the Dreadful One, he who sits always Veiled in us fighting the gods whom he uses. I cried to Apollo, Give me thy vision sheer, not such as thou givst to thy prophets, Troubled though luminous; clear be the vision and ruthless to error, Far-darting god who art veiled by the sun and by death thou art shielded. Then I shall know that thou lovest. He gave, alarmed and reluctant, Driven by Fate and his heart; but I mocked him, I broke from my promise, Courage fatal helping my heart to its ruin with laughter. Always now I remember his face that grew tranquil and ruthless, Hear the voice divine and implacable: Since thou deceivest Even the gods and thou hast not feared to lie to Apollo, Speak shalt thou henceforth only truth, but none shall believe thee: Scorned in thy words, rejected yet more for their bitter fulfilment, Scourged by the gods thou must speak though thy sick heart yearns to be silent. For in this play thou hast dared to play with the masters of heaven, Girl, it is thou who hast lost; thy voice is mine and thy bosom. Since then all I foreknow; therefore anguish is mine for my portion: Since then all whom I love must perish slain by my loving. Even of that I denied him, violent force shall bereave me Grasped mid the flames of my city and shouts of her merciless victors. But to Cassandra answered gently the voice of her brother: Sister of mine, afflicted and seized by the dreadful Apollo, All whose eyes can pierce that curtain, gaze into dimness; This they have glimpsed and that they imagine deceived by their natures Seeing the forms in their hearts of dreadful things and of joyous; As in the darkness our eyes are deceived by shadows uncertain, Such is their sight who rend the veil that the dire gods have woven. Busy our hearts are weaving thoughts and images always: After their kind they see what here we call truth. So thy nature Tender and loving, plagued by this war and its fears for thy loved ones, Sees calamity everywhere; when the event like the vision Seems, as in every war the beloved must fall and the cherished, Then the heart cries, It has happened as all shall happen I mourn for. All that was bright it misses and only seizes on sorrow. Dear, on the brightness look and if thou must prophesy, tell us Rather of great Pelides slain by my spear in the onset. But with a voice of grief the sister answered her brother: Yes, he shall fall and his slayer too perish and Troy with his slayer. But in his spirit rejoicing Paris answered Cassandra: Let but this word come true; for the rest, the gods shall avert it. Look once more, O Cassandra, and comfort the heart of thy mother, See, O seer, my safe return with the spoils of Achilles. And with a voice of grief the sister answered her brother: Thou shalt return for thy hour while Troy yet stands in the sunshine. But in his spirit exultant Paris seizing the omen: Hearst thou, my father, my mother? She who still prophesied evil Now perceives of our night this dawning. Yet is it grievous, Since through a heart that we love must be pierced the heart of Achilles. Fate, with this evil satisfied, turn in the end from Troya. Bless me, my father, and thou, O Hecuba, mother long-patient, Still forgive that thy children have fallen for Helen and Paris. Tenderly yearning his mother drew him towards her and murmured: All for thy hyacinth curls was forgiven even from childhood And for thy sunlit looks, O wonder of charm, O Paris. Paris, my son, though Troy must fall, thy mother forgives thee, Blessing the gods who have lent thee to me for a while in their sunshine. Theirs are fate and result, but ours is the joy of our children; Even the griefs are dear that come from their hands while they love us. Fight and slay Achilles, the murderer dire of thy brothers; Venging Hector return, my son, to the clasp of thy mother. But in his calm august to Paris Priam the monarch: Victor so mightst thou come, so gladden the heart of thy mother. Then to the aged father of Paris Helen the Argive Bright and immortal and sad like a star that grows near to the dawning And on its pale companions looks who now fade from its vision: Me too pardon and love, my parents, even Helen, Cause of all bane and all death; but I came from the gods for this ruin Born as a torch for the burning of empires, cursed with this beauty. Nor have I known a fathers embrace, a mothers caresses, But to the distant gods I was born and nursed as an alien Here by earth from fear, not affection, compelled by the thunders. Two are her monstrous births, from the Furies and from the immortals; Either touching mortality suffers and bears not the contact. I have been both, a monster of doom and a portent of beauty. Slowly Priam the monarch answered to Argive Helen: That which thou art the gods have made thee; thou couldst not be other: That which thou didst, the gods have done; thou couldst not prevent them. Who here shall blame or whom shall he pardon? Should not my people Rail at me murmuring, Priam has lost what his fathers had gathered; Cursed is this king by heaven and cursed who are born as his subjects? Masked the high gods act; the doer is hid by his working. Each of us bears his punishment, fruit of a seed thats forgotten; Each of us curses his neighbour protecting his heart with illusions: Therefore like children we blame each other and hate and are angry. Take, my child, the joy of the sunshine won by thy beauty. I who lodge on this earth as an alien bound by the body, Wearing my sorrow even as I wear the imperial purple, Praise yet the gods for my days that have seen thee at last in my ending. Fitly Troy may cease having gazed on thy beauty, O Helen. He became silent, he ceased from words. But Paris and Helen Lightly went and gladly; pursuing their footsteps the mother, Mother once of Troilus, mother once of Hector, Stood at the door with her death in her eyes, nor returned from her yearning, But as one after a vanishing sunbeam gazes in prison, Gazed down the corridors after him, long who had passed from her vision. Then in the silent chamber Cassandra seized by Apollo Staggered erect and tossing her snow-white arms of affliction Cried to the heavens in her pain; for the fierce god tortured her bosom: Woe is me, woe for the guile and the bitter gift of Apollo! Woe, thrice woe, for my birth in Troy and the lineage of Teucer! So do you deal, O gods, with those who have served you and laboured, Those who have borne for your sake the evil burden of greatness. Blessed is he who holds mattock in hand or who bends oer the furrow Taking no thought for the good of mankind, with no yearnings for knowledge. Woe unto me for my wisdom which none shall value nor hearken! Woe unto thee, O King, for thy strength which shall not deliver! Better the eye that is sealed, more blest is the spirit thats feeble. Vainly your hopes with iron Necessity struggle, O mortals. Virtue shall lie in her pangs, for the gods have need of her torture; Sin shall be scourged, though her deeds were compelled by the gods in their anger. None shall avail in the end, the coward shall die and the hero. Troy shall fall in her sin and her virtues shall not protect her; Argos shall grow by her crimes till the gods shall destroy her for ever. Now have I fruit of thy love, O Loxias, dreadful Apollo. Woe is me, woe for the flame that approaches the house of my fathers! Woe is me, woe for the hand of Ajax laid on my tresses! Woe, thrice woe to him who shall ravish and him who shall cherish! Woe for the ships that shall bound too swift oer the azure Aegean! Woe for thy splendid shambles of hell, O Argive Mycenae! Woe for the evil spouse and the house accursd of Atreus! So with her voice of the swan she clanged out doom on the peoples, Over the palace of Priam and over the armd nation Marching resolved to the war in the pride of its centuries conquered, Centuries slain by a single day of the anger of heaven. Dim to the thoughts like a vision of Hades the luminous chamber Grew; in his ivory chair King Priam sat like a shadow Throned mid the ghosts of departed kings and forgotten empires. But in his valiance careless and bli the the Priamid hastened Seeking the pillared megaron wide where Deiphobus armoured Waited his coming forth with the warlike chiefs of the Trojans. Now as he passed by the halls of the women, the chambers that harboured Daughters and wives of King Priam and wives of his sons and their playmates, Niches of joy that were peopled with murmurs and sweet-tongued laughters, Troubled like trees with their birds in a morning of sun and of shadow Where in some garden of kings one walks with his heart in the sunshine, Out from her door where she stood for him waiting Polyxena started, Seized his hand and looked in his face and spoke to her brother. Then not even the brilliant strength of Paris availed him; Joyless he turned his face from her eyes of beauty and sorrow. So it is come, the hour that I feared, and thou goest, O Paris, Armed with the strength of Fate to strike at my heart in the battle; For he is doomed and thou and I, a victim to Hades. This thou preferrest and neither thy father could move nor thy mother Burning with Troy in their palace, nor could thy country persuade thee, Nor dost thou care for thy sisters happiness pierced by thy arrows. Will she remember it all, my sister Helen, in Argos Passing tranquil days with her husband, bright Menelaus, Holding her child on her knees? But we shall lie joyless in Hades. Paris replied: O sister Polyxena, blame me not wholly. We by the gods are ensnared; for the pitiless white Aphrodite Doing her will with us both compels this. Helpless our hearts are And when she drives perforce must love, for death or for gladness: Weighed in unequal scales she deals them to one or another. Happy who holding his love can go down into bottomless Hades. But to her brother replied in her anguish the daughter of Priam: Evilly deal with my days the immortals happy in heaven; Yes, I accuse the gods and I curse them who heed not our sorrow. This they have done with me, forcing my heart to the love of a foeman, One whose terrible hands have been stained with the blood of my brothers. This now they do, they have taken the two whom I love beyond heaven, Brother and husband, and drive to the fight to be slain by each other. Nay, go thou forth; for thou canst not help it, nor I, nor can Helen. Since I must die as a pageant to satisfy Zeus and his daughter, Since now my heart must be borne as a victim bleeding to please them, So let it be, let me deck myself and be bright for the altar. Into her chamber she turned with her great eyes blind, unregarding; He for a moment stood, then passed to the megaron slowly; Dim was the light in his eyes and clouded his glorious beauty. Meanwhile armed in the palace of Priam Penthesilea. Near her her captains silent