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1.015_-_The_Rock

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1.015_-_The_Rock

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   1 Tendo Shogaku
   1 Saint Leo the Great
   1 Saint John Chrysostom
   1 Saint Bonaventure
   1 Nihongi
   1 Erwin Schrodinger
   1 The Mother
   1 Sri Aurobindo
   1 Matsuo Basho
   1 Ibn Arabi

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   23 Anonymous
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   5 Terry Pratchett
   5 Rick Riordan
   5 Rajneesh
   5 Mary Oliver
   5 Madeleine L Engle
   5 Kristen Ashley
   5 John Green
   5 Israelmore Ayivor
   5 Douglas Adams
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   5 Alexandre Dumas
   4 Ray Bradbury
   4 Paul Stanley

1:God sleeps in the rock, dreams in the plant, stirs in the animal, and awakens in man. ~ Ibn Arabi,

2:Passion is not power. Passion is like a storm beating wildly upon a rock while true power is like the rock itself, remaining silent and unmoved. ~ Tendo Shogaku, @BashoSociety

3:Although it was primarily to Peter that he said: Feed my sheep, yet the one Lord guides all the pastors in the discharge of their office and leads to rich and fertile pastures all those who come to the rock. ~ Saint Leo the Great,

4:Very few are those who can stand firm on the rock of their faith and trust in the Divine.    ~ The Mother, Words Of The Mother II, Elements of Yoga, Faith and the Divine Grace, Trust in the Divine Grace and Help,

5:Moses struck the rock and brought forth streams of water; Christ touches his table, strikes the spiritual rock of the new covenant and draws forth the living water of the Spirit. This rock is like a fountain in the midst of Christ's table. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,

6:Arise, then, bride of Christ, be like the dove that nests in the rock-face at the mouth of a cavern, and there, like a sparrow which finds its home, do not cease to keep vigil; there, like a turtle-dove, hide the fledglings of your chaste love. ~ Saint Bonaventure,

7:When the Sun-goddess heard this she said: 'Though of late many prayers have been addressed to me, of none has the language been so beautiful as this'. So she opened a little the rock-door and peeped out. Thereupon the God...who was waiting beside the rock-door, forthwith pulled it open, and the radiance of the Sun-goddess filled the universe. ~ Nihongi, I, 45 (720)

8:All that the Light from above asks of us that it may begin its work is a call from the soul and a sufficient point of support in the mind. This support can be reached through an insistent idea of the Divine in the thought, a corresponding will in the dynamic parts, an aspiration, a faith, a need in the heart. Any one of these may lead or predominate, if all cannot move in unison or in an equal rhythm. The idea may be and must in the beginning be inadequate; the aspiration may be narrow and imperfect, the faith poorly illumined or even, as not surely founded on the rock of knowledge, fluctuating, uncertain, easily diminished; often even it may be extinguished and need to be lit again with difficulty like a torch in a windy pass. But if once there is a resolute self-consecration from deep within, if there is an awakening to the souls call, these inadequate things can be a sufficient instrument for the divine purpose.    ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, The Yoga of Divine Works, Self-Consecration, 81,

9:Song To The Rock Demoness ::: River, ripples, and waves, these three, When emerging, arise from the ocean itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the ocean itself. Habitual thinking, love, and possessiveness, these three, When arising, arise from the alaya consciousness itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the alaya consciousness itself. Self-awareness, self-illumination, self-liberation, these three, When arising, arise from the mind itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the mind itself. The unborn, unceasing, and unexpressed, these three, When emerging, arise from the nature of being itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the nature of being itself. The visions of demons, clinging to demons, and thoughts of demons, When arising, arise from the Yogin himself. When disappearing, they disappear into the Yogin himself. Since demons are the phantoms of the mind, If it is not understood by the Yogin that they are empty appearances, And even if he thinks they are real, meditation is confused. But the root of the delusion is in his own mind. By observation of the nature of manifestations, He realizes the identity of manifestation and void, And by understanding, he knows that the two are not different. Meditation and not meditation are not two but one, The cause of all errors is to look upon the two things as different. From the ultimate point of view, there is no view. If you make comparison between the nature of the mind And the nature of the heavens, Then the true nature of being itself is penetrated. See, now, that you look into the true meaning which is beyond thought. Arrange to enter into undisturbed meditation. And be mindful of the Unceasing Intuitive Sensation! ~ Jetsun Milarepa,

10:[an Integral conception of the Divine :::    But on that which as yet we know not how shall we concentrate? And yet we cannot know the Divine unless we have achieved this concentration of our being upon him. A concentration which culminates in a living realisation and the constant sense of the presence of the One in ourselves and in all of which we are aware, is what we mean in Yoga by knowledge and the effort after knowledge. It is not enough to devote ourselves by the reading of Scriptures or by the stress of philosophical reasoning to an intellectual understanding of the Divine; for at the end of our long mental labour we might know all that has been said of the Eternal, possess all that can be thought about the Infinite and yet we might not know him at all. This intellectual preparation can indeed be the first stage in a powerful Yoga, but it is not indispensable : it is not a step which all need or can be called upon to take. Yoga would be impossible, except for a very few, if the intellectual figure of knowledge arrived at by the speculative or meditative Reason were its indispensable condition or a binding preliminary. All that the Light from above asks of us that it may begin its work is a call from the soul and a sufficient point of support in the mind. This support can be reached through an insistent idea of the Divine in the thought, a corresponding will in the dynamic parts, an aspiration, a faith, a need in the heart. Any one of these may lead or predominate, if all cannot move in unison or in an equal rhythm. The idea may be and must in the beginning be inadequate; the aspiration may be narrow and imperfect, the faith poorly illumined or even, as not surely founded on the rock of knowledge, fluctuating, uncertain, easily diminished; often even it may be extinguished and need to be lit again with difficulty like a torch in a windy pass. But if once there is a resolute self-consecration from deep within, if there is an awakening to the soul's call, these inadequate things can be a sufficient instrument for the divine purpose. Therefore the wise have always been unwilling to limit man's avenues towards God; they would not shut against his entry even the narrowest portal, the lowest and darkest postern, the humblest wicket-gate. Any name, any form, any symbol, any offering has been held to be sufficient if there is the consecration along with it; for the Divine knows himself in the heart of the seeker and accepts the sacrifice.    But still the greater and wider the moving idea-force behind the consecration, the better for the seeker; his attainment is likely to be fuller and more ample. If we are to attempt an integral Yoga, it will be as well to start with an idea of the Divine that is itself integral. There should be an aspiration in the heart wide enough for a realisation without any narrow limits. Not only should we avoid a sectarian religious outlook, but also all onesided philosophical conceptions which try to shut up the Ineffable in a restricting mental formula. The dynamic conception or impelling sense with which our Yoga can best set out would be naturally the idea, the sense of a conscious all-embracing but all-exceeding Infinite. Our uplook must be to a free, all-powerful, perfect and blissful One and Oneness in which all beings move and live and through which all can meet and become one. This Eternal will be at once personal and impersonal in his self-revelation and touch upon the soul. He is personal because he is the conscious Divine, the infinite Person who casts some broken reflection of himself in the myriad divine and undivine personalities of the universe. He is impersonal because he appears to us as an infinite Existence, Consciousness and Ananda and because he is the fount, base and constituent of all existences and all energies, -the very material of our being and mind and life and body, our spirit and our matter. The thought, concentrating on him, must not merely understand in an intellectual form that he exists, or conceive of him as an abstraction, a logical necessity; it must become a seeing thought able to meet him here as the Inhabitant in all, realise him in ourselves, watch and take hold on the movement of his forces. He is the one Existence: he is the original and universal Delight that constitutes all things and exceeds them: he is the one infinite Consciousness that composes all consciousnesses and informs all their movements; he is the one illimitable Being who sustains all action and experience; his will guides the evolution of things towards their yet unrealised but inevitable aim and plenitude. To him the heart can consecrate itself, approach him as the supreme Beloved, beat and move in him as in a universal sweetness of Love and a living sea of Delight. For his is the secret Joy that supports the soul in all its experiences and maintains even the errant ego in its ordeals and struggles till all sorrow and suffering shall cease. His is the Love and the Bliss of the infinite divine Lover who is drawing all things by their own path towards his happy oneness. On him the Will can unalterably fix as the invisible Power that guides and fulfils it and as the source of its strength. In the impersonality this actuating Power is a self-illumined Force that contains all results and calmly works until it accomplishes, in the personality an all wise and omnipotent Master of the Yoga whom nothing can prevent from leading it to its goal. This is the faith with which the seeker has to begin his seeking and endeavour; for in all his effort here, but most of all in his effort towards the Unseen, mental man must perforce proceed by faith. When the realisation comes, the faith divinely fulfilled and completed will be transformed into an eternal flame of knowledge.    ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, Self-Consecration, 82-83 [T1],

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think ~ t-s-eliot, @wisdomtrove

2:Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck. ~ john-dryden, @wisdomtrove

3:I hate the rock music tradition. I can't bear it! ~ brian-eno, @wisdomtrove

4:Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

5:Hatred is the ballast of the rock which lies upon our necks and underfoot. ~ maya-angelou, @wisdomtrove

6:I have learned to kiss the waves that throw me up against the Rock of Ages. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

7:May your character not be a writing upon the sand, but an inscription upon the rock! ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

8:Children's reading and children's thinking are the rock-bottom base upon which this country will rise. ~ dr-seuss, @wisdomtrove

9:What is harder than stone? What more soft than water? Nevertheless hard though the rock be, it is hollowed by the wave. ~ ovid, @wisdomtrove

10:The right way usually lies between two extremes: it is the narrow channel between the rock and the whirlpool. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

11:Whether it's the pot that hits the rock or the rock that hits the pot , it's the pot that will break every time ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove

12:In the confrontation between the stream and the rock, the stream always wins, not through strength but by perseverance. ~ h-jackson-brown-jr, @wisdomtrove

13:In what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock; &

14:If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge Driven by invisible blows, The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides. ~ d-h-lawrence, @wisdomtrove

15:The work of God's Holy Spirit begins with bruising. In order to be saved, the fallow ground must be plowed up, the hard heart must be broken, the rock must be split apart. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

16:There is no foundation like the rock of honesty and fairness, and when you begin to build your life on that rock, with the cement of the faith in God that you have, then you have a real start. ~ ronald-reagan, @wisdomtrove

17:For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing. ~ f-scott-fitzgerald, @wisdomtrove

18:The Puritans were accustomed to explain faith by the word &

19:I did not imitate the sceptics who doubt only for doubting's sake, and pretend to be always undecided; on the contrary, my whole intention was to arrive at a certainty, and to dig away the drift and the sand until I reached the rock or the clay beneath. ~ rene-descartes, @wisdomtrove

20:When we try to focus our thought upon One who is pure uncreated being we may see nothing at all, for He dwelleth in light that no man can approach unto. Only by faith and love are we able to glimpse Him as He passes by our shelter in the cleft of the rock. ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove

21:The first person who throws the rock is a lot more radical than a hundredth person.By the time the riot has attracted a hundred people, you don't have to be nearly as much of a daredevil or a hothead or committed or any of those things to want to engage in a riot. ~ malcolm-gladwell, @wisdomtrove

22:It is not one man nor a million, but the spirit of liberty that must be preserved. The waves which dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but the ocean conquers nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears out the rock. In like manner, whatever the struggle of individuals, the great cause will gather strength. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

23:Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For awhile these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing. ~ f-scott-fitzgerald, @wisdomtrove

24:I play these [folk acoustic] concerts and I ask myself, &

25:We must like Moses cover ourselves with faith and humility while we steal a quick look at the God whom no man can see and live. The broken and the contrite heart He will not despise. We must hide our unholiness in the wounds of Christ as Moses hid himself in the cleft of the rock while the glory of God passed by. We must take refuge from God in God. ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove

26:Who but the artist has the power to open man up, to set free the imagination? The others - priest, teacher, saint, statesman, warrior - hold us to the path of history. They keep us chained to the rock, that the vultures may eat out our hearts. It is the artist who has the courage to go against the crowd; he is the unrecognized "hero of our time" - and of all time. ~ henry-miller, @wisdomtrove

27:Men who stand on any other foundation than the rock Christ Jesus are like birds that build in trees by the side of rivers. The bird sings in the branches, and the river sings below, but all the while the waters are undermining the soil about the roots, till, in some unsuspected hour, the tree falls with a crash into the stream; and then its nest is sunk, its home is gone, and the bird is a wanderer. ~ henry-ward-beecher, @wisdomtrove

28:Writing is eternal, For therein the dead heart liveth, the clay-cold tongue is eloquent, And the quick eye of the reader is cleared by the reed of the scribe. As a fossil in the rock, or a coin in the mortar of a ruin, So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul: The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactitude of vision in a picture, And so, the mind, that was among us, in its writings is embalmed. ~ f-scott-fitzgerald, @wisdomtrove

29:I begged her, &

30:Freemasonry must stand upon the Rock of Truth, religion, political, social, and economic. Nothing is so worthy of its care as freedom in all its aspects. "Free" is the most vital part of Freemasonry. It means freedom of thought and expression, freedom of spiritual and religious ideals, freedom from oppression, freedom from ignorance, superstition, vice and bigotry, freedom to acquire and possess property, to go and come at pleasure, and to rise or fall according to will of ability. ~ theodore-roosevelt, @wisdomtrove

31:A lobster, when left high and dry among the rock, does not have the sense enough to work his way back to the sea, but waits for the sea to come to him. If it does not come, he remains where he is and dies, although the slightest effort would enable him to reach the waves, which are perhaps within a yard of him. The world is full of human lobsters; people stranded on the rocks of indecision and procrastination, who, instead of putting forth their own energies, are waiting for some grand billow of good fortune to set them afloat. ~ orison-swett-marden, @wisdomtrove

32:Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assuduities of art, with which it would rear dulness to maturity, and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some may be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. ~ washington-irving, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Only the rock lasts forever ~ Neil Oliver,

2:I want to be the rock that floats. ~ Drew Barrymore,

3:Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think ~ T S Eliot,

4:The Rock will always come back to us. ~ Vince McMahon,

5:If ya' smell what The Rock is cookin'! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

6:The rock still has something to teach me. ~ Chris Sharma,

7:Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck. ~ John Dryden,

8:She was the rock in a world that was crumbling ~ Abbi Glines,

9:I hate the rock music tradition. I can't bear it! ~ Brian Eno,

10:I wish the rock 'n' roll scene to be back in. ~ Brendan Fraser,

11:Writing is the rock on which everything is built. ~ Dan Rather,

12:Does the river make the choice to erode the rock? ~ Deb Caletti,

13:That was the rock she was battered against. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

14:You’re . . . a rock,” I tell the rock. “The fuck I am. ~ Hugh Howey,

15:[The Bible] is the rock on which our Republic rests. ~ Andrew Jackson,

16:Lizards that blend into the rock do so to catch flies. ~ Margaret Weis,

17:what goes on in the sea is of no interest to the rock ~ Nathanael West,

18:I think there was a lot competition in the rock scene. ~ Jonathan Davis,

19:It's nice sometimes to be the river rather than the rock. ~ Jo Beverley,

20:Leadbelly's guitar is in the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame. ~ Roger McGuinn,

21:Prince presented us at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. ~ Bernie Worrell,

22:Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock. ~ Matsuo Basho,

23:Let us build our lives of faith on the rock who is Christ. ~ Pope Francis,

24:You've got to be hard, like the rock in that old rock & roll. ~ Billy Joel,

25:Poetry must be as new as foam and as old as the rock. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

26:On the rock of Christ I stand, all other ground is sinking sand. ~ Judy Baer,

27:Poetry must be as new as foam, and as old as the rock. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

28:The Rock is going to lay the smacketh down on your candy ass! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

29:The sea ebbs and flows, but the rock remains unmoved. ~ Robert Murray M Cheyne,

30:Enlightened society is where the flower and the rock will meet. ~ Sakyong Mipham,

31:Trust in the LORD forever, for the LORD, the LORD, is the Rock eternal. ~ Isaiah,

32:Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! ~ Lord Byron,

33:The Rock of Ages is more important than the age of rocks. ~ William Jennings Bryan,

34:I'm not trying to ally myself with the rock stars of the universe. ~ Sylvie Simmons,

35:The fire-stealer guy? The chained-to-the-rock-with-the-vultures guy? ~ Rick Riordan,

36:I think the rock'n'roll myth of living on the edge is a pile of crap. ~ Robert Smith,

37:When my heart is overwhelmed; Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. ~ Anonymous,

38:It would be like The Rock versus Seth Green. Now, tell me who he is ~ Tammy Blackwell,

39:Bella, can you drop the rock, please? Carefully. Don’t hurt yourself. ~ Stephenie Meyer,

40:Hatred is the ballast of the rock which lies upon our necks and underfoot. ~ Maya Angelou,

41:I'm afraid you will have to fly holding the rock with its heavy chain. ~ Carlos Castaneda,

42:Tonight, it's the rock and roll all night and party every day hall of fame. ~ Tom Morello,

43:I am the American heartbreak- The rock on which Freedom Stumped its toe. ~ Langston Hughes,

44:If you can't forgive, if you can't let go, you have to carry the rock with you. ~ Amit Ray,

45:My father, he was like the rock, the guy you went to with every problem. ~ Gwyneth Paltrow,

46:When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I. ~ Robert J Morgan,

47:You're everything I hate about the rock world and yet everything I love... ~ Lexxie Couper,

48:Few things look as unstable as the rock-solid certainties of previous ages. ~ Geoff Nicholson,

49:In a world of constant change, God alone is the Rock upon which to build a life. ~ Max Anders,

50:The Rock has just one thing to say to you: poontang your ass on out of here! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

51:I have learned to kiss the waves that throw me up against the Rock of Ages. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

52:It’s a geode. You can sess that, the way the rock around you abruptly changes to ~ N K Jemisin,

53:Poetry must be new as foam, and as old as the rock. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals (1822–1863),

54:a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

55:Life leaps like a geyser for those willing to drill through the rock of inertia. ~ Alexis Carrel,

56:Meg stamped, loudly and angrily, against the hard, cold surface of the rock. ~ Madeleine L Engle,

57:The grass says what the wind says: Begin with the rock; End with water. ~ Theodore Roethke,

58:Blessed are the waves that wash the mariner upon the rock of salvation! ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

59:God sleeps in the rock, dreams in the plant, stirs in the animal, and awakens in man. ~ Ibn Arabi,

60:It’s like that Greek dude who keeps pushing the rock up the hill over and over. ~ Chris Philbrook,

61:God sleeps in the rock, dreams in the plant, stirs in the animal, and awakens in man. ~ Ibn Arabi,

62:I've always wanted the IQ of a rock. No, wait. That would be an insult to the rock. ~ Julie Kagawa,

63:Consider the rock from which you were cut,        the quarry from which you were mined. ~ Anonymous,

64:Nonviolence is the rock on which the whole structure of non-co-operation is built. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

65:Psalm 94:22 tells us, “The Lord is my defense; and my God is the rock of my refuge. ~ Nancy Missler,

66:Brands are the rock stars of commerce, and create many fans, both at home and abroad. ~ Simon Anholt,

67:I have graven it within the hills, and my vengeance upon the dust within the rock. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

68:I have learned to kiss the waves that throw me up against the Rock of Ages ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

69:God may allow us at times to hit rock bottom, to show us He's the rock-at the bottom. ~ Kirk Franklin,

70:Istanbul ... the constant beating of the wave of the East against the rock of the West. ~ Susan Moody,

71:Michael Cole, The Rock knows that you have never, EVER, had a piece of poontang pie! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

72:But once you throw a stone, there are ripples in the pond, even if you remove the rock. ~ Jodi Picoult,

73:I don't know if it's possible to live the rock 'n' roll lifestyle and still be romantic. ~ Adam Levine,

74:Very few are those who can stand firm on the rock of their faith and trust in the Divine. ~ The Mother,

75:When it does not yield to the rudder," said he to them, "the ship yields to the rock. ~ Anatole France,

76:When you hit the rock bottom of life, ponder! A precious gold might be there! ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,

77:May your character not be a writing upon the sand, but an inscription upon the rock! ~ Charles Spurgeon,

78:Writing is an exercise in sculpture, chipping away at the rock until you find the nose. ~ Stanley Elkin,

79:The rock and roll business is pretty absurd, but the world of serious music is much worse. ~ Frank Zappa,

80:The wave changed instantly by rock; the rock changed by the wave returning over and over. ~ Adrienne Rich,

81:The record companies are interested in the kind of sales they can get from the rock groups. ~ Norman Granz,

82:Sometimes God lets you hit rock bottom so that you will discover He is the Rock at the bottom. ~ Tony Evans,

83:There's Tommy, Tommy Lee the rock star, and Tommy the dad. I'm wearing several hats these days. ~ Tommy Lee,

84:This is the Rock, sweetheart,” the owner added. “There’s no tragedy you can’t profit from. ~ Henry Mosquera,

85:We need the rock of the past under our feet in order to spring forward into the future. ~ Madeleine L Engle,

86:Our children are the rock on which our future will be built, our greatest asset as a nation ~ Nelson Mandela,

87:29 Is not my word like fire, declares the LORD, and like a hammer that breaks the rock in pieces? ~ Anonymous,

88:I’d been played. By the Rock Chicks and the Hot Bunch. Those boys had such big mouths. ~ Kristen Ashley,

89:I didn't say that wearing a glamorization of the rock artist was any truer from the other thing. ~ David Bowie,

90:May your character not be a writing upon the sand, but an inscription upon the rock! ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

91:Throw eggs at a rock, and though one uses all the eggs in the world, the rock remains the same. ~ Pearl S Buck,

92:Give me the beat, boys, and free my soul. I want to get lost in the rock and roll, and drift away. ~ Dobie Gray,

93:I have always touched on different genres whether it has been hip-hop, country and the rock element. ~ Kid Rock,

94:it—and he peered around at her from under its brim as if from under the rock of another life. ~ Alice McDermott,

95:If you fall asleep on horseback, the horse will stop by the rock. Art is a car. Kitsch is a horse. ~ Odd Nerdrum,

96:We put all these things together into a tangible product that is The Rock N' Roll Mystery Tour. ~ Nina Blackwood,

97:My novel is the rock to which I cling and I know nothing of what is taking place in the world. ~ Gustave Flaubert,

98:When inward tenderness finds the secret hurt, pain itself will crack the rock and Ah! Let the soul emerge. ~ Rumi,

99:When we look at a rock what we are seeing is not the rock, but the effect of the rock upon us. ~ Bertrand Russell,

100:He would feed Israel with the best wheat. “I would satisfy you with honey from the rock.” Psalm 81:16 ~ Beth Moore,

101:I get confused between the rock and roll thing and my movie star thing... We're f - -ing movie stars. ~ Dave Grohl,

102:I'm sorry, Mankind can't get to the phone right now, cause he's got The Rock's foot in his mouth! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

103:The sacrifice is usually chained to the rock. She does not usually dance out to meet her monster. ~ Alexander Chee,

104:For I, too, had a hiding place when things were bad. Jesus was this place, the Rock cleft for me. ~ Corrie ten Boom,

105:Geniuses are at work in the rock music field, and great popularity is no proof you aren't good. ~ Christopher Ricks,

106:The Rock is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most electrifying man in sports entertainment today. ~ Dwayne Johnson,

107:I rush into his hold and let my sadness flow. I let him be my rock, the rock I have needed for so long. ~ Harper Sloan,

108:I would hit you on the head with a rock and drag you away from this. But it would only shatter the rock. ~ Jim Butcher,

109:My music was too religious for the rock and roll stores and too rock and roll for the religious stores. ~ Larry Norman,

110:The '60s are gone, dope will never be as cheap, sex never as free, and the rock and roll never as great. ~ Abbie Hoffman,

111:The 60’s are gone, dope will never be as cheap, sex never as free, and the rock and roll never as great. ~ Abbie Hoffman,

112:There is absolutely no doubt that the extraordinary Donna Summer belongs in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. ~ Jon Landau,

113:They were trying to run, trying to hide. But the rock would not hide them; the dead tree gave no shelter. ~ Stephen King,

114:Why do you ask The Rock stupid questions? Why are you an ugly hermaphrodite? Nobody knows, Kevin Kelly. ~ Dwayne Johnson,

115:Avoid the reeking herd, Shun the polluted flock, Live like that stoic bird, The eagle of the rock. ~ Elinor Wylie,

116:For me, Jesus is my cleft in the rock. He is my safest friend, my safe totally loving accepting big brother. ~ Anne Lamott,

117:Ambition does not see the earth she treads on: The rock and the herbage are of one substance to her. ~ Walter Savage Landor,

118:I differ with myself then agree, like the rock that was broken and cemented together. I change my opinion. ~ China Mieville,

119:I differ with myself then agree, like the rock that was broken and cemented together. I change my opinion. ~ China Mi ville,

120:If this was the afterlife, he thought, it was a lot like the House on the Rock: part diorama, part nightmare. ~ Neil Gaiman,

121:I've never supported this concept of going after Napster. I think the rock bands who fought this were wrong. ~ Michael Moore,

122:Well, The Rock says this, you should be concerned with fixing yourself a nice, tall glass of shut-up juice! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

123:I have never been accepted. I'll never make the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. They're never going to let me in. ~ Nancy Sinatra,

124:In a moment, a breath, we passed the rock in the road that until that moment had served as the border of my life. ~ Anonymous,

125:PSALM 95 Oh come, let us sing to the LORD;         let us  f make a joyful noise to  g the rock of our salvation! ~ Anonymous,

126:The light lives in the spaces between. It is there in the soil of that mountain, in the rock and in the snow. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

127:A missive to all you metal bands, the world is totally over the rock thing. Rock is deader than it's ever been. ~ Billy Corgan,

128:I do think that some bands seem to be dabbling in the rock-hip-hop world and are not necessarily serious about it. ~ Fred Durst,

129:I remembered I had tickets that Susan Blond gave me to the rock kid who ate the heads off bats, Ozzy Osbourne,... ~ Andy Warhol,

130:The right way usually lies between two extremes: it is the narrow channel between the rock and the whirlpool. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

131:Writing songs, that's what gets me going. Not the drugs or the sex or the rock'n'roll behaviour, it's the music. ~ Noel Gallagher,

132:2From the end of the earth I will cry to You, When my heart is overwhelmed; Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. ~ Anonymous,

133:all history shows that the hand that cradles the rock has ruled the world, not the hand that rocks the cradle! ~ Clare Boothe Luce,

134:It gets cold in the desert at night, particularly up in the mountains; the stars hammer on the rock and strike frost. ~ Tanith Lee,

135:Most managers in the rock n' roll world... don't care so much about who's in the band as long as it's making money. ~ Jon Anderson,

136:The Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame was a great idea when it started, but I think they ought to close it, I think it's full. ~ Iggy Pop,

137:The rock star is dying. And it's a small tragedy. Rock stars have blogs now. I have no use for that kind of rock star. ~ Nick Cave,

138:As is a rock in the hand of one with evil intentions. It is not the rock that is the problem, but the heart of man. ~ Donita K Paul,

139:But high up on the mountain When the wind is hitting it If you're watching very closely The rock slips a little bit. ~ Harry Chapin,

140:The masses are the decisive element, they are the rock on which the final victory of the revolution will be built. ~ Rosa Luxemburg,

141:The pious ones of Plymouth who, reaching the Rock, first fell upon their own knees and then upon the aborigines. ~ William M Evarts,

142:He was part of the infinite. The tree and the rock and the water. The rising of the sun and the running of the deer. ~ Kate Atkinson,

143:On the other side of the rock, some words were carved: AND GOD SAW THAT THE WICKEDNESS OF MAN WAS GREAT IN THE EARTH ~ Tommy Wallach,

144:The jabroni beating, pie eating, trail-blazin', eyebrow raisin', all around, smack it down People's Champ, The Rock! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

145:Whether it's the pot that hits the rock or the rock that hits the pot , it's the pot that will break every time ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

146:Always remember the answers come not from the rock, the teacup, the shell, or the cards. The answers come from you. ~ Gwendolyn Womack,

147:I'm really grateful. But I never had the rock star dream. I thought it would be cool to be a modern-day composer. ~ Julian Casablancas,

148:Words are your business, boy. Not just the word. Words are everything. The key to the rock, the answer to the question. ~ Ralph Ellison,

149:My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms. ~ Mark Z Danielewski,

150:The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives. ~ Audre Lorde,

151:Whatever anyone does,/ anyone says, in the/ past, now, everything, let/ it bounce off the rock/ of yr gladness (yr mirror) ~ Jack Kerouac,

152:Nothing before, nothing behind; The steps of faith Fall on the seeming void, and find The Rock beneath. ~ John Greenleaf Whittier,

153:We must not build on the sands of an uncertain and everchanging science...but upon the rock of inspired Scriptures. ~ John Ambrose Fleming,

154:Look at The Rock's competition! Look at him! It looks like a big monkey came down here, took a crap, and out came Mankind! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

155:Look! Don't be deceived by appearances - men and things are not what they seem. All who are not on the rock are in the sea! ~ William Booth,

156:To be like the rock that the waves keep crashing over. It stands unmoved and the raging of the sea falls still around it. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

157:You must stay focused, concentrating on the work at hand. Consistency makes the rain drops to create holes in the rock. ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

158:A conscious mind must be part of the whole, intentionally, and carefully--as the rock is part of the whole unconsciously. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

159:In the confrontation between the stream and the rock, the stream always wins, not through strength but by perseverance. ~ H Jackson Brown Jr,

160:My body is the rock and roll temple and my flesh, blood and body fluids are a communion to the people whether they like it or not ~ GG Allin,

161:24“Therefore †whoever hears these sayings of Mine, and does them, I will liken him to a wise man who built his house on the rock: ~ Anonymous,

162:And then he'd tried to become an official Atheist and hadn't got the rock-hard self-satisfied strength of belief even for that. ~ Neil Gaiman,

163:I like the rock documentaries that make it seem real. Some rock documentaries are meant to make the bands look larger than life. ~ Dave Grohl,

164:Want to see the rock? Want to lay on it naked, and feel me in you, beneath the pinwheel stars, while the grass sings our names? ~ Stephen King,

165:He is the Rock, His work is perfect: For all His ways are judgment: A God of truth and without iniquity, Just and right is He. ~ Dwight L Moody,

166:Lance estimated him at six-six and two hundred forty pounds. Dwayne’s middle name should have been “The Rock” instead of David. ~ Melinda Leigh,

167:The feminine is more powerful than the masculine, the soft is more powerful than the hard, the water is more powerful than the rock. ~ Rajneesh,

168:as St Augustine put it, was man a mere child playing in the rock pools of a beach ignoring the great ocean whispering beside him? ~ Paul Doherty,

169:I'm still going to love you, always. And in the rock-paper-scissors of life, love is rock. fear, anger, everthing else...no contest. ~ Sara Zarr,

170:One of the mistakes I made was believing that the rock 'n' roll genre as a genre was much more free than the whole pop or R&B scene. ~ Joan Jett,

171:We cannot live as Christians separate from the rock who is Christ. He gives us strength and stability, but also joy and serenity. ~ Pope Francis,

172:what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

173:When the blade dulled, he sharpened it on the rock, an experience he admired-the surface that dulled it could refresh it as well. ~ Chris Offutt,

174:People who listen to my records expect the ballads from me. The rock 'n roll is on there because it's another mode of expression. ~ Dan Fogelberg,

175:The important thing was that he was there, as much a part of the rock, the water, the beach, the house, as they had come to be part of him. ~ Avi,

176:I am always the Baywatch girl at heart. The rock 'n' roll got harder and softer but I wouldn't give up those times for anything. ~ Pamela Anderson,

177:I don't really inject the rock 'n' roll thing, what I take from rock 'n' roll is probably the melodies and the musical behind it. ~ Cedric Gervais,

178:With 'Elect the Dead,' I learned how to make a rock record without a rock band and make the rock record I've always wanted to make. ~ Serj Tankian,

179:Happy Birthday To Steph, You're a Hoe with Big Breasts, so take the Night off from Hooking... If ya Smell what The Rock's cooking! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

180:Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

181:The rock star stuff never came up for us. The Band was never attacked by groupies before, during or after any show that we ever played. ~ Levon Helm,

182:Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. I ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

183:Your Real Self is the permanent atom of your identity, the rock of ages that remains unmoved by the restless tides of life. ~ Elizabeth Clare Prophet,

184:No matter how long you play rock n roll songs might change just as the balls are there, the rock balls. And that's what's important to us. ~ Bon Scott,

185:When I started out I thought I might make a little money, get some girls, get a taste of the rock 'n' roll life. It's gone way beyond that. ~ Kid Rock,

186:You may know that a cascade of water can wear away stone, but you can't predict what shape the rock will take at any given moment. ~ Carolyn Parkhurst,

187:She seems to have had the ability to stand firmly on the rock of her past while living completely and unregretfully in the present. ~ Madeleine L Engle,

188:Congratulations to one of my favorite opponents and greatest rivals on returning to the WWE. The Rock is the BEST promo man of all time. ~ Chris Jericho,

189:Do you often overlook the alternatives? Forget about the rock and the hard place, and open your eyes to the other, superior alternatives. ~ Rolf Dobelli,

190:When the first list was being drawn up in the rock and roll book of Genesis, it would have been: In the beginning, God created Pink Floyd. ~ Rick Wakeman,

191:You know, I always root for the older athlete. I root for the second album. I root for solo careers after the rock star breaks the band apart. ~ John Cho,

192:Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky were not classical musicians while they were alive and active, they were the rock stars of their day. ~ Seymour Stein,

193:smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all. No change appeared on the face of the rock. They were building a railway. The cliff was not ~ Joseph Conrad,

194:To build your house on the rock is to hear what Jesus says and obey. To be foolish and build your house on the sand is to hear and ignore. ~ Kevin DeYoung,

195:We are truly the land of the great. From the rock shores of... Hawaii... to the beautiful sandy beaches of... Hawaii... America is our home. ~ Sarah Palin,

196:Ric Flair is the greatest guy ever. He just wants to hang out, have a beer, and tell stories. He's the coolest. I've never met The Rock though. ~ Bill Burr,

197:It is a most blessed thing to have no props and no buttresses, but to stand upright on the Rock of Ages, upheld by the Lord alone. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

198:The weird cedars, like great demons and witches chained to the rock and writhing in silent anguish, loomed up with wide and twisting naked arms. ~ Zane Grey,

199:went to the Rock to hide my face                 And the Rock cried out, “No Hiding Place,                 There’s no Hiding Place down here. ~ Ray Bradbury,

200:A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

201:Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky were not classical musicians while they were alive and active, they were the rock stars of their day. ~ Seymour Stein,

202:isotopes and a type of phosphate called apatite, which together provide strong evidence that the rock once contained colonies of living things. ~ Bill Bryson,

203:It was cool at the rock camp - girls could just be themselves and they could be silly, they could roll around on the floor playing guitar. ~ Courtney Barnett,

204:You wanna do this...you wanna go right now...do you want to, GO?...then go get The Rock a bologna sandwich because this doesn't concern you. ~ Dwayne Johnson,

205:I've always loved the rock & roll element to live shows, because whatever else I do, I'm basically a rock/pop performer, and that's what I like. ~ Marc Almond,

206:He left bloody fingerprints on the rock, but there was something satisfying about that. I was here. I exist. I’m alive, because I bleed. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

207:Now, I don't know how they judge all that, but if anybody in the world deserves to be in the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame, Ritchie Valens does. ~ Waylon Jennings,

208:so I drop the rock and cross my arms in front of me, suddenly self-conscious in the presence of two goddesses who look like comic book heroines. ~ Kevin Hearne,

209:...they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

210:The infamous Jeramiah Poe,” the being said, sliding off the rock with a fluid grace. “Outlaw. Violator of ancient codes. Fugitive of the Gendarme… ~ Lucian Bane,

211:The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. ~ Anonymous,

212:The rock and roll spirit. I learned a lot of that because I worked with Buddy Holly. I played bass with him, and he taught me a lot about that. ~ Waylon Jennings,

213:when i hit the rock bottom that exists after the rock bottom and no rope or hand appeared i wondered what if nothing wants me because i do not want me ~ Rupi Kaur,

214:For those of you not in the know, The Rock is the presence in the Universe that gives art its form, its power, and its immortality. Prise the Rock ! ~ Kendall Grey,

215:The fact of the matter is this: Austin can take his ball, and go home. But as far as The Rock is concerned, as far as I'm concerned, this is home. ~ Dwayne Johnson,

216:What a brilliant cover story. In a success-obsessed society like this one, what's the best rock to hide something under? It's the rock called failure. ~ Jon Ronson,

217:How Sweet the name of Jesus... the rock on which I build, my shield and hiding place, my never failing treasury, filled with boundless stores of grace. ~ John Newton,

218:The blues is the foundation, and it's got to carry the top. The other part of the scene, the rock 'n' roll and the jazz, are the walls of the blues. ~ Luther Allison,

219:There are strong people who aren't able to climb. It's about reading the rock, knowing how to position your body and having the tenacity to not let go. ~ Chris Sharma,

220:We must uncenter our minds from ourselves; We must unhmanize our views a little, and become confident As the rock and ocean that we were made from. ~ Robinson Jeffers,

221:Our faith is the rock we stand on, Willa--but we don't demand anyone else stand here with us. Though if ever you wanted to, there is plenty of room. ~ Roseanna M White,

222:1Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer. 2From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than ~ Anonymous,

223:Unable to fly from his eyrie, she’d chosen to brave the precarious path down the rock face, one even a goat shifter with a death wish would walk away from. ~ Mina Carter,

224:As variable as flu is, HIV makes flu look like the Rock of Gibraltar. The virus that causes AIDS is the trickiest pathogen scientists have ever confronted. ~ Seth Berkley,

225:In what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'Tis of the wave and not the rock. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

226:The crowd thundered and screamed as the rock star who’d been meant to be Molly’s one-night stand pressed his forehead to her own and whispered, “I’m yours. ~ Nalini Singh,

227:The loneliness of Prometheus on the rock or of Christ on the cross is the sacrifice they have to endure for having brought fire and redemption to mankind. ~ Erich Neumann,

228:To cite the old clichés, science gets the age of rocks, and religion the rock of ages; science studies how the heavens go, religion how to go to heaven. ~ Richard Dawkins,

229:Did you ever hear about the rock and roll singer who got 3 or 4 Cadillacs, saying power to the people, dance to the music, wants you to pat him on the back. ~ Van Morrison,

230:Michael Jackson was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It caused quite a controversy, because his nose isn't eligible for another fifteen years. ~ Conan O Brien,

231:Sixty years of virginity tried in vain to dam the waters of instinct as they burst through the granite of good intentions,the rock of irreproachablee conduct. ~ Ren Crevel,

232:The love she left behind will be the reason dreams are reached. She was the rock in a world that was crumbling. Her strength will remain. It’s in our hearts. ~ Abbi Glines,