and mighty stood, from the Orient Distant clouds of war, Surabdas and iron Surenas, Pharatus planned like the hills, Somaranes, Valarus, Tauron, High-crested Sumalus, Arithon, Sambus and Artavoruxes. There too the princes of Phrygian Troya gathered for counsel And with them Eurus came, Polydamas son, who most dearly Loved was of all the Trojan boys by the glorious virgin. She from her arming stayed to caress his curls and to chide him: Eurus, forgotten of grace, dost thou gad like a stray in the city Eager to mix with the armoured men and the chariots gliding? High on the roofs wouldst thou watch the swaying speck that is battle? Better to aim with the dart or seek with thy kind the palaestra; So wilt thou sooner be part of this greatness rather than straining Yearn from afar to the distance that veils the deeds of the mighty. But with an anxious lure in his smile on her Eurus answered: Not that remoteness to see have I come to the palace of Priam Leaving the house of my fathers, but for the spear and the breastpiece. Hast thou not promised me long I shall fight in thy car with Achilles? Doubtful he eyed her, a lions cub at play in his beauty, And mid the heroes who heard him laughter arose for a moment, Yet with a sympathy stirred; they remembered the days of their childhood, Thought of Troy still mighty, life in its rose-touched dawning When they had longed for the clash of the fight and the burden of armour. Glad, with the pride of the lioness watching her cub in the desert, Couchant she lies with her paws before her and joys in his gambols, Over the prey as he frisks and is careless, answered the virgin: Younger than thou in my nation have mounted the steed and the war-car. Eurus, arm; from under my shield thou shalt gaze at the Phthian, Reaching my shafts for the cast from the rim of my car in the battle Handle perhaps the spear that shall smite down the Phthian Achilles. What sayst thou, Halamus? Were not such prowess a perfect beginning Worthy Polydamas son and the warlike house of Antenor? Halamus started and smiting his hand on the grief of his bosom, Sombre replied and threatened with Fate the high-hearted virgin. Virgin armipotent, wherefore mockst thou thy friend, though unwitting? Nay, for the world will know at the end and my death cannot hide it, Slain by a fathers curse we fight who are kin to Antenor. Take not the boy in thy car, lest the Furies, Penthesilea, Aim through the shield and the shielder to wreak the curse of the grandsire. They will not turn nor repent for thy strength nor his delicate beauty. Swiftly to Halamus answered the high-crested might of the virgin: Curses leave lightly the lips when the soul of a man is in anger Even as blessings easily crowd round the head that is cherished. Yet have I never seen that a curse has sharpened a spear-point; Never Death drew back from the doomed by the power of a blessing. Valour and skill and chance are Fate and the gods and the Furies. Give me the boy; a hero shall come back formed from the onset. Do as thou wilt, replied Halamus; Fate shall guard or shall end him. Then to the boy delighted and smiling-eyed and exultant Cried with her voice like the call of heavens bugles waking the heroes, Blown by the lips of gold-haired Valkyries, Penthesilea. Go, find the spear, gird the sword, don the cuirass, child of the mighty. Armed when thou standst on the plain of the Xanthus, field of thy fathers, See that thou fight on this day like the comrade of Penthesilea. Bud of a hero, gaze unalarmed in the eyes of Achilles. Light as a hound released he ran to the hall of the armour Where were the shields of the mighty, the arms of the mansion of Teucer; There from the house-thralls he wrung the greaves and the cuirass and helmet Troilus wore, the wonderful boy who, ere ripened his prowess, Conquered the Greeks and drove to the ships and fought with Achilles. These on his boyish limbs he donned and ran back exulting Bearing spears and a sword and rejoiced in the clank on his armour. Meanwhile Deiphobus, head of the mellay, moved by Aeneas Opened the doors of their warlike debate to the strength of the virgin: Well do I hope that our courage outwearying every opponent Triumph shall lift to her ancient seat on the Pergaman turrets; Clouds from Zeus come and pass; his sunshine eternal survives them. Yet we are few in the fight and armoured nations besiege us. Surging on Troy today a numberless foe well-captained Hardly pushed back in shock after shock with the Myrmidon numbers Swelled returns; they fight with a hope that broken refashion Helpful skies and a man now leads them who conquers and slaughters, One of the sons of the gods and armed by the gods for the struggle. We unhelped save by Ares stern and the mystic Apollo And but as mortals striving with stubborn mortal courage, Hated and scorned and alone in the world, by the nations rejected, Fight with the gods and mankind and Achilles and numbers against us Keeping our country from death in this bitter hour of her fortunes. Therefore have prudence and hardihood severed contending our counsels Whether far out to fight on the seaward plain with the Argives Or behind Xanthus the river impetuous friendly to Troya. This my brother approves and the son of Antenor advises, Prudent masters of war who prepare by defence their aggression. But for myself from rashness I seek a more far-seeing wisdom, Not behind vain defences choosing a tardy destruction, Rather as Zeus with his spear of the lightning and chariot of tempest Scatters and chases the heavy mass of the clouds through the heavens, So would I hunt the Greeks through the plains to their lair by the Ocean, Straight at the throat of my foeman so would I leap in the battle. Swiftly to smite at the foe is prudence for armies outnumbered. Then to the Dardanid answered the high-crested Penthesilea: There where I find my foe I will fight him, whether by Xanthus Or at the fosse of the ships where they crouch behind bulwarks for shelter, Or if they dare by Scamander the higher marching on Troya. Sternly approved her the Trojan, So should they fight who would triumph Meeting the foe ere he move in his will to the clash of encounter. But with his careless laughter the brilliant Priamid Paris: Joy of the battle, joy of the tempest, joy of the gamble Mated are in thy blood, O virgin, daughter of Ares. Thou like the deathless wouldst have us combat, us who are human? Come, let the gods do their will with us, Ares let lead and his daughter! Always the blood is wiser and knows what is hid from the thinker. Life and treasure and fame to cast on the wings of a moment, Fiercer joy than this the gods have not given to mortals. Highly to Paris the virgin armipotent Penthesilea, Paris and Halamus, shafts of the war-god, fear not for Troya. Not as a vaunt do I speak it, you gods who stern-thoughted watch us, But in my vision of strength and the soul that is seated within me, Not while I live and war shall the host of the Myrmidon fighters Forcing the currents lave, as once they were wont, in Scamander Vaunting their victor car-wheels red with the blood of the vanquished. Then when I lie by some war-god slain on the fields of the Troad, Fight again if you will behind high-banked fast-flowing Xanthus. Halamus answered her, Never so by my will would I battle Flinging Troy as a stake on the doubtful diceboard of Ares. But you have willed it and so let it be; yet hearken my counsel. Massed in the fight let us aim the storm of our spears at one greatness, Mighty Pelides head who gives victory still to the Argives. Easy the Greeks to destroy lay Achilles once slain on the Troad, But if the Peleid lives the fire shall yet finish with Troya. Join then Orestes speed to the stubborn might of Aeneas, Paris fatal shafts and the missiles of Penthesilea. Others meanwhile, a puissant screen of our bravest and strongest, Fighting shall hold back Pylos and Argolis, Crete and the Locrian. Thou, Deiphobus, front the bronze-clad stern Diomedes, I with Polydamas spear will dare to restrain and discourage Ajax feet though they yearn for pursuit and are hungry for swiftness. Knot of retreat behind let some strong experienced captain Stand with our younger levies guarding the fords of the Xanthus, Fortify the wavering line and dawn as fresh strength on the wearied. Then if the fierce gods prevail we shall perish not driven like cattle Over the plains, but draw back sternly and slowly to Troya. Answered the Priamid, Wise is thy counsel, branch of Antenor. Chaff are the southern Achaians, only the hardihood Hellene, Only the savage speed of the Locrian rescues their legions. Marshal we so this field. Stand, Halamus, covering Xanthus, Helping our need when the foe press hard on the Ilian fighters. Paris, my brother, thou with our masses aid the Eoan. I with Aeneas single spear am enough for the Argive. Gladlier Halamus cried would I fight in the front with the Locrian! This too let be as you will; for one is the glory and service Fighting in front or guarding behind the fate of our country. So in their thoughts they ordered battle. Meanwhile Eurus Gleaming returned and the room grew glad with the light of his armour. Glad were its conscious walls of that vision of boyhood and valour; Gods of the household sighed and smiled at his courage and beauty, They who had seen so many pass over their floors and return not Hasting to battle, the fair and the mighty, the curled and the grizzled, All of them treading one path like the conscious masks of one pageant Winding past through the glare of a light to the shadows beyond them. But on her captains proudly smiling Penthesilea Seized him and cried aloud, her wild and warlike nature Moved by the mothers heart that the woman loses not ever. Who then shall fear for the fate of Troy when such are her children? Verily, Eurus, yearning has seized me to meet thee in battle Rather than Locrian Ajax, rather than Phthian Achilles. There acquiring a deathless fame I would make thee my captive, Greedy and glad who feel as a lioness eyeing her booty. Nay, I can never leave thee behind, my delicate Trojan, But, when this war ends, will bear thee away to the hills of my country And, as a robber might, with my captive glad and unwilling Bring thee a perfect gift to my sisters Ditis and Anna. Eurus, there in my land thou shalt look on such hills as thy vision Gazed not on yet, with their craggy tops besieging Cronion, Sheeted in virgin white and chilling his feet with their vastness. Thou shalt rejoice in our wooded peaks and our fruit-bearing valleys, Lakes of Elysium dreaming and wide and rivers of wonder. All day long thou shalt glide between mystic woodlands in silence Broken only by call of the birds and the plashing of waters. There shalt thou see, O Eurus, the childhood of Penthesilea. Thou shalt