233:Communication is the root of marital success from which a strong union can grow, and noncommunicatio n is the rock on which the ship will bash out her keel. ~ L Ron Hubbard,

234:Kevin Kelly, let The Rock answer your question with a question of his own: Are you mentally, as well as physically prepared to tickle the anus of a monkey? ~ Dwayne Johnson,

235:Not that she wasn't hot - she was super, mega, hot - but not.. approachable. Like, not even the Rock would dare to whistle at her, if you know what I mean. ~ Stephenie Meyer,

236:I am Cersei of House Lannister, a lion of the Rock, the rightful queen of these Seven Kingdoms, trueborn daughter of Tywin Lannister. And hair grows back. ~ George R R Martin,

237:REVIEW! We had been recognized by a big-time newspaper music critic as Jersey badasses gone to teach those West Coast sissy boys something about THE ROCK! ~ Bruce Springsteen,

238:There is a guy on my block who lives for rock, he plays records day and night, and when he feels down he puts the rock and roll on and it makes him feel alright. ~ Ray Davies,

239:She had never guessed at the doubts secretly quarrying their way into the heart of the rock. It was like learning that God had ceased to believe in Himself. ~ Frances Hardinge,

240:We must be those who build on the rock-solid foundation of mind-engaging process, rather than on the shifting sands of 'what this verse means to me' subjectivity. ~ Jen Wilkin,

241:I found climbing to be a very tactile sport. There's no ball that is zipping through the air ready to crack you in the head. It is just you and the rock base. ~ Erik Weihenmayer,

242:Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. Also, if you see your friend’s face mutate into all four members of the rock ~ Bob Odenkirk,

243:Wait until you see the rock I’m getting.” Shepley craned his neck slowly in my direction. “You’ve already been over there shopping, haven’t you?” I smiled. ~ Jamie McGuire,

244:What you're looking at there is my arm, going into the rock... and there it is, stuck. It's been without circulation for twenty-four hours. It's pretty well gone. ~ Aron Ralston,

245:If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge Driven by invisible blows, The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides. ~ D H Lawrence,

246:After 50, the rock 'n' roll road is a little absurd. It's very difficult to play these little places. You're out there on a rickety old bus with no place to shower. ~ Nancy Sinatra,

247:Precept is instruction written in the sand; the tide flows over it and the record is gone; example is graven on the rock, and the lesson is not soon lost. ~ William Ellery Channing,

248:PSA89.26 He shall cry unto me, Thou art my father, my God, and the rock of my salvation. PSA89.27 Also I will make him my firstborn, higher than the kings of the earth. ~ Anonymous,

249:Strong enough to make holes in the rock are tiny drops of water that persist to fall. Persistence is the attitude that breaks down mountains one rock at a time! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

250:The rock, for its part, is not even aware of our existence because we are alive for only a brief instant of its lifespan. To it, we are like flashes in the dark. ~ Michael Crichton,

251:In the late '70s I started to search for the perfect sound - whatever that might be, before that I was mainly interested in drugs, insanity and the rock'n'roll lifestyle. ~ Lou Reed,

252:It's absurd for anybody to look around and hear the acts and artists who cite us as an inspiration, and then tell me that we're not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. ~ Paul Stanley,

253:The classical music industry, has been an industry of covers. So we do covers, and if I compare this with the rock and pop side, what is the most exciting event? ~ Esa Pekka Salonen,

254:The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.” “Elton John?” “Close. Ernest Hemingway. In his own way, sort of the rock star of his time. ~ Kami Garcia,

255:They have written volumes out of which a couplet of verse, a period in prose, may cling to the rock of ages, as a shell that survives a deluge. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton 1st Baron Lytton,

256:I think the hip hop world and the rock world still have a lot in common, but it certainly seems like things happen and break at a much faster pace in the hip hop world. ~ Bubba Sparxxx,

257:People from the rock and roll world have felt for years that electronic music had no soul, but now electronic music can not only have soul but have all the shapes in the world. ~ Bjork,

258:Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, "To die will be an awfully big adventure. ~ James M Barrie,

259:There are so many different people that I've emulated vocally. In the rock world - Sebastian Bach, Vince Neil, Freddie Mercury, Robert Plant. They all had amazing vocal talent. ~ Fergie,

260:Soloing is the most beautiful way of climbing; no material constrains, just you and the rock, the sun, nature; a kind of school for courage, willpower and self-confidence. ~ Alain Robert,

261:To me the most important thing is getting into a studio and making an album that is 12 or 14 amazing songs, getting up onstage, and making people happy by livening the rock. ~ Dave Grohl,

262:It struck her that the difference between men and women is the rock on which civilization will split before it can reach any goal that could justify its expenditure of effort. ~ Rebecca West,

263:Mort was getting interested in the rock. It had curly shells in it, relics of the early days of the world when the Creator had made creatures out of stone, no one knew why. ~ Terry Pratchett,

264:The work of God's Holy Spirit begins with bruising. In order to be saved, the fallow ground must be plowed up, the hard heart must be broken, the rock must be split apart. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

265:The dead have buried the dead, and the living scramble and struggle as best they can. They press their shoulder against the rock and urge forward, even when all hope is lost. ~ Kelly Barnhill,

266:Do it again and again. Consistency makes the rain drops to create holes in the rock. Whatever is difficult can be done easily with regular attendance, attention and action. ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

267:My friend Fred Coury, the drummer in '80s rock band Cinderella, told me that in the rock world, you're either still there, or you're struggling to get back to where you were. ~ Steve Valentine,

268:When we started making electronic music I imagined that the reaction we got from the rock musicians must have been similar to the one the beat groups got from people like my dad. ~ Trevor Horn,

269:The American color bar unless speedily removed will be the rock on which our international Good Neighbor policy and our pious claims to moral leadership will founder. ~ Charles Hamilton Houston,

270:The rock'n'roll lifestyle really is available to anybody that's got money. Honestly. Once you get money, if you interview a hundred people with money, they'll all sound like rock stars. ~ Ice T,

271:Yes, you might be able to drag a giant block of rock across the ground with muscles, ropes, and motivation. But it is wiser to build levers and wheels and then move the rock. ~ Richard P Rumelt,

272:And I think that if I were a for real celebrity that was recognizable everywhere, I'd just crawl under a rock and you know, have someone run over the rock with a car, or something. ~ Steve Burns,

273:I have always loved rock music. But I have played country music since my senior year in high school. That's where my heart is. I try to keep up with the rock world as much as I can. ~ Tracy Byrd,

274:In a way, as much as we love to be a big, loud rock band, the acoustic album was a lot easier to make than the rock records. I think because it was brand new territory for the band. ~ Dave Grohl,

275:So when you enjoy the beats, the rock music - maybe even toned down with an orchestra - you are enjoying the spirit of the black race. And that's what I emphasize to the students. ~ Warren Jeffs,

276:Her voice echoed and its volume took him by surprise. He walked to the rock’s edge, wanting to listen to it until the last echo disappeared, wanting to capture it in his hands. ~ Melina Marchetta,

277:The Church is built on the rock of Peter, and he who eats the Lamb outside this holy dwelling is reprobate .. .He who eats the Lamb outside this Apostolic See has no part with God! ~ Pope Pius IX,

278:I am one of the biggest Laura Nyro fans. I still listen to that stuff incessantly. Laura Nyro does not belong in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Songwriter Hall of Fame? Absolutely. ~ Paul Stanley,

279:wish I could start a revolution for ER nurses specifically; we are the rock stars of nursing, but are treated like the red-headed bastard stepchild.” —a North Carolina ER nurse ~ Alexandra Robbins,

280:Thudding racket of the rock crushers pulverizing ore. The sound of the stamps in operation is the sound of money being made, and only two things will stop them—Christmas and tragedy. ~ Blake Crouch,

281:I really thought twice about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame when that came in. I always was of a mind that it's an inherently stupid idea to put something like that in a glass case. ~ Elvis Costello,

282:And a cat never knows fear—finally—he only winds up into the spring of the sea and the rock, and even in a death-fight he does not think of anything except the majesty of darkness. ~ Charles Bukowski,

283:Ms. Arellone and Ms. Maloney were still debating decor, and I waited to see who would win. In a test of stubbornness between either of them and a rock, I’d bet on the rock to lose. We ~ Nathan Lowell,

284:When you're young, all evolution lies before you, every road is open to you, and at the same time you can enjoy the fact of being there on the rock, flat mollusk-pulp, damp and happy. ~ Italo Calvino,

285:Bottom line, if Bad Guy Sid hurt Stella or any of the Rock Chicks, Mace, not known for being a mellow guy (at all, even at the best of times), was going to hunt him down and kill him. ~ Kristen Ashley,

286:The Jesuit turned away, saying, sarcastically, "The Protestants are impenetrable rocks." "You are mistaken," said Kutnaur, "it is Christ that is the Rock, and we are firmly fixed upon Him. ~ John Foxe,

287:He cut the veil of the rock; the hooves clattered the bellowing waters below him in the dark. The lamp brought the moon from the blade, and the blade the bull from the rock. The ice rang. ~ Alan Garner,

288:The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is not a public democratic organization; it's a private club basically. It's like a private golf club and they decide who they're going to let in the club. ~ Micky Dolenz,

289:For me, the most relevant factor in my ability to perform well on the rock has to do with my love of climbing. After nearly thirty years of climbing, I still love to do it whenever possible! ~ Lynn Hill,

290:Mount Harris is of basaltic formation, but I could not observe any columnar regularity in it, although large blocks are exposed above the ground. The rock is extremely hard and sonorous. ~ Charles Sturt,

291:We are still not in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame but there are 3,000 Kiss products, a Kiss musical toothbrush, everything from Kiss caskets to Kiss condoms. There are no Radiohead condoms. ~ Paul Stanley,

292:I had to soften him up because, for whatever reason, all the Rock Chicks had an alternate Hot Bunch guy, Indy's was Eddie. Roxie's was Vance. Jules was Luke. Ava's was Lee. Mine was Mace. ~ Kristen Ashley,

293:percent of registered voters cast ballots, political analysts are predicting that Tuesday’s turnout could be the worst ever for a general election. The rock-bottom record was set in 2002, when ~ Anonymous,

294:To be half a century plus is wonderfully exciting, because I haven't lost any of my past, and I am free to stand on the rock of all that the past has taught me as I look to the future. ~ Madeleine L Engle,

295:Some say that Jesus is the rock, or the anchor. I say that your friends and family are your anchor. And you can REALLY hold their hands, not just sing about it. No disrespect to George Jones. ~ Gale Harold,

296:The man on the rock had pitched five outs in the losing game, and had given up two runs on a single. But he’d inherited loaded bases. The story of his life. The story of all our lives. ~ David James Duncan,

297:Ah, my dad's whistle. On holidays when I was a kid, we would all be off in the rock pools along the beach. When it came time to go, we'd hear the whistle and we'd all come running. Like dogs! ~ Kate Winslet,

298:Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily l ~ Audre Lorde,

299:To Aaron, it didn't seem logical to hope anyone would do anything - did it? Either Aaron would come back or he wouldn't and the rock would have to be fine either way. Hope was a waste of time. ~ Lisa McMann,

300:As the Dalai Lama has described it, if we see a person who is being crushed by a rock, the goal is not to get under the rock and feel what they are feeling; it is to help to remove the rock. ~ Dalai Lama XIV,

301:There is no foundation like the rock of honesty and fairness, and when you begin to build your life on that rock, with the cement of the faith in God that you have, then you have a real start. ~ Ronald Reagan,

302:The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame traditionally has had a management style that is very supportive of American talent, first and foremost, over everything else. And I think that's right and proper. ~ Ian Anderson,

303:The spirit of non-violence necessarily leads to humility. Non-violence means reliance on God, the rock of ages. If we would seek his aid, we must approach Him with a humble and contrite heart. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

304:He shifts enough to bring us closer, and the rock gently rolls. His tender gaze strokes my face. “You are my rock.” He squeezes my hand the way I squeezed his on the soccer field at Newtown High. ~ Anyta Sunday,

305:It's my real name. My mother's name is Rose Rock. It was the worst name as a kid to have. They called me Piece of the Rock, Plymouth Rock, Joe Rockid, and Flintstones. Now they call me Mister Rock. ~ Chris Rock,

306:She is the rock 'n' roll queen. Weirdly enough, that is one of the things her reign will be remembered for. Queen Elizabeth I, we remember Raleigh; Queen Elizabeth II it's gonna be the Beatles. ~ Paul McCartney,

307:Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives. ~ Audre Lorde,

308:Very few are those who can stand firm on the rock of their faith and trust in the Divine.    ~ The Mother, Words Of The Mother II, Elements of Yoga, Faith and the Divine Grace, Trust in the Divine Grace and Help,

309:The summer of 1830 I... blasted the tunnel through the rock to take water from the dam above the falls for the mill... In 1831 we lowered the tunnel four feet, and built a new dam across the creek. ~ Ezra Cornell,

310:You have to hit it,” she told herself. “This could be life or death.” She positioned her rifle and made herself comfortable on the rock. Chief had disappeared. A hawk screed high overhead. She ~ Lauraine Snelling,

311:and this is the rock-solid principle on which the whole of the Corporation’s Galaxy-wide success is founded – their fundamental design flaws are completely hidden by their superficial design flaws. ~ Douglas Adams,

312:For a moment I see the hump of the cliff grass where it falls over the edge of the rock, toward the froth of the surging ocean far below. I feel the timeless, swimming sensation of possibility. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

313:the Bandar-log, fear Kaa the Rock Snake. He can climb as well as they can. He steals the young monkeys in the night. The whisper of his name makes their wicked tails cold. Let us go to Kaa." "What ~ Rudyard Kipling,

314:...it has been well said that it is precisely these moments when we are feeling that ours is the world and everything that's in it that Fate selects for sneaking up on us with the rock in the stocking. ~ P G Wodehouse,

315:Climbing is a full-body sport from your fingers to your toes, but at the same time, it's like a dance on the rock. It's about being strong and fit but also graceful and elegant and efficient on the rock. ~ Chris Sharma,

316:False glory is the rock of vanity; it seduces men to affect esteem by things which they indeed possess, but which are frivolous, and which for a man to value himself on would be a scandalous error. ~ Jean de la Bruyere,

317:If we indulge in any confidence which is not grounded on the Rock of ages, our confidence is worse than a dream, it will fall upon us, and cover us with its ruins, to our sorrow and confusion. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

318:I never dreamt of being a musician for my livelihood. I certainly never would have wanted to be in the business that I'm in, meaning the fame and the glory, the glitter, the rock star, the famous part. ~ Eddie Van Halen,

319:No, he didn’t win,” Great-Uncle Merry said, and even in the clear afternoon sunshine he seemed with every word to become more remote, as ancient as the rock behind him and the old world of which he spoke. ~ Susan Cooper,

320:The river is motion, turmoil, rage. As the river flows, it wonders what it would be like to be so still, to take a breath, to rest. But the rock will always wonder what lies around the bend in the stream. ~ Kekla Magoon,

321:I wished we hadn’t slept together. Even his body left me indifferent. On the rock where we sat now I looked at his body as one looks at old shirts and trousers being boxed for pick up by the Salvation Army. ~ Andr Aciman,

322:Right now it’s October, and in The Rock we let October stay just as long as she wants to. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the best time of year. Spring’s nice here, but I’ll take October over May every time. ~ Stephen King,

323:The beautiful must ever rest in the arms of the sublime. The gentle needs the strong to sustain it, as much as the rock-flowers need rocks to grow on, or the ivy the rugged wall which it embraces. ~ Harriet Beecher Stowe,

324:Writing a screenplay is like climbing a mountain. When you’re climbing, all you can see is the rock in front of you and the rock directly above you. You can’t see where you’ve come from or where you’re going. ~ Syd Field,

325:3For I proclaim the †name of the LORD: † Ascribe greatness to our God. 4He is †the Rock, †His work is perfect; For all His ways are justice, † A God of truth and †without injustice; Righteous and upright is He. ~ Anonymous,

326:And at last Finnikin understood why he had felt so sorrowful and silent these last few days. He knew how to be Finnikin of the Rock to Evanjalin of the Monts. But he had no idea who to be to Queen Isaboe. ~ Melina Marchetta,

327:For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

328:God will often allow us to be in a situation with no possible solution. This is so we can discover that He is our solution. He lets us hit rock bottom in order for us to learn that He is the Rock at the bottom. ~ Tony Evans,

329:The bartender’s eyes went beyond me to the Rock Chicks and he said, “Eleven screaming orgasms, comin’ right up.” Phew. All right, fine. That wasn’t so hard. I could do this. I could buy shots for the girls. ~ Kristen Ashley,

330:The people need to feel the music. That's what's so important, and that's what is missing. You have to let the audience feel you, you have to let them feel the love, feel the rock 'n' roll, feel the energy. ~ Ronnie Spector,

331:when I hit the rock bottom that exist after the rock bottom and no rope or band appeared i wondered what if nothing wants me because I do not want me - i am both the poison and the antidote ~ Rupi Kaur,

332:A "name" no longer carries a film. People used to go to the cinema to see a "John Wayne film." And you don't have that thing happening now except in the rock world, which has taken the event out of movies. ~ Elizabeth Taylor,

333:my sister and I want to laugh out loud. She stands in her kitchen pouring a really good chardonnay. Her wrists, like her ankles, are perfect. Her fingers slender and adorned with the Tiff—the rock on a platinum ~ Gregg Olsen,

334:Bear in Mind...that all Histories from the Rock at Plymouth, and Jamestown to the present time, have been made by white men, and a man who tells his own story, is always right until the adversary's tale is told. ~ Sam Houston,

335:I'll never forget it. I was starting to hike up the red rocks, and honestly, it was as if I heard the rock say, 'You have the answers. You are your teacher.' I thought I was having an auditory hallucination. ~ Gwyneth Paltrow,

336:That’s one way of looking at it. I prefer to look at it another way—which is that if they are persistent enough, even tiny drops of water, over time, can change the rock forever. And it will never change back. ~ Veronica Roth,

337:The house built on the sand may oftentimes be built higher, have more fair parapets and battlements, windows and ornaments, than that which is built upon the rock; yet all gifts and privileges equal not one grace. ~ John Owen,

338:I am the steel no enemy can shatter' I am the magic no dark power can defeat. I am the rock upon which evil breaks like waves. I am Fey,warrior of honor, champion of Light.' " the warrior's creed ~ C L Wilson,

339:You really have to try and find a way to communicate [in the Rock and Roll Fantasy Camp], to respect each other's opinions and ideas, to be able to fight for something you feel is better than somebody else's idea. ~ Rob Halford,

340:The poet T. S. Eliot captured this in his “Choruses from ‘The Rock’”: Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information? ~ Henry Kissinger,

341:A blush swept color into her cheeks. “I’m Branwen.” “Oh. Oh. Hi.” I initiated a hug that left her smiling. “I didn’t recognize you without the rock wall.” Her laughter eased the knot of anger tightening my chest. ~ Hailey Edwards,

342:Belief? What do I believe in? I believe in sun. In rock. In the dogma of the sun and the doctrine of the rock. I believe in blood, fire, woman, rivers, eagles, storm, drums, flutes, banjos, and broom-tailed horses. ~ Edward Abbey,

343:In other words - and this is the rock-solid principle on which the whole of the Corporation's Galaxywide success is founded - their fundamental design flaws are completely hidden by their superficial design flaws. ~ Douglas Adams,

344:Kevin slapped a box of hot dogs down on the rock. “What the hell was that?” “A kiss. It’s something guys like me do with girls we like. But don’t worry, someday you’ll find one drunk enough to let you try it. ~ Shannon Stacey,

345:Music is trying to tell a story, and I love the rock vibe. Hearing that finished product is almost the same high as having a killer wrestling match, you're just doing it with a guitar instead of a partner in the ring. ~ Jeff Hardy,

346:Our children are the rock on which our future will be built, our greatest asset as a nation. They will be the leaders of our country, the creators of our national wealth, those who care for and protect our people. ~ Nelson Mandela,

347:Don’t forget the rule of the rock, man. Between it and a hard place, better choose the latter because you have a chance of making the hard soft. The rock however will remain a rock and it will definitely crush you. ~ Eve Montelibano,

348:If my body was cold in the night mist, I didn't feel it. If the sea roared in my ears, I didn't hear it. If the rock I sat on was sharp and jagged, I hardly noticed. Everything outside the two of us was a distraction. ~ Ransom Riggs,

349:If my body was cold in the night mist, I didn’t feel it. If the sea roared in my ears, I didn’t hear it. If the rock I sat on was sharp and jagged, I hardly noticed. Everything outside the two of us was a distraction. ~ Ransom Riggs,

350:I think at a certain point the book develops a certain weight, or pressure. You've been pushing the rock up the hill for a long time and then it starts to roll and things do start to come together in the last two thirds. ~ Dan Chaon,

351:EXO17.6 Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel. ~ Anonymous,

352:Joy is not the opposite of depression. It is deeper than depression. Therefore, you can experience both. Depression is the relentless rain. Joy is the rock. Whether depression is present or not, you can stand on joy. ~ Edward T Welch,

353:I dedicate this book to the rock of hospitality and liberty, to that portion of old Norman ground inhabited by the noble nation of the sea, to the island of Guernsey, severe yet kind, my present asylum, my probable tomb. ~ Victor Hugo,

354:I think my wife saw a picture of the rock group Journey, and they're kind of aging, and the one guy had dyed blonde hair with black roots, and... my idea was to get a little earring, I wanted to have a dangling earring. ~ Fred Willard,

355:The kind of people who can assemble huge crowds into one spot will be the major influences on mass culture in the next decade. The rock enthusiasts have created some of the most exciting theatrical events on the planet. ~ Jim Morrison,

356:Today, I stand firm in my own worthiness. My dignity is solid and enduring. My faith is the rock on which I build my life. I dare to risk and I risk my daring. I am large enough to survive my losses and enjoy my gains. ~ Julia Cameron,

357:was suddenly no longer hungry. He lowered the plate in his hands and set it on the rock next to him. “You were hurt. I thought you might need help,” he started to say. “I don’t need your help,” she snapped, picking up more ~ S E Smith,

358:We recall that the warping of the bedsheet was determined by the presence of the rock. Einstein summarized this analogy by stating: The presence of matter-energy determines the curvature of the space-time surrounding it. ~ Michio Kaku,

359:I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it. ~ Charlotte Bront,

360:The Rock'n'Blues Fest is my kind of festival series! It's always great playing shows with my brother and, add to that, all the other great artists and their bands and this should make for one historic round of concerts. ~ Johnny Winter,

361:He was my ultimate present my own personal miracle and I'd blown it. I'd given him away. It was like winning backstage passes to meet the rock star of your dreams and donating the tickets to charity. It sucked. Big time. ~ Colleen Houck,

362:I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it. ~ Charlotte Bronte,

363:On one of these occasions, "suddenly there hovered around the top of the rock a brightness of unequaled clearness and color, which, in increasingly smaller circles thickened, was the enchanting figure of the beautiful Lore. ~ Mark Twain,

364:The Greenpeace booth at all the rock and roll shows nowadays are akin to the old sorcerers who used to stand in the middle of villages warning of danger, 'When night wolf swallows mother moon, there will be great famine.' ~ P J O Rourke,

365:When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls. ~ Christopher Paolini,

366:Love is a cliff, A clear, cold curve of stone, mottled by stars, Smirched by the morning, carved by the dark sea Till stars and dawn and waves can slash no more, Till the rock’s heart is found and shaped again. ~ James Wright,

367:Joy is not the opposite of depression. It is deeper than depression. Therefore, you can experience both. Depression is the relentless rain. Joy is the rock. Whether depression is present or not, you can stand on joy. Does ~ Edward T Welch,

368:Mother is the rock, I am the ocean. I have to pout and roll my eyes for hours until she finally wears down and crumbles into a thousand grains of beach sand. It takes a lot of energy. I don't think I have it in me. ~ Laurie Halse Anderson,

369:He swallowed. Rubbed his neck again. Looked around. Then he motioned at the rock. “Can we lie down again? I think I’ll do this better…” “If you’re talking to the sky?” A half laugh, half snort. “Yeah. Lame, I know. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

370:I've got news for you... both those idiots [Al Snow and the Rock] aren't your friends! They hate you! Everybody hates you! All the people at home, all these people in the arena hate you, and most importantly, Y2J hates you! ~ Chris Jericho,

371:I know I must go to my fate, as Andromeda to the Kraken, ready to be chained upon the rock and wait for my doom. But there is no heroic Perseus to wing to my rescue. I must break my own chains, Mertensia. Will you help me? ~ Deanna Raybourn,

372:I understand the rock star deal having been one and still going out strapping my guitar on and performing. Now, I probably do 30 or 40 dates a year and I get to relive how I felt at 19 when I played in some really bad bands. ~ David Cassidy,

373:The superstar effect, in other words, has a broader application today than Rosen could have predicted thirty years ago. An increasing number of individuals in our economy are now competing with the rock stars of their sectors. ~ Cal Newport,

374:I like to have a connection with the elements and the earth. Rock is the skin of the planet, and you can learn something from the rock, but you need to communicate with element. You have to be part of the element, not fight it. ~ Fred Nicole,

375:I'm a good example of someone who can come to Hollywood and keep their feet on the ground with all the rock stars, all the drama that goes with being here. It's still important to pump your own gas and to be able to vacuum. ~ Pamela Anderson,

376:18    They  j tested God in their heart         by demanding the food they craved. 19    They spoke against God, saying,          k “Can God  l spread a table in the wilderness? 20     m He struck the rock so that water gushed out ~ Anonymous,

377:Here's a secret: fictive text doesn't necessarily flow easily. Most of the time it's more like cutting a highway through a mountain. You just have to keep working with your pick, chipping away at the rock, making slow progress. ~ Piers Anthony,

378:My brain goes very easily into the darkness. It always has. There are people who like to see what's under the rock and people who don't, and for some reason I've always been one of those to say, 'Hey, let's flip over that rock.' ~ Gillian Flynn,

379:I try to be respectful about getting an honor or recognition, but I don't really know what the Rock Hall actually is. In my experience with the people who run it, I don't see it having to do with anything other than them making money. ~ Axl Rose,

380:Pix?” I said. “Pretend for a second that I’m not a hacker.” “I’m a jobber in a tag-team cage match against John Cena and The Rock. My partner just got laid out cold with a folding chair, and the referee is looking the other way. ~ Craig Schaefer,

381:Down below the broad, roaring waves of the sea break against the deep foundation of the rock. But high above the mountain, the sea, and the peaks of rock the eternal ornamentation blooms silently from the dark depths of the universe. ~ Rudolf Otto,

382:Man must get back to himself before he can learn his relation to his fellows. Prometheus chained to the Rock of Ages is doomed to remain the prey of the vultures of darkness. Unbind Prometheus, and you dispel the night and its horrors. ~ Emma Goldman,

383:The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is marketing. You've got a bunch of faceless people in a back room who trademark a name that sounds very official. Well, if you had thought of it first, you would have been the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. ~ Paul Stanley,

384:And in that moment with the warmth of the sun and coolness of the rock and the mountains and cedar all around her, she knew she would be okay with whatever happened to her. And with that thought, never before had she felt so free. ~ Diane Les Becquets,

385:I'm good friends with The Rock, and I talk to him all the time. And he says that, even though his movie career has taken off, he misses the instant gratification of wrestling, and the live crowds, and I could see being that way myself. ~ Trish Stratus,

386:James Taylor may be an all-American boy but he isn't Horatio Alger, and the lionizing of many rock stars by the rock press has as much to do with old fashioned rags-to-riches stories as does the straight culture's deification of its idols. ~ Jon Landau,

387:The Cat in the Hat exposes the in-betweenness of it all, the midcentury breakdown in meaning, out of which Tom Petty’s generation emerged, a little starved for something to call their own. It’s the rock and roll of children’s literature. ~ Warren Zanes,

388:Let The Rock understand this, he beats your ass in cage match last week and now your the number 1 contender? Well The Rock knows exactly why that is; you've got a three foot nose you turn it sideways and stick it straight up Vince's ass! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

389:The rock is gonna fall on us," he stood and told the class The professor put his chalk down and peered out through his glasses But he went on and said; "I've seen it, high up on the hill If it doesn't fall this year then very soon it will! ~ Harry Chapin,

390:And suddenly I realized that this too was a message, a last wordless communication among neighbors. For I, too, had a hiding place when things were bad. Jesus was this place, the Rock cleft for me. I pressed a finger to the tiny crevice. ~ Corrie ten Boom,

391:XVI. BACK TOWARD SLAVERY How civil war in the South began again--indeed had never ceased; and how black Prometheus bound to the Rock of Ages by hate, hurt and humiliation, has his vitals eaten out as they grow, yet lives and fights. ~ W E B Du Bois,

392:I know that light is not for me, save that of the moon over the rock tombs of Neb, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage. ~ H P Lovecraft,

393:Jesus Christ rose up from the tomb. Well, he's the son of God, and now he's like God's spirit at this point. Why would a spirit need to move a rock? Why not just pass through the rock? But also, why wait for the guards to go to sleep? ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

394:Straining and straining, getting nowhere, but unable to stop pushing in case the rock should fall and crush him. Meanwhile, arrogant bastards who were in just the same danger lazed on the slopes beside him saying, ‘Well, it’s not my rock. ~ Joe Abercrombie,

395:What color is the sky in your world Cena. You're talking what Wrestlmania needs to be, but allow me to demenstrate what's going to happen. The Rock laying boots to asses, from the rooder to the pooder. Cenation is going to be Cyalaternation! ~ Ron Killings,

396:Basically [Louise] Brandeis was a Jeffersonian. And you say the timing is great, and it is in a lot of senses, except not for [Tomas] Jefferson, because this is a Hamiltonian moment, and he's the rock star of the minute with a great musical. ~ Jeffrey Rosen,

397:Nature says the rock is billions of years old, but the book says different, so even though men wrote the book, and God made the rock and God gave us minds that have found ways to tell how old it is, we still choose to believe the Scripture. ~ Sheri S Tepper,

398:Such looks we have all once or twice in our lives received and shared; they are those in which worlds melt, pasts dissolve, moments when we know, in the resolution of profoundest need, that the rock of ages can never be anything else but love. ~ John Fowles,

399:When you turn over rocks and look at all the squiggly things underneath, you can either put the rock down, or you can say, ‘My job is to turn over rocks and look at the squiggly things,’ even if what you see can scare the hell out of you.”25 ~ James C Collins,

400:For me, when you get to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, there's a side of me that goes, "What does that mean? Are you still relevant after that? Do they put you on the shelf along with the award?" I don't know, but that's the last thing we wanted. ~ Mike Dirnt,

401:How dare you little jabroni come onto The Rock shows Smackdown and run your mouth about how your the game, well The Rock says, if you are the game then you quite frankly you need to go back to the drawing board cause your game absolutely sucks! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

402:Ridley Pearson also plays bass guitar and sings with the Rock Bottom Remainders, a band made up of such successful authors as Amy Tan, Stephen King, and Dave Barry-a band that, according to Barry, "plays music as well as Metallica writes novels". ~ Otto Penzler,

403:The Puritans were accustomed to explain faith by the word 'recumbency.' It meant leaning upon a thing. Lean with all your weight upon Christ. It would be a better illustration still if I said, fall at full length, and lie on the Rock of Ages. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

404:It breaks your heart when you throw something away, but it's what left that counts. It's like worrying about the bits of rock you have knocked off in order to make a beautiful statue. You've wasted half the rock, yeah, but it's the Venus di Milo! ~ Ricky Gervais,

405:It was great to be the rock comic, the shock comic. But after you've played Giants Stadium with Bon Jovi in front of 82,000 people, after you've done the 'Wild Thing' video with Jessica Hahn and every rock band from hell, you're not gonna top that. ~ Sam Kinison,

406:The godly understand the mystery of living by faith: "The just shall live by faith" (Heb. 10:38). They can trust God's heart where they cannot trace his hand. They can get comfort out of a promise, as Moses got water out of the rock (Exod. 17:6). ~ Thomas Watson,

407:It was the most traditional wedding ring in the world. It reeked of stability and fiftieth wedding anniversaries. It proclaimed itself to the world as the rock upon which vows were never broken. It was a testament of his love. Proof of his commitment. ~ Tara Janzen,

408:And if such a gift could come to him at such a time, then anything—dear girl from Rockford dressed up for her meeting, rushing above the Rock River—he opened his eyes, and yes, there it was, the perfect knowledge: Anything was possible for anyone. ~ Elizabeth Strout,

409:When a heart breaks a substance spills out like cement and pours through the bloodstream, hardening everything. In time, I know my heart will mend and the rock inside will crack and crumble away. But for now I’m as solid as a column. And alone I stand. ~ Sarah Noffke,

410:I am confident that someday in the future The Rock, who was once a professional wrestler, will run for president of the United States, and I think that he will win. I have seen with my own eyes the power of The Rock. The Rock is a uniter, not a divider. ~ Piper Kerman,

411:Lead me, Lord, to the Rock that is higher than I. Let me hear your word, give me grace to obey, to build steadily, stone upon stone, day by day, to do what You say. Establish my heart where floods have no power to overwhelm, for Christ's sake. Amen. ~ Elisabeth Elliot,

412:O come, let us sing for joy to the LORD, Let us shout joyfully to the rock of our salvation. Let us come before His presence with thanksgiving, Let us shout joyfully to Him with psalms. For the LORD is a great God And a great King above all gods, ~ John F MacArthur Jr,

413:When we try to focus our thought upon One who is pure uncreated being we may see nothing at all, for He dwelleth in light that no man can approach unto. Only by faith and love are we able to glimpse Him as He passes by our shelter in the cleft of the rock. ~ A W Tozer,

414:You may be going through things right now that are painfully preparing you for some precious service to Jesus and to his people. When a person strikes rock bottom with a sense of nothingness or helplessness, he may find that he has struck the Rock of Ages ~ John Piper,

415:A fief, the elder Hosokawa had advised, was like a castle wall built of many rocks. A rock that could not be cut to fit in comfortably with the others would weaken the whole structure, even though the rock itself might be of admirable size and quality. ~ Eiji Yoshikawa,

416:I sit cross-legged on the rock The valleys and streams are cold and damp Sitting quietly is beautiful The cliffs are lost in mist and fog I rest happily in this place At dusk the tree shadows are low I look into my mind A white lotus emerges from the dark mud ~ Hanshan,

417:Mithra’s birth was witnessed by shepherds and by Magi who brought gifts to his sacred birth-cave of the Rock. Mithra performed the usual assortment of miracles: raising the dead, healing the sick, making the blind see and the lame walk, casting out devils. ~ Dan Barker,

418:I did not imitate the skeptics who doubt only for doubting's sake, and pretend to be always undecided; on the contrary, my whole intention was to arrive at a certainty, and to dig away the drift and the sand until I reached the rock or the clay beneath. ~ Rene Descartes,

419:That it is Peter, the rock of the church, who incurs guilt here immediately after his own confession to Jesus Christ and after his appointment by Jesus, means that from its very inception the church itself has taken offense at the suffering Christ. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

420:The sky once loved a certain rock. Bur millennia of erosion transformed the rock to dust. The sky, not understanding, still signals for its friend who abandoned it. The rock never knew about the sky. The rock only loved the wind that was slowly eroding it. ~ Joseph Fink,

421:Houston, that may have seemed like a very long final phase. The autotargeting was taking us right into a ... crater, with a large number of big boulders and rocks ... and it required ... flying manually over the rock field to find a reasonably good area. ~ Neil Armstrong,

422:The union of America is the foundation-stone of her independence; the rock on which it is built; and is something so sacred in her constitution, that we ought to watch every word we speak, and every thought we think, that we injure it not, even by mistake. ~ Thomas Paine,

423:Now, Bad Ass, you run your mouth about Summerslam. Well, here's the situation. The Rock says this, if the Rock hits you he'll kill you. If he misses, the wind behind the punch will give you pneumonia and you'll die anyway, so the choice is yours, jabroni. ~ Dwayne Johnson,

424:To say that evil is a privation is not the same as saying that it is a mere absence or negation of good. The power of sight is found neither in a blind man nor in a rock. But it is a privation for the blind man, whereas it is a mere absence in the rock. ~ Norman L Geisler,

425:Trying to tart the rock business up a bit is getting nearer to what the kids themselves are like, because what I find, if you want to talk in the terms of rock, a lot depends on sensationalism and the kids are a lot more sensational than the stars themselves. ~ David Bowie,

426:We are all immigrants, a glorious confection of races and beliefs, united by the rock that we live on. As the years wash over us and new generations march into the future, family histories are subsumed into the greater narrative. We become, simply, Americans. ~ Alex George,

427:Would you be free from the condemnation of the sins that are past, from the power of the temptations that are to come? Then take your stand on the Rock of Ages. Let death, let the grave, let the judgment come, the victory is Christ's and yours through Him. ~ Dwight L Moody,

428:Climbing mattered. The danger bathed the world in a halogen glow that caused everything—the sweep of the rock, the orange and yellow lichens, the texture of the clouds—to stand out in brilliant relief. Life thrummed at a higher pitch. The world was made real. ~ Jon Krakauer,

429:I think we crushed ourselves down over the centuries. Buried ourselves under greed and hate and whatever other sins we could find until our souls finally hit the rock bottom of the universe. And then they scraped a hole through it, into some ... darker place. ~ Isaac Marion,

430:Elvis might have compromised his musical style a bit towards the end, but that doesn't mean that artists from the rock n' roll/folk-roots culture - of which he was not really a part - shouldn't get better as they get older, like the great jazz or blues artists. ~ Bonnie Raitt,

431:In The Red Book, Jung shows the courage to squeeze through the rock opening only to find a corpse floating by on the water and eventually sees that this is the murder of the hero and is his complex. He is both murdered and murderer. ~ Ann Belford Ulanov Madness and Creativity,

432:Politicians could talk about building walls and changing laws to keep people out, but in the end they were just symbols. Neither would stop the tide any more than the rock jetties at the mouth of the port did. Nothing could stop the tide of hope and desire. ~ Michael Connelly,

433:The mountain trembled like an earthquake. Dust flew into the sky. And the rock turned dark red, like the color of blood'. 'How would you know?' Asks Sindhi cap. 'You only have a black and white television'. 'But it's a very good one. You can almost see colours. ~ Mohsin Hamid,

434:The various Social Security privatization schemes, full and partial, would cost both the 'social' - that is the public, cooperative, societal - element of the program and 'security' - the rock-solid income guarantee afforded by the system. It should be rejected. ~ Ralph Nader,

435:I do think that's one of the strengths of the show is every year there's sort of the giant rock gets thrown into the stream and Selina has to figure out how to get around the rock. It's in Veep's DNA, whether anyone realized it or not, to constantly be changing. ~ David Mandel,

436:To act with a tennis ball and imagine it's a tentacle, or if you're in some kind of wilderness film and you go, 'Okay, we can't have a grizzly bear here, but imagine when you step over the rock there there's a grizzly bear.' I don't know. They're tough moments. ~ Joel Edgerton,

437:Where the rock’s nakedness repels the shy foot, where the discouraged plant will no longer spread the seduction of its seed, where the ice-axe strikes only sparks, there I have found my pasture, above the blue kingdom of the flies. I am an animal of the heights. ~ Louis Aragon,

438:This is your Father’s world. He has your back, He goes before you, He is the rock beneath you and your heavenly Father above. This is your Father’s world, and He has created this wide world is as a playground for His children. So: Go pray; and go play. ~ Peter J Leithart,

439:A beam from the everlasting sun of God. Rude and unresponsive are the stones; Yet in them divine things lie concealed; I hear their imprisoned chant:– “We are fragments of the universe, Chips of the rock whereon God laid the foundation of the world: ~ Helen Keller,

440:Nature knows that people are a tide that swells and in time will ebb, and all their works dissolve ... As for us: We must uncenter our minds from ourselves. We must unhumanize our views a little and become confident as the rock and ocean that we are made from. ~ Robinson Jeffers,

441:Tera said, “All right, who’s doing the obligatory thing with the rock?” “What thing?” Bowe asked. Mariketa said, “You know, someone drops a rock, and we all silently watch it fall while contemplating the plummet to our deaths?” Oh, that rock thing. ~ Kresley Cole,

442:Yet another spunky li'l NASA robot lands and begins transmitting back photographs of rocks that appear virtually identical to the rock photos beamed back by all the other spunky li'l NASA robots, thus confirming suspicions that the universe has a LOT of rocks in it. ~ Dave Barry,

443:As if he sensed her need, Levi scooped her into his arms and carried her back to the rock she used for sitting. But instead of depositing her there, he tucked her closer and sat down with her in his lap. He didn’t say anything, just held her. And it was perfect. ~ Karen Witemeyer,

444:Dorian raced to the edge of the rock cliff and followed the noise with the scope of his rifle. A door. An exit—David’s team had blown it open. Dorian watched that team, which actually numbered six people—none of whom Dorian had ever seen except Kate, crawl up and out. ~ A G Riddle,

445:He rose grumpily, fell to the floor, and crawled. I looked at his exposed butt crack, a dark unkempt abyss that I was falling into. I was short of breath. I felt paralyzed. His asshole was a canyon. This was my 127 hours. I needed to chip away at the rock and get out. ~ Amy Schumer,

446:Politicians could talk about building walls and changing laws to keep people out, but in the end they were just symbols. Neither would stop the tide any more than the rock jetties at the mouth of the port did. Nothing could stop the tide of hope and desire. Bosch ~ Michael Connelly,

447:The ambition which he felt astir at times in the darkness of his soul sought no outlet. A dusk like that of the outer world obscured his mind as he heard the mare’s hoofs clattering along the tramtrack on the Rock Road and the great can swaying and rattling behind him. ~ James Joyce,

448:The first person who throws the rock is a lot more radical than a hundredth person.By the time the riot has attracted a hundred people, you don't have to be nearly as much of a daredevil or a hothead or committed or any of those things to want to engage in a riot. ~ Malcolm Gladwell,

449:She hardly ever thought of him. He had worn a place for himself in some corner of her heart, as a sea shell, always boring against the rock, might do. The making of the place had been her pain. But now the shell was safely in the rock. It was lodged, and ground no longer. ~ T H White,

450:Moses grew weary, and then his friends assisted him. When at any time your prayer flags, let faith support one hand, and let holy hope uplift the other, and prayer seating itself upon the stone of Israel, the rock of our salvation, will persevere and prevail. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

451:There is probably nothing finer than to climb free and unencumbered by equipment, reveling in the gymnastic upward movement, like Preuss or a Dulfer before you, relying only upon yourself, keeping a sharp eye on things, feeling the rock beneath your feet and fingertips. ~ Hermann Buhl,

452:Turned toward Eli like a face toward a mirror. Like to like. It frightened and thrilled Eli, to be seen, and to see himself reflected. Not all of himself—they were still so different—but there was something vital, a core of the same precious metal glinting through the rock. ~ V E Schwab,

453:Every musician, their goal in life is to play music that people love, and I've accomplished my goal. I was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and left that chapter of my life and those people in the past. Good and bad, I've loved and am thankful for that chapter. ~ Steven Adler,

454:He lay back on the rock, wadding up the towel and putting it under his head. “You know, you’re the only person I can sit still with.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, I like to be in motion. I get antsy when I’m doing nothing. But you’re so good at it that I don’t mind it at all. ~ Kasie West,

455:I want to live a life of respect and equality. Of partnership. I want someone to love me for who I am, not what I can do for him. I want someone who keeps his promises. Who doesn’t see me as a conquest.” I sighed and stared down at the pattern in the rock. “I want to be happy. ~ Anonymous,

456:When I first started drinking, everybody was doing it. That was before they discovered marijuana and all that. It was the late 50s, early 60s - it was the beginnings of the rock 'n' roll era. The main drink was like wine. And even that was a romantic throwback to something. ~ Van Morrison,

457:But whatever dismal appearance of things there may be in the world, we need not fear the ruin of the church by the most bloody oppositions. Former experiences will give security against future events. It is built on the rock, and those gates of hell shall not prevail against it. ~ John Owen,

458:Power exhibits itself under two distinct forms,--strength and force,--each possessing peculiar qualities, and each perfect in its own sphere. Strength is typified by the oak, the rock, the mountain. Force embodies itself in the cataract, the tempest, and the thunder-bolt. ~ James A Garfield,

459:The mountain trembled like an earthquake. Dust flew into the sky. And the rock turned dark red, like the color of blood'. 'How would you know?' Asks Sindhi cap. 'You only have a black and white television'. 'But it's a very good one. You can almost see colours. ~ Mohsin Hamid,

460:The elevator doors opened, and Ranger stepped out and spied Tank stretched out on the carpet. "Fainted," I said. Ranger walked to Tank and stood hands on hips, staring down at him. "Tank doesn't faint. I've been in firefights with him. He's a rock." "Well, the rock fainted. ~ Janet Evanovich,

461:I think I grew up that night. It might have been Patrick that lost his virginity, but it was me that lost my innocence. Laying in the dark,holding the guy I’d loved since I was twelve and being the friend, the rock he needed…without being corny or schmaltzy, I think I became a man. ~ T A Webb,

462:In the daytime he led them with a cloud,         and all the night with a fiery light. 15    He  g split rocks in the wilderness         and gave them drink abundantly as from the deep. 16    He made streams come out of  h the rock         and caused waters to flow down like rivers. ~ Anonymous,

463:Let me get this straight," I said once I was settled securely on the rock. "I was struck by some kind of magical energy sent from Odin that shot out of the lights in the storeroom at Macy's, hitting me and knocking me into a pile of shoes? And because of that, I'm now immortal? ~ Amanda Carlson,

464:Poor whites had always had the comfort of knowing that someone was worse off and more despised than they were; racial subjugation was the ground under their feet, the rock they stood upon, even when their own situation was deteriorating. That slender assurance is shrinking. ~ Barbara Ehrenreich,

465:I though about what death is, what a loss is. A sharp pain that lessens with time, but can never quite heal over. A scar. The idea occurred to me there on the site. Take a knife and cut open the earth, and with time the grass would heal it. As if you cut open the rock and polished it. ~ Maya Lin,

466:Mychael said the rock’s not affecting you, and from what I’m seeing I’m inclined to agree.” “I beg to differ.” “Feeling evil?” Justinius asked. “No.” “Having an urge to overthrow governments, kill thousands?” “No and no.” “Take over the world?” “Too much work. ~ Lisa Shearin,

467:Whenever other Lore creatures like the nymphs and satyrs turned their noses up at the “hex-hacks,” Carrow would raise both her hands in the rock-on horns gesture and shout, “Double, double, toil and trouble, muthafuckas! You just got cursed!” Then she actually would curse them. ~ Kresley Cole,

468:Precisely because Marx was convinced that the cause of the proletariat was of decisive importance for the whole future of mankind, he wanted to create for that cause not a flimsy platform of rhetorical invective or wishful thinking, but the rock-like foundation of scientific truth. ~ Ernest Mandel,

469:Alex stepped out from behind the rock. Relieved to see him in one piece, I threw myself forward and hugged him. He returned the embrace with a low chuckle, "Jeez, Dez, if I knew this was what it would take to get you to put your hands all over me again, I would have done it sooner. ~ Jus Accardo,

470:Many of the women who I've taught to climb have a better sense of balance than the men. I think it has to do with being a little more sensitive to it rather than relying on strenght. It's also a reflection of a passive attitude - balancing your way up the rock, rather than attacking it. ~ Lynn Hill,

471:Pop stardom is not very compelling. I'm much more interested in a relationship between performer and audience that is of equals. I came up through folk music, and there's no pomp and circumstance to the performance. There's no, like, 'I'll be the rock star, you be the adulating fan.' ~ Ani DiFranco,

472:He stopped trying to save himself and let the breakwater draw the boat in. He knew just when to stick out the oar to keep from crashing. Held on with all his strength. The dinghy crunched as it hit, and he flung the rope over the spike his dad had hammered into the rock years before. ~ Shelley Noble,

473:Love is an exotic; it is not a plant which will flourish naturally in human soil, it must be watered from above. Love to Jesus is a flower of a delicate nature, and if it received no nourishment but that which could be drawn from the rock of our hearts it would soon wither. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

474:There is no color line in death. I swear to the lord I still can't see Why Democracy means Everybody but me. O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath - America will be! I am the American heartbreak- The rock on which Freedom Stumped its toe. ~ Langston Hughes,

475:If there's one thing that differentiates me from the rest of my family it's the rock element. I hung out with friends who like punk rock a lot. Not getting a big record deal, and having a hard time for years, it means you have to prove yourself and scratch your way up from nothing. ~ Martha Wainwright,

476:I THINK ITS COOL THAT OTHER CROWDS LIKE WHAT I DO. HOWEVER IVE ALWAYS HAD A GOOD MIX OF PEOPLE AT MY SHOWS. I STARTED DOING THINGS ON RADIO ON ROCK MARKETS AND ALTERNATIVE MARKETS. IVE ALWAYS BEEN A COUNTRY TYPE ACT HOWEVER I STARTED WITH THE ROCK MARKET. IM VERY INTERCHANGEABLE. ~ Larry the Cable Guy,

477:The eagle had two natural enemies: storms and serpents. He embraced the storm, waiting on the rock for the right thermal current and then using that to carry him higher. While other birds were taking cover, the eagle was soaring. An eagle would never fight against the storms of life. ~ Karen Kingsbury,

478:Pleasure is the rock which most young people split upon; they launch out with crowded sails in quest of it, but without a compassto direct their course, or reason sufficient to steer the vessel; for want of which, pain and shame, instead of pleasure, are the returns of their voyage. ~ Lord Chesterfield,

479:When all the scaffolding is removed it is our integrity that both defines us and identifies us. Men of integrity are like the Rock of Gibraltar - steadfast and immovable; men without it are like the shifting sands on the Sahara Desert - tossed to and fro by every variant wind of life. ~ Tad R Callister,

480:There is in the world no rock or tower of such a height that it cannot be scaled by any man (provided he lack not feet) if ladders are placed in the proper position or steps are cut in the rock, made in the right place, and furnished with railings against the danger of falling over. ~ John Amos Comenius,

481:Day after day, I push the rock that the Society has given me up the hill, over and over again. Inside me are the real things that give me strength—my thoughts, the small stones of my own choosing. They tumble in my mind, some polished from frequent turning, some new and rough, some that cut. ~ Ally Condie,

482:Strike the rock and the water will flow; don’t wait to brag about why you alone can hit the rock for water to flow; just go and do it because the world is thirsty! Your potentials are in put in you by God because he knows there is a need to be fulfilled; awaken it and present it to us! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

483:Today, the need to avoid confusing marriage with other types of unions based on weak love is especially urgent. It is only the rock of total, irrevocable love between a man and a woman that can serve as the foundation on which to build a society that will become a home for all mankind. ~ Pope Benedict XVI,

484:I had a thought, on the way home from the rock field, that the things we don't know about a person are the things that make them human, and it made me feel sad to think that, but sad in that reassuring way that some sadness has, a sadness that says welcome home in twelve different languages. ~ Miriam Toews,

485:High up in the North in the land called Svithjod, there stands a rock. It is a hundred miles high and a hundred miles wide. Once every thousand years a little bird comes to this rock to sharpen its beak. When the rock has thus been worn away, then a single day of eternity will have gone by. ~ Randall Munroe,

486:Children's reading and children's thinking are the rock-bottom base upon which this country will rise. Or not rise. In these days of tension and confusion, writers are beginning to realize that books for children have a greater potential for good or evil than any other form of literature on earth. ~ Dr Seuss,

487:I was the climber of a sheer cliff, dragging myself on bleeding hands towards a summit that I'd never reach and sometimes didn't want to reach. The things I cared about were the hooks I'd driven into the rock face. Depression snapped them, one by one, one by one. My only certainty was the fall. ~ Alexis Hall,

488:A warm sunny evening, the plash and gurgle of the waves in the rock pools, the rush of the cold gin. I thought for the first time of my novel, abandoned, all these years, and I came up, unprompted, with the perfect title. Octet. Octet by Logan Mountstuart. Perhaps I will surprise them all, yet. ~ William Boyd,

489:A writer must stand on the rock of her self and her judgment or be swept away by the tide or sink in the quaking earth: there must be an inviolate place where the choices and decisions, however imperfect, are the writer’s own, where the decision must be as individual and solitary as birth or death. ~ Janet Frame,

490:But most of his time he spent west of Sunset Glow exploring the banks of the Magic River. There, by the Rock of Rebirth, he found the beautiful Crimson Pearl Flower, for which he conceived such a fancy that he took to watering her every day with sweet dew, thereby conferring on her the gift of life. ~ Cao Xueqin,

491:The elevator doors opened, and Ranger stepped out and spied Tank stretched out on the carpet. "Fainted," I said. Ranger walked to Tank and stood hands on hips, staring down at him. "Tank doesn't faint. I've been in firefights with him. He's a rock." "Well, the rock fainted. ~ Janet Evanovich,

492:He liked the sound of her voice, husky and low in a way that got him thinking about pinning her to the rock and setting his mouth to work on the hollow of her throat, proving to her which of them was in control. Then again, feelings didn't get much more out of control that his were at the moment. ~ Melissa Cutler,

493:The just and the worthy have to suffer in order to spread their ideas and let them be known. One has to shake and break the glass in order to scatter the perfume. One has to scratch the surface of the rock to release the light. There is something providential in the persecution of tyrants, Señor Simoun. ~ Jos Rizal,

494:The kids crawled into bed and Dee unlocked the door and went back outside. Walked down to the road and stood at the crest of the pass. Thirty-five miles away, Grand Teton punctured the bottom curve of the sun and the nearer peaks were catching alpenglow. The snow and the rock the color of peach skin. ~ Blake Crouch,

495:It is easy to be critical of the micromanaging many managers resort to, yet we must acknowledge the rock and the hard place we often place them between. If they have to choose between meeting a deadline and some less well defined mandate to “nurture” their people, they will pick the deadline every time. ~ Ed Catmull,

496:I turned and reached over,wrapping my arms around his all too stiff body. I hugged him, squeezing him as tightly as I could. And then I let him go before he overreacted and threw me off the rock. Daemon still didn’t move. He stared at me, eyes wide, like he’d never been hugged before. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

497:One human life is deeper than the ocean. Strange fishes and sea-monsters and mighty plants live in the rock-bed of our spirits. The whole of human history is an undiscovered continent deep in our souls. There are dolphins, plants that dream, magic birds inside us. The sky is inside us. The earth is in us. ~ Ben Okri,

498:When fans think WWE, I don't want them to think Hulk Hogan or The Rock or Stone Cold Steve Austin or John Cena. I want them to think of The Miz. I want to be on every show. When we need a guy to do Conan or Jimmy Kimmel, I want them to call me. I wanna be on the cover of all the video games. I want it all. ~ The Miz,

499:You know, rock stardom... I have a hard time discussing that because I don't really accept it. It's not really that tangible. What's really bizarre is how it's used as a thing - you know, 'He's the rock star of politics,' 'He's the rock star of quarterbacks' - like it's the greatest thing in the world. ~ Eddie Vedder,

500:I couldn’t describe the smells of West Virginia, even if I tried. It has something to do with the leaves composting in the woods, the cold trickle of little creeks and waterfalls, the ferns greening up everything. But somewhere deep below, I can smell the rock and the coal this state is built on. ~ Heather Day Gilbert,

501:That he just allows me to appreciate the view before us—the only diamond this girl has ever dreamt of. And right now I’d challenge anyone who told me this diamond doesn’t sparkle as brightly as the rock you wear on your finger. With empty seats or with a sold-out crowd, this one outshines jewelry any day. ~ K Bromberg,

502:No nation ever rises above its homes. This Church will never rise above its homes. We are no better as a people than are our firesides, our homes. . . . The good home is the rock foundation, the cornerstone of civilization. It must be preserved. It must be strengthened. ~ The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints,

503:1Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer. 2From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I. 3For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe. 4I long to dwell in your tent forever and take refuge in the shelter of your wings. Selah ~ Various,

504:Pure evil has no real place. And that means, doesn’t it, that I have no place. Except, perhaps, in the art that repudiates evil—the vampire comics, the horror novels, the old gothic tales—or in the roaring chants of the rock stars who dramatize the battles against evil that each mortal fights within himself. ~ Anne Rice,

505:Interested in the origin of mammals? Go to rocks from the period called the Early Mesozoic; geochemistry tells us that these rocks are likely about 210 million years old. Interested in the origin of primates? Go higher in the rock column, to the Cretaceous period, where rocks are about 80 million years old. ~ Neil Shubin,

506:My music has always been sort of in-between categories. Sometimes record stores - back when there were record stores - they'd put my records in the country music section, but other record stores would put my records in the pop or even the rock section. As long as it's in the store somewhere, I'm OK with it. ~ Lyle Lovett,

507:Cold Mountain is hidden in white clouds It's peaceful to be cut off from the busy world I use dry grass for cushions in my mountain home My only light is the round moon My bed is the rock beside the green pool Tigers and deer are my companions I delight in this happy peaceful life Forever beyond the world of men ~ Hanshan,

508:Pro wrestling was there, and I was good at it, thank God. I started getting a lot of offers, but unfortunately, at WWE I was under a tight leash. I think it had a lot to do with The Rock making the transition, and me possibly being the next guy - you know, the company didnt want to lose another top performer. ~ Kurt Angle,

509:If I set as my goal to remain alive while sitting on the living-room sofa, I also could spend days knowing that I was achieving it, just as the rock climber does. But this realization would not make me particularly happy, whereas the climber's knowledge brings exhilaration to his dangerous ascent. ~ Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi,

510:Juanita barely registered the cool fur of moss at her back before his hands had claimed her hips again and his lips were going in for the kill. And not her neck this time. He went straight for a nipple, his hot mouth closing over the taught, cold peak, pressing her into the rock with the force of his passion. ~ Amy Andrews,

511:I imagine the wave of water colliding with the rock and spilling over the tile floor, collecting around my shoes. Doing a little at once can fix something, eventually, but I feel like when you believe that something is truly a problem, you throw everything you have at it, because you just can’t help yourself. ~ Veronica Roth,

512:Mistake number one. He watched her dance. Mistake number two. He left her sightline when she was exposed and needed to know he had her. Mistake number three. He let it slip his mind she was tangled up with the Rock Chicks. Mistake number four. He also forgot her stepfather was a lunatic. ~ Kristen Ashley,

513:So, the next time you're out working on your game and they pass you the rock, don't just take it to the hole. Take it to the next level. Don't just bend rims. Bend expectations. Let them see you and feel you and by the very virtue of your love, the truth in your game, they will hear you. Let your game speak. ~ Michael Jordan,

514:beyond it the sun was poised directly between two sawtoothed peaks, casting golden light across the rock faces and the sugared snow on the high tips. The clouds around and behind this picture-postcard view were also tinted gold, and a sunbeam glinted duskily down into the darkly pooled firs below the timberline. ~ Stephen King,

515:High up in the North in the land called Svithjod, there stands a rock. It is a hundred miles high and a hundred miles wide. Once every thousand years a little bird comes to this rock to sharpen its beak. When the rock has thus been worn away, then a single day of eternity will have gone by. —Hendrik Willem Van Loon ~ Anonymous,

516:How do you know I am capable of love?” she asked as they walked toward her car. “Steady affection perhaps.” “If by steady you mean faithful, there you have it; the kernel of love. I imagine men long for God because of that unchanging faithfulness. The rock under the quicksands. The Psalms are full of it.” When ~ Elizabeth Goudge,

517:It is that dream we carry that something miraculous will happen that it must happen - that time will open that the heart will open that doors will open and that the rock face will open that springs will gush forth - that the dream will open and that one morning we'll glide in to a harbour we didn't know was there. ~ Olav H Hauge,

518:As Hiro crests the pass on his motorcycle at five in the morning, the town of Port Sherman, Oregon, is suddenly laid out before him: a flash of yellow loglo wrapped into a vast U-shaped valley that was ground out of the rock, a long time ago, by a big tongue of ice in an epochal period of geological cunnilingus. ~ Neal Stephenson,

519:Janner gasped as its mouth stretched open and gobbled up a full-grown toothy cow. The cow mooed helplessly as it was worked deeper and deeper into the rock-roach’s maw by the hundreds of little black mandibles. Janner couldn’t bear to watch. He turned away as the cow’s head disappeared and the moo was cut short. ~ Andrew Peterson,

520:a black site, a night chapel, spoiled land, a kind of charging station for evil. “They’re all over the place. The Paris catacombs, Guantánamo Bay, Lake Powell, the Bellagio, the House on the Rock, the Golden Gate Bridge.” There are at least two others in Oregon alone. The Rajneesh compound and the Lava River Cave. ~ Benjamin Percy,

521:At the end of the world is a great big mountain of granite rock a mile high,' she said. 'And every year, a tiny bird flies all the way to the rock and wipes its beak on it. Well, when the little bird has worn the mountain down to the size of a grain of sand . . . that's the day I'll marry you, Rob Anybody Feegle! ~ Terry Pratchett,

522:That would have been too obvious," Matt said. "You just said I never choose scissors so you had to know I would choose scissors so I couldn't choose scissors because you'd know it. Hence, the rock." "Hence the paper covering your rock. You ask her." "Well played my friend," Matt said. "Well played. ~ Sarah Beth Durst,

523:A song has to take on character, shape, body and influence people to an extent that they use it for their own devices. It must affect them not just as a song, but as a lifestyle. The rock stars have assimilated all kinds of philosophies, styles, histories, writings, and they throw out what they have gleaned from that. ~ David Bowie,

524:Four times a year, Warner Bros. Records send out their little statements, and they're like eight pages with all the countries from all over the world, and I end up getting a check for $48. But I think, obviously, the Ramones make some good money, because they must get a writer's share from the Rock 'N' Roll High School. ~ P J Soles,

525:High up in the North in the land called Svithjod, there stands a rock. It is a hundred miles high and a hundred miles wide. Once every thousand years a little bird comes to this rock to sharpen its beak. When the rock has thus been worn away, then a single day of eternity will have gone by. —Hendrik Willem Van Loon ~ Randall Munroe,

526:It is not one man nor a million, but the spirit of liberty that must be preserved. The waves which dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but the ocean conquers nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears out the rock. In like manner, whatever the struggle of individuals, the great cause will gather strength. ~ Lord Byron,

527:Love." She looked at me with those blue eyes. "Isn't it astonishing how confused and complicated such a small,simple word is? It attracts so many other things, doesn't it, that stick to it like barnacles on rock...fear, guilt. Need. You can't even see the rock anymore. I imagine love in its purest form is a rare thing. ~ Deb Caletti,

528:Parenting changes your life, it changes how you hear yourself in relationship to others - which is part of the reason that a bunch of people in the rock community are sick of the goodwill and positive energy and love between these 45-year-old musicians who they preferred when they were 25 and taking stabs at each other. ~ Lars Ulrich,

529:I play these [folk acoustic] concerts and I ask myself, 'Would you come see me tonight?' - and I'd have to answer truthfully, 'No, I wouldn't come. I'd rather be doin' something else, really I would. That something else is rock... The words are pictures, and the rock's gonna help me flesh out the colors of the pictures. (1965) ~ Bob Dylan,

530:I practice really hard, every day. I started that about 13 or 14 years ago; it's a discipline now. But the writing is a whole other thing. It'll come from handling a guitar, mostly; thinking up little guitar riffs. I was born and raised a rock 'n' roll guy, and that's the rock 'n' roll ethic, at least through my experience. ~ John Fogerty,

531:I was fortunate enough to work at the peak of the great golden age of musicals. And then for awhile, I think they were being advanced in different ways. Andrew Lloyd-Webber brought the rock beat to musicals; people tried different things. The joy of musicals is that there is no perfect recipe; it is what you throw into it. ~ Julie Andrews,

532:Alternate translation: Come brethren, if you have a mind to be ingrafted in the vine, It is a pity to see you lopped off in this manner From the stock. Reckon up the prelates in the very see of Peter; And in that order of fathers see which has succeeded which. This is the rock over which the proud gates of hell prevail not. ~ Saint Augustine,

533:When the uncultured man sees a stone in the road it tells him no story other than the fact that he sees a stone ... The scientist looking at the same stone perhaps will stop, and with a hammer break it open, when the newly exposed faces of the rock will have written upon them a history that is as real to him as the printed page. ~ Elisha Gray,

534:My friends... today, we are not Fey, Celierian, or dahl'reisen, but brothers, united and strong, each of us honorable and worthy warriors of Light. We are the steel no enemy can shatter. We are the magic no Dark power can defeat. We are the rock upon which evil breaks like waves. We are warriors of honor, champions of Light. ~ C L Wilson,

535:Great as the differences are between the breeds of pigeons, I am fully convinced that the common opinion of naturalists is correct, namely, that all have descended from the rock-pigeon (Columba livia), including under this term several geographical races or sub-species, which differ from each other in the most trifling respects. ~ Charles Darwin,

536:I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it's too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did. I have to remind myself that Gale's in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips. ~ Suzanne Collins,

537:The rock-star thing became very destructive, like, wow. I didn't know what I was doing. I just kind of became that thing. The hair, that rock-star kind of lifestyle, just living a dream. It kind of took over. It started out very innocent and then I turned into a cartoon character. And I started to feel like a cartoon character. ~ Pamela Anderson,

538:We divorced ourselves from the materials of the earth, the rock, the wood, the iron ore; we looked to new materials which were cooked in vats, long complex derivatives of urine which we called plastic. They had no odor of the living, ... their touch was alien to nature. ... [They proliferated] like the matastases of cancer cells. ~ Norman Mailer,

539:Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death—a state which I feared yet did not understand. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

540:But the way an eloi has to darken her eyelashes every morning, cover her skin with colored cream, powder her nose and forehead all day so it doesn't shine, freshen her lipstick over and over, and then take it all off at night. It's like the myth of Sisyphus in Hades, rolling the rock up the hill just to watch it roll down again. ~ Johanna Sinisalo,

541:Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For awhile these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

542:Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death -- a state which I feared yet did not understand. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

543:Oh! I cannot now express what then I saw and felt of the steadiness of Jesus Christ, the rock of man’s salvation: What was done, could not be undone, added to, nor altered.  I saw, indeed, that sin might drive the soul beyond Christ, even the sin which is unpardonable; but woe to him that was so driven, for the word would shut him out. ~ John Bunyan,

544:You can't be the rock and the river, Sam." "The rock is high ground...Solid. Immovable." "The river is motion, turmoil, rage. As the river flows, it wonders what it would be like to be so still, to take breath, to rest. But the rock will always wonder what lies around the bend in the stream." "I want to be both," I whispered. ~ Kekla Magoon,

545:Another way to look at meditation is to view thinking itself as a waterfall, a cascading of thought. In cultivating mindfulness, we are going beyond or behind our thinking, much the way you might find a vantage point in a cave or depression in the rock behind a waterfall. We still see and hear the water, but we are out of the torrent. ~ Jon Kabat Zinn,

546:Marriage is more permanent than love. Love may be eternal, but it is not permanent. It may continue forever and forever, but there is no inner necessity for it to continue. It is like a flower: bloomed in the morning, by the evening gone. It is not like the rock. Marriage is more permanent; you can rely on it. In old age it will be helpful. ~ Rajneesh,

547:When Simon by his works proves himself to be a true and faithful disciple then he receives the surname of Peter or the rock, the unmoved disciple, the one who cannot be bribed or coerced by any visitor. He is called by his Lord Simon Peter, the one who faithfully hears the commands of his Lord and besides which commands he hears not. ~ Neville Goddard,

548:From: GDL824@yahoo.com Sent: Monday, June 10, 2013 4:24 PM To: EONeill22@hotmail.com Subject: birds of a feather I couldn't find the rock you were talking about, but I think I'm at the right place. It's pretty much just me and the seagulls, so I should be easy to spot... (I'm the one without feathers.) ~ Jennifer E Smith,

549:She said, “This isn’t so bad.” “Thanks. I think.” The money vibe came off her like heat—the Rock & Republic jeans, the Kitson top, the Oliver Peoples shades. Cole was good at reading people, and had learned—over time—that he was almost always right. The trouble vibe came off her, too. She looked familiar, but Cole couldn’t place her. ~ Robert Crais,

550:Assuredly whatsoever things are fabled to exist in deep Acheron, these all exist in this life. There is no wretched Tantalus, fearing the great rock that hangs over him in the air and frozen with vain terror. Rather, it is in this life that fear of the gods oppresses mortals without cause, and the rock they fear is any that chance may bring. ~ Lucretius,

551:Through their discomforts Dom and Phil were missing everything of interest: the sudden strip marshes, the faces in the rock formations, the perfect lakes, the awesome måskoskårså valley grooved into the earth during the Ice Age, the golden eagle circling above it, and the views of a landscape it was impossible to believe existed in Europe. ~ Adam Nevill,

552:shore, and her heart pounded. She’d never kissed a boy before, and certainly not one this good looking. Every girl in school wanted him, and he’d chosen her.   She climbed gingerly up the rock, hoping like heck she didn’t slip and look like a fool. Her parents would kill her if they knew where she was right now. They didn’t like him. He was ~ Rachel Hanna,

553:When you turn over rocks and look at all the squiggly things underneath, you can either put the rock down, or you can say, ‘My job is to turn over rocks and look at the squiggly things,’ even if what you see can scare the hell out of you.”25 That quote, from Pitney Bowes executive Fred Purdue, could have come from any of the Pitney Bowes ~ James C Collins,

554:It is more difficult to love than to die. It is not death that human beings are most afraid of, it is love. The heart is bigger than a mountain. One human life is deeper than the ocean. Strange fishes and sea-monsters and mightly plants live in the rock-bed of our spirits. The whole of human history is an undiscovered continent deep in our souls. ~ Ben Okri,

555:In the rock 'n roll slang world, they're called rock doctors, or rock docs. They would come out to shows and like to hang backstage. You could get a prescription for anything you want from them. They just want to hang out and party. It's crazy because you can get a prescription to anything. It doesn't even matter what kind of doctor they are. ~ Reginald Arvizu,

556:Kevin floated a trial idea. To him the protesters at the front gate were the equivalent of the protesters outside abortion clinics. The Rock Hudsons tried to stop people coming here the same way do-gooders tried to block people going to murder their unborn kids. The irony was in how those same rescued babies got adopted by Rock Hudsons. Kevin ~ Chuck Palahniuk,

557:I thought he was the sum of my assumptions, most of which had been wrong. I thought he was the produce of my low expectations, most of which had been undeserved. How could I have been so wrong? I needed to know him. The rock star and the wounded boy. The loner. The legend. Landon Cox was all of those things. And then some. ~ Tara Leigh,

558:If you are the lantern, I am the flame; If you are the lake, then I am the rain; If you are the desert, I am the sea; If you are the blossom, I am the bee; If you are the fruit, then I am the core; If you are the rock, then I am the ore; If you are the ballad, I am the word; If you are the sheath, then I am the sword. ~ Cecilia Dart Thornton,

559:Integrity is the very core of our being. It is who we really are. When all the scaffolding is removed, it is our integrity that both defines us and identifies us. Men of integrity are like the Rock of Gibraltar—steadfast and immovable. Men without it are like the shifting sands on the Sahara Desert—tossed to and fro by every variant wind of life. ~ Tad R Callister,

560:Outside, Ky and I walk down the path a little way. I lean back against the rock and stands before me, reaching up to put his hand along my neck, under my hair and the collar of my coat. His hand feels rough, cut from carving and climbing, but his touch is gentle and warm. The night wind sings through the canyon and Ky's body shields me from the cold. ~ Ally Condie,

561:[...T]he ways of God have been manifested beyond example: the sea is divided, the cloud has led the way, the rock has poured forth water, it has rained manna, everything has contributed to your greatness; you ought to do the rest. God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us. ~ Niccol Machiavelli,

562:Then Dantes rose more agile and light than the kid among the myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand, his pickaxe in the other, and hastened towards the rock on which the marks he had noted terminated. “And now,” he exclaimed, remembering the tale of the Arabian fisherman, which Faria had related to him, “now, open sesame! ~ Alexandre Dumas,

563:The slender maindenhair fern grows firm on a rock While all around her the water swirls and chatters And then disappears in a rush Down to the bottom of the hill When I'm surrounded by troubled water, Lord, Let me find within a rock to cling to, And give me the quiet patience of the maidenhair Who has learned to live with the rock ~ Ruskin Bond,

564:Fifty is a big corner to turn. It used to mean being put out to pasture, but it's the opposite with me. I feel more vibrant; I'm more active than I've ever been. The F-word really is freedom. It's the freedom to have dropped the rock-the rock of addiction, of family, of comparisons with other people. It's being fit and focused and kind of furious. ~ Jamie Lee Curtis,

565:Yet a surfeit of information may paradoxically inhibit the acquisition of knowledge and push wisdom even further away than it was before. The poet T. S. Eliot captured this in his “Choruses from ‘The Rock’”:   Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information? ~ Henry Kissinger,

566:I didn’t agree to be Rook’s wife. It just happened. Like walking through a mountain pass and a boulder falling on top of your head.” I pushed to my feet. “The person squished underneath the rock doesn’t have to ask it for permission to keep breathing. The person can fight to get free all they want, and the rock can stuff it where the moss don’t grow. ~ Hailey Edwards,

567:Seek for a fresh invoice of grace. Unbelief can scoff or growl; faith is the nightingale that sings in the darkest hour. Faith can draw honey out of the rock and oil out of the flint. With Christ in possession and heaven in reversion, it marches to the time of the One-hundred-and-third Psalm over the roughest road, and against the most cutting blast. ~ Theodore L Cuyler,

568:The rockroach hunkered over Janner, widened its awful mandibles, and stretched open its squishy black lips. Janner was surprised he didn’t feel more panic. He lay on his back, watching the terrible beast with a sort of fascination and surprise that this would be how he died. He also felt a dull irritation at the rock causing such discomfort to his hip. ~ Andrew Peterson,

569:What if I can’t find it? What if I can’t find that particular pumping-station? The breath tore in and out of his lungs, hot and bloody-tasting in the back of his throat. A stitch was sinking into his side. His buttocks sang where the rock had hit him. Beverly had said Henry and his friends meant to kill them, and Ben believed it now, yes he did. He came to ~ Stephen King,

570:You are the mountain, you are the rock You are the cord and you’re the spark You are the eagle, you are the lark You are the world and you’re remarkable You’re the ocean eating the shore You are the calm inside the storm You’re every emotion, you can endure You are the world and the world is yours. ((The World as I See It)) ~ Jason Mraz,

571:I point to a spot on our right. “That’s where the barracks was. I think. It’s hard to tell without any point of reference except the road. Over there the storage shed. Back that way the ash pit, and farther back the ravine.” Evan is shaking his head with wonder. “There’s nothing left.” He stamps his foot on the rock-hard ground. “Oh yeah, there is. I’m left. ~ Rick Yancey,

572:Lily studied the rock garden. On a long, low hill that sloped to the stream, someone had set stones into the side and planted wildflowers in the pockets of dirt above them. They made her think of opera boxes filled with ladies in colorful gowns. Tyler's mother must have loved cool tones. Lily admired the blues, purples and pinks of the different flowers... ~ Debra Holland,

573:Grant had always associated crimes with a rock splashing in a pond. The criminal was the thrower, the victim the rock, and everyone else was the pond. And when that rock splashed into the water, it sent waves that affected every life that was close to them, and even some that weren’t. Their actions stretched far beyond the lives of the assailant and the victim. ~ James Hunt,

574:SOON, he replied, which makes better sense under the rules of that country than ours. VERY SOON! he added, clasping my hands; then, unable to keep from laughing, he pushed off from the rock like a boy going for the first cold swim of spring; and the current got him. The stream was singing aloud, and I heard him singing with it until he dropped away over the edge. ~ Leif Enger,

575:When you live on Cold Mountain long enough the autumns pass quickly When you live alone you have no worries When you leave the doors open no one bothers you The bubbling stream runs forever In the cave a clay pot boils over a fire on the ground A wandering breeze stirs the fragrant pines When hungry I eat one simple meal And lean against the rock in complete harmony ~ Hanshan,

576:Oceanos’ palace was a great wonder, set deep in the earth’s rock. Its high-arched halls were gilded, the stone floors smoothed by centuries of divine feet. Through every room ran the faint sound of Oceanos’ river, source of the world’s fresh waters, so dark you could not tell where it ended and the rock-bed began. On its banks grew grass and soft gray flowers, ~ Madeline Miller,

577:Behind him Kaldar nudged Urow's youngest son. "Bet you he lasts at least thirty seconds." "Um..." Gaston looked at him. "No he won't." "Bet me something." "I don't have anything." Kaldar grimaced. "Pick up that rock." Gaston swiped the rock off the ground. "Now you have a rock. I bet this five bucks against your rock." Gaston grinned. "Deal. ~ Ilona Andrews,

578:First Lieutenant Haskell of Gibbon’s staff remembered the exultation of that heady moment. “The Rebel cry has ceased, and the men of the Union begin to shout there, under the smoke, and their lines to advance. See the Rebels are breaking! They are in confusion in all our front!—The wave has rolled upon the rock, and the rock has smashed it. Let us shout too!”33 ~ Peter G Tsouras,

579:The first time ever seeing a great talker was The Rock. It took a while for him to develop, but a great talker like The Rock, he was just incredible. Every time he was on the show, you wanted to see exactly what he was going to do which is what I try to do but I don't try to do it like The Rock. I don't want to be like anybody else.I want just want to be the No. 1 Miz. ~ The Miz,

580:The hormones also made me more emotional. I found myself snapping at Chad and Jeff for blasting The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin on TV. I also was more prone to isolation, vegging out in my room, listening to Janet Jackson’s The Velvet Rope on loop while reading heavy heroine novels like Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina, A Room with a View, and The Age of Innocence. ~ Janet Mock,