repose in my fathers house and walk in the gardens Green where I played at the ball with my sisters, Ditis and Anna. Musing she ceased, but if any god had touched her with prescience Bidding her think for the last time now of the haunts of her childhood, Gaze in her soul with a parting love at the thought of her sisters And of the lovely and distant land where she played through her summers, Brief was the touch; for she changed at once and only of triumph Dreamed and only yearned in her heart for the shock of Achilles. So they passed from the halls of Priam fated and lofty, Halls where the air seemed sobbing yet with the cry of Cassandra; Clad in their brilliant armour, bright in their beauty and courage, Sons of the passing demigods, they to their latest battle Down the ancestral hill of the Pergamans moved to the gateway. Loud with an endless march, with a tireless gliding to meet them, All Troy streamed from her streets and her palaces armed for the combat. Then to the voice of Deiphobus clanging high oer the rumour Wide the portals swung that shall close on a blood-red evening, Slow, foreboding, reluctant, and through the yawn of the gateway Drove with a cry her steeds the virgin Penthesilea Calling aloud, O steeds of my east, we drive to Achilles. Bli the in the car behind her Eurus scouted around him Scared with his eyes lest Antenor his grandsire should rise in the gateway, Hardly believing his fate that led him safe through the portals. After her trampled and crashed the ranks of her orient fighters. Paris next with his hosts came brilliant, gold on his armour, Gold on his helm; a mighty bow hung slack on his shoulder, Propped oer his arm a spear, as he drove his car through the gateway. Next Deiphobus drove and the hero strong Aeneas, Leading their numbers on. Behind them Dus and Polites, Helenus, Priams son, Thrasymachus, grizzled Aretes, Came like the tempest his father, Adamas, son of the Northwind Orus old in the fight and Eumachus, kin to Aeneas, Who was Cresas brother and richest of men in the Troad After Antenor only and Priam, Ilions monarch. Halamus drove and Arintheus led on his Lycian levies. Who were the last to speed out of Troya of all those legions Doomed to the sword? for never again from the ancient city Foot would march or chariots crash in their pride to the Xanthus. Aetor the old and Tryas the conqueror known by the Oxus. They in the portals met and their ancient eyes on each other Looked amazed, admiring on age the harness of battle. They in the turreted head of the gateway halted and conversed. Twenty years have passed, O Tryas, chief of the Trojans, Since in the battle thy car was seen and the arm of thy prowess Age has wronged. Why now to the crowded ways of the battle Move once more thy body infirm and thy eyes that are faded? And to Antenors brother the Teucrian, Thou too, O Aetor, Old and weary hast sat in thy halls and desisted from battle. Now in Troys portals I meet thee driving forth to the mellay. Aetor answered, Which then is better, to wretchedly perish Crushed by the stones of my falling house or slain like a victim Dragged through the blood of my kin on the sacred hearth of my fathers, Or in the battle to cease mid the war-cry and hymn of the chariots Knowing that Troy yet stands in her pride though doomed in her morrows? So have the young men willed and the old like thee who age not, Old are thy limbs, but thy heart is still young and hot for the war-din. Tryas replied, To perish is better for man or for nation Nobly in battle, nor end disgraced by disease or subjection. So have I come here to offer this shoulder Laomedon leaned on, Arms that have fought by the Oxus and conquered the Orients heroes Famous in Priams wars, and a heart that is faithful to Troya. These I will offer to death on his splendid altar of battle, Tri bute from Ilion. If she must fall, I shall see not her ending. Aetor replied to Tryas, Then let us perish together, Joined by the love of our race who in life were divided in counsel. All things embrace in death and the strife and the hatred are ended. Silent together they drove for the last time through Ilions portals Out with the rest to the fight towards the sea and the spears of the Argives. Only once, as they drove, they gazed back silent on Troya Lifting her marble pride in the golden joy of the morning. So through the ripening morn the army, crossing Scamander, Filling the heavens with the dust and the war-cry, marched on the Argives. Far in front Troys plain spread wide to the echoing Ocean. *** ~ Sri Aurobindo, 4 - The Book of Partings ,

103:BOOK THE EIGHTH The Story of Nisus and Scylla Now shone the morning star in bright array, To vanquish night, and usher in the day: The wind veers southward, and moist clouds arise, That blot with shades the blue meridian skies. Cephalus feels with joy the kindly gales, His new allies unfurl the swelling sails; Steady their course, they cleave the yielding main, And, with a wish, th' intended harbour gain. Mean-while King Minos, on the Attick strand, Displays his martial skill, and wastes the land. His army lies encampt upon the plains, Before Alcathoe's walls, where Nisus reigns; On whose grey head a lock of purple hue, The strength, and fortune of his kingdom, grew. Six moons were gone, and past, when still from far Victoria hover'd o'er the doubtful war. So long, to both inclin'd, th' impartial maid Between 'em both her equal wings display'd. High on the walls, by Phoebus vocal made, A turret of the palace rais'd its head; And where the God his tuneful harp resign'd. The sound within the stones still lay enshrin'd: Hither the daughter of the purple king Ascended oft, to hear its musick ring; And, striking with a pebble, wou'd release Th' enchanted notes, in times of happy peace. But now, from thence, the curious maid beheld Rough feats of arms, and combats of the field: And, since the siege was long, had learnt the name Of ev'ry chief, his character, and fame; Their arms, their horse, and quiver she descry'd, Nor cou'd the dress of war the warriour hide. Europa's son she knew above the rest, And more, than well became a virgin breast: In vain the crested morion veils his face, She thinks it adds a more peculiar grace: His ample shield, embost with burnish'd gold, Still makes the bearer lovelier to behold: When the tough jav'lin, with a whirl, he sends, His strength and skill the sighing maid commends; Or, when he strains to draw the circling bow, And his fine limbs a manly posture show, Compar'd with Phoebus, he performs so well, Let her be judge, and Minos shall excell. But when the helm put off, display'd to sight, And set his features in an open light; When, vaulting to his seat, his steed he prest, Caparison'd in gold, and richly drest; Himself in scarlet sumptuously array'd, New passions rise, and fire the frantick maid. O happy spear! she cries, that feels his touch; Nay, ev'n the reins he holds are blest too much. Oh! were it lawful, she cou'd wing her way Thro' the stern hostile troops without dismay; Or throw her body to the distant ground, And in the Cretans happy camp be found. Wou'd Minos but desire it! she'd expose Her native country to her country's foes; Unbar the gates, the town with flames infest, Or any thing that Minos shou'd request. And as she sate, and pleas'd her longing sight, Viewing the king's pavilion veil'd with white, Shou'd joy, or grief, she said, possess my breast, To see my country by a war opprest? I'm in suspense! For, tho' 'tis grief to know I love a man that is declar'd my foe; Yet, in my own despite, I must approve That lucky war, which brought the man I love. Yet, were I tender'd as a pledge of peace, The cruelties of war might quickly cease. Oh! with what joy I'd wear the chains he gave! A patient hostage, and a willing slave. Thou lovely object! if the nymph that bare Thy charming person, were but half so fair; Well might a God her virgin bloom desire, And with a rape indulge his amorous fire. Oh! had I wings to glide along the air, To his dear tent I'd fly, and settle there: There tell my quality, confess my flame, And grant him any dowry that he'd name. All, all I'd give; only my native land, My dearest country, shou'd excepted stand, For, perish love, and all expected joys, E're, with so base a thought, my soul complies. Yet, oft the vanquish'd some advantage find, When conquer'd by a noble, gen'rous mind. Brave Minos justly has the war begun, Fir'd with resentment for his murder'd son: The righteous Gods a righteous cause regard, And will, with victory, his arms reward: We must be conquer'd; and the captive's fate Will surely seize us, tho' it seize us late. Why then shou'd love be idle, and neglect What Mars, by arms and perils, will effect? Oh! Prince, I dye, with anxious fear opprest, Lest some rash hand shou'd wound my charmer's breast: For, if they saw, no barb'rous mind cou'd dare Against that lovely form to raise a spear. But I'm resolv'd, and fix'd in this decree, My father's country shall my dowry be. Thus I prevent the loss of life and blood, And, in effect, the action must be good. Vain resolution! for, at ev'ry gate The trusty centinels, successive, wait: The keys my father keeps; ah! there's my grief; 'Tis he obstructs all hopes of my relief. Gods! that this hated light I'd never seen! Or, all my life, without a father been! But Gods we all may be; for those that dare, Are Gods, and Fortune's chiefest favours share. The ruling Pow'rs a lazy pray'r detest, The bold adventurer succeeds the best. What other maid, inspir'd with such a flame, But wou'd take courage, and abandon shame? But wou'd, tho' ruin shou'd ensue, remove Whate'er oppos'd, and clear the way to love? This, shall another's feeble passion dare? While I sit tame, and languish in despair: No; for tho' fire and sword before me lay, Impatient love thro' both shou'd force its way. Yet I have no such enemies to fear, My sole obstruction is my father's hair; His purple lock my sanguine hope destroys, And clouds the prospect of my rising joys. Whilst thus she spoke, amid the thick'ning air Night supervenes, the greatest nurse of care: And, as the Goddess spreads her sable wings, The virgin's fears decay, and courage springs. The hour was come, when Man's o'er-labour'd breast Surceas'd its care, by downy sleep possest: All things now hush'd, Scylla with silent tread Urg'd her approach to Nisus' royal bed: There, of the fatal lock (accursed theft!) She her unwitting father's head bereft. In safe possession of her impious prey, Out at a postern gate she takes her way. Embolden'd, by the merit of the deed She traverses the adverse camp with speed, 'Till Minos' tent she reach'd: the righteous king She thus bespoke, who shiver'd at the thing. Behold th' effect of love's resistless sway! I, Nisus' royal seed, to thee betray My country, and my Gods. For this strange task, Minos, no other boon but thee I ask. This purple lock, a pledge of love, receive; No worthless present, since in it I give My father's head.