581:Who but the artist has the power to open man up, to set free the imagination? The others - priest, teacher, saint, statesman, warrior - hold us to the path of history. They keep us chained to the rock, that the vultures may eat out our hearts. It is the artist who has the courage to go against the crowd; he is the unrecognized "hero of our time" - and of all time. ~ Henry Miller,

582:You feel overwhelmed by distractions, fantasies, the disturbing desire to throw yourself into the world of pleasure. But you know already that you will not find there an answer to your deepest question. Nor does the answer lie in rehashing old events, or in guilt or shame. All of that makes you dissipate yourself and leave the rock on which your house is built. ~ Henri J M Nouwen,

583:I settled at Cold Mountain long ago Already it seems like ages Wandering free I roam the woods and streams Lingering to watch things be themselves Men don't come this far into the mountains Where white clouds gather and billow Dry grass makes a comfortable mattress The blue sky is a fine quilt Happy to pillow my head on the rock I leave heaven and earth to endless change ~ Hanshan,

584:Proving that the best villains have the charisma of a hero, (Jason) Statham makes a strong impression, supplying the kind of menace that permeates the movie even when he's not on screen. His fight with (Dwayne) Johnson doesn't have the bang you'd expect from a The Transporter versus The Rock match-up, but the climactic Statham-(Vin)Diesel battle more than delivers. ~ Alonso Duralde,

585:He smote the rock of the national resources, and abundant streams of revenue gushed forth. He touched the dead corpse of the Public Credit, and it sprung upon its feet. The fabled birth of Minerva, from the brain of Jove, was hardly more sudden or more perfect than the financial system of the United States, as it burst forth from the conceptions of Alexander Hamilton. ~ Daniel Webster,

586:I want my prayers, and the prayers of my friends, to ricochet off the rock faces of mountains, reverberate down the corridors of shopping malls, sound ocean deeps, water arid deserts, find a foothold in fetid swamps, encounter poets as they search for the accurate word, mingle their fragrance with wildflowers in Alpine Meadows, sing with the looms of Canadian lakes. ~ Eugene H Peterson,

587:How is it that Judas, who betrayed Jesus once and was filled with remorse, became the villain, while Peter, who denied Jesus three times and wept bitterly, became the rock on which the church was built? When it comes down to it, what is the difference between Peter and Judas? Well, maybe nothing. And maybe there’s not a whole lot of difference between us and them too. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,

588:oil companies study the rock formations carefully before they drill a well. Yet, despite their scientific analysis, seven out of eight wells drilled turn out to be dry holes. Oil companies are persistent in their search for oil, not by digging one hole to ridiculous depths but rather by experimenting with a new well when good judgment says the first well won’t produce. ~ David J Schwartz,

589:That it is Peter, the rock of the church, who incurs guilt here immediately after his own confession to Jesus Christ and after his appointment by Jesus, means that from its very inception the church itself has taken offense at the suffering Christ. It neither wants such a Lord nor does it, as the Church of Christ, want its Lord to force upon it the law of suffering. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

590:By fixing my sights on one summit after another, I managed to keep my bearings through some thick postadolescent fog. Climbing mattered. The danger bathed the world in a halogen glow that caused everything—the sweep of the rock, the orange and yellow lichens, the texture of the clouds—to stand out in brilliant relief. Life thrummed at a higher pitch. The world was made real. ~ Jon Krakauer,

591:For a long time I wasn't listening to music, to the rock and roll stuff on the radio, because it would cause me to get sweaty. It would bring back memories I didn't want to know about, or I would get that feeling that I'm not alive 'cause I'm not making it. And if it was good, I hated it 'cause I wasn't doing it. And if it was bad, I was furious 'cause I could've done it better. ~ John Lennon,

592:I've always seen this overlap between medieval warfare and heavy metal. You see heavy metal singers and they'll have like a brace around their arm and they'll be singing about Orcs. So let's just make a world where that all happens. That all gets put together, the heavy metal, and the rock, and the battling, actually does happen. Let's not flirt around with this let's just do it. ~ Tim Schafer,

593:Well, after Zombie Birdhouse came out, I toured behind it in the fall of 1982, into the spring, and in the summer in the Far East. At that time, I found my work self-referential; it was getting to be rock songs about a rock singer who lived a rock life on the rock road, and I was starting to wonder what I would be like to rent my own apartment, what it would be like to have a checkbook. ~ Iggy Pop,

594:Tilling the ground of our own minds through meditation is how we begin to create a community garden. In doing so we are helping to create a new culture, a culture that can thrive in the modern world and can at the same time support our human journey in an uplifted and joyous way. Such a culture is called enlightened society. Enlightened society is where the flower and the rock will meet. ~ Sakyong Mipham,

595:I don’t go along with the people who say they’d never want to live their childhoods again; I treasure every bit of mine, all the pains as well as the joy of discovery. But I also love being a grownup. To be half a century plus is wonderfully exciting, because I haven’t lost any of my past, and am free to stand on the rock of all that the past has taught me as I look towards the future. ~ Madeleine L Engle,

596:There was something magical about an island—the mere word suggested fantasy. You lost touch with the world—an island was a world of its own. A world, perhaps, from which you might never return. He thought: “I’m leaving my ordinary life behind me.” And, smiling to himself, he began to make plans, fantastic plans for the future. He was still smiling when he walked up the rock-cut steps. In ~ Agatha Christie,

597:The Grand Canyon was carved by a river. It sliced through the rock, revealing layer upon layer of beauty. Beauty that couldn’t be seen until the earth was cut open. One little sliver of water…” “Evan…” “One little sliver.” He traced the ragged seam down to my chin. “The majesty of the Canyon is that depth. All that beauty lay buried for years until the river cut it open. Then all was revealed. ~ Emma Scott,

598:You’re a cool dude.” “A cool dude, huh? That’s what you call your best friend, or a guy you’ve stuck in the friend zone, not someone you keep kissing. Are you trying to friend-zone me, Delia?” I roll over to face him and he peers down at me, one eyebrow raised. I reach up and smooth it down. “You look like you’re trying to smell what the Rock is cookin’ when you do that. ~ Teagan Hunter,

599:As long as Nelson was socked into baseball statistics or that guitar or even the rock records that threaded their sound through all the fibers of the house, his occupation of the room down the hall was no more uncomfortable than the persistence of Rabbit's own childhood in an annex of his brain; but when the stuff with hormones and girls and cars and beers began, Harry wanted out of fatherhood. ~ John Updike,

600:He could feel it immediately when his shoulder snapped - the intense pain of his bones cracking. His skin tightened, as if it could no long hold whatever was lurking inside him. The breath was sucked from his lungs like he was being crushed. His vision began to blur, and he had the sensation he was falling, even though he could feel the rock tearing at his flesh as his body seized on the ground. ~ Kami Garcia,

601:On the night Test faced the Great One, this is what he'll see... twelve sharpshooters stinging, eleven eyebrows raising, ten spines a'bustin, nine noggins knocking, eight kicks a'kicking, seven punches punching, six suplexes smashing, five seconds of the people chanting The Rock's name... four Rock Bottoms, three People's Elbows, on your two buckteeth, and an ass-kicking all over New Orleans! ~ Dwayne Johnson,

602:In scripture we are told of some trusting in God and others trusting in idols, and that God is our refuge, our strength, our defense. In this sense God is the rock of his people, and false Gods are called the rock of those that trust in them. In the same sense the Gods of the King who shall do according to his will are called Mahuzzims, munitions, fortresses, protectors, guardians, or defenders. ~ Isaac Newton,

603:My beloved is the sun And I am the earth that thrives only in her warmth. My beloved is the rain And I am the grass that thirsts for her quenching kiss. My beloved is the wind And I am the wings that soar when she fills me with her gentle strength. My beloved is the rock Upon which rests the happiness of all my days. —The Elements of Love, a poem by Aileron v'En Kavali of the Fey ~ C L Wilson,

604:The most inspiring drummer for me is Stewart Copeland from The Police. The Police are the first band I can remember really liking, and Copeland is a guy who was playing in sort of a rock band, or a rock-pop band, but he didn't want to do the traditional kind of rock drumbeat. He was doing all these kind of reggae rhythms, and the reggae style is almost an exact opposite of the rock mold of drumming. ~ Panda Bear,

605:When he was about a foot away from my face, I thrust the dick in the air like a goddamn sword, and brought it down across his face, smacking him so hard in the face that he literally fell backwards, back hitting the ground like a ton of bricks. I didn’t waste time in staring at him though. I wielded my two-foot dick like The Rock in Walking Tall, and started beating the absolute shit out of him. ~ Lani Lynn Vale,

606:So what do I get when I beat everyone?” I said. “When?” Corey shook his head. “Do you need a wide-load sign for transporting that ego? Fine. Beat all of us and I’ll kiss you.” “Speaking of egos…” “Beat us and we’ll install more holds over there.” Daniel pointed to a tougher and higher section of the rock face ten feet down, then looked at me. “How’s that?” I smiled. “Game on. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

607:*Some dudes like to say that men have the instinct to spread their seed, while women are supposed to protect their reproductive organs from everything but the best sperm for the strongest potential offspring. By that logic every woman in the world should be saving herself for Dwayne "The Rock' Johnson and never let any of you shitheads touch her. Seriously, you guys should stop using that argument. ~ Anna Kendrick,

608:Peter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last. A tremour ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them, and Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, "To die will be an awfully big adventure. ~ James M Barrie,

609:Ten minutes after that and the inmates of Furnace were starting to feel invincible, running around the prison looking for the hidden security cameras and shouting insults at the warden. Some were even flashing their backsides at him, or relieving themselves over the black eyes in the rock, and I couldn't help but laugh as I pictured him sitting in his quarters effectively getting pissed on. ~ Alexander Gordon Smith,

610:Scott Waldron.' 'What?' Robbie's lip curled in a glimace of disgust. 'The jockstrap? Why, does he need you to teach him how to read?' I scowled at him. 'Just because he's captain of the football team doesn't mean you can be a jerk. Or are you jealous?' 'Oh, of course, that's it,' Robbie said with a sneer. 'I've always wanted the IQ of a rock. No, wait. That would be an insult to the rock... ~ Julie Kagawa,

611:Cuchullain died as a hero should — on a battlefield, with his back to a rock and his face to the foe, buckler on arm, and spear in hand. He died standing, and in that defiant attitude (supported by the rock) was many days dead ere the enemy dared venture near enough to reassure themselves of his exit — which they only did when they saw the vultures alight upon him, and, undisturbed, peck at his flesh. ~ Seumas MacManus,

612:Men who stand on any other foundation than the rock Christ Jesus are like birds that build in trees by the side of rivers. The bird sings in the branches, and the river sings below, but all the while the waters are undermining the soil about the roots, till, in some unsuspected hour, the tree falls with a crash into the stream; and then its nest is sunk, its home is gone, and the bird is a wanderer. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,

613:To business."Tux Dude extended his hand. "I am Prometheus." I was too surprised to shake."The fire-stealer guy?The chained-to-the-rock-with-the-vultures guy?" Prometheus winced. He touched the scratches on his face."Please, don't mention the vultures. But yes, I stole fire from the gods and gave it to your ancestors. In return, the ever merciful Zeus had me chained to a rock and tortured for all eternity. ~ Rick Riordan,

614:Mathematics may be likened to a large rock whose interior composition we wish to examine. The older mathematicians appear as persevering stone cutters slowly attempting to demolish the rock from the outside with hammer and chisel. The later mathematicians resemble expert miners who seek vulnerable veins, drill into these strategic places, and then blast the rock apart with well placed internal charges. ~ Howard Whitley Eves,

615:Now I ride with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the night-wind, and play by day amongst the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the Nile. I know that light is not for me, save that of the moon over the rock tombs of Neb, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage. ~ Anonymous,

616:Sure. If you hadn’t gone through everything you’ve gone through, there’s no way in the world you’d be ready to hear what I’ve come here to teach you. Life’s had to break you down so you could be rebuilt better. And, boy, just wait until you see the breakthroughs you’re about to experience. Before you know it, you’ll be the rock star of this whole book company,” Tommy said as his voice rose, full of passion. ~ Robin S Sharma,

617:The contemplation of revealed truth is a disturbing element in Christian philosophy though a very beautiful one, for it means that the framework of philosophy is widened, and, above all, it can never rest satisfied with the flat, one-dimensional "harmonies" of rationalism. That is the moment when a Christian philosophy, striking upon the rock of divine truth, foams and boils; and that is its unique privilege. ~ Josef Pieper,

618:I'd been a child during the 1960s when women burned their bras and hundreds of thousands gathered in protests against the Vietnam War. As a climber, I've felt connected to a similar nonconformist culture, one opposed to society's increasing materialism, pollution and corruption. Our approach to the rock—clean, traditional climbing, with the least dependence on equipment—was an extension of this ethical viewpoint. ~ Lynn Hill,

619:It was kind of tragic, I reflected, that we all spent our lives working but never really got good at our work, or even finished it. The purpose instead was for me to stand on the rock that he had thrown into the rushing river, bend and claw another rock from the bottom, and then cast it down a bit further and hope it would be a useful next step for some person with whom Providence might allow me to cross paths. ~ Hope Jahren,

620:I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Long Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song. ~ Carl Sandburg,

621:The eclipse of your faith, the darkness of your mind, the fainting of your hope, all these things are but parts of God's method of making you ripe for the great inheritance upon which you shall soon enter. These trials are for the testing and strengthening of your faith--they are waves that wash you further upon the rock--they are winds which waft your ship the more swiftly towards the desired haven. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

622:He had a friend. He would have said this if he could, he would have said it, but there was no need: Like his sweet Sophia who loved her Snowball, Abel had a friend. And if such a gift could come to him at such a time, then anything-dear girl from Rockford dressed up for her meeting, rushing above the Rock River-he opened his eyes, and yes, there it was, the perfect knowledge: Anything was possible for anyone. ~ Elizabeth Strout,

623:I just got into it like a lot of people through the rock 'n' roll bands in the late '60s that turned to country music, like The Byrds and Buffalo Springfield, but particularly through The Byrds because of Gram Parsons, Roger McGuinn and Chris Hillman (with their 1968 album Sweetheart of the Rodeo). They kind of introduced English kids to Merle Haggard and George Jones and the Louvins (brothers Charlie and Ira). ~ Elvis Costello,

624:I quietly cast camouflage on myself, which is the nearest I can come to invisibility. It binds my pigment to my surroundings, so that I become practically invisible when I remain still. People can see me if I move quickly, but if I imitate the Rock of Gibraltar they have to really know I’m there to spot me. I figured it was best: Naked women rarely welcome the approach of strange naked men, except in porn movies. ~ Kevin Hearne,

625:[T]he scripture worshippers put the writings ahead of God. Instead of interpreting God's actions in nature, for example, they interpret nature in the light of the Scripture. Nature says the rock is billions of years old, but the book says different, so even though men wrote the book, and God made the rock and God gave us minds that have found ways to tell how old it is, we still choose to believe the Scripture. ~ Sheri S Tepper,

626:The sorrow, he thought, was like a rock on the shoreline of the ocean. When one was sleeping it was as if the tide was in, and there was some relief. Sleep was like a tide which covered the rock of grief. When one woke, however, the tide began to go out and soon the rock was visible again, a barnacle-encrusted thing of inarguable reality, a thing which would be there forever, or until God chose to wash it away. ~ Stephen King,

627:I was looking out at cliffs and the sea, all sluiced in delicate pinks and yellows and greens and blues, as if the sun were imparting to the sleeping rock and water dreams of their youth, dreams of the rock’s birth in the earth’s molten core, the water’s ecstatic purity before it was sullied by life—as if the play of soft colors were the sun’s lullaby to the cliffs and the sea, of endurance and transformation. ~ Deborah Eisenberg,

628:After crippling the big red retard tonight, over a short period of time I have run the gambit of the who's who in the World Wrestling Federation! Crippling Stone Cold Steve Austin, destroying the unstoppable Mankind; putting him out for three months and beating him for the WWF championship. And then, defending it only a week later and dominating...and, oh yeah, taking to school that little punk, your champion, The Rock! ~ Triple H,

629:How I long for the months gone by, for the days when God watched over me, when his lamp shone on my head and by his light I walked through darkness! Oh, for the days when I was in my prime, when God’s intimate friendship blessed my house, when the Almighty was still with me and my children were around me, when my path was drenched with cream and the rock poured out for me streams of olive oil. ~ Anonymous,

630:I love it [music]. I always have loved it. There's something about playing music that inspires me. When I've had some really down periods in my life, debauched beyond belief, not knowing what the hell I'm gonna do with my life, [Rolling Stones'] "Street Fighting Man" or something like that would come on the radio, and I'm pounding the dash and the rock and roll will inspire me to keep going. It inspires me. It's true. ~ Creed Bratton,

631:Cartwright grooved the chisel's tooth into the base of the skull, where the spine would fuse, and lifted the hammer. The chisel jumped in his hand and half the skull turned to silt. It cascaded down the rock wall with the faintest sigh. The {nine-fingered} boy let out a string of oaths so profane, so unparalleled, that surely they'd been inspired by a hell so near. Cartwright was glad to have a hammer in hand. ~ Matthew Neill Null,

632:He wasn’t sure what to do. If he left the rock, it would only take a few minutes of desert air to dry his pool, and then all that would remain of him would be a small crucible of brown powder, a powder the wind would find and scatter. He wished to stay there, to protect the pool. But after a time, he thought differently. He understood that if he stayed upon the rock, he would simply disappear as well. And so, he rose. ~ Scott Anderson,

633:Writing is eternal, For therein the dead heart liveth, the clay-cold tongue is eloquent, And the quick eye of the reader is cleared by the reed of the scribe. As a fossil in the rock, or a coin in the mortar of a ruin, So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul: The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactitude of vision in a picture, And so, the mind, that was among us, in its writings is embalmed. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

634:The Horseshoe Shrine That nick in the rock is really a kick in the side of the hill. It's where a hoof struck like a thunderbolt when Khandoba with the bride sidesaddle behind him on the blue horse jumped across the valley and the three went on from there like one spark fleeing from flint. To a home that waited on the other side of the hill like a hay stack. ~ Arun Kolatkar,

635:I first met Jimmy Page in London in 1961, and he was listening to James Burton, Scotty Moore and Cliff Gallup with Gene Vincent, as was I ... these were the rock and roll guys who really sparked our interest in the guitar, and later we delved into other things and went different directions ... during my time with Eric Clapton, we talked about what we'd listened to early on, and he was a huge fan of Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis ~ Albert Lee,

636:People who use only their eyes do not SEE. People who use only their ears do not HEAR. It is more difficult to love than to die. It is not death that human beings are most afraid of, it is love. The heart is bigger than a mountain. One human life is deeper than the ocean. Strange fishes and sea-monsters and mightly plants live in the rock-bed of our spirits. The whole of human history is an undiscovered continent deep in our souls. ~ Ben Okri,

637:Rhythms, beats, etc., are fundamentally central to my creative drive: my first instrument was the drums, nearly every band I have been involved in or at the helm of, is driven by rhythm, my band is driven entirely by rhythm, machine rhythm, and the purpose of the rock instrumentation is literally to speak the beats, to emulate the rhythms with guitars and bass, with very little articulation, and without being 'progressive'. ~ Justin Broadrick,

638:The creature loomed over them, squatting on a boulder the size of a house. It had come from another direction, Janner realized, probably leaping through the mist from boulder to boulder so that it could cut the family off or at least surprise them. While Podo had been watching the stairs behind, the troll had been approaching from above. After a dumb grin at the Igiby family, the beast gathered itself and leapt from the rock. ~ Andrew Peterson,

639:This, at last, was where things were as they ought to be. Everything was in its place -- the tree, the earth underneath, the rock, the moss. In autumn, it would be right; in winter under the snow, it would be perfect in its wintriness. Spring would come again and miracle within miracle would unfold, each at its special pace, some things having died off, some sprouting in their first spring, but all of equal and utter rightness. ~ Jean Liedloff,

640:What matters is performances, regardless of what the name is, whether it's The Rock - which is my nickname and people call me that all the time - it's no big deal. So, whether it's The Rock or Dwayne Johnson, in terms of being recognised I just think that the goal is to be recognised as a good actor. I don't put much thought or weight into the name, or the name change, or what it is, or what does it mean? It's just a nickname. ~ Dwayne Johnson,

641:I think about going to the lake, but I'm so weak that I barely make it to my meeting place with Gale. I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it's too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did. I have to remind myself that Gale's in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips. ~ Suzanne Collins,

642:23“Oh that my words were written!    Oh that they were inscribed in a book! 24Oh that with an iron pen and lead    they were engraved in the rock forever! 25For I know that my Redeemer lives,    and at the last he will stand upon the earth. [41] 26And after my skin has been thus destroyed,    yet in [42] my flesh I shall see God, 27whom I shall see for myself,    and my eyes shall behold, and not another.    My heart faints within me! ~ Anonymous,

643:The rock, when one came to think of it, was the utmost expression of human need;even mere feeling yearned for it; it was the highest comparison of loyalty and friendship. Christ himself had used that comparison for the disciple he gave the keys to the church. And the Hebrews of the Old Testament, always being carried captive into foreign lands,--their rock was an idea of God, the only thing their conquerors could not take from them. ~ Willa Cather,

644:Now you know well that the most deadly foes of the Catholic religion have always waged a fierce war, but without success, against this Chair [of St. Peter]; they are by no means ignorant of the fact that religion itself can never totter and fall while this Chair remains intact, the Chair which rests on the rock which the proud gates of hell cannot overthrow and in which there is the whole and perfect solidity of the Christian religion. ~ Pope Pius IX,

645:The bluebells made such a pool that the earth had become like water, and all the trees and bushes seemed to have grown out of the water. And the sky above seemed to have fallen down on to the earth floor; and I didn’t know if the sky was the earth or the earth was water. I had been turned upside down. I had to hold the rock with my fingernails to stop me falling into the sky of the earth or the water of the sky. But I couldn’t hold on. ~ Graham Joyce,

646:Just why is Yosemite climbing so different ? Why does it have techniques, ethics and equipment all of its own ? The basic reason lies in the rock itself. Nowhere else in the world is the rock so exfoliated, so glacier-polished and so devoid of handholds. All of the climbing lines follow vertical crack systems. Every piton crack, every handhold is a vertical one. Special techniques and equipment have evolved through absolute necessity. ~ Yvon Chouinard,

647:When you think of diversity, George Duke fits that bill better than a lot of people. He's played a lot of straight-ahead jazz with people like Nancy Wilson and Cannonball Adderley; he's played a lot of fusion with his own groups, with Stanley Clarke; and, you know, he did the rock thing with Frank Zappa. He's written all kinds of big arrangements for people like Burt Bacharach. So, he's covered the board. He's still a great pianist. ~ Christian McBride,

648:Why are you here?" "To fetch the woman I cut from the veil of the rock." “Why did you cut?" "To send her spirit out, so that she would come to make the child, for me to teach to dance and sing and dream, to free the beasts within the rock to fill the world." “Have you found her?" "She is not here. There are only people horrible to see." “Where are your stories?" said the other. "I cannot tell them. My head is a cloud. ~ Alan Garner,

649:You have two hands, Mr Felix. I understand that's all a lonely single man needs." She clamped her lips together and forced herself to remain calm until the door closed behind her. She blinked in the late afternoon sunlight, feeling like she'd been inside a surreal film and the real world was definitely a relief. Sunset tinted the path as she followed the yellow brick road away from the rock star the newspapers called the Wizard of Aus. ~ Demelza Carlton,

650:I think about going to the lake, but I'm so weak that I barely make it to my meeting place with Gale. I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it's too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did. I have to remind myself that Gale's in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips. ~ Suzanne Collins,

651:The worst isn't the last thing about the world. It's the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It's the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring. Can you believe it? The last, best thing is the laughing deep in the hearts of the saints, sometimes our hearts even. Yes. You are terribly loved and forgiven. Yes. You are healed. All is well. ~ Frederick Buechner,

652:I can see her clearly, standing on the rock beside Peg Gratton, unflinching before Eaton and the rest of the race committee. I can't remember when I've been that brave, and it shames me. The truth is, I feel myself being fascinated and repelled by her; She's both a mirror of myself and a door to part of the island that i'm not. It's like when the mare goddess looked into my eye; I felt that there was a part of myself that I didn't know. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

653:Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death — a state which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings, and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers; but ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

654:Here’s the rock, I said to myself. This man, this rough, humble, big man was just like me. Jesus looked at him and loved him. Peter looked at Jesus and said, Get away from me, I’m a sinful man. A dumb guy from Galilee named Pete. Jesus made him into Bishop of Rome, chief of the apostles, the foundation stone. Christ built a Church on all that weakness. That’s what hit me most of all, the weakness. Inside the weakness was a terrific secret. ~ Michael D O Brien,

655:We were lucky if we got two takes out of a scene in the Rock 'N' Roll High School. But the Ramones did get a lot of material cut out. I think Marky Ramone calls Mr. McGree "Mr. McGlube." But that was sort of endearing and charming, and made you just love the Ramones even more. Sometimes those flubs work in favor of the filmmakers. They just couldn't get out more than one sentence in a row. It was just kind of weird. I think they were just nervous. ~ P J Soles,

656:... poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives. ~ Audre Lorde,

657:Professional Ketman is reasoned thus: since I find myself in circumstances over which I have no control, and since I have but one life and that is fleeting, I should strive to do my best. I am like a crustacean attached to a crag on the bottom of the sea. Over me storms rage and huge ships sail; but my entire effort is concentrated upon clinging to the rock, for otherwise I will be carried off by the waters and perish, leaving no trace behind. ~ Czes aw Mi osz,

658:I begged her, 'Please don't leave me stranded in the middle of some primitive zarking forest with no medical help and a head injury. I could be in serious trouble and so could she.'" "What did she say?" "She hit me on the head with the rock again," Ford responded curtly. "I think i can confirm that was my daughter." "Sweet kid." "You have to get to know her," said Arthur. "She eases up, does she?" "No, but you get a better sense of when to duck. ~ Douglas Adams,

659:Perhaps success in the future will depend partly on our ability to generate cheap power, but I think it will depend to a greater extent on our ability to resist a technological formula that is sterile: peas without pageantry, corn without coon, knowledge without wisdom, kitchens without a warm stove. There is more to these rocks than uranium; there is the lichen on the rock, the smell of the fern whose feet are upon the rock, the view from the rock. ~ E B White,

660:I’ve also been on the other side of the looking glass. Watching you. Studying you. Impersonating you. All of us in Hollywood, media, and advertising do. And you know what? We are really good at it. We have had it drilled into us how best to be marketed to you. How best to be sold to you. How to implant what “we” want into your brain, into your thoughts, into your wallet. And it works. You’re sold a fake reality all for the rock-bottom price of $14. ~ Rose McGowan,

661:The rock, when one came to think of it, was the utmost expression of human need; even mere feeling yearned for it; it was the highest comparison of loyalty in love and friendship. Christ Himself had used that comparison for the disciple to whom He gave the keys of His Church. And the Hebrews of the Old Testament, always being carried captive into foreign lands,--their rock was an idea of God, the only thing their conquerors could not take from them. ~ Willa Cather,

662:What critics might call eclectic, and Eastern folks quirky, we Southerners call cussedness-and it's the cornerstone of the American genius. As in: 'There's a right way, a wrong way, and my way.' You want to see how that looks on the page, pick up any of Craig McDonald's novels. He's built him a nice little shack out there way off all the reg'lar roads, and he's brewing some fine, heady stuff. Leave your money under the rock and come back in an hour. ~ James Sallis,

663:For me performing has a lot to do with being fearless. I wrote an article for Artforum in the mideighties that had a line in it that the rock critic Greil Marcus quoted a lot: “People pay money to see others believe in themselves.” Meaning, the higher the chance you can fall down in public, the more value the culture places on what you do. Unlike, say, a writer or a painter, when you’re onstage you can’t hide from other people, or from yourself either. ~ Kim Gordon,

664:Shakespeare carries us to such a lofty strain of intelligent activity, as to suggest a wealth which beggars his own; and we then feel that the splendid works which he has created, and which in other hours we extol as a sort of self-existent poetry, take no stronger hold of real nature than the shadow of a passing traveller on the rock. The inspiration which uttered itself in Hamlet and Lear could utter things as good from day to day, for ever. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

665:The weed crushed and pressed by the heavy rock may slowly and gently grow up anew helped by the fresh air, sunshine, and sympathetic rain. On the other hand, the rock is often broken through exposure to nature and weathering. Life is a strong power to grow in tenderness; this fact may be considered as having a close relation with human life. At the same time tenderness has sometimes stronger power against stiffness or hardening due to extreme strain. ~ Kyuzo Mifune,

666:Perhaps success in the future will depend partly on our ability to generate cheap power, but I think it will depend to a greater extent on our ability to resist a technological formula that is sterile: peas without pageantry, corn without coon, knowledge without wisdom, kitchens without a warm stove. There is more to these rocks than uranium; there is the lichen on the rock, the smell of the fern whose feet are upon the rock, the view from the rock. Last ~ E B White,

667:Are you calling us pigs?’ Froi asked, watching as Rafuel winced for the tenth time at the formality of Froi’s Charyn.Rafuel thought for a moment and then nodded.‘Actually yes, I am. Pig-like.’Froi turned back to Trevanion and Perri, who were discussing the need for longbow training in the rock village.‘What is it?’ Perri asked Froi.‘He said we eat like pigs.’Trevanion and Perri thought about it for a moment and then went back to their conversation. ~ Melina Marchetta,

668:Wind rips through the crags a thousand feet above, nothing moving in this godforsaken town, and the mule skinner knows that something is wrong. Two miles south stands Bartholomew Packer’s mine, the Godsend, a twenty-stamp mill that should be filling this box canyon with the thudding racket of the rock crushers pulverizing ore. The sound of the stamps in operation is the sound of money being made, and only two things will stop them—Christmas and tragedy. ~ Blake Crouch,

669:It is not unreasonable to assume that the works of God, their existence and preceding non-existence, are the result of His wisdom, but we are unable to understand many of the ways of His Wisdom in His works. On this principle the whole Law of Moses is based; it begins with this principle: "And God saw all that He had made, and behold, it was very good" (Gen. i. 31); and it ends with this principle: "The Rock, perfect is His work" (Deut. xxxii. 4). Note it. ~ Maimonides,

670:Doing it all the time, whether or not we are in the mood, gives us ownership of our writing ability. It takes it out of the realm of conjuring where we stand on the rock of isolation, begging the winds for inspiration, and it makes it something as do-able as picking up a hammer and pounding a nail. Writing may be an art, but it is certainly a craft. It is a simple and workable thing that can be as steady and reliable as a chore—does that ruin the romance? ~ Julia Cameron,

671:Hits And Runs I REMEMBER the Chillicothe ball players grappling the Rock Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song. ~ Carl Sandburg,

672:The superstitious belief, common to miners, that gnomes or fiends dwell within the bowels of the earth, began to seize me. I shuddered at the thought of descending further and braving the inhabitants of this nether valley. Nor indeed could I have done so without ropes, as from the spot I had reached to the bottom of the chasm the sides of the rock sank down abrupt, smooth, and sheer. I retraced my steps with some difficulty. Now I have told you all. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,

673:...wordless conditioning is crude and wholesale; cannot bring home the finer distinctions, cannot inculcate the more complex courses of behavior. For that there must be words, but words without reason... Not so much like drops of water, though water, it is true, can wear holes in the hardest granite; rather, drops of liquid sealing-wax, drops that adhere, encrust, incorporate themselves with what they fall on, till finally the rock is all one scarlet blob. ~ Aldous Huxley,

674:I am pleased enough with the surfaces - in fact they alone seem to me to be of much importance. Such things for example as the grasp of a child's hand in your own, the flavor of an apple, the embrace of a friend or lover, the silk of a girl's thigh, the sunlight on the rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the wind - what else is there? What else do we need? ~ Edward Abbey,

675:I'm just so happy and proud of everybody and what everybody's doing. From Curren$y doing decent numbers with the independent, digital release; from Asher selling 1.1 million-plus on iTunes with the single and almost at 200,000 [albums sold] now; Cudi got almost 4,000 BDS's a week; Mickey Factz doing the Rock The Bells tour; Blu signed a deal shortly after; Ace Hood had two very successful singles, another album getting ready to drop. Everybody's doing their thing, man. ~ Wale,

676:This time is difficult. Wait for me. We will live it out vividly. Give me your small hand: we will rise and suffer, we will feel, we will rejoice. We are once more the pair who lived in bristling places, in harsh nests in the rock. This time is difficult. Wait for me with a basket, with a shovel, with your shoes and your clothes. Now we need each other, not only for the carnations' sake, not only to look for honey — we need our hands to wash with, to make fire. ~ Pablo Neruda,

677:Is this some kind of joke?" "That's for me to know and you to find out." "Maybe you think it's funny to put up signs about people who want to commit suicide." "Are you about to?" "And what if I was?" "I wouldn't tell you the gorgeous reasons I have discovered for going on living." "What would you do?" "I'd ask you to name the rock-bottom price you'd charge to go on living for just one more week. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

678:I begged her, 'Please don't leave me stranded in the middle of some primitive zarking forest with no medical help and a head injury. I could be in serious trouble and so could she.'" "What did she say?" "She hit me on the head with the rock again," Ford responded curtly. "I think i can confirm that was my daughter." "Sweet kid." "You have to get to know her," said Arthur. "She eases up, does she?" "No, but you get a better sense of when to duck. ~ Douglas Adams,

679:The truth is, we are never just one thing. We all have many titles and many labels, but far too often, we get trapped inside a single definition. The Teacher's Pet, the Rule Follower, the Cheerleader, the Athlete, the Princess, the Basket Case, the Criminal... the Rock Star's Girlfriend. Whether we wrote that definition or it was given to us, it somehow becomes our only identity. We get so lost in it that we forget about all the other pieces that make up who we are. ~ Jessica Brody,

680:Crouching, Ceony felt the edge of the giant crack. None of it came away in her fingers, even when she scratched it with her nails. The rock stayed hard and firm. Another handful of sand dropped to the canyon floor, seeming to make no difference in the canyon’s depth whatsoever. But Ceony knew that enough handfuls would fill it, eventually. After all, it took time to mend one’s heart. Enough time could heal a heart as broken as this one. It was half-healed already. ~ Charlie N Holmberg,

681:Every action produces a reaction, and the reaction is always in exact accord with the action.” Throw a rock into a pond and it makes ripples—every time. The bigger the rock, the bigger the ripples. If you plant an acorn, you’ll get an oak tree, not a willow. If you overeat, you’ll get fat. If you’re a mean person, you’ll lack friends. If you fail to nourish yourself, you’ll become ill. Ultimately, by the consequences you experience, the truth will make itself known to you. ~ Anonymous,

682:The word baptism means derailment. Christ baptizes Peter on the rock when he tells him: "Because you confessed your love for me, your life is no longer your own. Before you said this, you fastened your belt and you walked wherever you liked. Now, others will put a belt around you and take you where you would rather not go." To submit to love is to be baptized, that is, to let one's life be forever interrupted. To not let one's life be interrupted is to say no to love ~ Ronald Rolheiser,

683:Yet even in the best of cases, the need to be on call, to spend at least a certain amount of energy looking over one's shoulder, maintaining a false front, never looking too obviously engrossed, the inability to fully collaborate with others —all this lends itself much more to a culture of computer games, YouTube rants, memes, and Twitter controversies than to, say, the rock 'n' roll bands, drug poetry, and experimental theater created under the midcentury welfare state. ~ David Graeber,

684:A foundation in Christ was and is always to be a protection in days "when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you." In such days as we are now in--and will more or less always be in--the storms of life "shall have no power over you... because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall." (Helaman 5:12) ~ Jeffrey R Holland,

685:wincing, as a scree of loose stone fell to the ground with a clatter. She thought Cameron might stand. Instead, he sat on the rock as if watching a sunset, in full view of the mothership. Piper finally found her voice. She reached up and took his wrist, tugging. But really, what did she think she would do? Drag him off, give him a concussion against the hot, baked ground? “It’s going to see us.” “It can already see us.” Jeanine piped up. “We haven’t seen any shuttles since leaving ~ Sean Platt,

686:As commander of a battalion his trade had been to fight the enemy with steel. As a staff officer, it seemed, his role was to fight his own side with paper, more secretary than soldier. He felt like a man trying to push a huge stone up a hill. Straining and straining, getting nowhere, but unable to stop pushing in case the rock should fall and crush him. Meanwhile, arrogant bastards who were in just the same danger lazed on the slopes beside him saying, “Well, it’s not my rock. ~ Joe Abercrombie,

687:His fingertips moved soft and warm across the lightning crack that marred my cheek. “The Grand Canyon was carved by a river. It sliced through the rock, revealing layer upon layer of beauty. Beauty that couldn’t be seen until the earth was cut open. One little sliver of water…” “Evan…” “One little sliver.” He traced the ragged seam down to my chin. “The majesty of the Canyon is that depth. All that beauty lay buried for years until the river cut it open. Then all was revealed. ~ Emma Scott,

688:I was meeting a mountain. I meant to kiss her in secret. I meant to wed her under the midnight dark. The prettiest mountain you ever saw, sparkling with snow in all the right places, rich with granite and tourmaline and silver, sturdy and sensible and weathered by experience of eons. When she saw me, my mountain's pine trees bristled and the wind in her heights whistled my name. When I saw her, I felt rivers break through the rock of my heart and carve me into a new shape. ~ Catherynne M Valente,

689:An unreasoning tender love, of the kind sometimes engendered by Papa’s best French champagne or the melancholy cooing of pigeons on a Spring afternoon, filled her heart to overflowing. A love that included Marion, waiting with a flinty smile for Miranda to have done with Edith’s nonsense. Tears sprang to her eyes, but not of sorrow. She had no desire to weep. Only to love, and shaking out her ringlets she got up off the rock where she had been lying in the shade and began to dance. ~ Joan Lindsay,

690:While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell upon a narrow ledge in the eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard below the summit upon which I stood. This ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was not more than a foot wide, while a niche in the cliff just above it, gave it a rude resemblance to one of the hollow-backed chairs used by our ancestors. I made no doubt that here was the 'devil's seat' alluded to in the MS., and now I seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

691:Freemasonry must stand upon the Rock of Truth, religion, political, social, and economic. Nothing is so worthy of its care as freedom in all its aspects. "Free" is the most vital part of Freemasonry. It means freedom of thought and expression, freedom of spiritual and religious ideals, freedom from oppression, freedom from ignorance, superstition, vice and bigotry, freedom to acquire and possess property, to go and come at pleasure, and to rise or fall according to will of ability. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,

692:Listen to the stage manager and get on stage when they tell you to. No one has time for the rock star bullshit. None of the techs backstage care if you're David Bowie or the milkman. When you act like a jerk, they are completely unimpressed with the infantile display that you might think comes with your dubious status. They were there hours before you building the stage, and they will be there hours after you leave tearing it down. They should get your salary, and you should get theirs. ~ Henry Rollins,

693:It is not unreasonable to assume that the works of God, their existence and preceding non-existence, are the result of His wisdom, but we are unable to understand many of the ways of His Wisdom in His works. On this principle the whole Law of Moses is based; it begins with this principle: "And God saw all that He had made, and behold, it was very good" (Gen. i. 31); and it ends with this principle: "The Rock, perfect is His work" (Deut. xxxii. 4). Note it. ~ Maimonides, Guide for the Perplexed (c. 1190),

694:She watched a squirrel watching her. “Yeah, laugh all you want, buckaroo. I need the exercise, and nobody invited you to watch. Whoops!” Cass slid feet first down five feet or so of the rock surface. Pathetic miniature avalanches of chalky rock trickled around her. Fifteen feet away, another squirrel joined the first on the branch of a crooked, dead tree. The soil could not nourish the tree here. But the squirrels could gather there to make bad squirrel jokes and watch the human burlesque. ~ Chet Williamson,

695:I meditate for the last time on this mountain that is bare, though others all around are white with snow. Like the bare peak of the koan, this one is not different from myself. I know this mountain because I am this mountain, I can feel it breathing at this moment, as its grass tops stray against the snows. If the snow leopard should leap from the rock above and manifest itself before me - S-A-A-O! - then in that moment of pure fright, out of my wits, I might truly perceive it, and be free. ~ Peter Matthiessen,

696:Sara understood this passion that beset geologists. Their minds were heavy with theories shaped by fire and water, their pockets weighted with residual bits of evidence chipped from road cuts and canyon walls, identifiable, able to be pigeonholed in time that stretched back five hundred million years. She understood that the rock in the Canadian's hand was likely to endure intact long after the bones of the four people in this room would be discovered set in sandstone among snail shells and ferns. ~ Harriet Doerr,

697:Shoes, unlike feet, are not something you're born with. So you can choose what you want. At first be guided in your choice by people with experience, later by your own experience. Before long you will become so accustomed to your shoes that every nail will be like a finger to feel out the rock and cling to it. They will become a sensitive and dependable instrument, like a part of yourself. And yet, you're not born with them; when they're worn out, you'll throw them away and still remain what you are. ~ Ren Daumal,

698:True? Yes, I suppose-unfit somehow-anyway.... So I came here. There was nowhere else I could go. I was played out. You know what played out is? My youth was suddenly gone up the water-sprout, and-I met you. You said you needed somebody. Well, I needed some-body, too. I thanked God for you, because you seemed to be gentle-a cleft in the rock of the world that I could hide in! But I guess I was asking, hoping-too much! Kiefaber, Stanley and Shaw have tied an old tin can to the tail of the kite. ~ Tennessee Williams,

699:All these feelings started when we were ten. I have this real clear memory of us wrestling in Malik's front yard. I was the Rock and he was John Cena. We were obsessed with wrestling videos on YouTube. I pinned Malik down, and while sitting on top of him in his front yard, I suddenly wanted to kiss him. It. Freaked. Me. Out. So I punched him and said in my best The Rock voice, "I'm laying the smackdown on your candy ass!" Basically, I tried to ignore my sexual awakening by imitating the Rock. ~ Angie Thomas,

700:Safe Wild wintry wind, storm through the night, Dash the black clouds against the sky, Hiss through the billows seething white, Fling the rock-surf in spray on high. Hurl the high seas on harbour bars, Madden them with thy havock-shriek Against the crimson beacon-stars -Thy rage no more can make me weak. The ship rides safely in the bay, The ship that held my hope in her -Whirl on, wild wind, in thy wild fray, We hear our whispers through the stir. ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

701:ruby comes from the rock being crushed for millions of years, fine leather from the harshness of tanning, and fine wine from the crushing and fermentation of the grapes, so we might regard the sufferings of our life as refinements that are tanning us, fermenting us, transforming and deepening us. Brought into consciousness with acceptance rather than resentment, the ill treatment that we suffer at our own and others’ hands is transformed into divine pressure that is molding and shaping the Godself within. ~ Jean Houston,

702:Being a copper I like to see the law win. I'd like to see the flashy well-dressed mugs like Eddie Mars spoiling their manicures in the rock quarry at Folsom, alongside of the poor little slum-bred guys that got knocked over on their first caper amd never had a break since. That's what I'd like. You and me both lived too long to think I'm likely to see it happen. Not in this town, not in any town half this size, in any part of this wide, green and beautiful U.S.A. We just don't run our country that way. ~ Raymond Chandler,

703:the Devil became desperate to get away. His way was blocked, so he bit a big chunk out of the mountaintop and carried it off in his mouth. Patrick, stunned at the size of the hole in the mountain, hesitated for a moment, and lost his advantage. By the time he looked up, the Devil had gone too far ahead to be caught. Patrick gave up the chase. Up ahead, at Cashel, the Devil stopped for a rest, and he dropped the stone out of his mouth. That stone became the Rock of Cashel, the most famous sight in Ireland. ~ Frank Delaney,

704:Luxembourg was and still is today a crossroads, the place where Germany meets the rest of Europe. The country lost part of its territory to Belgium in the 1800s, and during World Wars I and II the German military overran it. Very few people have visited Luxembourg - when I went there and looked at it, I said, my God, it's built on a rock. And within the rock they had a castle, and within the city there's a network of tunnels so the residents could move around and defend themselves. That was of great interest to me. ~ I M Pei,

705:A couple hours went by, and the storm began to turn back to the sea. The dark clouds rolled away, leaving white, fluffy ones in their place. We were safe, and the rock in the distance was still there. We stepped out of the car and walked over to the rock, noticing the families of seals were back again. The seals were strong and ready to make it through any storm that would fall their way. My parents’ love was still there; that is what love means. I envy that love, and I hoped to find it someday... and I did. ~ Joseph McGinnis,

706:Being a copper I like to see the law win. I’d like to see the flashy well-dressed mugs like Eddie Mars spoiling their manicures in the rock quarry at Folsom, alongside of the poor little slum-bred hard guys that got knocked over on their first caper and never had a break since. That’s what I’d like. You and me both lived too long to think I’m likely to see it happen. Not in this town, not in any town half this size, in any part of this wide, green and beautiful U.S.A. We just don’t run our country that way. ~ Raymond Chandler,

707:By now it is a ready-made cliché—the rock star dying young, whether by excess, by accident, or by suicide. For some, it’s part of the act, macabre performance art, a final song. This last mode, suicide, can be elusive. In fact, it almost always is. It might masquerade as excess—reckless, immoderate drug use. There is subintentioned suicide too. The person may simultaneously wish to live and die. No special effort is made to stay alive, but none is made to keep living, either outcome perfectly acceptable. ~ William Todd Schultz,

708:When Israel came out of Egypt, 1 the house of Jacob from a barbarous-tongued folk, Judah became His sanctuary, 2 Israel His dominion. 3 The sea saw and fled, Jordan turned back. 4 The mountains danced like rams, hills like lambs of the flock. 5 What is wrong with you, sea, that you flee, Jordan, that you turn back, 6 mountains, that you dance like rams, hills like lambs of the flock? 7 Before the Master, whirl, O earth, before the God of Jacob, Who turns the rock to a pond of water, 8 flint to a spring of water. ~ Robert Alter,

709:I'm glad that the rock is heavy and that it feels all right in my heart like an eye in a pot of humus. Let's write long letters on grand themes, fish sandwiches, egg sandwiches and cheese; or travelling in Mexico, Italy and Australia. I eat a lot so I won't get drunk and then I drink a lot so I'll feel excited and then I've gone away I don't know where or with whom and can't remember whom from except that I'm back with my paper bag and next time my face won't come with me. ~ Frank O Hara,

710:Not that there seems to be any appropriate place to bury someone, but these municipal cemeteries, or any cemetery at all for that matter, like the ones by the highway, or the ones in the middle of town, with all these bodies with their corresponding rocks - oh it's just too primitive and vulgar, isn't it? The hole, and the box, and the rock on the grass? And we glamorize this process, feel it fitting and dramatic, austerely beautiful, standing there by the hole as we lower the box. It's incredible. Barbaric and base. ~ Dave Eggers,

711:So,” Mom said. “How did you meet Summer if she wasn’t in any of your classes?” “We sat together at lunch,” I said. I had started kicking a rock between my feet like it was a soccer ball, chasing it back and forth across the sidewalk. “She seems very nice.” “Yeah, she is.” “She’s very pretty,” Mom said. “Yeah, I know,” I answered. “We’re kind of like Beauty and the Beast.” I didn’t wait to see Mom’s reaction. I just started running down the sidewalk after the rock, which I had kicked as hard as I could in front of me. ~ R J Palacio,

712:You are 100 percent certain that this person is doing the best he can?” After I answered yes two or three times, the officer took a deep breath and said, “Then move the rock.” I was confused. “What do you mean by ‘move the rock’?” He shook his head. “I have to stop kicking the rock. I need to move it. It’s hurting both of us. He’s not the right person for this position, and there’s no amount of pushing or getting on him that’s going to change that. He needs to be reassigned to a position where he can make a contribution. ~ Bren Brown,

713:He describes three types of happiness: pleasure, passion, and higher purpose.1            1.    Pleasure: This type of happiness is about always chasing the next high. It is the rock-star type of happiness because it is very hard to maintain unless you are living the lifestyle of a rock star.            2.    Passion: Also known as “flow,” where peak performance meets peak engagement, and time flies by.            3.    Higher Purpose: This is about being part of something bigger than yourself that has meaning to you. ~ Chade Meng Tan,

714:Her fire red hair curled just above the curve of her buttocks, drawing his eye to their sweet, toned shape. Mercy was a soldier, her muscles lean and strong. But she was also very much a woman—all smooth, soft skin and luscious, strokable curves. And her breasts. He swallowed a groan as he caught teasing glimpses of them as she jumped lightly on top of the rock—very much like the cat she was—and lay down on her front, giving a moan of pure, sensual bliss at the heat. “Stop checking me out and come give me a massage.”Read ~ Nalini Singh,

715:Sophia and Grandmother sat down by the shore to discuss the matter further. It was a pretty day, and the sea was running a long, windless swell. It was on days just like this--dog days--that boats went sailing off all by themselves. Large, alien objects made their way in from sea, certain things sank and others rose, milk soured, and dragonflies danced in desperation. Lizards were not afraid. When the moon came up, red spiders mated on uninhabited skerries, where the rock became an unbroken carpet of tiny, ecstatic spiders. ~ Tove Jansson,

716:The children of Israel were very faint of heart, they were cowards. They no sooner saw the Egyptians than they began to cry out. And when they viewed the Red Sea in front of them, they complained against their deliverer. Their biggest enemy was themselves. A faint heart is the worst enemy a Christian can have. He never needs to be afraid of the storm while he keeps his faith steady and fixes his anchor deep in the rock. But when the hand of faith is trembling, or the eye of faith is weak, it will go hard with us. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

717:Therefore it is primarily in the body and its social context that the work must be done to replace wrong habits with automatic responses that flow with the kingdom of Jesus and sustain themselves from its power. Certainly there must first come the profound inward turnings of repentance and faith. But the replacement of habits remains absolutely essential to anyone who is to “hear and do” and thus build his or her house on the rock. Without it, direct efforts in the moment of action to do what is right will seldom succeed. ~ Dallas Willard,

718:With great difficulty advancing by millimeters each year, I carve a road out of the rock. For millenniums my teeth have wasted and my nails broken to get there, to the other side, to the light and the open air. And now that my hands bleed and my teeth tremble, unsure in a cavity cracked by thirst and dust, I pause and contemplate my work. I have spent the second part of my life breaking the stones, drilling the walls, smashing the doors, removing the obstacles I placed between the light and myself in the first part of my life. ~ Octavio Paz,

719:Zen is to religion what a Japanese "rock garden" is to a garden. Zen knows no god, no afterlife, no good and no evil, as the rock-garden knows no flowers, herbs or shrubs. It has no doctrine or holy writ: its teaching is transmitted mainly in the form of parables as ambiguous as the pebbles in the rock-garden which symbolise now a mountain, now a fleeting tiger. When a disciple asks "What is Zen?", the master's traditional answer is "Three pounds of flax" or "A decaying noodle" or "A toilet stick" or a whack on the pupil's head. ~ Arthur Koestler,

720:Who are these sons and daughters? They are the ones who know the love and affirmation of a father. They are not governed by their hormones, but governed by the commands of God. They are not propped up by some cheap, self-help, build-your-self-esteem plan, but have been baptized in confidence because they’ve heard the voice of a father saying, “You are my beloved son.” And they rule as a father for their father. They stand in the face of every intimidating Jezebel because they build their house on the rock of obedience to God’s Word. ~ James W Goll,

721:A lobster, when left high and dry among the rock, does not have the sense enough to work his way back to the sea, but waits for the sea to come to him. If it does not come, he remains where he is and dies, although the slightest effort would enable him to reach the waves, which are perhaps within a yard of him. The world is full of human lobsters; people stranded on the rocks of indecision and procrastination, who, instead of putting forth their own energies, are waiting for some grand billow of good fortune to set them afloat. ~ Orison Swett Marden,

722:I think younger artists are often "students" of the rock press. They have their favorite rock star interviews and know how they're supposed to act. But I find that time helps a lot. If you have enough time you can sort of break that down just by being a normal person. And then they realize the interview isn't just a performance, and they can actually speak to you. I often try to get people into a space where they're not over-thinking what they're talking about and instead they're speaking emotionally, from within their experience. ~ Anthony DeCurtis,

723:She loved me, in some mysterious sense I understood without her speaking it. I was her creation. We were one thing, like the wall and the rock growing out from it. -- Or so I ardently, desperately affirmed. When her strange eyes burned into me, it did not seem quite sure. I was intensely aware of where I sat, the volume of darkness I displaced, the shiny-smooth span of packed dirt between us, and the shocking separateness from me in my mama's eyes. I would feel, all at once, alone and ugly, almost - as if I'd dirtied myself - obscene. ~ John Gardner,

724:The work of God’s Holy Spirit begins with bruising. In order to be saved, the hard ground must be plowed; the hard heart must be broken, the rock must be smashed. An old preacher said there is no going to heaven without passing close to the gates of hell, without a great deal of trouble for the heart and soul. I see the bruised reed as a picture of the poor sinner when God first begins his work on the soul. That person is like a bruised reed, almost completely broken and destroyed. There is very little strength left in him. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

725:Deaf Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts. Psalm 42 The waterfall in sunlight is God talking to herself. Her voice poured into the trees asks nothing, to prove nothing, and her way of asking says by overflowing what may not be said. The stream unbroken at the rock’s edge bursts with downflung beads where daylight bursts and drops. Though deaf, I listen through my shoesoles, through the stone ledge, into the water, thrumming, into the spray and light. ~ Brooks Haxton,

726:Gradually, at various points in our childhoods, we discover different forms of conviction. There's the rock-hard certainty of personal experience ("I put my finger in the fire and it hurt,"), which is probably the earliest kind we learn. Then there's the logically convincing, which we probably come to first through maths, in the context of Pythagoras's theorem or something similar, and which, if we first encounter it at exactly the right moment, bursts on our minds like sunrise with the whole universe playing a great chord of C Major. ~ Philip Pullman,

727:It is clear that the confidence that the psalmist expresses is a divine confidence. He did not say, “I have enough grace to perfect that which concerns me—my faith is so steady that it will not falter—my love is so warm that it will never grow cold—my resolution is so firm that nothing can move it.” No, his dependence was on the Lord alone. If we display a confidence that is not grounded on the Rock of ages, our confidence is worse than a dream; it will fall upon us and cover us with its ruins, to our sorrow and confusion. The ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

728:Under the desert sun, in the dogmatic clarity, the fables of theology and the myths of classical philosophy dissolve like mist. The air is clean, the rock cuts cruelly into flesh; shatter the rock and the odor of flint rises to your nostrils, bitter and sharp. Whirlwinds dance across the salt flats, a pillar of dust by day; the thornbush breaks into flame at night. What does it mean? It means nothing. It is as it is and has no need for meaning. The desert lies beneath and soars beyond any possible human qualification. Therefore, sublime. ~ Edward Abbey,

729:Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assuduities of art, with which it would rear dulness to maturity, and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some may be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. ~ Washington Irving,

730:Ayers Rock / Uluru old Mr Uluru a proud man the day the Rock was handed back sits waiting old Mr Walkabout a proud man at the twenty-fifth anniversary of the hand back sits waiting in the Red Rock tavern the old men sit waiting yous wanna beer the barman yells he comes over whatcha waiting for the old men stare out over their Country waiting waiting for recognition as Traditional Owners more than just a few days in their life time. ~ Ali Eckermann,

731:Yeah, well. If you're staying here in hopes of making out with Alaska, I sure wish you wouldn't. If you unmoor her from the rock that is Jake, God have mercy on us all. That would be some drama, indeed. And as a rule, I like to avoid drama." "It's not because I want to make out with her." "Hold on." He grabbed a pencil and scrawled excitedly at the paper as if he'd just made a mathematical breakthrough and then looked back up at me. "I just did some calculations, and I've been able to determine that you're full of shit." And he was right. ~ John Green,

732:experiment at Temple Buell College in Denver where healthy flowers were put in three separate glass cases. Acid rock music was piped into one case, soft East Indian sitar music was piped into the second case, and the third had no music. A CBS camera crew recorded the experiment, using time-lapse photography. At the end of two weeks, the flowers exposed to the rock music were dead, the group with no music was growing normally, and the ones that heard the sitar music had turned into beautiful blooms, with stems and flowers reaching toward the source ~ Anonymous,

733:I am the dangerous daughter, thigh-stroking, soft-tongued lover, the pit, the well, and the well of horniness, laughter rolling up out of me like gravy boiling over the edge of a pan. I become the romantic, the mystic, the one without shame, rocking myself on the hip of a rock, a woman as sharp as coral. I make in my mind the muscle that endures, tame rage and hunger to spirit and blood. I become the rock. I become the knife. I am myself the mystery. The me that will be waits for me. If I cannot dream myself new, how will I find my true self? ~ Dorothy Allison,

734:The Pope replied, “of what should we not be afraid? We should not fear the truth about ourselves.” He spoke of how Saint Peter himself, the rock on which Christ had built his church, had told Christ to leave him, “for I am a sinful man.” Peter was a sinful man. We all are, including popes. We are imperfect and “our hearts are anxious.” But we cannot and should not let the fact of our unworthiness and flaws and failures build that wall with a kind of inverted pride that says, Oh, I’m so unworthy, and I’d know how unworthy I am better than you would. ~ Peggy Noonan,

735:FORTUNE COOKIE THE BLACK WIDOW SPIDER MYSTERY THE RADIO MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE RUNAWAY GHOST THE FINDERS KEEPERS MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE HAUNTED BOXCAR THE CLUE IN THE CORN MAZE THE GHOST OF THE CHATTERING BONES THE SWORD OF THE SILVER KNIGHT THE GAME STORE MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE ORPHAN TRAIN THE VANISHING PASSENGER THE GIANT YO-YO MYSTERY THE CREATURE IN OGOPOGO LAKE THE ROCK ’N’ ROLL MYSTERY THE SECRET OF THE MASK THE SEATTLE PUZZLE THE GHOST IN THE FIRST ROW THE BOX THAT WATCH FOUND A HORSE NAMED DRAGON THE GREAT DETECTIVE RACE T ~ Gertrude Chandler Warner,

736:The Wise and Foolish Builders 24“Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. 26But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. 27The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash. ~ Anonymous,

737:I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted upon me: I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat! "Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,

738:In the face of all the dire and often accurate warnings of danger on the road for women, it took modern feminism to ask the rock-bottom question: Compared to what? Whether by dowry murders in India, honor killings in Egypt, or domestic violence in the United States, records show that women are most likely to be beaten or killed at home and by men they know. Statistically speaking, home is an even more dangerous place for women than the road. Perhaps the most revolutionary act for a woman will be a self-willed journey—and to be welcomed when she comes home. ~ Gloria Steinem,

739:The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit's one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself like a once-blind man unbound. The gaps are the clefts in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fiords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock-more than a maple-universe. ~ Annie Dillard,

740:I used to listen to music from the frosting down. As a word nerd, lyrics are really important to me, and then the melody. Playing in the Rock*A*Teens was the first time I ever heard music from the bottom up. I was hearing songs I'd heard a million times on oldies radio, and I'd be like, "Wow, listen to what the bass is doing!" When I was first singing in bands, I'd just get out there with my machete, wildly whacking away at the foliage. But you learn how to listen. When I feel I'm doing it right, it's 90% listening and 10% output. It's not "look what I can do!" ~ Kelly Hogan,

741:Kaldar picked up a rock and tossed it into the clearing. It landed between two wards. A green stem shot out of the ground, and a hail of needle-thin thorns peppered the soil, striking sparks off the rock. "You got any money on you?" "No." Kaldar grimaced. "What do you have?" William made a mental inventory of some twenty-odd items he'd pulled out of the Mirror's bag of tricks and hid in his clothes this morning. Not much he could part with. "A knife," he said. "Fine. I'll bet my knife against your knife that I can walk through there unharmed. ~ Ilona Andrews,

742:Yes. They did an experiment at Temple Buell College in Denver where healthy flowers were put in three separate glass cases. Acid rock music was piped into one case, soft East Indian sitar music was piped into the second case, and the third had no music. A CBS camera crew recorded the experiment, using time-lapse photography. At the end of two weeks, the flowers exposed to the rock music were dead, the group with no music was growing normally, and the ones that heard the sitar music had turned into beautiful blooms, with stems and flowers reaching toward the source ~ Anonymous,

743:They are of the dream time. I don't understand it, I can't say it in words. Everything dreams. The play of form, of being, is the dreaming of substance. Rocks have their dreams, and the earth changes. . . .But when the mind becomes conscious, when the rate of evolution speeds up, then you have to be careful. Careful of the world. You must learn the way. You must learn the skills, the art, the limits. A conscious mind must be part of the whole, intentionally and carefully--as the rock is part of the whole unconsciously. Do you see? Does it mean anything to you? ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

744:—Finally, he spotted an Asian carp coming their way. The carp wasn’t as big as the elephantine tilapia he had once wrestled, but Lisa was young, and Jeff figured that vanquishing a midsize carp would be enough for someone her age. Jeff hugged his baby girl, gave her a big kiss, and threw her off the rock, right in the path of the bottom feeder. The moral of the story is— —Wait! Wait! What happened? What happened to Lisa? —The carp ate her, of course. She was just a baby! You didn’t really think she was gonna make it, did you? —I…Yes, I did… ~ Sylvain Neuvel,

745:Some of Mitchell’s troops resisted this method of stimulating the rock, which they didn’t think could work. Mitchell listened and acknowledged the doubts, but he pushed forward. “Let’s fracture it anyway,” he told them. Mitchell was determined to be the first to extract serious amounts of natural gas from shale and to do it before his existing fields ran out of gas, scoring a potentially historic windfall and shocking the industry in the process. He knew that if he was successful, the country itself might have a new way of discovering much needed energy resources. ~ Gregory Zuckerman,

746:The pastor shoved forth the testimony that a member of the rock metal group you are paying to see has admitted to consuming human flesh! He did not waste time citing references. It was gospel. His young ladies and young men joggled their heads gravely at each apocalyptic pronunciamento. The pastor fireballed onward with that trapped but defiant look Sam Houston must have gotten when he saw his buddies dropping like mosquitoes at the Alamo. Lucas wondered whether this dude had ever wasted pulpit time on a consideration of the act of communion as symbolic cannibalism. ~ Chet Williamson,

747:The whole thing is too abstract, continued Zafar, this business of our lives standing for something else. All we know is that we don’t want it to stand for nothing. So we dive headlong into becoming heroes, becoming the big swinging dick on Wall Street or the rock star or the hot-shot human rights lawyer. Which is about making our lives stand for something that our intelligence can grasp, saving us from confronting what we fear might be true—or what we would fear if we gave ourselves the chance—namely, that we’re accidental pieces of flesh, mutton without meaning. ~ Zia Haider Rahman,

748:8 And, “He is the stone that makes people stumble,       the rock that makes them fall.”* They stumble because they do not obey God’s word, and so they meet the fate that was planned for them. 9 But you are not like that, for you are a chosen people. You are royal priests,* a holy nation, God’s very own possession. As a result, you can show others the goodness of God, for he called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light. 10 “Once you had no identity as a people;       now you are God’s people. Once you received no mercy;       now you have received God’s mercy.”* ~ Anonymous,

749:Offering to Pan THIS wooden cup, black as an apple pip, Where I with hard insinuating knife Have carved a vine-leaf curling to its tip With node and fold and tendril true to life, I yield it up to Pan in memory Of that day when the shepherd Damis rushed Upon me, snatched it, and drank after me, Laughing when at his impudence I blushed. Not knowing where the horned god's altar is, I leave my offering in the rock's cleft here. - But now my heart is burning for a kiss More deep, and longer clinging, and more near . . . ~ Anna de Noailles,

750:We search out the most perfect pieces of rock. It's so amazing that these formations are so perfect for climbing on. It's almost as if they were created for climbing. You're taking these random rock formations and you're bringing to it this interaction. It transforms it from being this random rock into almost this piece of art. It's almost like a sculpture or something. Just by finding the handholds, finding that line up the rock. Every climb is different, has its own unique set of movements and body positions. Climbing and my appreciation for nature are totally intertwined. ~ Chris Sharma,

751:A bad dream.To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.A bad dream.I remembered everything.I remembered the cadavers and Doreen and the story of the fig-tree and Marco's diamond and the sailor on the Common and Doctor Gordon's wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds I gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a grey skull.Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them.But they were part of me. They were my landscape ~ Sylvia Plath,

752:Fog spilled from the heights of San Francisco like the liquid it almost was. On better days it spread across the bay and took over Oakland street by street, a thing you saw coming, a change you watched happening to you, a season on the move. Where it encountered redwoods, the most local of rains fell. Where it found open space, its weightless pale passage seemed both endless and like the end of all things. It was a temporary sadness, the more beautiful for being sad, the more precious for being temporary. It was the slow song in minor that the rock-and-roll sun then chased away. ~ Jonathan Franzen,

753:What a general could do, Thomas did; no more dependable soldier for a moment of crisis existed on the North American continent, or ever did exist... Thomas comes down in history as the Rock of Chickamauga, the great defensive fighter, the man who could never be driven away but who was not much on the offensive. That may be a correct appraisal, Yet it may also be worth making note that just twice in all the war was a major Confederate army driven away from a prepared position in complete rout - at Chattanooga and at Nashville. Each time the blow that routed it was launched by Thomas. ~ Bruce Catton,

754:The musician Bono, who later became a friend of Jobs, often discussed with him why those immersed in the rock-drugs-rebel counterculture of the Bay Area ended up helping to create the personal computer industry. “The people who invented the twenty-first century were pot-smoking, sandal-wearing hippies from the West Coast like Steve, because they saw differently,” he said. “The hierarchical systems of the East Coast, England, Germany, and Japan do not encourage this different thinking. The sixties produced an anarchic mind-set that is great for imagining a world not yet in existence. ~ Walter Isaacson,

755:Listen to me, you who pursue righteousness,         you who seek the LORD:     look to the rock from which you were hewn,         and to the quarry from which you were dug.     2 Look to Abraham your father         and to Sarah who bore you;     for  e he was but one when I called him,         that I might bless him and multiply him.     3 For the LORD  f comforts Zion;         he comforts all her waste places     and makes her wilderness like  g Eden,         her desert like  h the garden of the LORD;      i joy and gladness will be found in her,         thanksgiving and the voice of song. ~ Anonymous,

756:A victorious line of march had been prolonged above a thousand miles from the rock of Gibraltar to the banks of the Loire; the repetition of an equal space would have carried the Saracens to the confines of Poland and the Highlands of Scotland; the Rhine is not more impassable than the Nile or Euphrates, and the Arabian fleet might have sailed without a naval combat into the mouth of the Thames. Perhaps the interpretation of the Koran would now be taught in the schools of Oxford, and her pulpits might demonstrate to a circumcised people the sanctity and truth of the revelation of Mahomet. ~ Peter Heather,

757:She had told Erstwhile too much in the past, and thus he knew that occasionally she did go crazy. Sometimes it was when she felt particularly trapped or hopeless, or when the tunnels were unusually dark or stuffy, or when she got stuck in a crawl-through. Sometimes it happened for no obvious reason at all. She would feel a terrible panic tightening her chest and giving her heart a queasy lollop, she would be fighting for breath . . . and then she would be recovering somewhere, shuddering and sick, devastation around her and her fingernails broken from clawing at the rock walls and ceilings. ~ Frances Hardinge,

758:ACHILLES – the best fighter of the Greeks who besieged Troy in the Trojan War; extraordinarily strong, courageous, and loyal, he had only one weak spot: his heel AENEAS – a Trojan hero, the son of Aphrodite and a favourite of Apollo; became king of the Trojan people AMPHORA (AMPHORAE, pl.) – a tall ceramic jar ANDROMEDA – the daughter of the Ethiopian king, Cepheus, and his wife, Cassiopeia; after Cassiopeia bragged that her daughter was more beautiful than the Nereids, Poseidon sent a sea monster, Cetus, to attack Ethiopia; Perseus saved Andromeda from the rock she was chained to as a sacrifice ~ Rick Riordan,

759:After chopping off all the arms that reached out to me; after boarding up all the windows and doors; after filling all the pits with poisoned water; after building my house on the rock of a No inaccessible to flattery and fear; after cutting out my tongue and eating it; after hurling handfuls of silence and monosyllables of scorn at my loves; after forgetting my name and the name of my birthplace and the name of my race; after judging and sentencing myself to perpetual waiting and perpetual loneliness, I heard against the stones of my dungeon of syllogisms the humid, tender, insistent onset of spring. ~ Octavio Paz,

760:My own general thesis was somewhat to this effect: that Artists have worried the world by being wantonly, needlessly, and gratuitously progressive. Politicians have to be progressive; that is, they have to live in the future, because they know they have done nothing but evil in the past. But Artists, who have been right from the beginning of the world, who were, perhaps, the only people who were right even in the beginning of the world, decorating pottery or designing rude frescoes on the rock when other people were fighting or offering human sacrifice, they have no right to despise their own past. ~ G K Chesterton,

761:During the trail years, reaching Independence Rock aroused a kind of collective, Paleolithic carving gene, a powerful urge among the pioneers to leave behind some evidence of their arrival. While the wagon trains rested for a day or two at the rock, the pioneers found it irresistible to scramble up the curved walls and chisel in the hard granite their names or initials, the year, and their hometowns. There is no way of knowing exactly how many pioneers left their initials or names behind on Independence Rock because erosion by wind and water over the past century has removed thousands of these inscriptions. ~ Rinker Buck,

762:Weeks and months are needed to accustom oneself to climbing. Otherwise, much energy is lost in clinging to the rock, maintaining too sure a hold, trying not to be too stiff, and worrying. After a while a climber warms to the mountains and can accomplish with little effort those things that once took all he had, for height gradually loses its meaning. Standing on the edge of a two-thousand-meter precipice becomes no less comfortable than sitting in a wicker chair on Capri, for it is possible to acquire some of the self-possession that enables mountain goats to stand for hours on a tiny ledge above an abyss. ~ Mark Helprin,

763:So, without doubt, and much more, is the speech of God (if there be any such thing as the speech of God) to be distinguished from that of the wisest of men; agreeable to Jer. xxiii. 28, 29. God having there been reproving the false prophets that prophesied in his name and pretended that what they spake was his word, when indeed it was their own word, says, “The prophet that hath a dream, let him tell a dream; and he that hath my word, let him speak my word faithfully. What is the chaff to the wheat? saith the Lord. Is not my word like as a fire? saith the Lord; and like a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces?” 2. ~ Jonathan Edwards,

764:Moments left, thought Teddy. A handful of heartbeats. That was what life was. A heartbeat followed by a heartbeat. A breath followed by a breath. One moment followed by another moment and then there was a last moment. Life was as fragile as a bird;s heartbeat, fleeting as the bluebells in the wood. It didn't matter, he realized, he didn't mind, he was going where millions had gone before and where millions would follow after. He shared his fate with the many. And now. This moment. This moment was infinite. He was part of the infinite. The tree and the rock and the water. The rising of the sun and the running of the deer. Now. ~ Kate Atkinson,

765:Don’t want no more rock,” Orc repeated. The bleeding stopped almost immediately. “Does it hurt?” Lana asked. “I mean the rock. I know the hole hurts.” “No. It don’t hurt.” Orc slammed his fist against his opposite arm, hard enough that any human arm would have been shattered. “I barely feel it. Even Drake’s whip, when we was fighting, I barely felt it.” Suddenly he was weeping. Tears rolled from human eyes onto cheeks of flesh and pebbles. “I don’t feel nothing except…” He pointed a thick stone finger at the flesh of his face. “Yeah,” Lana said. Her irritation was gone. Her burden was smaller, maybe, than Orc’s. ~ Michael Grant,

766:Moments left, Teddy thought. A handful of heartbeats. That was what life was. A heartbeat followed by a heartbeat. A breath followed by a breath. One moment followed by another moment and then there was a last moment. Life was as fragile as a bird’s heartbeat, fleeting as the bluebells in the wood. It didn’t matter, he realized, he didn’t mind, he was going where millions had gone before and where millions would follow after. He shared his fate with the many. And now. This moment. This moment was infinite. He was part of the infinite. The tree and the rock and the water. The rising of the sun and the running of the deer. Now. The ~ Kate Atkinson,

767:She was silent; the great wings almost stopped moving; only a delicate stirring seemed to keep them aloft. "Listen, then," Mrs. Whatsit said. The resonant voice rose and the words seemed to be all around them so that Meg felt that she could almost reach out and touch them: "Sing unto the Lord a new song, and His praise from the end of the earth, ye that go down to the sea, and all that there is therein; the isles, and the inhabitants thereof. Let the wilderness and the cities thereof lift their voice; let the inhabitants of the rock sing, let them shout from the top of the mountains. Let them give glory unto the Lord! ~ Madeleine L Engle,

768:I am confident that someday in the future The Rock, who was once a professional wrestler, will run for president of the United States, and I think that he will win. I have seen with my own eyes the power of The Rock. The Rock is a uniter, not a divider. When the BOP showed Walking Tall, the turnout for every screening all weekend long was unprecedented. The Rock has an effect on women that transcends divisions of race, age, cultural background - even social class, the most impenetrable barrier in America. Black, white, Spanish, old, young, all women are hot for The Rock. Even the lesbians agreed that he was mighty easy on the eyes. ~ Piper Kerman,

769:I have hair that drifts like seaweed when I swim. I have eyes that shine like rock pools. My ears are like scallop shells. The ripples on my skin are like the ripples on the sand when the tide has turned back again. At night I gleam and glow like sea beneath the stars and moon. Thoughts dart and dance inside like little minnows in the shallows. They race and flash like mackerel farther out. My wonderings roll in the deep like sails. Dreams dive each night into the dark like dolphins do and break out happy and free into the morning light. These are the things I know about myself and that I see when I look in the rock pools at myself. ~ David Almond,

770:TRUST ME, and don’t be afraid. Many things feel out of control. Your routines are not running smoothly. You tend to feel more secure when your life is predictable. Let Me lead you to the rock that is higher than you and your circumstances. Take refuge in the shelter of My wings, where you are absolutely secure. When you are shaken out of your comfortable routines, grip My hand tightly and look for growth opportunities. Instead of bemoaning the loss of your comfort, accept the challenge of something new. I lead you on from glory to glory, making you fit for My kingdom. Say yes to the ways I work in your life. Trust Me, and don’t be afraid. ~ Sarah Young,

771:As he left Yata’s home that morning, he knew that a part of his life was complete and that whatever path he chose, he would experience the ache of unfulfilled dreams. For a moment he allowed himself to feel regret at the thought of never building a cottage by the river with Trevanion. Or living the life of a simple farmer connected to the earth. Or traveling his kingdom, satisfying the nomad he had become. To be Finnikin of the Rock and the Monts and the River and the Flatlands and the Forest. To be none of those at all. Yet he also knew that to lose her to another man would be a slow torture every day for the rest of his life. ~ Melina Marchetta,

772:I get most of my inspiration from two places: my own life, and reading. I read widely—in my genre (romance), and in all sorts of different genres, from urban fantasy to literature. Then there’s your own life. Romance is a fantasy genre, but if the rock core of your characters doesn’t come from your own life, from emotions you know intimately, the book won’t fly. I don’t mean you have to be married to Casanova—I mean that a heroine will feel genuine to readers if she shares some of your fears or triumphs. Craft the emotional part of the plot from truths you learned from your own life, from watching your friends’ lives, or from reading books. ~ Eloisa James,

773:Now you know who I am. I haven't hidden anything from you. My soul is as naked as my face." She kept retreating, until her back hit the rock. "What about me?" she said. "Do you know who I am?" "Jethro's daughter." She laughed, and held out her arms and hands, their color blending into the darkness. "With skin like this? Do you really think so?" Before she could react, he imprisoned her fingers and drew her to him. "You are Zipporah, the Cushite, the woman Moses saved from the hands of the shepherds and at the well of Irmna. You are the woman who always knows where to find me, the woman who brought me food without knowing who I was. ~ Marek Halter,

774:Do not withhold Your mercy from me, O Lord; may Your love and Your truth always protect me. For troubles without number surround me; my sins have overtaken me, and I cannot see. They are more than the hairs of my head, and my heart fails within me. Be pleased, O Lord, to save me; O Lord, come quickly to help me (Ps. 40:11-13). From the ends of the earth I call to You, O Lord. I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For You have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe (Ps. 61:2-3). O Lord, be my rock of refuge, to which I can always go; give the command to save me, for You are my rock and my fortress (Ps. 71:3). ~ Beth Moore,

775:Peter and James and John could write of their experience on the mount of transfiguration, and publish a book called “Mountaintop Experiences with Jesus”. Several of them could allude their former hum-drum lives, and contrast that with what they were now: “From Fishermen to Apostles: the Secret of Success”, or “Leadership Skills of Those Who Have Made It to the Top.” Peter could allude to Caesarea Philippi, how Jesus, you remember, had called him “The Rock.” “How to Be Number One”, by Rocky.....Judas–he could publish a book and call it “Investing for Eternity: How God Doesn't Want You to be Poor.” Or, “Nobody Remembers Who Came Second.” You get my drift. ~ Anonymous,

776:Then overwhelmed by the sense of that unknown infinity, like one bewildered by a strange persecution, confronting the shadows of night, in the presence of that impenetrable darkness, in the midst of the murmur of the waves, the swell, the foam, the breeze, under the clouds, under that vast diffusion of force, under that mysterious firmament of wings, of stars, of gulfs, having around him and beneath him the ocean above him the constellations, under the great unfathomable deep, he sank, gave up the struggle, lay down upon the rock, his face towards the stars, humble, and uplifting his joined hands towards the terrible depths, he cried aloud, "Have mercy. ~ Victor Hugo,