- Mov'd at a crime so new, And with abhorrence fill'd, back Minos drew, Nor touch'd th' unhallow'd gift; but thus exclaim'd (With mein indignant, and with eyes inflam'd), Perdition seize thee, thou, thy kind's disgrace! May thy devoted carcass find no place In earth, or air, or sea, by all out-cast! Shall Minos, with so foul a monster, blast His Cretan world, where cradled Jove was nurst? Forbid it Heav'n!- away, thou most accurst! And now Alcathoe, its lord exchang'd, Was under Minos' domination rang'd. While the most equal king his care applies To curb the conquer'd, and new laws devise, The fleet, by his command, with hoisted sails, And ready oars, invites the murm'ring gales. At length the Cretan hero anchor weigh'd, Repaying, with neglect, th' abandon'd maid. Deaf to her cries, he furrows up the main: In vain she prays, sollicits him in vain. And now she furious grows in wild despair, She wrings her hands, and throws aloft her hair. Where run'st thou? (thus she vents her deep distress) Why shun'st thou her that crown'd thee with success? Her, whose fond love to thee cou'd sacrifice Her country, and her parent, sacred ties! Can nor my love, nor proffer'd presents find A passage to thy heart, and make thee kind? Can nothing move thy pity? O ingrate, Can'st thou behold my lost, forlorn estate, And not be soften'd? Can'st thou throw off one Who has no refuge left but thee alone? Where shall I seek for comfort? whither fly? My native country does in ashes lye: Or were't not so, my treason bars me there, And bids me wander. Shall I next repair To a wrong'd father, by my guilt undone?- Me all Mankind deservedly will shun. I, out of all the world, my self have thrown, To purchase an access to Crete alone; Which, since refus'd, ungen'rous man, give o'er To boast thy race; Europa never bore A thing so savage. Thee some tygress bred, On the bleak Syrt's inhospitable bed; Or where Charybdis pours its rapid tide Tempestuous. Thou art not to Jove ally'd; Nor did the king of Gods thy mother meet Beneath a bull's forg'd shape, and bear to Crete. That fable of thy glorious birth is feign'd; Some wild outrageous bull thy dam sustain'd. O father Nisus, now my death behold; Exult, o city, by my baseness sold: Minos, obdurate, has aveng'd ye all; But 'twere more just by those I wrong'd to fall: For why shou'dst thou, who only didst subdue By my offending, my offence pursue? Well art thou matcht to one whose am'rous flame Too fiercely rag'd, for human-kind to tame; One who, within a wooden heifer thrust, Courted a low'ring bull's mistaken lust; And, from whose monster-teeming womb, the Earth Receiv'd, what much it mourn'd, a bi-form birth. But what avails my plaints? the whistling wind, Which bears him far away, leaves them behind. Well weigh'd Pasiphae, when she prefer'd A bull to thee, more brutish than the herd. But ah! Time presses, and the labour'd oars To distance drive the fleet, and lose the less'ning shores. Think not, ungrateful man, the liquid way And threat'ning billows shall inforce my stay. I'll follow thee in spite: My arms I'll throw Around thy oars, or grasp thy crooked prow, And drag thro' drenching seas. Her eager tongue Had hardly clos'd the speech, when forth she sprung And prov'd the deep. Cupid with added force Recruits each nerve, and aids her wat'ry course. Soon she the ship attains, unwelcome guest; And, as with close embrace its sides she prest, A hawk from upper air came pouring down ('Twas Nisus cleft the sky with wings new grown). At Scylla's head his horny bill he aims; She, fearful of the blow, the ship disclaims, Quitting her hold: and yet she fell not far, But wond'ring, finds her self sustain'd in air. Chang'd to a lark, she mottled pinions shook, And, from the ravish'd lock, the name of Ciris took. The Labyrinth Now Minos, landed on the Cretan shore, Performs his vows to Jove's protecting pow'r; A hundred bullocks of the largest breed, With flowrets crown'd, before his altar bleed: While trophies of the vanquish'd, brought from far Adorn the palace with the spoils of war. Mean-while the monster of a human-beast, His family's reproach, and stain, increas'd. His double kind the rumour swiftly spread, And evidenc'd the mother's beastly deed. When Minos, willing to conceal the shame That sprung from the reports of tatling Fame, Resolves a dark inclosure to provide, And, far from sight, the two-form'd creature hide. Great Daedalus of Athens was the man That made the draught, and form'd the wondrous plan; Where rooms within themselves encircled lye, With various windings, to deceive the eye. As soft Maeander's wanton current plays, When thro' the Phrygian fields it loosely strays; Backward and forward rouls the dimpl'd tide, Seeming, at once, two different ways to glide: While circling streams their former banks survey, And waters past succeeding waters see: Now floating to the sea with downward course, Now pointing upward to its ancient source, Such was the work, so intricate the place, That scarce the workman all its turns cou'd trace; And Daedalus was puzzled how to find The secret ways of what himself design'd. These private walls the Minotaur include, Who twice was glutted with Athenian blood: But the third tri bute more successful prov'd, Slew the foul monster, and the plague remov'd. When Theseus, aided by the virgin's art, Had trac'd the guiding thread thro' ev'ry part, He took the gentle maid, that set him free, And, bound for Dias, cut the briny sea. There, quickly cloy'd, ungrateful, and unkind, Left his fair consort in the isle behind, Whom Bacchus saw, and straining in his arms Her rifled bloom, and violated charms, Resolves, for this, the dear engaging dame Shou'd shine for ever in the rolls of Fame; And bids her crown among the stars be plac'd, With an eternal constellation grac'd. The golden circlet mounts; and, as it flies, Its diamonds twinkle in the distant skies; There, in their pristin form, the gemmy rays Between Alcides, and the dragon blaze. The Story of Daedalus and Icarus In tedious exile now too long detain'd, Daedalus languish'd for his native land: The sea foreclos'd his flight; yet thus he said: Tho' Earth and water in subjection laid, O cruel Minos, thy dominion be, We'll go thro' air; for sure the air is free. Then to new arts his cunning thought applies, And to improve the work of Nature tries. A row of quils in gradual order plac'd, Rise by degrees in length from first to last; As on a cliff th' ascending thicket grows, Or, different reeds the rural pipe compose. Along the middle runs a twine of flax, The bottom stems are joyn'd by pliant wax. Thus, well compact, a hollow bending brings The fine composure into real wings. His boy, young Icarus, that near him stood, Unthinking of his fate, with smiles pursu'd The floating feathers, which the moving air Bore loosely from the ground, and wasted here and there. Or with the wax impertinently play'd, And with his childish tricks the great design delay'd. The final master-stroke at last impos'd, And now, the neat machine compleatly clos'd; Fitting his pinions on, a flight he tries, And hung self-ballanc'd in the beaten skies. Then thus instructs his child: My boy, take care To wing your course along the middle air; If low, the surges wet your flagging plumes; If high, the sun the melting wax consumes: Steer between both: nor to the northern skies, Nor south Orion turn your giddy eyes; But follow me: let me before you lay Rules for the flight, and mark the pathless way. Then teaching, with a fond concern, his son, He took the untry'd wings, and fix'd 'em on; But fix'd with trembling hands; and as he speaks, The tears roul gently down his aged cheeks. Then kiss'd, and in his arms embrac'd him fast, But knew not this embrace must be the last. And mounting upward, as he wings his flight, Back on his charge he turns his aking sight; As parent birds, when first their callow care Leave the high nest to tempt the liquid air. Then chears him on, and oft, with fatal art, Reminds the stripling to perform his part. These, as the angler at the silent brook, Or mountain-shepherd leaning on his crook, Or gaping plowman, from the vale descries, They stare, and view 'em with religious eyes, And strait conclude 'em Gods; since none, but they, Thro' their own azure skies cou'd find a way. Now Delos, Paros on the left are seen, And Samos, favour'd by Jove's haughty queen; Upon the right, the isle Lebynthos nam'd, And fair Calymne for its honey fam'd. When now the boy, whose childish thoughts aspire To loftier aims, and make him ramble high'r, Grown wild, and wanton, more embolden'd flies Far from his guide, and soars among the skies. The soft'ning wax, that felt a nearer sun, Dissolv'd apace, and soon began to run. The youth in vain his melting pinions shakes, His feathers gone, no longer air he takes: Oh! Father, father, as he strove to cry, Down to the sea he tumbled from on high, And found his Fate; yet still subsists by fame, Among those waters that retain his name. The father, now no more a father, cries, Ho Icarus! where are you? as he flies; Where shall I seek my boy? he cries again, And saw his feathers scatter'd on the main. Then curs'd his art; and fun'ral rites confer'd, Naming the country from the youth interr'd. A partridge, from a neighb'ring stump, beheld The sire his monumental marble build; Who, with peculiar call, and flutt'ring wing, Chirpt joyful, and malicious seem'd to sing: The only bird of all its kind, and late Transform'd in pity to a feather'd state: From whence, O Daedalus, thy guilt we date. His sister's son, when now twelve years were past, Was, with his uncle, as a scholar plac'd; The unsuspecting mother saw his parts, And genius fitted for the finest arts. This soon appear'd; for when the spiny bone In fishes' backs was by the stripling known, A rare invention thence he learnt to draw, Fil'd teeth in ir'n, and made the grating saw. He was the first, that from a knob of brass Made two strait arms with widening stretch to pass; That, while one stood upon the center's place, The other round it drew a circling space. Daedalus envy'd this, and from the top Of fair Minerva's temple let him drop; Feigning, that, as he lean'd upon the tow'r, Careless he stoop'd too much, and tumbled o'er. The Goddess, who th' ingenious still befriends, On this occasion her asssistance lends; His arms with feathers, as he fell, she veils, And in the air a new made bird he sails. The quickness of his genius, once so fleet, Still in his wings remains, and in his feet: Still, tho' transform'd, his ancient name he keeps, And with low flight the new-shorn stubble