777:These words I speak to you are not incidental additions to your life, homeowner improvements to your standard of living. They are foundational words, words to build a life on. If you work these words into your life, you are like a smart carpenter who built his house on solid rock. Rain poured down, the river flooded, a tornado hit—but nothing moved that house. It was fixed to the rock. But if you just use my words in Bible studies and don’t work them into your life, you are like a stupid carpenter who built his house on the sandy beach. When a storm rolled in and the waves came up, it collapsed like a house of cards.” — MATTHEW 7:24-27 (THE MESSAGE ~ Bethany Hamilton,

778:During the first decade of the century, Rutherford was able to show that the Earth’s crust had to be billions of years old. He did this by measuring the amount of helium trapped inside rock samples, in which tiny amounts of uranium ore had slowly been emitting alpha particles ever since the rocks had been formed. Each alpha particle would be trapped by the rock and would quickly acquire a couple of electrons to become a helium atom. Such simple yet irrefutable proof one hundred years ago that our planet had to be more than a billion years old is something which those who subscribe to the notion of creationism are unable to challenge with any credibility. ~ Jim Al Khalili,

779:Claire was just coming down the stairs, humming and thinking about how nice it was to have things getting back to normal, and how she'd tell Shane about the January thing tonight, when Myrnin sent a message through the portal. Well, more of a rock with a note tied to it, which rolled across the floor and scared Eve into a scream before the portal snapped shut. Eve kicked the rock resentfully with her thick black boots and glared at it, then at the wall. Claire gave her a "What the hell?" kind of look. "Your boss," Eve said, and reached down to grab the rock, "needs to figure out texting. Seriously. Who does this? Is he actually from the Stone Age? ~ Rachel Caine,

780:The rapid rise of communication and collaboration technologies has transformed many other formerly local markets into a similarly universal bazaar. The small company looking for a computer programmer or public relations consultant now has access to an international marketplace of talent in the same way that the advent of the record store allowed the small-town music fan to bypass local musicians to buy albums from the world’s best bands. The superstar effect, in other words, has a broader application today than Rosen could have predicted thirty years ago. An increasing number of individuals in our economy are now competing with the rock stars of their sectors. ~ Cal Newport,

781:Moments of doubt are inevitable, especially in a culture that embraces cynicism and mocks idealism as a fool’s errand. But if we look at life through a historical lens, we find that the proverbial rock can be rolled, if not to the top of the mountain, then at least to successive plateaus. Indeed, simply pushing the rock in the right direction is cause for celebration. History also shows that even seemingly miraculous advances are in fact the result of many people taking small steps together over a long period of time. For every Desmond Tutu, there are thousands of anonymous men and women who have been equally principled, equally resolute in the same causes. ~ Paul Rogat Loeb,

782:So Yahweh will give you what you want. Just as he gave the meat for you in the wilderness and the water from the rock when you grumbled and complained. Now you cry out for a king to deliver you from the hands of the Philistines. But you will be sorry for wanting to be like the nations. Yahweh will appoint a king over you. And he will take the best of your daughters to be his servants and will conscript your sons to war. He will take the best of your fields and vineyards. He will take an oppressive tenth of everything you produce as a tax. You will complain to Yahweh, but it will be too late, and you will deserve what you get when you get what you have demanded. ~ Brian Godawa,

783:To Clementina Black More blest than was of old Diogenes, I have not held my lantern up in vain. Not mine, at least, this evil--to complain: "There is none honest among all of these." Our hopes go down that sailed before the breeze; Our creeds upon the rock are rent in twain; Something it is, if at the last remain One floating spar cast up by hungry seas. The secret of our being, who can tell? To praise the gods and Fate is not my part; Evil I see, and pain ; within my heart There is no voice that whispers: "All is well." Yet fair are days in summer; and more fair The growths of human goodness here and there. ~ Amy Levy,

784:At the corner of the table sat a stack of papers with a big rock holding them down—made of a material, Lex noted, that she was pretty sure didn’t exist anywhere on the periodic table. Uncle Mort set the rock aside and started to sift through the papers, staring at them intently. “Should we point out that there’s nothing on them?” Lex whispered to Driggs. “And spoil the fun of watching an honest-to-God crazy person do what he does best?” “It’s written in Elixir ink,” Grotton said behind them. When Lex looked at him with the sort of expression that such a statement might elicit, he pursed his lips. “Invisible to everyone but the person who wrote it. Amateurs ~ Gina Damico,

785:Your prowess with a lightsaber is childish vanity. Your physical Force powers are no more than a conjurer's trick, sleight of hand to dazzle the ordinary beings you should be serving. You profane these powers by using them as weapons in war. And you fail to grasp the single, simple, uncompromising duty of the true Jedi. The Jedi is the rock-lion at the gate who says, "I will defend these beings with my life, and that is the sum of me." Etain Tur-Mukan died to save one life, a man she did not even know, but felt compelled to save, and that is what made her stronger in the Force and a truer Jedi than any of you acrobats, tricksters, and specious, empty philosophers. ~ Karen Traviss,

786:Sonnet Lxxxi. HE may be envied, who with tranquil breast Can wander in the wild and woodland scene, When summer's glowing hands have newly dress'd The shadowy forests, and the copses green; Who, unpursued by care, can pass his hours Where briony and woodbine fringe the trees, On thymy banks reposing, while the bees Murmur 'their fairy tunes, in praise of flowers;' Or on the rock with ivy clad, and fern That overhangs the ozier-whispering bed Of some clear current, bid his wishes turn From this bad world; and by calm reason led, Knows, in refined retirement, to possess By friendship hallow'd--rural happiness! ~ Charlotte Smith,

787:Can writing ever be taught? The best answer to that was given obliquely by the rock musician David Lee Roth. When asked if money could buy happiness he said, no, but with money you could buy the big boat and go right up to where the people were happy. With a teacher you can go right up to where the writing is done; the leap is made alone with vision, subject, passion, and instinct. So a writer comes to the page with vision in her heart and craft in her hands and a sense of what a story might be in her head. How do the three come together? My thesis is the old one: they merge in the physical writing—inside the act of writing, not from the outside. The process is the teacher. ~ Ron Carlson,

788:An Observation True gardeners cannot bear a glove Between the sure touch and the tender root, Must let their hands grow knotted as they move With a rough sensitivity about Under the earth, between the rock and shoot, Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit. And so I watched my mother's hands grow scarred, She who could heal the wounded plant or friend With the same vulnerable yet rigorous love; I minded once to see her beauty gnarled, But now her truth is given me to live, As I learn for myself we must be hard To move among the tender with an open hand, And to stay sensitive up to the end Pay with some toughness for a gentle world. ~ May Sarton,

789:On A Portrait Of Wordsworth WORDSWORTH upon Helvellyn ! Let the cloud Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind, Then break against the rock, and show behind The lowland valleys floating up to crowd The sense with beauty. He with forehead bowed And humble-lidded eyes, as one inclined Before the sovran thought of his own mind, And very meek with inspirations proud, Takes here his rightful place as poet-priest By the high altar, singing prayer and prayer To the higher Heavens. A noble vision free Our Haydon's hand has flung out from the mist: No portrait this, with Academic air ! This is the poet and his poetry. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

790:Bleak as the scene was, though, there was growing joy in Inman's heart. He was nearing home; he could feel it in the touch of thin air on skin, in his longing to see the lead of hearth smoke from the houses of people he had known all his life. People he would not be called upon to hate or fear. He rose and took a wide stance on the rock and stood and pinched down his eyes to sharpen the view across the vast propect to one far mountain. It stood apart from the sky only as the stroke of a poorly inked pen, a line thin and quick and gestural. But the shape slowly grew plain and unmistakable. It was to Cold Mountain he looked. He had achieved a vista of what for him was homeland. ~ Charles Frazier,

791:We fervently need God to stay the same—our great hope of salvation lies in his remaining exactly as who he says he is, doing exactly what he has said he will do. As long as his infinite sameness endures, he will not change his mind about setting his love on us. We cannot commit a future sin that will change his verdict, because his verdict was passed with every sin past, present, and future fixed in view. Whom God pronounces righteous will always be righteous. Nothing we could do can remove from us the seal of his promised redemption. Nothing can separate us from the unfailing, unchanging love of this great God, the Rock of our salvation upon which the house of our faith is built. ~ Jen Wilkin,

792:The rock struck Piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist. Piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, travelled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went. The rock bounded twice and was lost in the forest. Piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across that square, red rock in the sea. His head opened and stuff came out and turned red. Piggy's arms and legs twitched a bit, like a pig's after it has been killed. Then the sea breathed again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was gone. ~ William Golding,

793:By the midpoint, he’d shot up to my waist, but his muttered curses told me he’d underestimated how good I was--or overestimated how good he was--and it was clear he wasn’t going to catch up in time. So I stopped. Daniel leaned over and mouthed, “What are you doing?” Below, the others yelled, a cacophony of shouts and cheers and jeers. Rafe reached up, his bracelet hitting the rock with a ping. I glanced at it. A worn rawhide band with a cat’s-eye stone. I could see his tattoo better, too, as he pulled himself up, and I recognized the symbol. A crow mother kachina. Hopi. As he drew up alongside me, he cocked one brow. “You really want that kiss don’t you?” he said. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

794:Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, from the town, burrowing among the dwellings of men and making the streets hum, flashing out into the meadows for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, booming on in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so bright and wide; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, through the fields, through the woods, through the corn, through the hay, through the chalk, through the mould, through the clay, through the rock, among objects close at hand and almost in the grasp, ever flying from the traveller, and a deceitful distance ever moving slowly with him: like as in the track of the remorseless monster, Death! ~ Charles Dickens,

795:The church is not built on the rock foundation of geniuses and influencers but of apostles and prophets. This should hardly be surprising, since the kingdom is not greater than its king, and the body is not greater than its head. When confronted by the gospel, the natural response from any culture is, “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?” That’s true, come to think of it, even in Nazareth (Luke 4:24). And the natural counter-argument from the church is, “Come and see” (John 1:46). The kingdom of God dawns in trailer parks and refugee camps. That shouldn’t surprise us. The kingdom came to us not from a boardroom or a literary guild, but from a feeding trough and an execution stake. ~ Russell D Moore,

796:I speak here of poetry as a revelatory distillation of experience, not the sterile word play that, too often, the white fathers distorted the word poetry to mean--in order to cover a desperate wish for imagination without insight. For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives. ~ Audre Lorde,

797:Two genii are there, from thy birth through weary life to guide thee; Ah, happy when, united both, they stand to aid beside thee? With gleesome play to cheer the path, the one comes blithe with beauty, And lighter, leaning on her arm, the destiny and duty. With jest and sweet discourse she goes unto the rock sublime, Where halts above the eternal sea the shuddering child of time. The other here, resolved and mute and solemn, claspeth thee, And bears thee in her giant arms across the fearful sea. Never admit the one alone!Give not the gentle guide Thy honornor unto the stern thy happiness confide! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Two Guides Of Life - The Sublime And The Beautiful ,

798:Just as one might do useful work without fully understanding the job one was engaged in, or even what the point of it was, so the behaviour of devotion still mattered to the all-forgiving God, and just as the habitual performance of a task gradually raised one’s skills to something close to perfection, bringing a deeper understanding of the work, so the actions of faith would lead to the state of faith. Finally, she was shown the filthy, stinking, windowless cell carved into the rock beneath the Refuge where she would be chained, starved and beaten if she did not at least try to accept God’s love. She trembled as she looked at the shackles and the flails, and agreed she would do her best. ~ Iain M Banks,

799:This plague... This curse... I have an idea where it came from. I don't think it's from any spell or virus or nuclear rays. I think it's from a deeper place. I think we brought it here. I think we crushed ourselves down over the centuries. Buried ourselves under greed and hate and whatever other sins we could find until our souls finally hit the rock bottom of the universe. And then they scraped a hole through it, into some... dark place. We released it. We poked through the seabed and the oil erupted, painted us black, pulled our inner sickness out for everyone to see. Now here we are in this dry corpse of a world, rotting on our feet till there's nothing left but bones and the buzz of flies. ~ Isaac Marion,

800:Wolf, as he watched her, felt weak, despicable, faltering. He felt like a finical attendant watching the splendid fury of some Sophoclean heroine. He became aware that her anger leaped up from some incalculable crevasse in the rock crust of the universe, such as he himself had never approached. The nature of her feelings, its directness, its primordial simplicity, reduced his own emotion to something ridiculous. She towered above him there with that grand convulsed face and those expanded breasts; while her fine hands, clutching at her belt, seemed to display a wild desire to strip naked before him, to overwhelm him with the wrath of her naked maternal body, bare to the outrage of his impiety. ~ John Cowper Powys,

801:God helps us in the obstacles of life. When you turn your obstacles over to the Lord, He acts. What will He do? Sometimes He overcomes the obstacles. God is with us in the hopeless places. How hopeless the Israelites were at the Red Sea! The enemy soldiers were behind them; the wilderness was around them; the sea was in front of them. But God opened a way to escape. Sometimes God removes the obstacles—the “hills” and the “mountains.” He just makes them skip and run away like animals. He also can turn the obstacles into blessings. He “turned the rock into a pool of water, the flint into a fountain of waters” (v. 8). If God doesn’t overcome or remove your obstacle, let Him turn it into a blessing. ~ Warren W Wiersbe,

802:This second type of vent is not volcanic, and there’s no magma involved. Instead, it depends on the reaction of these freshly exposed rocks with seawater. Water doesn’t just percolate into such rocks: it physically reacts with them; it is incorporated into them, altering their structure to form hydroxide minerals like serpentine (named after its resemblance to the mottled green scales of a serpent). The reaction with seawater expands the rock, causing it to crack and fracture, which in turn permits further seawater to penetrate, perpetuating the process. The scale of such reactions is astonishing. The volume of water bound into rock in this way is believed to equal the volume of the oceans themselves. As ~ Nick Lane,

803:Hemingway Dines On Boiled Shrimp And Beer I'm the original two-hearted brawler. I gnaw the scrawny heads from prawns, pummel those mute, translucent crustaceans, wingless hummingbirds, salt-water spawned. As the Catalonians do, I eat the eyes at once. My brawny palms flatten their mainstays. I pop the shells with my thumbs, then crunch. Just watch me as I swagger and sprawl, spice-mad and sated, then dabble in lager before I go strolling for stronger waters down to Sloppy Joe' stride as I stagger shivers the islands, my fingers troll a thousand keys. My appetite shakes the rock of the nation. The force of my fiction makes the mighty Gulf Stream. ~ Campbell McGrath,

804:The inside of the Trace Italian, of course, does not exist. A player can get close enough to see it: it shines in the new deserts of Kansas, gleaming in the sun or starkly rising from the winter cold. The rock walls that protect it meet in points around it, one giving way to another, for days on end. But the dungeons into which you'll fall as you work through the pathways to its gates number in the low hundreds, and if you actually get into the entry hall, there are a few hundred more sub-dungeons before you'll actually reach somewhere that's truly safe. Technically, it's possible to get to the last room in the final chamber of the Trace Italian, but no one will ever do it. No one will ever live that long. ~ John Darnielle,

805:She covered her mouth while her promised one slipped back into the rock he now considered his eternal tomb. Pallador took possession of the scarlet gem and returned it to its dark hiding place. Eena couldn’t move. She stood frozen, facing the wall of mirrors, staring at a pathetic image that mourned in endless repeated reflections. This would be her agonizing eternity if she agreed to stay in Tribanees. This would be her hell—seeing her beloved day after day after day, unable to feel his touch or know his physical affections. This was no blessing in tragedy. Cursed be the immortal that believed time was more precious than love. Her answer to Pallador’s offer was an irrefutable and definitive no. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

806:A little after moonrise Stephen woke. Extreme hunger had brought on cramps in his midriff again and he held his breath to let them pass: Jack was still sitting there, the tiller under his knee, the sheet in his hand, as though he had never moved, as though he were as immoveable as the Rock of Gibraltar and as unaffected by hunger, thirst, fatigue, or despondency. In this light he even looked rock-like, the moon picking out the salient of his nose and jaw and turning his broad shoulders and upper man into one massive block. He had in fact lost almost as much weight as a man can lose and live, and in the day his shrunken, bearded face with deep-sunk eyes was barely recognizable; but the moon showed the man unchanged. ~ Patrick O Brian,

807:A recent study of how men and women differ when it comes to the mall turned up this fact: Men, once you get them in the door, are much more in- terested in the social aspect of malls than the shopping part, whereas women say the social aspect is important but shopping comes rst. Men enjoy the mall as a form of recreation—they like watching people and browsing around in stores more than shopping. Maybe they’ll spend fteen minutes in a bookstore or a stereo store and leave without buying a thing. They treat it like an information-gathering trip. Men also like the nonretail parts—the rock-climbing walls, the food courts, anything that doesn’t actually require them to enter stores and look at, try on, or buy merchandise. ~ Paco Underhill,

808:Sonnet Xxxv. To Fortitude NYMPH of the rock! whose dauntless spirit braves The beating storm, and bitter winds that howl Round thy cold breast; and hear'st the bursting waves And the deep thunder with unshaken soul; Oh come!--and show how vain the cares that press On my weak bosom--and how little worth Is the false fleeting meteor, Happiness, That still misleads the wanderers of the earth! Strengthen'd by thee, this heart shall cease to melt O'er ills that poor humanity must bear; Nor friends estranged, or ties dissolved be felt To leave regret, and fruitless anguish there: And when at length it heaves its latest sigh, Thou and mild Hope shall teach me how to die. ~ Charlotte Smith,

809:…I suddenly discerned at my feet, crouching among the rocks for protection against the heat, the marine goddesses for whom Elstir had lain in wait and whom he had surprised there, beneath the dark glaze as lovely as Leonardo would have painted, the marvelous Shadows, sheltering furtively, nimble and silent, ready at the first glimmer of light to slip behind the stone, to hide in a cranny, and prompt, once the menacing ray had passed, to return to the rock or the seaweed over whose torpid slumbers they seemed to be keeping vigil, beneath the sun that crumbled the cliffs and the etiolated ocean, motionless lightfoot guardians darkening the water’s surface with their viscous bodies and the attentive gaze of their deep blue eyes. ~ Marcel Proust,

810:The sky has stopped offering you reasons to live and your heart is the rock you threw through each window of what's deserted you, so you turn to the burnt out building inside you: the scaffolding overhead, the fallen beams, the unsound framework; according to the blue that's printed on the inside of your arms you have no plans, no plans uncovered, or uncovering: the offing is emptying, the horizon empty now that your sanity is a tarp or a bedsheet in the rough hands of the wind, now that everything is hooded in drop cloth. It didn't happen overnight. Or maybe it did: your heart, the rock; your soul, the Gothic barn. ~ Olena Kalytiak Davis,

811:Gabriel!" He didn't look up. "Gabriel!" Her voice was strained, insistent. "Gabriel!" He chanced a look, intending to tell her in very clear terms that any conversation would have to wait. She was standing at the edge of the cliff, struggling to hold a rock several times larger than her head. Seeing him look up, Emma let go of her burden. Gabriel swung himself out to the left. The rock plummeted past, missing him by inches, and caught the Screecher full in the face, connecting with a crunching thuck and knocking the creature off the bridge. Gabriel watched its body disappear into the void, then turned his gaze back to Emma. The girl waved at him, smiling. "It's okay! I got him!" Children, he thought. ~ John Stephens,

812:It was immediately obvious what the Church would have objected to. Peter, according to Jesus in the canonical Gospels, was the rock on which the Church was built. The two hundred and sixty-five men who’ve served as the head of the Catholic Church over the centuries all trace their lineage back to Peter, the first Pope whose authority was ordained by God. That line of papal succession, Alex knew, was based on Matthew 16:18. “The Lord says to Peter: ‘I say to you,’ he says, ‘that you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church, and the gates of hell will not overcome it.’” But here was a very different version of events, a suppressed version that had Jesus anointing a different disciple: his brother, James, as his earthly successor. ~ Dan Eaton,

813:Newton Pulsifer had never had a cause in his life. Nor had he, as far as he knew, ever believed in anything. It had been embarrassing, because he quite wanted to believe in something, since he recognized that belief was the lifebelt that got most people through the choppy waters of Life. He’d have liked to believe in a supreme God, although he’d have preferred a half-hour’s chat with Him before committing himself, to clear up one or two points. He’d sat in all sorts of churches, waiting for that single flash of blue light, and it hadn’t come. And then he’d tried to become an official Atheist and hadn’t got the rock-hard, self-satisfied strength of belief even for that. And every single political party had seemed to him equally dishonest. ~ Terry Pratchett,

814:Well, see, I was thinking, let's say you throw a rock at something. At a tree. You throw it, and it goes through the air and hits the tree. Right? But it can't. Because—can I have the slate? Look, here's you throwing the rock, and here's the tree... that's supposed to be a tree, and here's the rock, see, halfway in between. To get from you to the tree, the rock has to be halfway in between you and the tree, doesn't it. And then it has to be halfway between halfway and the tree. And then it has to be halfway between that and the tree. It doesn't matter how far it's gone, there's always a place, only it's a time really, that's halfway between the last place it was and the tree— It doesn't matter how you aim it. It can't reach the tree. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

815:The Eagle And The Mole Avoid the reeking herd, Shun the polluted flock, Live like that stoic bird, The eagle of the rock. The huddled warmth of crowds Begets and fosters hate; He keeps above the clouds His cliff inviolate. When flocks are folded warm, And herds to shelter run, He sails above the storm, He stares into the sun. If in the eagle's track Your sinews cannot leap, Avoid the lathered pack, Turn from the steaming sheep. If you would keep your soul From spotted sight or sound, Live like the velvet mole: Go burrow underground. And there hold intercourse With roots of trees and stones, With rivers at their source, And disembodied bones. ~ Elinor Morton Wylie,

816:Crayfish,” I said. I dumped out a tin of water. “Really?” I nodded. “Big ones?” “Not these. You can find them, though.” “Can I see?” She dropped down off the bank just like a boy would, not sitting first, just putting her left hand to the ground and vaulting the three-foot drop to the first big stone in the line that led zigzag across the water. She studied the line a moment and then crossed to the Rock. I was impressed. She had no hesitation and her balance was perfect. I made room for her. There was suddenly this fine clean smell sitting next to me. Her eyes were green. She looked around. To all of us back then the Rock was something special. It sat smack in the middle of the deepest part of the brook, the water running clear and fast around it. ~ Jack Ketchum,

817:Don’t think they have them in New York City.” She laughed. I didn’t mind. “We get lobsters, though. They can hurt you.” “Can you keep one? I mean, you can’t keep a lobster like a pet or anything, right?” She laughed again. “No. You eat them.” “You can’t keep a crayfish either. They die. One day or maybe two, tops. I hear people eat them too, though.” “Really?” “Yeah. Some do. In Louisiana or Florida or someplace.” We looked down into the can. “I don’t know,” she said, smiling. “There’s not a whole lot to eat down there.” “Let’s get some big ones.” We lay across the Rock side by side. I took the can and slipped both arms down into the brook. The trick was to turn the stones one at a time, slowly so as not to muddy the water, then have the can there ~ Jack Ketchum,

818:These images would be the envy of art galleries around the world today, or Madison Avenue marketeers—rich, vibrant, and ingenious. You can almost see them move and ripple in the flickering firelight that once illuminated the cave walls as the Cro–Magnon artists stood with their palettes of primordial paints and dyes, dabbing the walls, extracting the beasts from their minds and applying their images to the rock. What powerful magic this must have been to the painter and those who witnessed the work. How could any creature imagine such things and then make them appear right before your very eyes? What hidden powers could enable a living thing to consciously and purposefully create beauty out of nothing more than the popping of the synapses in his head? ~ Chip Walter,

819:It takes will power and nerve to hold the stick that way, to keep his eyes open and watch the rocky face of the cliff, pine-bearded, rush up at them. O'Shaughnessy's mouth flattens, his face goes white. And then in that final fraction of a moment, he laughs, a little crazily - a laugh of defiance, of mocking farewell, and, somehow, of conquest. 'Here we go, baby!' he shouts, teeth bared. 'Now I'm going to find out what it really feels like to fly into the side of a mountain!...' There is only the storm to hear the smash of the plane as it splinters itself against the rock - and the storm drowns the sound out with thunder, just as the lightning turns pale the flame that rises, like a hungry tongue, from the wreckage. ("Jane Browns Body") ~ Cornell Woolrich,

820:Left alone, I am overtaken by the northern void-no wind, no cloud, no track, no bird, only the crystal crescents between peaks, the ringing monuments of rock that, freed from the talons of ice and snow, thrust an implacable being into the blue. In the early light, the rock shadows on the snow are sharp; in the tension between light and dark is the power of the universe. This stillness to which all returns, this is reality, and soul and sanity have no more meaning than a gust of snow; such transience and insignificance are exalting, terrifying, all at once…Snow mountains, more than sea or sky, serve as a mirror to one’s own true being, utterly still, utterly clear, a void, an Emptiness without life or sound that carries in Itself all life, all sound. ~ Peter Matthiessen,

821:When it gets dark, it's only because god has tucked me in a cleft of the rock and covered me, protected, with His hand? In the pitch, I feel like I'm falling, sense the bridge giving way, God long absent. In the dark, the bridge and my world shakes, cracking dreams. But maybe this is true reality: It is in the dark that God is passing by. the bridge and our lives shake not because God has abandoned, but the exact opposite: God is passing by. God is in the tremors. Dark is the holiest ground, the glory passing by. In the blackest, God is closest, at work, forging His perfect and right will. Though it is black and we can't see and our world seems to be free-falling and we feel utterly alone, Christ is most present to us, I-beam supporting in earthquake. ~ Ann Voskamp,

822:He just stared into the flames. 2 A happy man has no past, while an unhappy man has nothing else. In his old age Dorrigo Evans never knew if he had read this or had himself made it up. Made up, mixed up, and broken down. Relentlessly broken down. Rock to gravel to dust to mud to rock and so the world goes, as his mother used to say when he demanded reasons or explanation as to how the world got to be this way or that. The world is, she would say. It just is, boy. He had been trying to wrest the rock free from an outcrop to build a fort for a game he was playing when another, larger rock dropped onto his thumb, causing a large and throbbing blood blister beneath the nail. His mother swung Dorrigo up onto the kitchen table where the lamp light fell strongest ~ Richard Flanagan,

823:Moments later, he was dashing across Rubensstrasse, down a dark alley, and over to Tiergartenstrasse. He turned right, staying in the shadows, close to the houses, running toward the auto repair shop about halfway down the street. He knew the place well. The shop was where Hans’s brother worked as a mechanic and where he kept his motorbike. Jacob knew the keys were hanging on a nail in the wall of the main office. Reaching the back of the shop, Jacob picked up a rock and smashed out a window. He used the rock to scrape away the remaining glass, then climbed inside the shop, found the key, hoisted up the main garage door, and started the motorbike. Soon he was zigzagging through the streets of Siegen until he found the main thoroughfare and headed toward the mountains. ~ Joel C Rosenberg,

824:The seven black priests—" Fafhrd muttered. "The six," the Mouser corrected. "We killed one of them last night." "Well, the six then," Fafhrd conceded. "They seem angry with us." "As why shouldn't they be?" the Mouser demanded. "We stole their idol's only eye. Such an act annoys priests tremendously." It seemed to have more eyes than that one," Fafhrd asserted thoughtfully, "if only it had opened them." "Thank Aarth it didn't!" the Mouser hissed. "And 'ware that dart!" Fafhrd hit the dirt—or rather the rock—instantly, and the black dart skirred on the ice ahead. "I think they're unreasonably angry," Fafhrd asserted, scrambling to his feet. "Priests always are," the Mouser said philosophically, with a sidewise shudder at the dart's black-crusted point. ~ Fritz Leiber,

825:Curran snarled and hurled the rock against the mountain. The boulder flew, hit like a cannon ball, and rolled back down. Curran chased it, pulled another smaller rock out of the dirt, and smashed it against the first one. Wow. He was really pissed. Astamur's eyes were as big as plates. "I can get him to put those back after he's done," I told him. "No," Astamur said slowly. "It's fine." Curran picked up the smaller rock with both hands and threw it onto the larger boulder. The boulder cracked and fell apart. Oops. "Sorry we broke your rock." Atsany took the pipe out of his mouth and said something. "Mrrrhhhm," Astamur said. "What did he say?" "He said that the man must be your husband, because only someone we love very much can make us this crazy. ~ Ilona Andrews,

826:You have a lucky bra, something that I imagine has carried you through some challenging and tough nights & days, & I have this rock. She lets Catherine take the rock into her hand, & feel how just holding it, like wearing a fabulous bra, can be a comfort. They don't talk about it because they are women & they know. They know about comfort & the loss of it, & they know about sacrifice & change, & that the ring of a doorbell, a wild call at midnight, the scent of something new, the touch of a baby, or a lover's fresh face can change everything. They know. ... she gently hands back the stone, understanding its importance, but also not about to stop herself from saying, "You'll understand if I don't hand over the bra." They laugh. Which is the perfect thing to do. ~ Kris Radish,

827:My grandmother lived a remarkable life. She watched her nation fall to pieces; and even when she became collateral damage, she believed in the power of the human spirit. She gave when she had nothing; she fought when she could barely stand; she clung to tomorrow when she couldn’t find footing on the rock ledge of yesterday. She was a chameleon, slipping into the personae of a privileged young girl, a frightened teen, a dreamy novelist, a proud prisoner, an army wife, a mother hen. She became whomever she needed to be to survive, but she never let anyone else define her. By anyone’s account, her existence had been full, rich, important—even if she chose not to shout about her past, but rather to keep it hidden. It had been nobody’s business but her own; it was still nobody’s business. ~ Jodi Picoult,

828:Without constant restoration we are not ready for the perpetual assaults of hell, or the stern afflictions of heaven, or even for the strifes within. When the whirlwind shall be loosed, woe to the tree that has not sucked up fresh sap, and grasped the rock with many intertwisted roots. When tempests arise, woe to the mariners that have not strengthened their mast, nor cast their anchor, nor sought the haven. If we allow the good to grow weaker, the evil will surely gather strength and struggle desperately for the mastery over us; and so, perhaps, a painful desolation, and a lamentable disgrace may follow. Let us draw near to the footstool of divine mercy in humble entreaty, and we shall realize the fulfillment of the promise, "Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

829:The full-on Townsend-Moon hooter. She only ever found this problematic in males who hadn’t become pop musicians; it seemed, then, in some weirdly inverted way, affected. It looked, to her, as though they’d grown large noses in order to look like rock musicians. More weirdly, perhaps, they all tended—certified accountants, radiologists, or whatever—to the flopping forelock that had traditionally gone with it, back in Muswell Hill or Denmark Street. This, she’d once reasoned, must be due in one of two ways to hairdressers. Either they saw the rock mega-nose and dressed the hair above it out of a call to historical tradition, or they weighed the issue in some instinctive, deeply hairdresserly way, arriving at that massive slash and heft of eye-obscuring forelock through some simple sense of balance. ~ William Gibson,

830:Sonnet On Affixing A Tablet To The Memory Of Captain Cook And Sir Joseph Banks Against The Rock Of Their First Landing In Botany Bay I have been musing what our Banks had said And Cook, had they had second sight, that here (Where fifty years ago the first they were Of voyagers, whose feet did ever tread These savage shores) — that here on this south head Should stand an English farm-hut; and that there On yon north shore, a barrack tow'r should peer; Still more had they this simple Tablet read, Erected by their own compatriots born, Colonists here of a discordant state, Yet big with virtues (though the flow'ry name Which Science left it, has become a scorn And hissing to the nations), if our Great Be Wise and Good. So fairest Rome became! ~ Barron Field,

831:Anyways, the guys try to be cool. They just lie there and groove, but after a while they start hearing - you won't believe this - they hear chamber music. They hear violins and cellos. They hear this terrific mama-san soprano. Then after a while they hear gook opera and and a glee club and the Haiphong Boys Choir and a barbershop quartet and and all kinds of wierd chanting and Buddha-Buddha stuff. All the whole time, in the background, there's stil that cocktail party going on. All these different voices. Not human voices, though. Because it's the mountains. Follow me? The rock, it's TALKING. And the fog, too, and the grass and the goddamn mongooses. Everything talks. The trees talk politics, the monnkeys talk religion. The whole country. Vietnam. The place talks. It talks. Understand? Nam - it truly TALKS. ~ Tim O Brien,

832:Deerfield, Massachusetts February 29, 1704 Temperature 0 degrees The rock-hard wetness of her heavy leather shoes had frozen her toes and blistered her heels. But now her feet were cozy inside the soft moccasins. She felt guilty about the others, still suffering, and then, astonished, saw that all the prisoners were being given moccasins. She and Eben Nims stared at each other. “They knew they would take this many prisoners, Eben,” whispered Mercy. “They have enough moccasins to go around. They have little pairs and big pairs.” She thought of them back in Canada, around their fires, among their French allies, planning how many pairs of moccasins they would need when they sacked Deerfield. They mean us to live, thought Mercy. But why? What will they do with all of us? ~ Caroline B Cooney,

833:I have for many years endeavored to make this vital truth clear; and still people marvel when I tell them that I am happy. They imagine that my limitations weigh heavily upon my spirit, and chain me to the rock of despair. Yet, it seems to me, happiness has very little to do with the senses. If we make up our minds that this is a drab and purposeless universe, it will be that, and nothing else. On the other hand, if we believe that the earth is ours, and that the sun and moon hang in the sky for our delight, there will be joy upon the hills and gladness in the fields because the Artist in our souls glorifies creation. Surely, it gives dignity to life to believe that we are born into this world for noble ends, and that we have a higher destiny than can be accomplished within the narrow limits of this physical life. ~ Helen Keller,

834:The Dark Trees Leave your house, rise from the table where the candles have guttered and a blue light through the shutters creeps over the fishbones and the broken bread, go out under the dark trees to where the boat lies waiting by the rock, pull it across the grey sand to the water’s edge and push out over the glistening bay. As you row along the bright path that the moon has made, think that the soft light of the moon has entered everything, that somewhere far beneath you a sunken boat lies waiting by a rock, that all around the dark trees of the coral and the weed bend gently as the cold winds through them, that fish the colour of moonlight drift all night through their branches. 26 ~ David Brooks,

835:Maybe the idea of the world as flat isn't a tribal memory or an archetypal memory, but something far older -- a fox memory, a worm memory, a moss memory. Memory of leaping or crawling or shrugging rootlet by rootlet forward, across the flatness of everything. To perceive of the earth as round needed something else -- standing up! -- that hadn't yet happened. What a wild family! Fox and giraffe and wart hog, of course. But these also: bodies like tiny strings, bodies like blades and blossoms! Cord grass, Christmas fern, soldier moss! And here comes grasshopper, all toes and knees and eyes, over the little mountains of the dust. When I see the black cricket in the woodpile, in autumn, I don't frighten her. And when I see the moss grazing upon the rock, I touch her tenderly, sweet cousin. ~ Mary Oliver,

836:On our way to the Rock or one or another of our various woodland hideouts, my buddies and I frequently passed The Bark, and we tended to pause there for long minutes and stare at the place, as if it were an evil castle where a great treasure was stored. Once in a while we’d see gentlemen emerge (after, we knew, a bout of drinking and dancing inside); we’d see some tattooed fellow with a cigar in his teeth, and with what the Sunday school crowd called a “floozy” on his arm; watch the couple straddle a big Harley-Davidson and go roaring out of the red clay parking lot, enveloped in an oxygen of freedom about whose perils and rewards we could scarcely guess. At those moments, all I wanted was to quickly become old enough to drink beer, dance, get tattooed, smoke cigars, ride motorcycles, and have a floozy of my own on my arm. ~ Tom Robbins,

837:There was once a painter who traveled into the cordillera in order to paint an invisible picture of Christ. When he finished, the local Indians scrambled up the rocks to examine it and found that it was, in fact, a picture of Viracocha. A Chinaman passing by went up to see what it was that was causing such excitement and found to his surprise that on the rock was a picture of the Buddha. The painter stuck to his assertion that it was Christ who was invisibly portrayed, and a loud and rancorous argument developed. In the midst of the altercation one of the Indians noticed that the portrait had erased itself. The truth is that the mountains are a place where you can find whatever you want just by looking, as long as you remember that they do not suffer fools gladly and particularly dislike those with preconceived ideas. ~ Louis de Berni res,

838:James’s words sound eerily familiar to Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount: Not everyone who says to Me, “Lord, Lord!” will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of My Father in heaven. On that day many will say to Me, “Lord, Lord, didn’t we prophesy in Your name, drive out demons in Your name, and do many miracles in Your name?” Then I will announce to them, “I never knew you! Depart from Me, you lawbreakers!” Therefore, everyone who hears these words of Mine and acts on them will be like a sensible man who built his house on the rock. The rain fell, the rivers rose, and the winds blew and pounded that house. Yet it didn’t collapse, because its foundation was on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of Mine and doesn’t act on them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. ~ David Platt,

839:At Bob Dylan’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1988, Bruce Springsteen described hearing Dylan’s music for the very first time. Springsteen was fifteen, he said, riding in the car with his mother, idly listening to the radio, when “Like a Rolling Stone” came on. It was as though, Springsteen recalled, “somebody took his boot and kicked open the door to your mind.” His mother’s verdict: “That man can’t sing.” Mrs. Springsteen’s response reminds us that we don’t all react the same way to the same experience—and her son’s reminds us that life holds moments when our perspective dramatically shifts, when our assumptions are deeply challenged, when we see new possibilities or sense for the first time that whatever has been holding us back from freedom or creativity or new ventures might actually be overcome. There ~ Sharon Salzberg,

840:The Rock In The Sea Think of our blindness where the water burned! Are we so certain that those wings, returned And turning, we had half discerned Before our dazzled eyes had surely seen The bird aloft there, did not mean?— Our hearts so seized upon the sign! Think how we sailed up-wind, the brine Tasting of daphne, the enormous wave Thundering in the water cave— Thunder in stone. And how we beached the skiff And climbed the coral of that iron cliff And found what only in our hearts we’d heard— The silver screaming of that one, white bird: The fabulous wings, the crimson beak That opened, red as blood, to shriek And clamor in that world of stone, No voice to answer but its own. What certainty, hidden in our hearts before, Found in the bird its metaphor? ~ Archibald MacLeish,

841:The remainder of the lion... was still in my freezer that spring when I happened to turn up at the Rock Creek Lodge. This bar... is regionally famous for its annual Testicle Festival, a liquor-filled carnival where ranchers, hippies, loggers, bikers, and college kids get together in September in order to get drunk, shed clothes, dance, and occasionally fight... But on this day the Testicle Festival was still a half year away, and the bar was mostly empty except for a plastic bag of hamburger buns and an electric roasting pan that was filled with chipped meat and a tangy barbecue sauce. I was well into my third sandwich... when the owner of the place came out and asked how I liked the cougar meat. ...When I left the bar, the man called after me to announce a slogan that he'd just thought of: "Rock Creek Lodge: Balls in the fall, pussy in the spring! ~ Steven Rinella,