sweeps, Declines the lofty trees, and thinks it best To brood in hedge-rows o'er its humble nest; And, in remembrance of the former ill, Avoids the heights, and precipices still. At length, fatigu'd with long laborious flights, On fair Sicilia's plains the artist lights; Where Cocalus the king, that gave him aid, Was, for his kindness, with esteem repaid. Athens no more her doleful tri bute sent, That hardship gallant Theseus did prevent; Their temples hung with garlands, they adore Each friendly God, but most Minerva's pow'r: To her, to Jove, to all, their altars smoak, They each with victims, and perfumes invoke. Now talking Fame, thro' every Grecian town, Had spread, immortal Theseus, thy renown. From him the neighb'ring nations in distress, In suppliant terms implore a kind redress. The Story of Meleager and Atalanta From him the Caledonians sought relief; Though valiant Meleagros was their chief. The cause, a boar, who ravag'd far and near: Of Cynthia's wrath, th' avenging minister. For Oeneus with autumnal plenty bless'd, By gifts to Heav'n his gratitude express'd: Cull'd sheafs, to Ceres; to Lyaeus, wine; To Pan, and Pales, offer'd sheep and kine; And fat of olives, to Minerva's shrine. Beginning from the rural Gods, his hand Was lib'ral to the Pow'rs of high command: Each deity in ev'ry kind was bless'd, 'Till at Diana's fane th' invidious honour ceas'd. Wrath touches ev'n the Gods; the Queen of Night, Fir'd with disdain, and jealous of her right, Unhonour'd though I am, at least, said she, Not unreveng'd that impious act shall be. Swift as the word, she sped the boar away, With charge on those devoted fields to prey. No larger bulls th' Aegyptian pastures feed, And none so large Sicilian meadows breed: His eye-balls glare with fire suffus'd with blood; His neck shoots up a thick-set thorny wood; His bristled back a trench impal'd appears, And stands erected, like a field of spears; Froth fills his chaps, he sends a grunting sound, And part he churns, and part befoams the ground, For tusks with Indian elephants he strove, And Jove's own thunder from his mouth he drove. He burns the leaves; the scorching blast invades The tender corn, and shrivels up the blades: Or suff'ring not their yellow beards to rear, He tramples down the spikes, and intercepts the year: In vain the barns expect their promis'd load, Nor barns at home, nor recks are heap'd abroad: In vain the hinds the threshing-floor prepare, And exercise their flail in empty air. With olives ever-green the ground is strow'd, And grapes ungather'd shed their gen'rous blood. Amid the fold he rages, nor the sheep Their shepherds, nor the grooms their bulls can keep. From fields to walls the frighted rabble run, Nor think themselves secure within the town: 'Till Meleagros, and his chosen crew, Contemn the danger, and the praise pursue. Fair Leda's twins (in time to stars decreed) One fought on foot, one curb'd the fiery steed; Then issu'd forth fam'd Jason after these, Who mann'd the foremost ship that sail'd the seas; Then Theseus join'd with bold Perithous came; A single concord in a double name: The Thestian sons, Idas who swiftly ran, And Ceneus, once a woman, now a man. Lynceus, with eagle's eyes, and lion's heart; Leucippus, with his never-erring dart; Acastus, Phileus, Phoenix, Telamon, Echion, Lelix, and Eurytion, Achilles' father, and great Phocus' son; Dryas the fierce, and Hippasus the strong; With twice old Iolas, and Nestor then but young. Laertes active, and Ancaeus bold; Mopsus the sage, who future things foretold; And t' other seer, yet by his wife unsold. A thousand others of immortal fame; Among the rest, fair Atalanta came, Grace of the woods: a diamond buckle bound Her vest behind, that else had flow'd upon the ground, And shew'd her buskin'd legs; her head was bare, But for her native ornament of hair; Which in a simple knot was ty'd above, Sweet negligence! unheeded bait of love! Her sounding quiver, on her shoulder ty'd, One hand a dart, and one a bow supply'd. Such was her face, as in a nymph display'd A fair fierce boy, or in a boy betray'd The blushing beauties of a modest maid. The Caledonian chief at once the dame Beheld, at once his heart receiv'd the flame, With Heav'ns averse. O happy youth, he cry'd; For whom thy fates reserve so fair a bride! He sigh'd, and had no leisure more to say; His honour call'd his eyes another way, And forc'd him to pursue the now-neglected prey. There stood a forest on a mountain's brow, Which over-look'd the shaded plains below. No sounding ax presum'd those trees to bite; Coeval with the world, a venerable sight. The heroes there arriv'd, some spread around The toils; some search the footsteps on the ground: Some from the chains the faithful dogs unbound. Of action eager, and intent in thought, The chiefs their honourable danger sought: A valley stood below; the common drain Of waters from above, and falling rain: The bottom was a moist, and marshy ground, Whose edges were with bending oziers crown'd: The knotty bulrush next in order stood, And all within of reeds a trembling wood. From hence the boar was rous'd, and sprung amain, Like lightning sudden, on the warrior train; Beats down the trees before him, shakes the ground. The forest echoes to the crackling sound; Shout the fierce youth, and clamours ring around. All stood with their protended spears prepar'd, With broad steel heads the brandish'd weapons glar'd. The beast impetuous with his tusks aside Deals glancing wounds; the fearful dogs divide: All spend their mouths aloof, but none abide. Echion threw the first, but miss'd his mark, And stuck his boar-spear on a maple's bark. Then Jason; and his javelin seem'd to take, But fail'd with over-force, and whiz'd above his back. Mopsus was next; but e'er he threw, address'd To Phoebus, thus: O patron, help thy priest: If I adore, and ever have ador'd Thy pow'r divine, thy present aid afford; That I may reach the beast. The God allow'd His pray'r, and smiling, gave him what he cou'd: He reach'd the savage, but no blood he drew: Dian unarm'd the javelin, as it flew. This chaf'd the boar, his nostrils flames expire, And his red eye-balls roul with living fire. Whirl'd from a sling, or from an engine thrown, Amid the foes, so flies a mighty stone, As flew the beast: the left wing put to flight, The chiefs o'er-born, he rushes on the right. Eupalamos and Pelagon he laid In dust, and next to death, but for their fellows' aid. Onesimus far'd worse, prepar'd to fly, The fatal fang drove deep within his thigh, And cut the nerves: the nerves no more sustain The bulk; the bulk unprop'd, falls headlong on the plain. Nestor had fail'd the fall of Troy to see, But leaning on his lance, he vaulted on a tree; Then gath'ring up his feet, look'd down with fear, And thought his monstrous foe was still too near. Against a stump his tusk the monster grinds, And in the sharpen'd edge new vigour finds; Then, trusting to his arms, young Othrys found, And ranch'd his hips with one continu'd wound. Now Leda's twins, the future stars, appear; White were their habits, white their horses were: Conspicuous both, and both in act to throw, Their trembling lances brandish'd at the foe: Nor had they miss'd; but he to thickets fled, Conceal'd from aiming spears, not pervious to the steed. But Telamon rush'd in, and happ'd to meet A rising root, that held his fastned feet; So down he fell, whom, sprawling on the ground, His brother from the wooden gyves unbound. Mean-time the virgin-huntress was not slow T' expel the shaft from her contracted bow: Beneath his ear the fastned arrow stood, And from the wound appear'd the trickling blood. She blush'd for joy: but Meleagros rais'd His voice with loud applause, and the fair archer prais'd. He was the first to see, and first to show His friends the marks of the successful blow. Nor shall thy valour want the praises due, He said; a virtuous envy seiz'd the crew. They shout; the shouting animates their hearts, And all at once employ their thronging darts: But out of order thrown, in air they joyn, And multitude makes frustrate the design. With both his hands the proud Ancaeus takes, And flourishes his double-biting ax: Then, forward to his fate, he took a stride Before the rest, and to his fellows cry'd, Give place, and mark the diff'rence, if you can, Between a woman warrior, and a man, The boar is doom'd; nor though Diana lend Her aid, Diana can her beast defend. Thus boasted he; then stretch'd, on tiptoe stood, Secure to make his empty promise good. But the more wary beast prevents the blow, And upward rips the groin of his audacious foe. Ancaeus falls; his bowels from the wound Rush out, and clotted blood distains the ground. Perithous, no small portion of the war, Press'd on, and shook his lance: to whom from far Thus Theseus cry'd; O stay, my better part, My more than mistress; of my heart, the heart. The strong may fight aloof; Ancaeus try'd His force too near, and by presuming dy'd: He said, and while he spake his javelin threw, Hissing in air th' unerring weapon flew; But on an arm of oak, that stood betwixt The marks-man and the mark, his lance he fixt. Once more bold Jason threw, but fail'd to wound The boar, and slew an undeserving hound, And thro' the dog the dart was nail'd to ground. Two spears from Meleager's hand were sent, With equal force, but various in th' event: The first was fix'd in earth, the second stood On the boar's bristled back, and deeply drank his blood. Now while the tortur'd savage turns around, And flings about his foam, impatient of the wound, The wound's great author close at hand provokes His rage, and plies him with redoubled strokes; Wheels, as he wheels; and with his pointed dart Explores the nearest passage to his heart. Quick, and more quick he spins in giddy gires, Then falls, and in much foam his soul expires. This act with shouts heav'n-high the friendly band Applaud, and strain in theirs the victor's hand. Then all approach the slain with vast surprize, Admire on what a breadth of earth he lies, And scarce secure, reach out their spears afar, And blood their points, to prove their partnership of war. But he, the conqu'ring chief, his foot impress'd On the strong neck of that destructive beast; And gazing on the nymph with ardent eyes, Accept, said he, fair Nonacrine, my prize, And, though inferior, suffer me to join My labours, and my part of praise, with thine: At this presents her with the tusky head And chine, with rising bristles roughly spread. Glad she receiv'd the gift; and seem'd to take With double pleasure, for the giver's sake. The rest were seiz'd with sullen discontent, And a deaf murmur through the squadron went: All envy'd; but the Thestyan brethren show'd The least respect, and thus they vent their spleen aloud: Lay down those honour'd spoils, nor think to share, Weak woman as thou art, the prize of war: Ours is the title, thine a foreign claim, Since Meleagrus from our lineage came. Trust not thy beauty; but restore the prize, Which he, besotted on that face, and eyes, Would rend from us: at this, enflam'd with spite, From her they snatch the gift, from him the giver's right. But soon th' impatient prince his fauchion drew, And cry'd, Ye robbers of another's due, Now learn the diff'rence, at your proper cost, Betwixt true valour, and an empty boast. At this advanc'd, and sudden as the word, In proud Plexippus' bosom plung'd the sword: Toxeus amaz'd, and with amazement slow, Or to revenge, or ward the coming blow, Stood doubting; and while doubting thus he stood, Receiv'd the steel bath'd in his brother's blood. Pleas'd with the first, unknown the second news; Althaea to the temples pays their dues For her son's conquest; when at length appear Her grisly brethren stretch'd upon the bier: Pale at the sudden sight, she chang'd her cheer, And with her cheer her robes; but hearing tell The cause, the manner, and by whom they fell, 'Twas grief no more, or grief and rage were one Within her soul; at last 'twas rage alone; Which burning upwards in succession, dries The tears, that stood consid'ring in her eyes. There lay a log unlighted on the hearth, When she was lab'ring in the throws of birth For th' unborn chief; the fatal sisters came, And rais'd it up, and toss'd it on the flame: Then on the rock a scanty measure place Of vital flax, and turn'd the wheel apace; And turning sung, To this red brand and thee, O new born babe, we give an equal destiny; So vanish'd out of view. The frighted dame Sprung hasty from her bed, and quench'd the flame: The log, in secret lock'd, she kept with care, And that, while thus preserv'd, preserv'd her heir. This brand she now produc'd; and first she strows The hearth with heaps of chips, and after blows; Thrice heav'd her hand, and heav'd, she thrice repress'd: The sister and the mother long contest, Two doubtful titles, in one tender breast: And now her eyes, and cheeks with fury glow, Now pale her cheeks, her eyes with pity flow: Now low'ring looks presage approaching storms, And now prevailing love her face reforms: Resolv'd, she doubts again; the tears she dry'd With burning rage, are by new tears supply'd; And as a ship, which winds and waves assail Now with the current drives, now with the gale, Both opposite, and neither long prevail: She feels a double force, by turns obeys Th' imperious tempest, and th' impetuous seas: So fares Althaea's mind, she first relents With pity, of that pity then repents: Sister, and mother long the scales divide, But the beam nodded on the sister's side. Sometimes she softly sigh'd, then roar'd aloud; But sighs were stifled in the cries of blood. The pious, impious wretch at length decreed, To please her brothers' ghost, her son should bleed: And when the fun'ral flames began to rise, Receive, she said, a sister's sacrifice; A mother's bowels burn: high in her hand, Thus while she spoke, she held the fatal brand; Then thrice before the kindled pile she bow'd, And the three Furies thrice invok'd aloud: Come, come, revenging sisters, come, and view A sister paying her dead brothers due: A crime I punish, and a crime commit; But blood for blood, and death for death is fit: Great crimes must be with greater crimes repaid, And second fun'rals on the former laid. Let the whole houshold in one ruin fall, And may Diana's curse o'ertake us all. Shall Fate to happy Oenus still allow One son, while Thestius stands depriv'd of two? Better three lost, than one unpunish'd go. Take then, dear ghosts (while yet admitted new In Hell you wait my duty), take your due: A costly off'ring on your tomb is laid, When with my blood the price of yours is paid. Ah! whither am I hurry'd? Ah! forgive, Ye shades, and let your sister's issue live; A mother cannot give him death; tho' he Deserves it, he deserves it not from me. Then shall th' unpunish'd wretch insult the slain, Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign? While you, thin shades, the sport of winds, are tost O'er dreary plains, or tread the burning coast. I cannot, cannot bear; 'tis past, 'tis done; Perish this impious, this detested son: Perish his sire, and perish I withal; And let the house's heir, and the hop'd kingdom fall. Where is the mother fled, her pious love, And where the pains with which ten months I strove! Ah! had'st thou dy'd, my son, in infant years, Thy little herse had been bedew'd with tears. Thou liv'st by me; to me thy breath resign; Mine is the merit, the demerit thine. Thy life by double title I require; Once giv'n at birth, and once preserv'd from fire: One murder pay, or add one murder more, And me to them who fell by thee restore. I would, but cannot: my son's image stands Before my sight; and now their angry hands My brothers hold, and vengeance these exact; This pleads compassion, and repents the fact. He pleads in vain, and I pronounce his doom: My brothers, though unjustly, shall o'ercome. But having paid their injur'd ghosts their due, My son requires my death, and mine shall his pursue. At this, for the last time, she lifts her hand, Averts her eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the brand. The brand, amid the flaming fewel thrown, Or drew, or seem'd to draw, a dying groan; The fires themselves but faintly lick'd their prey, Then loath'd their impious food, and would have shrunk away. Just then the heroe cast a doleful cry, And in those absent flames began to fry: The blind contagion rag'd within his veins; But he with manly patience bore his pains: He fear'd not Fate, but only griev'd to die Without an honest wound, and by a death so dry. Happy Ancaeus, thrice aloud he cry'd, With what becoming fate in arms he dy'd! Then call'd his brothers, sisters, sire around, And, her to whom his nuptial vows were bound, Perhaps his mother; a long sigh she drew, And his voice failing, took his last adieu. For as the flames augment, and as they stay At their full height, then languish to decay, They rise and sink by fits; at last they soar In one bright blaze, and then descend no more: Just so his inward heats, at height, impair, 'Till the last burning breath shoots out the soul in air. Now lofty Calidon in ruins lies; All ages, all degrees unsluice their eyes, And Heav'n, and Earth resound with murmurs, groans, and cries. Matrons and maidens beat their breasts, and tear Their habits, and root up their scatter'd hair: The wretched father, father now no more, With sorrow sunk, lies prostrate on the floor, Deforms his hoary locks with dust obscene, And curses age, and loaths a life prolong'd with pain. By steel her stubborn soul his mother freed, And punish'd on her self her impious deed. Had I a hundred tongues, a wit so large As could their hundred offices discharge; Had Phoebus all his Helicon bestow'd In all the streams, inspiring all the God; Those tongues, that wit, those streams, that God in vain Would offer to describe his sisters' pain: They beat their breasts with many a bruizing blow, 'Till they turn livid, and corrupt the snow. The corps they cherish, while the corps remains, And exercise, and rub with fruitless pains; And when to fun'ral flames 'tis born away, They kiss the bed on which the body lay: And when those fun'ral flames no longer burn (The dust compos'd within a pious urn), Ev'n in that urn their brother they confess, And hug it in their arms, and to their bosoms press. His tomb is rais'd; then, stretch'd along the ground, Those living monuments his tomb surround: Ev'n to his name, inscrib'd, their tears they pay, 'Till tears, and kisses wear his name away. But Cynthia now had all her fury spent, Not with less ruin than a race content: Excepting Gorge, perish'd all the seed, And her whom Heav'n for Hercules decreed. Satiate at last, no longer she pursu'd The weeping sisters; but With Wings endu'd, And horny beaks, and sent to flit in air; Who yearly round the tomb in feather'd flocks repair. The Transformation of the Naiads Theseus mean-while acquitting well his share In the bold chace confed'rate like a war, To Athens' lofty tow'rs his march ordain'd, By Pallas lov'd, and where Erectheus reign'd. But Achelous stop'd him on the way, By rains a deluge, and constrain'd his stay. O fam'd for glorious deeds, and great by blood, Rest here, says he, nor trust the rapid flood; It solid oaks has from its margin tore, And rocky fragments down its current bore, The murmur hoarse, and terrible the roar. Oft have I seen herds with their shelt'ring fold Forc'd from the banks, and in the torrent roul'd; Nor strength the bulky steer from ruin freed, Nor matchless swiftness sav'd the racing steed. In cataracts when the dissolving snow Falls from the hills, and floods the plains below; Toss'd by the eddies with a giddy round, Strong youths are in the sucking whirlpools drown'd. 'Tis best with me in safety to abide, 'Till usual bounds restrain the ebbing tide, And the low waters in their channel glide. Theseus perswaded, in compliance bow'd: So kind an offer, and advice so good, O Achelous, cannot be refus'd; I'll use them both, said he; and both he us'd. The grot he enter'd, pumice built the hall, And tophi made the rustick of the wall; The floor, soft moss, an humid carpet spread, And various shells the chequer'd roof inlaid. 'Twas now the hour when the declining sun Two thirds had of his daily journey run; At the spread table Theseus took his place, Next his companions in the daring chace; Perithous here, there elder Lelex lay, His locks betraying age with sprinkled grey. Acharnia's river-God dispos'd the rest, Grac'd with the equal honour of the feast, Elate with joy, and proud of such a guest. The nymphs were waiters, and with naked feet In order serv'd the courses of the meat. The banquet done, delicious wine they brought, Of one transparent gem the cup was wrought. Then the great heroe of this gallant train, Surveying far the prospect of the main: What is that land, says he, the waves embrace? (And with his finger pointed at the place); Is it one parted isle which stands alone? How nam'd? and yet methinks it seems not one. To whom the watry God made this reply; 'Tis not one isle, but five; distinct they lye; 'Tis distance which deceives the cheated eye. But that Diana's act may seem less strange, These once proud Naiads were, before their change. 