842:BEFORE THE HUMANS came we didn’t speak so much of certain things. Before the humans came we didn’t speak so much. Before the humans came we didn’t speak.” He glanced at me. “We didn’t walk on our wings. We didn’t walk. We didn’t swallow earth. We didn’t swallow.” Scile was reading nervously, quickly. “‘There’s a Terre who swims with fishes, one who wore no clothes, one who ate what was given her, one who walks backwards. There’s a rock that was broken and cemented together. I differ with myself then agree, like the rock that was broken and cemented together. I change my opinion. I’m like the rock that was broken and cemented together. I wasn’t not like the rock that was broken and cemented together. “‘I do what I always do, I’m like the Terre who swims with fishes. I’m not unlike that Terre. I’m very like it. ‘I’m not water. I’m not water. I’m water. ~ China Mi ville,

843:They were relaxing at the top of a waterfall, in a small, still pool where the mountain waters hit an upward slope of folded granite. It was sort of a rounded bathtub, carved out of the rock throughout the centuries by the rushing river, a river so hidden that it was without a name. Just below were the falls, about a 30-foot drop into another, much larger pool of clearest water that was gathered for a respite, a compromise in the river's relentless schedule downward, between split-level decks of flat rock. Further on, the river reanimated and released into a sharp ravine, pulling westward, down through the rugged mountains and faceless forest--the Black Hills National Forest--gaining force until it joined with the rush of the Castle River, near the old Custer Trail, and was swallowed into the Deerfield Reservoir to collect and prepare for the touch of man. ~ Ron Parsons,

844:Dude. I’m going to have a baby. A baby cub. What the hell am I going to do?” Amara hugged her close and kissed her temple. Her friend warmed her when Eliana hadn’t been sure she could ever feel any form of warmth again. “You’re going to be a kickass mom. You and Malik are going to talk and figure out a plan. Whether you are together or apart, you’ll be there for this baby. We all will. I know fate just threw you a curveball of epic proportions, but you can handle it. You’re stronger than you think you are.” Eliana hoped her friend was right. Because everything had changed once again and now she had to be the rock for not only herself but her baby, as well. Only she was tired of being the rock. She wanted to lean against someone. She wanted a partner. She just didn‘t think Malik knew what it meant to be a partner. Because she sure as hell didn’t. ~ Carrie Ann Ryan,

845:Then like a bird, he gingerly landed on a protruding rock inside the monstrous cavern. I looked up at the wet walls teaming with sea life and reeled back feeling like I was going to lose my balance when I felt him reach around and carefully lift me off. He placed me so I could stand on the rock in front of him. His strong arms wrapped tightly around me so I wouldn’t fall. We stood in astonishment deafened by the noise of the waves hitting the reef all around us. The warmth of his chest radiated against me. I molded my body up against his, my heart erupting in a flutter that caused my legs to weaken. “What do you think?” he whispered into my ear. I felt his hot breath against the side of my neck, which caused me to be light-headed as my heart raced even harder. “Awesome,” I whispered, which was all I could get out as I slinked into his chest a little bit more. ~ Brenda Pandos,

846:The world headquarters of Fukai Semiconductor was housed in a mammoth, sprawling building of glass, polished aluminum and native rock that seemed to be a hybrid design between traditfonal Japanese architecture and something off the drawing board of Frank Lloyd Wright, though there was almost nothing Western about the place. Situated along the shore of the bay, the massive structure rose in some places five stories above the water, each level cantilevered at a different angle thirty and sometimes fifty or sixty yards without apparent support. In other places the building was low, and followed the sinuously twisting shoreline as if it had grown out of the rock. About a half-mile north, still along the bay, the end of the main runway was marked by a cluster of hangars, a 747 jetliner with Fukai's stylized seagull emblem painted in blue on the tail, parked in front of one of them. ~ David Hagberg,

847:On Lucy, Countess Of Bedford This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous Muse   What kind of creature I could most desire, To honour, serve, and love; as poets use. I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great; I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learnèd and a manly soul I purposed her; that should, with even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the shears control Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see, My Muse bade Bedford write, and that was she. ~ Ben Jonson,

848:Clue in, Ally,” he immediately volleyed, “Watchin’ the Rock Chicks, I know exactly what does and does not fly with you, and just like every one of those men when their women serves up attitude, I don’t give a shit. And, just sayin’, that attitude, just like with them, is why I’m with you.” “What?” I bit out. “Babe, every one of those guys had pussy lined up at the door. Bitches were gagging for it. They’d do anything to get their hooks into those men and those men knew it. They didn’t want a woman who’d do anything. They wanted a woman who knew her own mind and wouldn’t do anything. Not a single one of your posse lets their man walk all over them. And not a single one lets them get away with shit. At least not without dishin’ up a fair amount of attitude before they let them get away with it which is the definition of not letting them get away with it. ~ Kristen Ashley,

849:The sun was warm on my face. I knew we were safe at last. The vast bottle of Champagne, that had sat like some Buddha at base camp for three months, was ceremoniously produced. It took four of us almost ten minutes, hacking away with ice axes, finally to get the cork out. The party had begun. I felt like drinking a gallon of this beautiful bubbly stuff, but my body just couldn’t. Sipping slowly was all I could manage without sneezing, and even like that I was soon feeling decidedly wobbly. I closed my eyes and flopped against the rock wall of the mess tent--a huge smile plastered across my face. Later on in my tent, I put on the fresh socks and thermal underwear that I had kept especially for this moment. First change in ninety days. Heaven. I sealed the underpants in a plastic Ziploc bag and reminded myself to be very cautious when it came to opening the bag again back home. ~ Bear Grylls,

850:If this were a courageous country, it would ask Gloria to lead it since she is sane and funny and beautiful and smart and the National Leaders we've always had are not. When I listen to her talk about women's rights children's rights men's rights I think of the long line of Americans who should have been president, but weren't. Imagine Crazy Horse as president. Sojourner Truth. John Brown. Harriet Tubman. Black Elk or Geronimo. Imagine President Martin Luther King confronting the youthful "Oppie" Oppenheimer. Imagine President Malcolm X going after the Klan. Imagine President Stevie Wonder dealing with the "Truly Needy." Imagine President Shirley Chisholm, Ron Dellums, or Sweet Honey in the Rock dealing with Anything. It is imagining to make us weep with frustration, as we languish under real estate dealers, killers, and bad actors. ~ Alice Walker,

851:Then there was Mr Mandela. Everybody knew about Mr Mandela and how he had forgiven those who had imprisoned him. They had taken away years and years of his life simply because he wanted justice. They had set him to work in a quarry and his eyes had been permanently damaged by the rock dust. But at last, when he had walked out of the prison on that breathless, luminous day, he had said nothing about revenge or even retribution. He had said that there were more important things to do than to complain about the past, and in time he had shown that he meant this by hundreds of acts of kindness towards those who had treated him so badly. That was the real African way, the tradition that was closest to the heart of Africa. We are all children of Africa, and none of us is better or more important than the other. This is what Africa could say to the world: it could remind it what it is to be human. ~ Alexander McCall Smith,

852:Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, And saith she is Miranda and my wife: 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban; A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. ~ Robert Browning,

853:I saw very little as it truly was. But that was what Martha taught me. We swear we see each other, but all we are ever able to make out is a tiny porthole view of an ocean. We think we remember the past as it was, but our memories are as fantastic and flimsy as dreams. It's so easy to hate the pretty one, worship the genius, love the rock star, trust the good girl. That's never their only story. We are all anthologies. We are each thousands of pages long, filled with fairy tales and poetry, mysteries and tragedy, forgotten stories in the back no one will ever read. The most we can do is hold out our hands and help each other across the unknown. For in our held hands we find pathways through the dark, across jungles and cities, bridges suspended over the deepest caverns of this world. Your friends will walk with you, holding on with all their might, even when they're no longer there. ~ Marisha Pessl,

854:Words Be careful of words, even the miraculous ones. For the miraculous we do our best, sometimes they swarm like insects and leave not a sting but a kiss. They can be as good as fingers. They can be as trusty as the rock you stick your bottom on. But they can be both daisies and bruises. Yet I am in love with words. They are doves falling out of the ceiling. They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap. They are the trees, the legs of summer, and the sun, its passionate face. Yet often they fail me. I have so much I want to say, so many stories, images, proverbs, etc. But the words aren't good enough, the wrong ones kiss me. Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren. But I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair. ~ Anne Sexton,

855:Yes,but only if we employ careful strategy,as in rock-paper-scissors," I said. "My 720 totally beats Nick falling down, like paper covers rock. Unless the rock is a boy,in which case the boy always wins." "Hayden-"Liz began. "I am getting sick of your attitude, Hayden," Chloe talked over Liz. "We've been up here all day with you.All we have left is to get you off this jump. Every time you try, you have some excuse: wind in your face, bug in your ear, panties up your butt-" "I was not making that up," I broke in. "Imagine trying a trick with umcomfortable underwear." I squirmed, rocking back and forth on my board to make a point. "Or you make some stupid joke!" Chloe hollered at me.Her voice echoed against the rocky slope of the mountain overhead.i stealthily looked around in my goggles to see if any boarders I knew had heard,but it was getting late,and the slopes were empty except for us. ~ Jennifer Echols,

856:Brendan helped Rafe into the harness. It took a while, the process punctuated by Rafe’s questions. Then he stood at the base of the rock face, saying, “You put your toes here, right? And you grab those things that stick out?” The others laughed and yelled, “Quit while you’re ahead!” Daniel relaxed and rolled his eyes at me. I rolled mine back, but not for the same reason. When we were finally in position, the others pulling away, I whispered, “Poseur.” Rafe glanced over, brows arching. “Keep calling me that and I might get insulted.” “Stop earning it and I’ll stop saying it.” I faced forward as I tested my rope and waited for Daniel to get to the top. “Are you implying that I know how to climb?” “Are you implying that I’m stupid enough to think you’d challenge me if you didn’t? Of course, you can’t be that good if you need to slow me down by pretending you don’t know what you’re doing. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

857:Cainan (sometimes the name is spelled Kainam) was the son of Arpachsad: "And the son grew, and his father taught him writing, and he went to seek for himself a place where he might seize for himself a city. And he found a writing, which former generations had carved on the rock, and he read what was thereon, and he transcribed it and sinned owing to it, for it contained the teaching of the Watchers in accordance with which they used to observe the omens of the sun, moon and stars in all the signs of heaven." Here, then, is the origin of the star worship of the Sabians traced all the way back to the mysterious Watchers--whoever they were, whatever they are--who settled in the Near East in antediluvian times, taught our ancestors forbidden knowledge, broke some fundamental commandment by mating with human women and, as a result, were remembered as being responsbile for the great global cataclysm of the Deluge. ~ Graham Hancock,

858:She described how Camus’s aphorism “One must imagine Sisyphus happy” helps her fight back against unproductive feelings of meaninglessness. If we consider, like Camus, Sisyphus at the foot of his mountain, we can see that he is smiling. He is content in his task of defying the Gods, the journey more important than the goal. To achieve a beginning, a middle, an end, a meaning to the chaos of creation—that's more than any deity seems to manage: But it's what writers do. So I tidy the desk, even polish it up a bit, stick some flowers in a vase and start. As I begin a novel I remind myself as ever of Camus's admonition that the purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself. And even while thinking, well, fat chance! I find courage, reach for the heights, and if the rock keeps rolling down again so it does. What the hell, start again. Rewrite. Be of good cheer. Smile on, Sisyphus! ~ Fay Weldon,

859:Leo Vincey, know now the truth; that all things are illusions, even that there exists no future and no past, that what has been and what shall be already is eternally. Know that I, Ayesha, am but a magic wraith, foul when thou seest me foul, fair when thou seest me fair; a spirit-bubble reflecting a thousand lights in the sunshine of thy smile, grey as dust and gone in the shadow of thy frown. Think of the throned Queen before whom the shadowy Powers bowed and worship, for that is I. Think of the hideous, withered Thing thou sawest naked on the rock, and flee away, for that is I. Or keep me lovely, and adore, knowing all evil centred in my spirit, for that is I. Now, Leo, thou hast the truth. Put me from thee for ever and for ever if thou wilt, and be safe; or clasp me, clasp me to thy heart, and in payment for my lips and love take my sin upon thy head! Nay, Holly, be thou silent, for now he must judge alone. ~ H Rider Haggard,

860:Some people spend their whole lives trying to be noticed,” she said. She felt his eyes on her for a moment before he spoke. “You?” She lay back against the rock, cupping her head in her palms. “Sometimes.” The sun was sinking lower in the sky, the streaks of pink growing more vibrant. “I noticed you a long time ago.” His words made her heart thump against the rock, even as she recognized the irony. Beckett may have noticed her briefly, but he’d forgotten her quickly enough. “No, you didn’t,” she said. “Not really.” The kind of noticing she meant entailed more than a passing glance. It meant being seen. Being remembered. People wanted significance. She did, Jade did, everyone did. “You were wearing a white skirt that twirled around your knees . . . and a blue sweater with tiny butterflies around the collar.” She drew in a long, quiet breath as she turned. He remembered what she’d worn to the dance all those years ago? ~ Denise Hunter,

861:ready for whatever scooted out from under. The water was so deep I had my shortsleeve shirt rolled all the way up to my shoulders. I was aware of how long and skinny my arms must look to her. I know they looked that way to me. I felt pretty strange beside her, actually. Uncomfortable but excited. She was different from the other girls I knew, from Denise or Cheryl on the block or even the girls at school. For one thing she was maybe a hundred times prettier. As far as I was concerned she was prettier than Natalie Wood. Probably she was smarter than the girls I knew too, more sophisticated. She lived in New York City after all and had eaten lobsters. And she moved just like a boy. She had this strong hard body and easy grace about her. All that made me nervous and I missed the first one. Not an enormous crayfish but bigger than what we had. It scudded backward beneath the Rock. She asked if she could try. I gave her the ~ Jack Ketchum,

862:… the world – a dunghill of instinctive forces that nevertheless shines in the sun with pale shades of light and dark gold. The way I see it, plagues, storms and wars are products of the same blind force, sometimes operating through unconscious microbes, sometimes through unconscious waters and thunderbolts, and sometimes through unconscious men. For me, the difference between an earthquake and a massacre is like the difference between murdering with a knife and murdering with a dagger. The monster immanent in things, for the sake of his own good or his own evil, which are apparently indifferent to him, is equally served by the shifting of a rock on a hilltop or by the stirring of envy or greed in a heart. The rock falls and kills a man; greed or envy prompts an arm, and the arm kills a man. Such is the world – a dunghill of instinctive forces that nevertheless shines in the sun with pale shades of light and dark gold. ~ Fernando Pessoa,

863:Words Be careful of words, even the miraculous ones. For the miraculous we do our best, sometimes they swarm like insects and leave not a sting but a kiss. They can be as good as fingers. They can be as trusty as the rock you stick your bottom on. But they can be both daisies and bruises. Yet I am in love with words. They are doves falling out of the ceiling. They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap. They are the trees, the legs of summer, and the sun, its passionate face. Yet often they fail me. I have so much I want to say, so many stories, images, proverbs, etc. But the words aren't good enough, the wrong ones kiss me. Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren. But I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair. ~ Anne Sexton,

864:Neither the Pilgrims nor the Indians new what they had begun. The Pilgrims called the celebration a Harvest Feast. The Indians thought of it as a Green Corn Dance. It was both and more than both. It was the first Thanksgiving. In the years that followed, President George Washington issued the first national Thanksgiving proclamation, and President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed the last Thursday in November a holiday of “thanksgiving and praise.” Today it is still a harvest festival and Green Corn Dance. Families feast with friends, give thanks and play games. Plymouth Rock did not fare as well. It has been cut in half, moved twice, dropped, split and trimmed to fit its present-day portico. It is a mere memento of its once magnificent self. Yet to Americans, Plymouth Rock is a symbol. It is larger than the mountains, wider than the prairies and stronger than all our rivers. It is the rock on which our nation began. ~ Jean Craighead George,

865:Below us the country looked like a black lake. Nowhere was there a glimmer of light. Nowhere, so far as the eye could range, was there a living creature except here in this group of holy buildings. With the going down of the sun, the night wind rose and set about the business of the gods, the dusting of the corners of Earth. As it swept along the valley below, it was trapped by the mountainside and was channeled up through faults in the rock, to emerge into our upper air with a dull moaning boom, like a giant conch calling one to service. Around us there was the creaking and crackling of rocks moving and contracting now that the greater heat of the day had gone. Above us the stars were vivid in the dark night sky. The Old People used to say that Kesar’s Legions had dropped their spears on the Floor of Heaven at the call of Buddha, and the stars were but the reflections of the lights of the Heavenly Room shining through the holes. ~ Tuesday Lobsang Rampa,

866:The rock has split, the egg has hatched, the prismatically plumed bird of life has escaped from its cage. It spreads its wings and is perched now on the peak of the huge African mountain Kilimanjaro. Strange recompense, in the depths of our despair at the unfathomable mist into which all mankind is plunging, a curious force awakens. It is Hope long asleep, aroused once more. Wilson has taken an army of advisers and sailed for England. The ship has sunk. But the men are all good swimmers. They take the women on their shoulders and buoyed on by the inspiration of the moment they churn the free seas with their sinewy arms, like Ulysses, landing all along the European seaboard. Yes, hope has awakened once more in men's hearts. It is NEW! Let us go forward! The imagination, freed from the handcuffs of "Art", takes the lead! Her Feet are bare and not too delicate. In fact those who come behind her have much to think of. Hm. Let it pass. ~ William Carlos Williams,

867:Courage Courage is the strength to stand up When it's easier to fall down and lose hold. It is the conviction to explore new horizons When it's easier to believe what we've been told. Courage is the desire to maintain our integrity When it's easier to look the other way. It is feeling happy and alive, and moving forward When it's easier to feel sorry for ourselves and stay. Courage is the will to shape our world When it's easier to let someone else do it for us. It is the recognition that none of us are perfect When it's easier to criticize others and fuss. Courage is the power to step forward and lead When it's easier to follow the crowd; their pleas resound. It is the spirit that places you on top of the mountain When it's easier to never leave the ground. The foundation of courage is solid, The rock that doesn't roll. Courage is the freedom Of our mind, body, and soul! ~ Anonymous,

868:The Thinker Is the Thought Is it not necessary to understand the thinker, the doer, the actor, since his thought, his deed, his action cannot be separated from him? The thinker is the thought, the doer is the deed, the actor is the action. In his thought the thinker is revealed. The thinker through his actions creates his own misery, his ignorance, his strife. The painter paints this picture of passing happiness, of sorrow, of confusion. Why does he produce this painful picture? Surely, this is the problem that must be studied, understood and dissolved. Why does the thinker think his thoughts, from which flow all his actions? This is the rock wall against which you have been battering your head, is it not? If the thinker can transcend himself, then all conflict will cease: and to transcend he must know himself. What is known and understood, what is fulfilled and completed does not repeat itself. It is repetition that gives continuity to the thinker. ~ Jiddu Krishnamurti,

869:When he[Thresh] shouts, I jump, never having heard him speak above a mutter. "What'd you do to that little girl? You kill her?" Clove is scrambling backwards on all fours, like a frantic insect, too shocked to even call for Cato. "No! No, it wasn't me!" "You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?" Another thought brings a fresh wave of rage to his features. "You cut her up like you were about to do to this girl here?" "No! No, I-" Clove sees the stone, about the size of a small loaf of bread in Thresh's hand and loses it. "Cato!" she screeches. "Cato!" "Clove!" I hear Cato's answer, but he's too far away, I can tell that much, to do her any good. What was he doing? Trying to get Foxface or Peeta? Or had he been lying in wait for Thresh and just badly misjudged his location? Thresh brings the rock down hard against Clove's temple. It's not bleeding, but I can see the dent in her skull and I know that she's a goner. ~ Suzanne Collins,

870:At first impression, the interminable series of wars between the Roman Empire and Persia (both in the Parthian period and again in the Sassanid period) look almost inexplicable. They went on and on, century after century. There was a potential economic gain for both sides—the disputed provinces were rich provinces. But it was evident, certainly by the time of Ardashir, that the wars were very costly, that it would be very difficult indeed for either party to deliver a knockout blow to the other, and that any gains would be difficult for either side to hold permanently. The wars and the disputed provinces had taken on a totemic value—they had become part of the apparatus by which Persian shahs and Roman emperors alike justified their rule. This explains their personal participation in the campaigns, the triumphs in Rome and the rock-reliefs carved on the hillsides of Fars. Upper Mesopotamia, Armenia, and Syria had become an unfortunate playground for princes. ~ Michael Axworthy,

871:Grandpa, I haven't remembered all your stories, but I've written a few of my own adn as soon as the rain stops I'll read them to you. I got the idea from Nena Fatima, I got Grandpa Rafik's voice, I got the veins on your son's upper arms, he's painting coconuts now, I got my mother's melencholy. But still I don't have all the things i'd need to tell my story as one of us: I don't have the courage of the river Drina, or the voice of the hawk, or the rock hard backbone of our mountains, or Walrus's infalibility, or the enthusiasum of the man who misses, honorably. And I don't have Armin the stationmaster, Cika Hasan and Cika Sead in their eternal argument, Kiko's leg, Edin who forgets he's imitating a wolf and takes fright at the sound of his own voice, Cauliflower, the names of trees, a stomache for schnapps, the goals scored in the school yard. But most of all I miss the truth, the truth in which we are no longer listeners or storytellers, but we give and forgive. ~ Sa a Stani i,

872:spaces beneath our feet, in the fractures and voids in the rock, in caverns and fissures and channels, there are waterways as numerous, as meandering, as circuitous, as anything aboveground. The beginning of the Thames is not the beginning—or, rather, it is only to us that it seems like a beginning. In fact Trewsbury Mead might not be the beginning in any case. There are those who say it’s the wrong place. The not-even-the-beginning is not here but elsewhere, at a place called Seven Springs, which is the source of the Churn, a river that joins the Thames at Cricklade. And who is to say? The Thames that goes north, south, east, and west to finally go east, that seeps to one side and the other as it moves forwards, that goes slow as it goes fast, that evaporates into the sky while meandering to the sea, is more about motion than about beginnings. If it has a beginning, it is located in a dark, inaccessible place. Better study where it goes than where it came from. ~ Diane Setterfield,

873:Wake Not For The World-Heard Thunder Wake not for the world-heard thunder, Nor the chimes that earthquakes toll; Stars may plot in heaven with planet, Lightning rive the rock of granite, Tempest tread the oakwood under, Fear not you for flesh or soul; Marching, fighting, victory past, Stretch your limbs in peace at last. Stir not for the soldier's drilling, Nor the fever nothing cures; Throb of drum and timbal's rattle Call but men alive to battle, And the fife with death-notes filling Screams for blood--but not for yours. Times enough you bled your best; Sleep on now, and take your rest. Sleep, my lad; the French have landed, London's burning, Windsor's down. Clasp your cloak of earth about you; We must man the ditch without you, March unled and fight short-handed, Charge to fall and swim to drown. Duty, friendship, bravery o'er, Sleep away, lad; wake no more. ~ Alfred Edward Housman,

874:Father Malloy You are over there, Father Malloy, Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave, Not here with us on the hill -Us of wavering faith, and clouded vision And drifting hope, and unforgiven sins. You were so human, Father Malloy, Taking a friendly glass sometimes with us, Siding with us who would rescue Spoon River From the coldness and the dreariness of village morality. You were like a traveler who brings a little box of sand From the wastes about the pyramids And makes them real and Egypt real. You were a part of and related to a great past, And yet you were so close to many of us. You believed in the joy of life. You did not seem to be ashamed of the flesh. You faced life as it is, And as it changes. Some of us almost came to you, Father Malloy, Seeing how your church had divined the heart, And provided for it, Through Peter the Flame, Peter the Rock. ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

875:I wanted to tell him that the pool, the garden, the house, the tennis court, the orle of paradise, the whole place, would always be his ghost spot. Instead, I pointed upstairs to the French windows of his room. Your eyes are forever there, I wanted to say, trapped in the sheer curtains, staring out from my bedroom upstairs where no one sleeps these days. When there’s a breeze and they swell and I look up from down here or stand outside on the balcony, I’ll catch myself thinking that you’re in there, staring out from your world to my world, saying, as you did on that one night when I found you on the rock, I’ve been happy here. You’re thousands of miles away but no sooner do I look at this window than I’ll think of a bathing suit, a shirt thrown on on the fly, arms resting on the banister, and you’re suddenly there, lighting up your first cigarette of the day—twenty years ago today. For as long as the house stands, this will be your ghost spot—and mine too, I wanted to say. ~ Andr Aciman,

876:PATER PROFUNDUS. [Far below]   The chasm at my feet, dark, yawning,   Rests on a chasm deeper still,   A thousand streams, their waters joining,   In a cascade terrific fall;   The tree’s own life, its strength from nature,   Its trunk lifts skywards straight and tall—   All, all, show love’s almighty power   That shapes all things, cares for them all.   The storm breaks round me, fiercely howling,   The woods, ravines, all seem to quake, 12240 And yet, swelled by the deluge falling,   The torrent plunges down the rock   To water lovingly the valley;   The lightning burns the overcast   And clears the air, now smelling freshly,   Of all its foulness, dankness, mist—   All love proclaim! the creating power   By which the whole world is embraced.   Oh kindle, too, in me your fire,   Whose thoughts, disordered, cold, depressed, 12250 Inside the cage of dull sense languish,   Tormented, helpless, hard beset!   Dear God, relieve my spirit’s anguish,   My needy heart illuminate! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

877:All that the Light from above asks of us that it may begin its work is a call from the soul and a sufficient point of support in the mind. This support can be reached through an insistent idea of the Divine in the thought, a corresponding will in the dynamic parts, an aspiration, a faith, a need in the heart. Any one of these may lead or predominate, if all cannot move in unison or in an equal rhythm. The idea may be and must in the beginning be inadequate; the aspiration may be narrow and imperfect, the faith poorly illumined or even, as not surely founded on the rock of knowledge, fluctuating, uncertain, easily diminished; often even it may be extinguished and need to be lit again with difficulty like a torch in a windy pass. But if once there is a resolute self-consecration from deep within, if there is an awakening to the souls call, these inadequate things can be a sufficient instrument for the divine purpose.    ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, The Yoga of Divine Works, Self-Consecration, 81,

878:Tell me what happens if I throw this with all my power. (Savitar) (Acheron frowned until he saw an image in his head. It was the stone traveling through the air…it sped until it hit a man in his shoulder, wounding him. No, not any man. A soldier. His arm now lame, the stone’s wound forced him to become a beggar…Eight score people would then die because the soldier could no longer protect them in battles that wouldn’t even be fought for years to come. But one of those people who died…) It goes on and on and on. One tiny decision: Do I throw the rock or do I drop it? And a thousand lives are changed by one innocuous decision. (Savitar) (He let the rock fall to the ground. Now it was harmless again and history wrote itself forward the way it was supposed to.) You and I are cursed to understand how the tiniest decision made by every being can go onward to affect the rest of the universe. And if I stop something as simple as a rock throw, it could cause catastrophic consequences. ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

879:Flocks of magpies have descended on our yard. I cannot sleep for all their raucous behavior. Perched on weathered fences, their green-black tales, long as rulers, wave up and down, reprimanding me for all I have not done. I have done nothing for weeks. I have no work. I don't want to see anyone much less talk. All I want to do is sleep. Monday, I hit rock-bottom, different from bedrock, which is solid, expansive, full of light and originality. Rock-bottom is the bottom of the rock, the underbelly that rarely gets turned over; but when it does, I am the spider that scurries from daylight to find another place to hide. Today I feel stronger, learning to live with the natural cycles of a day and to not expect so much from myself. As women, we hold the moon in our bellies. It is too much to ask to operate on full-moon energy three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I am in a crescent phase. And the energy we expend emotionally belongs to the hidden side of the moon.... ~ Terry Tempest Williams,

880:In AP Bio, I learned that the cells in our body are replaced every seven years, which means that one day, I'll have a body full of cells that were never sick. But it also means that parts of me that knew and loved Sadie will disappear. I'll still remember loving her, but it'll be a different me who loved her. And maybe this is how we move on. We grow new cells to replace the grieving ones, diluting our pain until it loses potency. The percentage of my skin that touched hers will lessen until one day my lips won't be the same lips that kissed hers, and all I'll have are the memories. Memories of cottages in the woods, arranged in a half-moon. Of the tall metal tray return in the dining hall. Of the study tables in the library. The rock where we kissed. The sunken boat in Latham's lake, Sadie, snapping a photograph, laughing the lunch line, lying next to me at the movie night in her green dress, her voice on the phone, her apple-flavored lips on mine. And it's so unfair. All of it. ~ Robyn Schneider,

881:How Smart Is a Rock? To appreciate the feasibility of computing with no energy and no heat, consider the computation that takes place in an ordinary rock. Although it may appear that nothing much is going on inside a rock, the approximately 1025 (ten trillion trillion) atoms in a kilogram of matter are actually extremely active. Despite the apparent solidity of the object, the atoms are all in motion, sharing electrons back and forth, changing particle spins, and generating rapidly moving electromagnetic fields. All of this activity represents computation, even if not very meaningfully organized. We’ve already shown that atoms can store information at a density of greater than one bit per atom, such as in computing systems built from nuclear magnetic-resonance devices. University of Oklahoma researchers stored 1,024 bits in the magnetic interactions of the protons of a single molecule containing nineteen hydrogen atoms.51 Thus, the state of the rock at any one moment represents at least 1027 bits of memory. ~ Ray Kurzweil,

882:I have a print - you can buy them at the Victoria and Albert Museum - of a photograph of the village street of Thetford, taken in 1868, in which William Smith is not. The street is empty. There is a grocer's shop and a blacksmith's and a stationary cart and a great spreading tree, but not a single human figure. In fact William Smith - or someone, or several people, dogs too, geese, a man on a horse - passed beneath the tree, went into the grocer's shop, loitered for a moment talking to a friend while the photograph was taken but he is invisible, all of them are invisible. The exposure of the photograph - sixty minutes - was so long that William Smith and everyone else passed through it and away leaving no trace. Not even so much of a mark as those primordial worms that passed through the Cambrian mud of northern Scotland and left the empty tube of their passage in the rock. I like that. I like that very much. A neat image for the relation of man to the physical world. Gone, passed through and away. ~ Penelope Lively,

883:To be like the rock that the waves keep crashing over. It stands unmoved and the raging of the sea falls still around it. 49a. —It’s unfortunate that this has happened. No. It’s fortunate that this has happened and I’ve remained unharmed by it—not shattered by the present or frightened of the future. It could have happened to anyone. But not everyone could have remained unharmed by it. Why treat the one as a misfortune rather than the other as fortunate? Can you really call something a misfortune that doesn’t violate human nature? Or do you think something that’s not against nature’s will can violate it? But you know what its will is. Does what’s happened keep you from acting with justice, generosity, self-control, sanity, prudence, honesty, humility, straightforwardness, and all the other qualities that allow a person’s nature to fulfill itself? So remember this principle when something threatens to cause you pain: the thing itself was no misfortune at all; to endure it and prevail is great good fortune. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

884:Yes, Joseph Smith did see angels and visions—because he was the instrument in God’s hands to restore the same Church of Jesus Christ as existed in primitive times—all of its powers as well as all of its doctrines. Yet sorrowfully, on occasion, some are willing to set aside the precious gospel truths restored by Joseph Smith because they get diverted on some historical issue or some scientific hypothesis not central to their exaltation, and in so doing they trade their spiritual birthright for a mess of pottage. They exchange the absolute certainty of the Restoration for a doubt, and in that process they fall into the trap of losing faith in the many things they do know because of a few things they do not know. There will always be some seemingly intellectual crisis looming on the horizon as long as faith is required and our minds are finite, but likewise there will always be the sure and solid doctrines of the Restoration to cling to, which will provide the rock foundation upon which our testimonies may be built. ~ Tad R Callister,

885:As Cain stalked his prey, he knew that they were not alone. Only one thing could have pulled off the kind of blinding that occurred to his clan earlier in the day: they must have an angel with them.   The wolves tread softly through the jungle. They smelled their prey and knew they were near. Like silent ghosts, they glided through the forest, eyes ablaze like glowing coals, figures dark as the night. They came upon the four hiding in the bush, waiting for an attack. Their backs were to the wolves that had crept up behind them. Fifteen of the monsters leapt on their quarry, fangs blazing. But the quarry was not their quarry. They were rocks dressed with the clothes of the quarry. The humans had dressed themselves in leaves and hid in the trees They rained down arrows and javelins, taking out a dozen wolves in mere moments. They swung down on vines to the ground and slashed, stabbed, and sliced their way through the wolverine forces on their way to the rock wall. The rest of the pack raced after them with snarls and howls. ~ Brian Godawa,

886:Observe yon tree in your neighbour's garden. Look how it grows up, crooked and distorted. Some wind scattered the germ from which it sprang, in the clefts of the rock; choked up and walled round by crags and buildings, by Nature and man, its life has been one struggle for the light,—light which makes to that life the necessity and the principle: you see how it has writhed and twisted; how, meeting the barrier in one spot, it has laboured and worked, stem and branches, towards the clear skies at last. What has preserved it through each disfavour of birth and circumstances,—why are its leaves as green and fair as those of the vine behind you, which, with all its arms, can embrace the open sunshine? My child, because of the very instinct that impelled the struggle,—because the labour for the light won to the light at length. So with a gallant heart, through every adverse accident of sorrow and of fate to turn to the sun, to strive for the heaven; this it is that gives knowledge to the strong and happiness to the weak. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,

887:Claire was just coming down the stairs, humming and thinking about how nice it was to have things getting back to normal, and how she'd tell Shane about the January thing tonight, when Myrnin sent a message through the portal--well, more of a rock with a note tied to it, which rolled across the floor and scared Eve into a scream before the portal snapped shut. Eve kicked the rock resentfully with her thick black boots and glared at it, then at the wall. Claire, who was coming down the steps, gave her a "What the hell?" kind of look. "Your boss," Eve said, and reached down the grab the rock, "needs to figure out texting. Seriously. Who does this? Is he actually from the Stone Age? And you need to figure out how to put something here that we can lock. What if this thing opens when I'm naked?" "Why would you be naked down here?" "Well--" Eve didn't have an answer for that one. She handed over the rock. "Okay, bad example. But I don't like it that he can just drop in any damn time he wants. Or throw rocks at us. ~ Rachel Caine,

888:Shepley jogged around the front of the Charger, and then slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m still taking the official position that this is a bad idea.” “Noted.” “Then where?” “Steiner’s.” “The jewelry store?” “Yep.” “Why, Travis?” Shepley said, his voice more stern than before. “You’ll see.” He shook his head. “Are you trying to run her off?” “It’s going to happen, Shep. I just want to have it. For when the time is right.” “No time any time soon is right. I am so in love with America that it drives me crazy sometimes, but we’re not old enough for that shit, yet, Travis. And … what if she says no?” My teeth clenched at the thought. “I won’t ask her until I know she’s ready.” Shepley’s mouth pulled to the side. “Just when I think you can’t get any more insane, you do something else to remind me that you are far beyond bat shit crazy.” “Wait until you see the rock I’m getting.” Shepley craned his neck slowly in my direction. “You’ve already been over there shopping, haven’t you?” I smiled. ~ Jamie McGuire,

889:Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before. And although you are physically by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you, that Demon being the knowledge of your own terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy, the impossibility of ever getting it right. No matter how diamond-bright your ideas are dancing in your brain, on paper they are earthbound. If you’re trying a screenplay, you know it’s never going to be Bergman. If it’s a novel, well, what kind of a novelist can you hope to be when Dostoevski was there before you. And Dickens and Cervantes and all the other masters that led you to the prison of your desk. But if you’re a writer, that’s what you must do, and in order to accomplish anything at all, at the rock bottom of it all is your confidence. You tell yourself lies and you force them into belief: Hey, you suckers, I’m going to do it this one time. I’m going to tell you things you never knew. I’ve—got—secrets! ~ William Goldman,

890:God will leave you when you come to die? I must tell you that story of the good Welsh lady, who, when she lay dying, was visited by her minister. He said to her, “Sister, are you sinking?” She answered him not a word, but looked at him with a suspicious eye. He repeated the question, “Sister, are you sinking?” She looked at him again, as if she could not believe he would ask such a question. At last, rising a little in the bed, she said, “Sinking! Sinking! Did you ever know a sinner sink through a rock? If I had been standing on the sand, I might sink; but, thank God, I am on the Rock of Ages, and there is no sinking there.” How glorious to die! Oh angels come! Oh, legions of the Lord of hosts, stretch, stretch your broad wings and lift us up from earth. Oh, winged seraphs, lift us far above the reach of these inferior things. But until you come, I will sing, “Since Jesus is mine, I’ll not fear undressing-- But gladly put off these garments of clay, To die in the Lord is covenant blessing; Since Jesus to glory, through death led the way. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

891:Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock.” MATTHEW 7:24 OCTOBER 28 Little did the thousands who heard Jesus’ words on the hillside that day realize that what they were listening to would be honored by multitudes twenty centuries later. Nor that scholars through the ages would say that these simple statements represented the greatest wisdom mankind would ever hear. As Jesus finished His sermon, He said that a person who had heard and lived by these teachings could be compared to a man who built his house upon a rock. Though all the elements conspired to knock that house down, they could not prevail—it stood, for it was built upon a rock. Friends, you really listen to something when you listen to that passage of Scripture! Why don’t you, this very day, read again the Sermon on the Mount in the Gospel of Matthew? If you read this passage and if you live by it, you will have what it takes; nothing in this world—and I mean nothing—will be able to beat you down. ~ Norman Vincent Peale,

892:The meaning of living in fidelity to the present moment, neither retreating to the past nor anticipating the future, is wonderfully illustrated by a Zen story about a monk being pursued by a ferocious tiger. The monk raced to the edge of a cliff, glanced back, and saw the growling tiger about to spring. The monk spotted a rope dangling over the edge of the cliff. He grabbed it and began shinnying down the side of the cliff out of the clutches of the tiger. Whew! Narrow escape. The monk then looked down and saw a quarry of jagged rocks five hundred feet below. He looked up and saw the tiger poised atop the cliff with bared claws. Just then, two mice began to nibble at the rope. What to do? The monk saw a strawberry within arm’s reach, growing out of the face of the cliff. He plucked it, ate it, and exclaimed, “Yum! That’s the best strawberry I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.” If he had been preoccupied with the rock below (the future) or the tiger above (the past), he would have missed the strawberry God was giving him in the present moment. Children ~ Brennan Manning,