'Twas on a day more solemn than the rest, Ten bullocks slain, a sacrificial feast: The rural Gods of all the region near They bid to dance, and taste the hallow'd cheer. Me they forgot: affronted with the slight, My rage, and stream swell'd to the greatest height; And with the torrent of my flooding store, Large woods from woods, and fields from fields I tore. The guilty nymphs, oh! then, remembring me, I, with their country, wash'd into the sea; And joining waters with the social main, Rent the gross land, and split the firm champagne. Since, the Echinades, remote from shore Are view'd as many isles, as nymphs before. Perimele turn'd into an Island But yonder far, lo, yonder does appear An isle, a part to me for ever dear. From that (it sailors Perimele name) I doating, forc'd by rape a virgin's fame. Hippodamas's passion grew so strong, Gall'd with th' abuse, and fretted at the wrong, He cast his pregnant daughter from a rock; I spread my waves beneath, and broke the shock; And as her swimming weight my stream convey'd, I su'd for help divine, and thus I pray'd: O pow'rful thou, whose trident does comm and The realm of waters, which surround the land; We sacred rivers, wheresoe'er begun, End in thy lot, and to thy empire run. With favour hear, and help with present aid; Her whom I bear 'twas guilty I betray'd. Yet if her father had been just, or mild, He would have been less impious to his child; In her, have pity'd force in the abuse; In me, admitted love for my excuse. O let relief for her hard case be found, Her, whom paternal rage expell'd from ground, Her, whom paternal rage relentless drown'd. Grant her some place, or change her to a place, Which I may ever clasp with my embrace. His nodding head the sea's great ruler bent, And all his waters shook with his assent. The nymph still swam, tho' with the fright distrest, I felt her heart leap trembling in her breast; But hardning soon, whilst I her pulse explore, A crusting Earth cas'd her stiff body o'er; And as accretions of new-cleaving soil Inlarg'd the mass, the nymph became an isle. The Story of Baucis and Philemon Thus Achelous ends: his audience hear With admiration, and admiring, fear The Pow'rs of Heav'n; except Ixion's Son, Who laugh'd at all the Gods, believ'd in none: He shook his impious head, and thus replies. These legends are no more than pious lies: You attri bute too much to heav'nly sway, To think they give us forms, and take away. The rest of better minds, their sense declar'd Against this doctrine, and with horror heard. Then Lelex rose, an old experienc'd man, And thus with sober gravity began; Heav'n's pow'r is infinite: Earth, Air, and Sea, The manufacture mass, the making Pow'r obey: By proof to clear your doubt; in Phrygian ground Two neighb'ring trees, with walls encompass'd round, Stand on a mod'rate rise, with wonder shown, One a hard oak, a softer linden one: I saw the place, and them, by Pittheus sent To Phrygian realms, my grandsire's government. Not far from thence is seen a lake, the haunt Of coots, and of the fishing cormorant: Here Jove with Hermes came; but in disguise Of mortal men conceal'd their deities; One laid aside his thunder, one his rod; And many toilsome steps together trod: For harbour at a thousand doors they knock'd, Not one of all the thousand but was lock'd. At last an hospitable house they found, A homely shed; the roof, not far from ground, Was thatch'd with reeds, and straw, together bound. There Baucis and Philemon liv'd, and there Had liv'd long marry'd, and a happy pair: Now old in love, though little was their store, Inur'd to want, their poverty they bore, Nor aim'd at wealth, professing to be poor. For master, or for servant here to call, Was all alike, where only two were all. Command was none, where equal love was paid, Or rather both commanded, both obey'd. From lofty roofs the Gods repuls'd before, Now stooping, enter'd through the little door: The man (their hearty welcome first express'd) A common settle drew for either guest, Inviting each his weary limbs to rest. But ere they sate, officious Baucis lays Two cushions stuff'd with straw, the seat to raise; Coarse, but the best she had; then rakes the load Of ashes from the hearth, and spreads abroad The living coals; and, lest they should expire, With leaves, and bark she feeds her infant fire: It smoaks; and then with trembling breath she blows, 'Till in a chearful blaze the flames arose. With brush-wood, and with chips she streng thens these, And adds at last the boughs of rotten trees. The fire thus form'd, she sets the kettle on (Like burnish'd gold the little seether shone), Next took the coleworts which her husb and got From his own ground (a small well-water'd spot); She stripp'd the stalks of all their leaves; the best She cull'd, and them with handy care she drest. High o'er the hearth a chine of bacon hung; Good old Philemon seiz'd it with a prong, And from the sooty rafter drew it down, Then cut a slice, but scarce enough for one; Yet a large portion of a little store, Which for their sakes alone he wish'd were more. This in the pot he plung'd without delay, To tame the flesh, and drain the salt away. The time beween, before the fire they sat, And shorten'd the delay by pleasing chat. A beam there was, on which a beechen pail Hung by the handle, on a driven nail: This fill'd with water, gently warm'd, they set Before their guests; in this they bath'd their feet, And after with clean towels dry'd their sweat. This done, the host produc'd the genial bed, Sallow the feet, the borders, and the sted, Which with no costly coverlet they spread, But coarse old garments; yet such robes as these They laid alone, at feasts, on holidays. The good old housewife, tucking up her gown, The table sets; th' invited Gods lie down. The trivet-table of a foot was lame, A blot which prudent Baucis overcame, Who thrusts beneath the limping leg a sherd, So was the mended board exactly rear'd: Then rubb'd it o'er with newly gather'd mint, A wholsom herb, that breath'd a grateful scent. Pallas began the feast, where first was seen The party-colour'd olive, black, and green: Autumnal cornels next in order serv'd, In lees of wine well pickled, and preserv'd. A garden-sallad was the third supply, Of endive, radishes, and succory: Then curds, and cream, the flow'r of country fare, And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busie care Turn'd by a gentle fire, and roasted rare. All these in ear then ware were serv'd to board; And next in place, an ear then pitcher stor'd, With liquor of the best the cottage could afford. This was the table's ornament and pride, With figures wrought: like pages at his side Stood beechen bowls; and these were shining clean, Varnish'd with wax without, and lin'd within. By this the boiling kettle had prepar'd, And to the table sent the smoaking lard; On which with eager appetite they dine, A sav'ry bit, that serv'd to relish wine: The wine itself was suiting to the rest, Still working in the must, and lately press'd. The second course succeeds like that before, Plums, apples, nuts, and of their wintry store Dry figs, and grapes, and wrinkled dates were set In canisters, t' enlarge the little treat: All these a milk-white honey-comb surround, Which in the midst the country-banquet crown'd: But the kind hosts their entertainment grace With hearty welcome, and an open face: In all they did, you might discern with ease, A willing mind, and a desire to please. Mean-time the beechen bowls went round, and still, Though often empty'd, were observ'd to fill; Fill'd without hands, and of their own accord Ran without feet, and danc'd about the board. Devotion seiz'd the pair, to see the feast With wine, and of no common grape, increas'd; And up they held their hands, and fell to pray'r, Excusing, as they could, their country fare. One goose they had ('twas all they could allow), A wakeful centry, and on duty now, Whom to the Gods for sacrifice they vow: Her with malicious zeal the couple view'd; She ran for life, and limping they pursu'd: Full well the fowl perceiv'd their bad intent, And would not make her master's compliment; But persecuted, to the Pow'rs she flies, And close between the legs of Jove she lies: He with a gracious ear the suppliant heard, And sav'd her life; then what he has declar'd, And own'd the God. The neighbourhood, said he, Shall justly perish for impiety: You stand alone exempted; but obey With speed, and follow where we lead the way: Leave these accurs'd; and to the mountain's height Ascend; nor once look backward in your flight. They haste, and what their tardy feet deny'd, The trusty staff (their better leg) supply'd. An arrow's flight they wanted to the top, And there secure, but spent with travel, stop; Then turn their now no more forbidden eyes; Lost in a lake the floated level lies: A watry desart covers all the plains, Their cot alone, as in an isle, remains. Wondring, with weeping eyes, while they deplore Their neighbours' fate, and country now no more, Their little shed, scarce large enough for two, Seems, from the ground increas'd, in height and bulk to grow. A stately temple shoots within the skies, The crotches of their cot in columns rise: The pavement polish'd marble they behold, The gates with sculpture grac'd, the spires and tiles of gold. Then thus the sire of Gods, with looks serene, Speak thy desire, thou only just of men; And thou, o woman, only worthy found To be with such a man in marriage bound. A-while they whisper; then, to Jove address'd, Philemon thus prefers their joint request: We crave to serve before your sacred shrine, And offer at your altars rites divine: And since not any action of our life Has been polluted with domestick strife; We beg one hour of death, that neither she With widow's tears may live to bury me, Nor weeping I, with wither'd arms may bear My breathless Baucis to the sepulcher. The Godheads sign their suit. They run their race In the same tenour all th' appointed space: Then, when their hour was come, while they relate These past adventures at the temple gate, Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen Sprouting with sudden leaves of spritely green: Old Baucis look'd where old Philemon stood, And saw his leng then'd arms a sprouting wood: New roots their fasten'd feet begin to bind, Their bodies stiffen in a rising rind: Then, ere the bark above their shoulders grew, They give, and take at once their last adieu. At once, Farewell, o faithful spouse, they said; At once th' incroaching rinds their closing lips invade. Ev'n yet, an ancient Tyanaean shows A spreading oak, that near a linden grows; The neighbourhood confirm the prodigy, Grave men, not vain of tongue, or like to lie. I saw my self the garlands on their boughs, And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows; And off'ring fresher up, with pious pray'r, The good, said I, are God's peculiar care, And such as honour Heav'n, shall heav'nly honour share. The Changes of Proteus He ceas'd in his relation to proceed, Whilst all admir'd the author, and the deed; But Theseus most, inquisitive to know From Gods what wondrous alterations grow. Whom thus the Calydonian stream address'd, Rais'd high to speak, the couch his elbow press'd. Some, when transform'd, fix in the lasting change; Some with more right, thro' various figures range. Proteus, thus large thy privilege was found, Thou inmate of the seas, which Earth surround. Sometimes a bloming youth you grac'd the shore; Oft a fierce lion, or a furious boar: With glist'ning spires now seem'd an hissing snake, The bold would tremble in his hands to take: With horns assum'd a bull; sometimes you prov'd A tree by roots, a stone by weight unmov'd: Sometimes two wav'ring contraries became, Flow'd down in water, or aspir'd in flame. The Story of Erisichthon In various shapes thus to deceive the eyes, Without a settled stint of her disguise, Rash Erisichthon's daughter had the pow'r, And brought it to Autolicus in dow'r. Her atheist sire the slighted Gods defy'd, And ritual honours to their shrines deny'd. As fame reports, his hand an ax sustain'd, Which Ceres' consecrated grove prophan'd; Which durst the venerable gloom invade, And violate with light the awful shade. An ancient oak in the dark center stood, The covert's glory, and itself a wood: Garlands embrac'd its shaft, and from the boughs Hung tablets, monuments of prosp'rous vows. In the cool dusk its unpierc'd verdure spread, The Dryads oft their hallow'd dances led; And oft, when round their gaging arms they cast, Full fifteen ells it measu'rd in the waste: Its height all under standards did surpass, As they aspir'd above the humbler grass. These motives, which would gentler minds restrain, Could not make Triope's bold son abstain; He sternly charg'd his slaves with strict decree, To fell with gashing steel the sacred tree. But whilst they, lingring, his commands delay'd, He snatch'd an Ax, and thus blaspheming said: Was this no oak, nor Ceres' favourite care, But Ceres' self, this arm, unaw'd, shou'd dare Its leafy honours in the dust to spread, And level with the earth its airy head. He spoke, and as he poiz'd a slanting stroak, Sighs heav'd, and tremblings shook the frighted oak; Its leaves look'd sickly, pale its acorns grew, And its long branches sweat a chilly dew. But when his impious hand a wound bestow'd, Blood from the mangled bark in currents flow'd. When a devoted bull of mighty size, A sinning nation's grand atonement, dies; With such a plenty from the spouting veins, A crimson stream the turfy altars stains. The wonder all amaz'd; yet one more bold, The fact dissuading, strove his ax to hold. But the Thessalian, obstinately bent, Too proud to change, too harden'd to repent, On his kind monitor, his eyes, which burn'd With rage, and with his eyes his weapon turn'd; Take the reward, says he, of pious dread: Then with a blow lopp'd off his parted head. No longer check'd, the wretch his crime pursu'd, Doubled his strokes, and sacrilege renew'd; When from the groaning trunk a voice was heard, A Dryad I, by Ceres' love preferr'd, Within the circle of this clasping rind Coeval grew, and now in ruin join'd; But instant vengeance shall thy sin pursue, And death is chear'd with this prophetick view. At last the oak with cords enforc'd to bow, Strain'd from the top, and sap'd with wounds below, The humbler wood, partaker of its fate, Crush'd with its fall, and shiver'd with its weight. The grove destroy'd, the sister Dryads moan, Griev'd at its loss, and frighted at their own. Strait, suppliants for revenge to Ceres go, In sable weeds, expressive of their woe. The beauteous Goddess with a graceful air Bow'd in consent, and nodded to their pray'r. The awful motion shook the fruitful ground, And wav'd the fields with golden harvests crown'd. Soon she contriv'd in her projecting mind A plague severe, and piteous in its kind (If plagues for crimes of such presumptuous height Could pity in the softest breast create). With pinching want, and hunger's keenest smart, To tear his vitals, and corrode his heart. But since her near approach by Fate's deny'd To famine, and broad climes their pow'rs divide, A nymph, the mountain's ranger, she address'd, And thus resolv'd, her high commands express'd. The Description of Famine Where frozen Scythia's utmost bound is plac'd, A desart lies, a melancholy waste: In yellow crops there Nature never smil'd, No fruitful tree to shade the barren wild. There sluggish cold its icy station makes, There paleness, frights, and aguish trembling shakes, Of pining famine this the fated seat, To whom my orders in these words repeat: Bid her this miscreant with her sharpest pains Chastise, and sheath herself into his veins; Be unsubdu'd by plenty's baffled store, Reject my empire, and defeat my pow'r. And lest the distance, and the tedious way, Should with the toil, and long fatigue dismay, Ascend my chariot, and convey'd on high, Guide the rein'd dragons thro' the parting sky. The nymph, accepting of the granted carr, Sprung to the seat, and posted thro' the air; Nor stop'd 'till she to a bleak mountain came Of wondrous height, and Caucasus its name. There in a stony field the fiend she found, Herbs gnawing, and roots scratching from the ground. Her elfelock hair in matted tresses grew, Sunk were her eyes, and pale her ghastly hue, Wan were her lips, and foul with clammy glew. Her throat was furr'd, her guts appear'd within With snaky crawlings thro' her parchment skin. Her jutting hips seem'd starting from their place, And for a belly was a belly's space, Her dugs hung dangling from her craggy spine, Loose to her breast, and fasten'd to her chine. Her joints protuberant by leanness grown, Consumption sunk the flesh, and rais'd the bone. Her knees large orbits bunch'd to monstrous size, And ancles to undue proportion rise. This plague the nymph, not daring to draw near, At distance hail'd, and greeted from afar. And tho' she told her charge without delay, Tho' her arrival late, and short her stay, She felt keen famine, or she seem'd to feel, Invade her blood, and on her vitals steal. She turn'd, from the infection to remove, And back to Thessaly the serpents drove. The fiend obey'd the Goddess' comm and (Tho' their effects in opposition stand), She cut her way, supported by the wind, And reach'd the mansion by the nymph assign'd. 'Twas night, when entring Erisichthon's room, Dissolv'd in sleep, and thoughtless of his doom, She clasp'd his limbs, by impious labour tir'd, With battish wings, but her whole self inspir'd; Breath'd on his throat and chest a tainting blast, And in his veins infus'd an endless fast. The task dispatch'd, away the Fury flies From plenteous regions, and from rip'ning skies; To her old barren north she wings her speed, And cottages distress'd with pinching need. Still slumbers Erisichthon's senses drown, And sooth his fancy with their softest down. He dreams of viands delicate to eat, And revels on imaginary meat, Chaws with his working mouth, but chaws in vain, And tires his grinding teeth with fruitless pain; Deludes his throat with visionary fare, Feasts on the wind, and banquets on the air. The morning came, the night, and slumbers past, But still the furious pangs of hunger last; The cank'rous rage still gnaws with griping pains, Stings in his throat, and in his bowels reigns. Strait he requires, impatient in demand, Provisions from the air, the seas, the land. But tho' the land, air, seas, provisions grant, Starves at full tables, and complains of want. What to a people might in dole be paid, Or victual cities for a long blockade, Could not one wolfish appetite asswage; For glutting nourishment increas'd its rage. As rivers pour'd from ev'ry distant shore, The sea insatiate drinks, and thirsts for more; Or as the fire, which all materials burns, And wasted forests into ashes turns, Grows more voracious, as the more it preys, Recruits dilate the flame, and spread the blaze: So impious Erisichthon's hunger raves, Receives refreshments, and refreshments craves. Food raises a desire for food, and meat Is but a new provocative to eat. He grows more empty, as the more supply'd, And endless cramming but extends the void. The Transformations of Erisichthon's Daughter Now riches hoarded by paternal care Were sunk, the glutton swallowing up the heir. Yet the devouring flame no stores abate, Nor less his hunger grew with his estate. One daughter left, as left his keen desire, A daughter worthy of a better sire: Her too he sold, spent Nature to sustain; She scorn'd a lord with generous disdain, And flying, spread her hand upon the main. Then pray'd: Grant, thou, I bondage may escape, And with my liberty reward thy rape; Repay my virgin treasure with thy aid ('Twas Neptune who deflower'd the beauteous maid). The God was mov'd, at what the fair had su'd, When she so lately by her master view'd In her known figure, on a sudden took A fisher's habit, and a manly look. To whom her owner hasted to enquire; O thou, said he, whose baits hide treach'rous wire; Whose art can manage, and experienc'd skill The taper angle, and the bobbing quill, So may the sea be ruffled with no storm, But smooth with calms, as you the truth inform; So your deceit may no shy fishes feel, 'Till struck, and fasten'd on the bearded steel. Did not you standing view upon the strand, A wand'ring maid? I'm sure I saw her stand; Her hair disorder'd, and her homely dress Betray'd her want, and witness'd her distress. Me heedless, she reply'd, whoe'er you are, Excuse, attentive to another care. I settled on the deep my steady eye; Fix'd on my float, and bent on my employ. And that you may not doubt what I impart, So may the ocean's God assist my art, If on the beach since I my sport pursu'd, Or man, or woman but my self I view'd. Back o'er the sands, deluded, he withdrew, Whilst she for her old form put off her new. Her sire her shifting pow'r to change perceiv'd; And various chapmen by her sale deceiv'd. A fowl with spangled plumes, a brinded steer, Sometimes a crested mare, or antler'd deer: Sold for a price, she parted, to maintain Her starving parent with dishonest gain. At last all means, as all provisions, fail'd; For the disease by remedies prevail'd; His muscles with a furious bite he tore, Gorg'd his own tatter'd flesh, and gulph'd his gore. Wounds were his feast, his life to life a prey, Supporting Nature by its own decay. But foreign stories why shou'd I relate? I too my self can to new forms translate, Tho' the variety's not unconfin'd, But fix'd, in number, and restrain'd in kind: For often I this present shape retain, Oft curl a snake the volumes of my train. Sometimes my strength into my horns transfer'd, A bull I march, the captain of the herd. But whilst I once those goring weapons wore, Vast wresting force one from my forehead tore. Lo, my maim'd brows the injury still own; He ceas'd; his words concluding with a groan. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE EIGHTH ,