893:To everything, in other words, there is a season, and McCarthy’s hubris hastened the end of his hour upon the stage. “I was fully aware of McCarthy’s faults, which were neither few nor minor,” Cohn recalled. “He was impatient, overly aggressive, overly dramatic. He acted on impulse. He tended to sensationalize the evidence he had—in order to draw attention to the rock-bottom seriousness of the situation. He would neglect to do important homework and consequently would, on occasion, make challengeable statements.” The urge to overstate, to overdramatize, to dominate the news, could be costly, and so it proved to be for McCarthy. The Wisconsin senator, Cohn said, was essentially a salesman. “He was selling the story of America’s peril,” Cohn recalled. “He knew that he could never hope to convince anybody by delivering a dry, general-accounting-office type of presentation. In consequence, he stepped up circumstances a notch or two”—and in so doing he opened himself to attacks that proved fatal. He oversold, and the customers—the public—tired of the pitch, and the pitchman. ~ Jon Meacham,

894:David stayed constantly on the move, because he was not always welcomed where he sojourned as a fugitive from the king. Three thousand soldiers accompanied Saul, chasing David and his six hundred gibborim. David had run from the Forest of Hereth, to the city of Keilah, to the wildernesses of Ziph and Maon, where he currently hid. And all along, David sought to communicate to Saul that he was not an enemy of the king. It was all to no avail, as the king remained relentless in his mad hunt. Then an event occurred that changed the course of everyone’s plans: a Philistine attack on Gibeah, the seat of Israel’s power. Just as Saul was closing in on David in the wilderness of Maon, the king received word of the approaching forces of all five cities of the Philistines upon Gibeah. He immediately left his manhunt to return to Gibeah and repel the enemy’s advance. David and his followers escaped capture. Their location became known as “the Rock of Escape.” David settled in Maon for a time, knowing Saul would not be back too quickly from his latest campaign against the Philistines. ~ Brian Godawa,

895:The Rock-A-By Lady The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street Comes stealing; comes creeping; The poppies they hang from her head to her feet, And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet, When she findeth you sleeping! There is one little dream of a beautiful drum "Rub-a-dub!" it goeth; There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum, And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum, And a trumpet that bloweth! And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams With laughter and singing; And boats go a-floating on silvery streams, And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams, And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams, The fairies go winging! Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet? They'll come to you sleeping; So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet, For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street, With poppies that hang from her head to her feet, Comes stealing; comes creeping. ~ Eugene Field,

896:Nor had he, as far as he knew, ever believed in anything. It had been embarrassing, because he quite wanted to believe in something, since he recognized that belief was the lifebelt that got most people through the choppy waters of Life. He'd have liked to believe in a supreme God, although he'd have preferred a half-hour's chat with Him before committing himself, to clear up one or two points. He'd sat in all sorts of churches, waiting for that single flash of blue light, and it hadn't come. And then he'd tried to become an official Atheist and hadn't got the rock-hard, self-satisfied strength of belief even for that. And every single political party had seemed to him equally dishonest. And he'd give up on ecology...Then he'd tried believe in the Universe, which seemed sound enough until he'd innocently started reading books with words like Chaos and Time and Quantum in the titles. He'd found that even the people whose job of work was, so to speak, the Universe, didn't really believe in it and were actually quite proud of not knowing what or even if it could theoretically exist. ~ Terry Pratchett,

897:By the age of twelve, he was using the family typewriter to correspond with a number of well-known local geologists about the rock formations he had studied in Central Park. Not aware of his youth, one of these correspondents nominated Robert for membership in the New York Mineralogical Club, and soon thereafter a letter arrived inviting him to deliver a lecture before the club. Dreading the thought of having to talk to an audience of adults, Robert begged his father to explain that they had invited a twelve-year-old. Greatly amused, Julius encouraged his son to accept this honor. On the designated evening, Robert showed up at the club with his parents, who proudly introduced their son as “J. Robert Oppenheimer.” The startled audience of geologists and amateur rock collectors burst out laughing when he stepped up to the podium; a wooden box had to be found for him to stand on so that the audience could see more than the shock of his wiry black hair sticking up above the lectern. Shy and awkward, Robert nevertheless read his prepared remarks and was given a hearty round of applause. Julius ~ Kai Bird,

898:Watching the hole in the ever-fading light. It’s the size of a baby now, closing all the time. Narrower and narrower, until there’s barely room to fit an arm through. I’m thinking about quenching the light before the hole shuts—this is just torture—when a face suddenly appears. It’s Bran. The spell has passed and he’s come back. He wants to get through, to be with me. But the hole’s too small. He punches it, pulls at it, slips his fingers into the gap and strains with all his might—but it’s no good. The rock continues to grind together. The hole gets smaller, the width of a finger now. At the last moment, Bran presses his mouth up to the hole and roars with raw pain and loss, at the top of his voice, “Bec!” It’s the only time he’s ever uttered my name. Anyone’s name. His anguished cry stabs at my heart and tears spring to my eyes. I open my mouth to shout his own name back, to offer whatever small shred of comfort I can… but then the rock closes all the way and a fierce rumbling drowns out the echoes of Bran’s cry. I stare at the solid rock. My mouth closes. The light fades. Darkness. ~ Darren Shan,

899:When they were about a hundred meters from the death lines, Yifan waved Cheng Xin to a stop. Each death line was about twenty or thirty meters in diameter, and from here, they resembled death columns. “These are probably the darkest things in the universe,” Cheng Xin said. The death lines showed no details except an exceptional blackness showing the boundaries of the zero-lightspeed region, with no real surface. Looking up, the lines showed up clearly even against the dark backdrop of space. “These are the deadest things in the universe as well,” said Guan Yifan. “Zero-lightspeed means absolute, one hundred percent death. Inside it, every fundamental particle, every quark is dead. There is no vibration. Even without a source of gravity inside, each death line is a black hole. A zero-gravity black hole. Anything that falls in cannot reemerge.” Yifan picked up a rock and tossed it toward one of the death lines. The rock disappeared inside the absolute darkness. “Can your lightspeed ships produce death lines?” Cheng Xin asked. “Far from it.” “So you’ve seen these before, then?” “Yes, but only rarely.” Cheng ~ Liu Cixin,

900:, Yiddish From word to word I roam, from dawn to dusk. Dream in, dream out -- I pass myself and towns, A human satellite. I wait, am hopeful, as one who waits at the rock For the spring to well forth and ever well on. I feel as bright as if I tented somewhere in the Milky Way. To urge the world to feel I walk through lonesome solitudes. All around me lightning explodes sparks from my glance To reveal all light, unveil faces everywhere. Godward, onward to the final weighing overcoming heavy weight with thirst. Constantly, the longings of all born call out, "Is anyone around?" I know each one is HE, but in my heart there writhes a tear; When of men and rocks and trees I hear; All plead "Feel us" All beg "See us" God! Lend me your eyes! I came to be, to sow the seed of sight in the world, To unmask the God who disguised Himself as world-- And yes, I wait to be the first to announce "The Dawn." - from "Human, God's Ineffable Name," by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, freely rendered by Rabbi Zalman M. Schachter-Shalomi. Available from the Reb Zalman Legacy Project ~ Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, Intimate Hymn ,

901:Sisyphean” as a tribute to the mythical king Sisyphus, who was punished by the gods for his avarice and trickery. Besides murdering travelers and guests, seducing his niece, and usurping his brother’s throne, Sisyphus also tricked the gods. Before he died, Sisyphus, knowing that he was headed to the Underworld, made his wife promise to refrain from offering the expected sacrifice following his death. Once he reached Hades, Sisyphus convinced kindhearted Persephone, the queen of the Underworld, to let him return to the upper world, so that he could ask his wife why she was neglecting her duty. Of course, Persephone had no idea that Sisyphus had intentionally asked his wife not to make the sacrifice, so she agreed, and Sisyphus escaped the Underworld, refusing to return. Eventually Sisyphus was captured and carried back, and the angry gods gave him his punishment: for the rest of eternity, he was forced to push a large rock up a steep hill, in itself a miserable task. Every time he neared the top of the hill, the rock would roll backward and he would have to start over. Of course, our participants had done nothing ~ Dan Ariely,

902:I was backing out of the cabin when I noticed a piece of folded paper on the floor weighted down by a rock. I nudged the rock with my foot and saw my name. When I picked up the note, something fell out, and dropped beside the rock. I ignored it and took the note to the window to read it. Left this AM. We’ll come back when I have answers. There was another line, so scratched out I couldn’t decipher a word. I stared at the note for a second, then remembered the fallen object. I squinted at the floor but saw only the pale rock. I patted around until I found something, then rose, lifting it to the light. It was the rawhide band with the cat’s-eye stone, Rafe’s bracelet, the one his mother gave him. I clutched it in my hand. My breath hitched again, heart pounding. Don’t read anything into it, Maya. You know you can’t read anything into it. I opened the note again. Just those two lines. Cool and emotionless. Left. Will return. I held the page up to the window, trying to see what he’d crossed out. Okay, now you’re just being pathetic. Get a grip, Maya. The guy is gone. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

903:When he thought of the old man he could see him suddenly in a field in the spring, trying to move a gray boulder. He always knew instinctively the ones you could move, even though the greater part was buried in the earth, and he expected you to move the rock and not discuss it. A hard and silent man, an honest man, a noble man. Little humor but sometimes the door opened and you saw the warmth within a long way off, a certain sadness, a slow, remote, unfathomable quality as if the man wanted to be closer to the world but did not know how. Once Chamberlain had a speech memorized from Shakespeare and gave it proudly, the old man listening but not looking, and Chamberlain remembered it still: 'What a piece of work is man...in action how like an angel!' And the old man, grinning, had scratched his head and then said stiffly, 'Well, boy, if he's an angel, he's sure a murderin' angel.' And Chamberlain had gone on to school to make an oration on the subject: Man, the Killer Angel. And when the old man heard about it he was very proud, and Chamberlain felt very good remembering it. The old man was proud of his son, the colonel. ~ Michael Shaara,

904:Fishing Maybe this is fun, sitting in the sun, With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes, While he dips his line in the ocean brine, Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes. 'Tis romantic, yes, but I must confess Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting. But I dare not move- 'Quiet, there, my love!' Says my Angler, 'for I think monster fish is biting.' Oh, of course it's bliss, but how hot it is! And the rock I'm sitting on grows harder every minute; Still my fisher waits, trying various baits, But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it. Oh, it's just the way to pass a July day, Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming, But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way the insect crawls Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming. 'Any luck?' I gently ask of the angler at his task, 'There's something pulling at my line,' he says; 'I've almost caught it.' But when, with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace, We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

905:The Mountain My students look at me expectantly. I explain to them that the life of art is a life of endless labor. Their expressions hardly change; they need to know a little more about endless labor. So I tell them the story of Sisyphus, how he was doomed to push a rock up a mountain, knowing nothing would come of this effort but that he would repeat it indefinitely. I tell them there is joy in this, in the artist’s life, that one eludes judgment, and as I speak I am secretly pushing a rock myself, slyly pushing it up the steep face of a mountain. Why do I lie to these children? They aren’t listening, they aren’t deceived, their fingers tapping at the wooden desks— So I retract the myth; I tell them it occurs in hell, and that the artist lies because he is obsessed with attainment, that he perceives the summit as that place where he will live forever, a place about to be transformed by his burden: with every breath, I am standing at the top of the mountain. Both my hands are free. And the rock has added height to the mountain. ~ Louise Gl ck,

906:Today I choose happiness. The circumstances of my life may go up and down, for the mortal world is changeable. The immortal world, however, is changeless, for there there is only love. I build my house on the rock of the immortal world. Today I choose only immortal thoughts. I extend my perception beyond what my senses perceive, to what my heart knows is true. I withdraw my belief that I need anyone or anything to be other than what they are, in order for me to be secure. I know that whenever fear expresses itself, love will ultimately prevail. Therefore I need not fear, nor cry, nor despair. To the extent to which I see what is truly true, I see only cause for happiness. Happiness is the choice I make today. It does not rest on my circumstances, but on my frame of mind. I surrender to God any emotional habits that lead me down the path of unhappiness, and pray for guidance in shifting my thoughts. In cultivating the habits of happiness, I attract the people and situations that match its frequency. I smile more often, give praise more often, give thanks more often, and am glad more often. For such is my choice today. ~ Marianne Williamson,

907:One of the most profound responses to this exercise came out of a focus group I did with a group of leaders at West Point. One officer pushed me a little on “the accuracy of the intel” and kept asking, “You are 100 percent certain that this person is doing the best he can?” After I answered yes two or three times, the officer took a deep breath and said, “Then move the rock.” I was confused. “What do you mean by ‘move the rock’?” He shook his head. “I have to stop kicking the rock. I need to move it. It’s hurting both of us. He’s not the right person for this position, and there’s no amount of pushing or getting on him that’s going to change that. He needs to be reassigned to a position where he can make a contribution.” This doesn’t mean that we stop helping people set goals or that we stop expecting people to grow and change. It means that we stop respecting and evaluating people based on what we think they should accomplish, and start respecting them for who they are and holding them accountable for what they’re actually doing. It means that we stop loving people for who they could be and start loving them for who they are. ~ Bren Brown,

908:The Manor Farm THE rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills Ran and sparkled down each side of the road Under the catkins wagging in the hedge. But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun; Nor did I value that thin gilding beam More than a pretty February thing Till I came down to the old Manor Farm, And church and yew-tree opposite, in age Its equals and in size. The church and yew And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness. The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof, With tiles duskily glowing, entertained The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one. Three cart-horses were looking over a gate Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails Against a fly, a solitary fly. The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught And smiled quietly. But 'twas not winterRather a season of bliss unchangeable, Awakened from farm and church where it had lain Safe under tile and thatch for ages since This England, Old already, was called Merry. ~ Edward Thomas,

909:What were you playing?” I ask. “Nothing yet,” she says with a smile. “I can take requests.” I shake my head. This is one area where I can’t bond with her. “I don’t know anything at all about music,” I say. “Sorry.” I know it’s important to her. Kind of like a mainstay in her life. “You can’t hear this at all?” she asks. Her fingers strum across the strings again. “That?” I shake my head. I wish I could hear it, but I can’t. “Can you hear any music?” She’s curious. I like that. I nod. “I can hear the rock bands at the club. Or rather, I can feel the beat and the rhythm of the song when rock and roll is playing.” “Can you dance?” I roll my eyes. “Can I dance? You have to be kidding me.” I motion to my body. “I have rhythm.” Her face colors. That’s not quite the rhythm I meant, but I’ll take it. “Someone is thinking naughty thoughts,” I tease. I reach for her toe, but she jerks it back before I can tug on it. “I’m sorry I can’t enjoy your music,” I confess. “There’s nothing I would like more than to hear you play. I want to experience everything that makes you happy.” I shake my head. I don’t usually feel left out of anything, but I do now. ~ Tammy Falkner,

910:He was very interested in everything that lay to the North because no one ever went that way and he was never allowed to go there himself. When he was sitting out of doors mending the nets, and all alone, he would often look eagerly to the North. One could see nothing but a grassy slope running up to a level ridge and beyond that the sky with perhaps a few birds in it. Sometimes if Arsheesh was there Shasta would say, 'O my Father, what is there beyond that hill?' And then if the fisherman was in a bad temper he would box Shasta's ears and tell him to attend to his work. Or if he was in a peaceable mood he would say, "O my son, do not allow your mind to be distracted by idle questions. For one of the poets has said, 'Application to business is the root of prosperity, but those who ask questions that do not concern them are steering the ship of folly towards the rock of indigence'. Shasta thought that beyond the hill there must be some delightful secret which his father wished to hide from him. In reality, however, the fisherman talked like this because he didn't know what lay to the North. Neither did he care. He had a very practical mind. ~ C S Lewis,

911:Newton Pulsifer had never...as far as he knew, ever believed in anything. It had been embarrassing, because he quite wanted to believe in something, since he recognized that belief was the lifebelt that got most people through the choppy waters of Life. He'd have liked to believe in a supreme God, although he'd have preferred a half-hour's chat with Him before committing himself, to clear up one or two points. He'd sat in all sorts of churches, waiting for that single flash of blue light, and it hadn't come. And then he'd tried to become an official Atheist and hadn't got the rock-hard, self-satisfied strength of belief even for that. And every single political party had seemed to him equally dishonest. .... Then he'd tried believing in the Universe, which seemed sound enough until he'd innocently started reading new books with words like Chaos and Time and Quantum in the titles. He'd found that even the people whose job of work was, so to speak, the Universe, didn't really believe in it and were actually quite proud of not knowing what it really was or even if it could theoretically exist. To Newt's straightforward mind this was intolerable. ~ Neil Gaiman,

912:Athena Force of reason, who shut up the shrill foul Furies in the dungeon of the Parthenon, led whimpering to the cave they live in still, beneath the rock your city foundered on: who, equivocating, taught revenge to sing (or seem to, or be about to) a kindlier tune: mind that can make a scheme of anything— a game, a grid, a system, a mere folder in the universal file drawer: uncompromising mediatrix, virgin married to the welfare of the body politic: deific contradiction, warbonnet-wearing olive-bearer, author of the law's delays, you who as talisman and totem still wear the aegis, baleful with Medusa's scowl (though shrunken and self-mummified, a Gorgon still): cool guarantor of the averted look, the guide of Perseus, who killed and could not kill the thing he'd hounded to its source, the dread thing-in-itself none can elude, whose counterfeit we halfway hanker for: aware (gone mad with clarity) we have invented all you stand for, though we despise the artifice—a space to savor horror, to pre-enact our own undoing in— living, we stare into the mirror of the Gorgon. ~ Amy Clampitt,

913:Maybe I wanted to be crushed, too. To be ready you need to be tired, and you need to have seen a great deal, or what you consider to have been a great deal- we all have such different capacities, are able to absorb and sustain vastly different quantities of visions and pain- and at that moment I started thinking that I had seen enough, that in general I'd had my fill and that in terms of visual stimulation the week thus far has shown me enough and that I was sated. The rock-running in Senegal was enough, the kids and their bonjours- that alone would prepare me for the end; if I couldn't be thankful enough having been there I was sick and ungrateful, and I would not be ungrateful, not ever, I would always know the gifts given me, I would count them and keep them safe! I had had so much so I would be able to face the knife in the alley and accept it all, smiling serenely, thankful that I'd be taken while riding the very crest of everything. I had been on a plane! A tiny percentage of all those who'd ever lived would ever be on an airplane- and had seen Africa rushing at me like something alive and furious. I could be taken and eaten by these wet alleyways without protest. ~ Dave Eggers,

914:It was a vast old religion, greater than anything we know: more starkly and nakedly religious. There is no God, no conception of a god. All is god. But it is not the pantheism we are accustomed to, which expresses itself as "God is everywhere, God is everything." In the oldest religion, everything was alive, not supernaturally but naturally alive. There were only deeper and deeper streams of life, vibrations of life more and more vast. So rocks were alive, but a mountain had a deeper, vaster life than a rock, and it was much harder for a man to bring his spirit, or his energy, into contact with the life of a mountain, and so draw strength from the mountain, as from a great standing well of life, than it was to come into contact with the rock. And he had to put forth a great religious effort. For the whole life-effort of man was to get his life into direct contact with the elemental life of the cosmos, mountain-life, cloud-life, thunder-life, air-life, earth-life, sun-life. To come into the immediate felt contact, and so derive energy, power, and a dark sort of joy. This effort into sheer naked contact, without an intermediary or mediator, is the root meaning of religion... ~ D H Lawrence,

915:And The Rains Descended And The Floods Came NOW the far waves roll nearer and more near, The wind's awake, the pitiless wind's awake, It shrieks the menace that I dare not hear, Soon at my feet the angry waves will break In desolating wrath--and here I stand Helpless my house is built upon the sand. O you, whose house upon a rock is set, Laugh, safe and sure, at threatening wave and wind. You chose the better part and yet--and yet, There was no other ground that I could find, And I was weary and I longed to raise A house to guard my shivering nights and days. And it was pleasant in the house I made, While still the floods and winds were held asleep. I blessed it at the dawn, at night I prayed As though its dear foundations had been deep Sunk in the rock. I whispered in surmise, 'What if winds never wake, floods never rise?' And now the waves are near and very near, And here I wait and wonder which may be The wave in which my house will disappear, My little house that loved and sheltered me, Where joy still sings, her garland in her hand, Built on the sand, oh God, built on the sand! ~ Edith Nesbit,

916:We’re not the Furies,” I said. “We just want to talk.” “Go away!” he shrieked. “Flowers won’t make it better. It’s too late to apologize!” “Look,” Thalia said, “we just want—” “La-la-la!” he yelled. “I’m not listening!” We played tag with him around the boulder until finally Thalia, who was the quickest, caught the old man by his hair. “Stop it!” he wailed. “I have rocks to move. Rocks to move!” “I’ll move your rock!”Thalia offered. “Just shut up and talk to my friends.” Sisyphus stopped fighting. “You’ll—you’ll move my rock?” “It’s better than looking at you.” Thalia glanced at me. “Be quick about it.” Then she shoved Sisyphus toward us. She put her shoulder against the rock and started pushing it very slowly uphill. Sisyphus scowled at me distrustfully. He pinched my nose. “Ow!” I said. “So you’re really not a Fury,” he said in amazement. “What’s the flower for?” “We’re looking for someone,” I said. “The flower is helping us find him.” “Persephone!” He spit in the dust. “That’s one of her tracking devices, isn’t it?” He leaned forward, and I caught an unpleasant whiff of old-guy-who’s-been-rolling-a-rock-foreternity. “I fooled her once, you know. I fooled them all.” I looked at Nico. “Translation? ~ Rick Riordan,

917:GGRRROOCCCCK... Ian's knees buckled. The rock outcropping shook the ground, sending a spew of grayish dust that quickly billowed around them. Shielding his eyes, he spotted Amy standing by the figurine, which was now moving toward her. She was in shock, her backpack on the ground by her feet. "Get back!" he shouted. Ian pulled Amy away and threw her to the ground, landing on top of her. Gravel showered over his back, embedding into his hair and landing on the ground like a burst of applause. His second though was that the shirt would be ruined. And this was the shock of it-that his first thought had not been about the shirt. Or the coin. Or himself. It had been about her. But that was not part of the plan. She existed for a purpose. She was a tactic, a stepping stone. She was... "Lovely," he said. Amy was staring up at him, petrified, her eyelashes flecked with dust. Ian took her hand, which was knotted into a fist. "Y-y-you don't have to do that," she whispered. "Do what?" Ian asked. "Be sarcastic. Say things like 'lovely.' You saved my life. Th-thank you." "My duty," he replied. He lowered his head and allowed his lips to brush hers. Just a bit. ~ Peter Lerangis,

918:I believe I was afraid…of not being worthy of you. I have spent weeks writing, scribbling my thoughts, reliving every moment we shared, and I saw…the happiness we shared when we were together. The gleam in your dark eyes when you saw me. And I realized…that is what it’s about, is it not? Those pieces of happiness are what matters. Not title or name. I write stories and poems of love and dreams coming true, but I did not allow myself to see it as something that could be real…not for me…but it was true…what we shared, and not only am I better for it, the world could be too.” “I am a better man because of you, Cas. Imagine what we could do together?” Cassius gasped…hoped. “Do you still want me, my prince?" “I have never wanted another the way I want you. There will never be another I love the way I love you.” Merrick raised his hand, cupped Cassius’s cheek. Cas nuzzled into him, closed his eyes, trembled when he felt Merrick’s lips touch his. They kissed slowly, deeply, reexploring each other. Cassius swallowed down Merrick’s moans and then fed him his own. And it was…perfect. When they pulled apart, Cassius led Merrick back to the rock. The sun kept the chill off as they climbed on together ~ Riley Hart,

919:We do not always remember the things that do no credit to us. We justify them, cover them in bright lies or with the thick dust of forgetfulness. All of the things that Shadow had done in his life of which he was not proud, all the things he wished he had done otherwise or left undone, came at him then in a swirling storm of guilt and regret and shame, and he had nowhere to hide from them. He was as naked and as open as a corpse on a table, and dark Anubis the jackal god was his prosector and his prosecutor and his persecutor. “Please,” said Shadow. “Please stop.” But the examination did not stop. Every lie he had ever told, every object he had stolen, every hurt he had inflicted on another person, all the little crimes and the tiny murders that make up the day, each of these things and more were extracted and held up to the light by the jackal-headed judge of the dead. Shadow began to weep, painfully, in the palm of the dark god’s hand. He was a tiny child again, as helpless and as powerless as he had ever been. And then, without warning, it was over. Shadow panted, and sobbed, and snot streamed from his nose; he still felt helpless, but the hands placed him, carefully, almost tenderly, down on the rock floor. ~ Neil Gaiman,

920:The river twists and turns to face the city. It looms suddenly, massive, stamped on the landscape. Its light wells up around the surrounds, the rock hills, like bruise-blood. Its dirty towers glow. I am debased. I am compelled to worship this extraordinary presence that has silted into existence at the conjunction of two rivers. It is a vast pollutant, a stench, a klaxon sounding. Fat chimneys retch dirt into the sky even now in the deep night. It is not the current which pulls us but the city itself, its weight sucks us in. Faint shouts, here and there the calls of beasts, the obscene clash and pounding from the factories as huge machines rut. Railways trace urban anatomy like protruding veins. Red brick and dark walls, squat churches like troglodytic things, ragged awnings flickering, cobbled mazes in the old town, culs-de-sac, sewers riddling the earth like secular sepulchres, a new landscape of wasteground, crushed stone, libraries fat with forgotten volumes, old hospitals, towerblocks, ships and metal claws that lift cargoes from the water. How could we not see this approaching? What trick of topography is this, that lets the sprawling monster hide behind corners to leap out at the traveller? It is too late to flee. ~ China Mi ville,

921:we assert that when a rock is in the ground it is, after a fashion, in its center, even though it is not in its deepest center, for it is within the sphere of its center, activity, and movement; yet we do not assert that it has reached its deepest center, which is the middle of the earth. Thus the rock always possesses the power, strength, and inclination to go deeper and reach the ultimate and deepest center; and this it would do if the hindrance were removed. When once it arrives and no longer has any power or inclination toward further movement, we declare that it is in its deepest center. 12. The soul's center is God. When it has reached God with all the capacity of its being and the strength of its operation and inclination, it will have attained its final and deepest center in God, it will know, love, and enjoy God with all its might. When it has not reached this point (as happens in this mortal life, in which the soul cannot reach God with all its strength, even though in its center - which is God through grace and his self-communication to it), it still has movement and strength for advancing further and is not satisfied. Although it is in its center, it is not yet in its deepest center, for it can go deeper in God. ~ Juan de la Cruz,

922:While up on the mountain the cause of the flap was settling down for a bit of a nap when he heard a strange sound. It was still far away And not very loud. Of course, what it was was the roar of a crowd. Now Bigpaw was certainly no mental wizard. But he was getting a feeling down deep in his gizzard that trouble was coming. So he scratched his head and started his fuzzy old noodle a-humming. And using his powerful arms and shoulders, he built a tower, a tower of boulders. If those bears were to charge up out of the valley, they’d be just like pins in a bowling alley. But those bears kept on coming, faster and faster! There was simply no way to avoid disaster! But then-- at the very last instant before the rocks fell-- there came through the din a cub’s high-pitched yell. “Wait!” It was Sister. “Wait!” Sister cried. The rock tower teetered. It started to slide. Brother and Sister, small and defiant, had positioned themselves in defense of the giant. But Brother and Sister were in terrible danger, and there was no one to help them… EXCEPT FOR THE GIANT. ~ Stan Berenstain,

923:Isaura, city of the thousand wells, is said to rise over a deep, subterranean lake. On all sides, wherever the inhabitants dig long vertical holes in the ground, they succeed in drawing up water, as far as the city extends, and no father. Its green border repeats the dark outline of the buried lake; an invisible landscape conditions the visible one; everything that moves in the sunlight is driven by the lapping wave enclosed beneath the rock's calcareous sky. Consequently, two forms of religion exist in Isaura. The city's gods, according to some people, live in the depths, in the black lake that feeds the underground streams. According to others, the gods live in the buckets that rise, suspended from a cable, as they appear over the edge of the wells, in the revolving pulleys, in the windlasses of the norias, in the pump handles, in the blades of the windmills that draw the water up from the drillings, in the trestles that support the twisting probes, in the reservoirs perched on stilts over the roofs, in the slender arches of the aqueducts, in all the columns of water, the vertical pipes, the plungers, the drains, all the way up to the weathercocks that surmount the airy scaffoldings of Isaura, a city that moves entirely upward. ~ Italo Calvino,

924:Irish Nocturne Now the grey mist comes creeping up From the waste ocean’s weedy strand And fills the valley, as a cup If filled of evil drink in a wizard’s hand; And the trees fade out of sight, Like dreary ghosts unhealthily, Into the damp, pale night, Till you almost think that a clearer eye could see Some shape come up of a demon seeking apart His meat, as Grendel sought in Harte The thanes that sat by the wintry log— Grendel or the shadowy mass Of Balor, or the man with the face of clay, The grey, grey walker who used to pass Over the rock-arch nightly to his prey. But here at the dumb, slow stream where the willows hang, With never a wind to blow the mists apart, Bitter and bitter it is for thee. O my heart, Looking upon this land, where poets sang, Thus with the dreary shroud Unwholesome, over it spread, And knowing the fog and the cloud In her people’s heart and head Even as it lies for ever upon her coasts Making them dim and dreamy lest her sons should ever arise And remember all their boasts; For I know that the colourless skies And the blurred horizons breed Lonely desire and many words and brooding and never a deed. ~ Clive Staples Lewis,

925:crazed mother her dead child. One day, I don’t know which, I found myself in this world, having lived unfeelingly from the time I was evidently born until then. When I asked where I was, everyone misled me, and they contradicted each other. When I asked them to tell me what I should do, they all spoke falsely, and each one said something different. When in bewilderment I stopped on the road, everyone was shocked that I didn’t keep going to no one knew where, or else turn back – I, who’d woken up at the crossroads and didn’t know where I’d come from. I saw that I was on stage and didn’t know the part that everyone else recited straight off, also without knowing it. I saw that I was dressed as a page, but they didn’t give me a queen, and blamed me for not having her. I saw that I had a message in my hand to deliver, and when I told them that the sheet of paper was blank, they laughed at me. And I still don’t know if they laughed because all sheets are blank, or because all messages are to be guessed. Finally I sat down on the rock at the crossroads as before the fireplace I never had. And I began, all by myself, to make paper boats with the lie they’d given me. No one would believe in me, not even as a liar, and there was no pond where I could try out my truth. ~ Fernando Pessoa,

926:You’re fine,” said Eragon, exasperated. “Stop worrying. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.” Saphira growled and continued to study her image in the lake. She turned her head from side to side, then exhaled heavily, releasing a cloud of smoke that drifted out over the water like a small, lost thundercloud. Are you sure? she asked, and looked toward him. What if it doesn’t grow back? “Dragons grow new scales all the time. You know that.” Yes, but I’ve never lost one before! He did not bother to hide his smile; he knew she would sense his amusement. “You shouldn’t be so upset. It wasn’t very big.” Reaching out, he traced the diamond-shaped hole on the left side of her snout, where the object of her consternation had so recently been ensconced. The gap in her sparkling armor was no larger than the end of his thumb and about an inch deep. At the bottom of it, her leathery blue hide was visible. Curious, he touched her skin with the tip of his index finger. It felt warm and smooth, like the belly of a calf. Saphira snorted and pulled her head away from him. Stop that; it tickles. He chuckled and kicked at the water by the base of the rock he was sitting on, enjoying the sensation against the bottom of his bare feet. ~ Christopher Paolini,

927:O, Pity The Slave Mother I pity the slave mother, careworn and weary, Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast; I lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary, I lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed. O who can imagine her heart's deep emotion, As she thinks of her children about to be sold; You may picture the bounds of the rock-girdled ocean, But the grief of that mother can never be known. The mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom, That ever has bloomed in her path-way below; It has froze every fountain that gushed in her bosom, And chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe; Her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression; Her husband still doomed in its desert to stay; No arm to protect from the tyrant's aggressionShe must weep as she treads on her desolate way. O, slave mother, hope! see-the nation is shaking! The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong! The slave-holder's heart now with terror is quaking, Salvation and Mercy to Heaven belong! Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing, May one day lift up its unmanacled form, While hope, to thy heart, like the rain-bow so cheering, Is born, like the rain-bow, 'mid tempest and storm. ~ Anonymous Americas,

928:Elegiacs Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland; Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone. Not as of old, like Homeric Achilles, ??de? ya???, Joyous knight-errant of God, thirsting for labour and strife; No more on magical steed borne free through the regions of ether, But, like the hack which I ride, selling my sinew for gold. Fruit-bearing autumn is gone; let the sad quiet winter hang o'er meWhat were the spring to a soul laden with sorrow and shame? Blossoms would fret me with beauty; my heart has no time to bepraise them; Gray rock, bough, surge, cloud, waken no yearning within. Sing not, thou sky-lark above! even angels pass hushed by the weeper. Scream on, ye sea-fowl! my heart echoes your desolate cry. Sweep the dry sand on, thou wild wind, to drift o'er the shell and the seaweed; Sea-weed and shell, like my dreams, swept down the pitiless tide. Just is the wave which uptore us; 'tis Nature's own law which condemns us; Woe to the weak who, in pride, build on the faith of the sand! Joy to the oak of the mountain: he trusts to the might of the rock-clefts; Deeply he mines, and in peace feeds on the wealth of the stone. Morte Sands, Devonshire, February 1849. ~ Charles Kingsley,

929:The right place; that was what he was looking for. The right place. Place was all important, place meant everything. Take this rock… "Take you, rock," he said. He squinted at it. Ah yes, here we have the nasty big flat rock, sitting doing nothing, just amoral and dull, and it sits like an island in the polluted pool. The pool is a tiny lake on the little island, and the island is in a drowned crater. The crater is a volcanic crater, the volcano forms part of an island in a big inland sea. The inland sea is like a giant lake on a continent and the continent is like an island sitting in the seas of the planet. The planet is like an island on the sea of space within its system, and the system floats within the cluster, which is like an island in the sea of the galaxy, which is like an island in the archipelago of of its local group, which is an island within the universe; the universe is like an island floating in a sea of space in the Continua, and they float like islands in the Reality, and… But down through the Continua, the Universe, the Local Group, the Galaxy, the Cluster, the System, the Planet, the Continent, the Island, the Lake, the Island… the rock remained. AND THAT MEANT THE ROCK, THE CRAPPY AWFUL ROCK HERE WAS THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE, THE CONTINUA, THE WHOLE REALITY! ~ Iain M Banks,

930:It was the Indian manner to vanish into the landscape, not to stand out against it. The Hopi villages that were set upon rock mesas were made to look like the rock on which they sat, were imperceptible at a distance. ... In the working of silver or drilling of turquoise the Indians had exhaustless patience; upon their blankets and belts and ceremonial robes they lavished their skill and pains. But their conception of decoration did not extend to the landscape. They seemed to have none of the European's desire to "master" nature, to arrange and re-create. They spent their ingenuity in the other direction; in accommodating themselves to the scene in which they found themselves. This was not so much from indolence, the Bishop thought, as from an inherited caution and respect. It was as if the great country were asleep, and they wished to carry on their lives without awakening it; or as if the spirits of earth and air and water were things not to antagonize and arouse. When they hunted, it was with the same discretion; an Indian hunt was never a slaughter. They ravaged neither the rivers nor the forest, and if they irrigated, they took as little water as would serve their needs. The land and all that it bore they treated with consideration; not attempting to improve it, they never desecrated it. ~ Willa Cather,

931:Floods In the dark night, from sweet refreshing sleep I wake to hear outside my window-pane The uncurbed fury of the wild spring rain, And weird winds lashing the defiant deep, And roar of floods that gather strength and leap Down dizzy, wreck-strewn channels to the main. I turn upon my pillow and again Compose myself for slumber. Let them sweep; I once survived great floods, and do not fear, Though ominous planets congregate, and seem To foretell strange disasters. From a dream— Ah! dear God! such a dream!—I woke to hear, Through the dense shadows lit by no star's gleam, The rush of mighty waters on my ear. Helpless, afraid, and all alone, I lay; The floods had come upon me unaware. I heard the crash of structures that were fair; The bridges of fond hopes were swept away 248 By great salt waves of sorrow. In dismay I saw by the red lightning's lurid glare That on the rock-bound island of despair I had been cast. Till the dim dawn of day I heard my castles falling, and the roll Of angry billows bearing to the sea The broken timbers of my very soul. Were all the pent-up waters from the whole Stupendous solar system to break free, There are no floods that now can frighten me. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

932:Henry Phipps I was the Sunday school superintendent, The dummy president of the wagon works And the canning factory, Acting for Thomas Rhodes and the banking clique; My son the cashier of the bank, Wedded to Rhodes' daughter, My week day spent in making money, My Sundays at church and in prayer. In everything a cog in the wheel of things-as-they-are: Of money, master and man, made white With the paint of the Christian creed. And then: The bank collapsed. I stood and looked at the wrecked machine -The wheels with blow-holes stopped with putty and painted; The rotten bolts, the broken rods; And only the hopper for souls fit to be used again In a new devourer of life, when newspapers, judges and money-magicians Build over again. I was stripped to the bone, but I lay in the Rock of Ages, Seeing now through the game, no longer a dupe, And knowing "the upright shall dwell in the land But the years of the wicked shall be shortened." Then suddenly, Dr. Meyers discovered A cancer in my liver. I was not, after all, the particular care of God! Why, even thus standing on a peak Above the mists through which I had climbed, And ready for larger life in the world, Eternal forces Moved me on with a push. ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

933:Wonderful how some people have a sixth sense for what worthless swill their fellow humans will swallow, isn't it? In this respect Marianne Williamson is a genius. Like so many who have this sixth sense, she is an outsider: A rootless Jew with no distinct sense of place, no tradition, no connection to any body of ideas informed by blood, historical moment, or anything else. This is not to disparage Jews, since she has shucked any influence from that people of the Word. That is to say, apart from its perspective as outsider, there is nothing Jewish about her. Like an empty gourd, she has filled herself with what she has overheard as being popular, trendy, and smart. The rushing waters of cocktail party, college rathskeller yap – climate change, AIDS emotivism, poverty emotivism, women's rights, “peacebuilding,” yadda, yadda, yadda – encounter in her not the rock of a thoughtful personality, but a lukewarm rivulet of wuv, wuv, wuv. Got an issue? Her solution: All you need is love, love, love. Thus in the absence of a single salient idea, her “solution” can only be called emotivism. In this Marianne Williamson is a must-read. Read her to know the antithesis of all that endures in literature and art; read her to find out all that will be forgotten, all that will soon pass into nothingness. ~ Marianne Williamson,

934:STAY CLOSE, MY HEART Stay close, my heart, to the one who knows your ways; Come into the shade of the tree that allays has fresh flowers. Don't stroll idly through the bazaar of the perfume-markers: Stay in the shop of the sugar-seller. If you don't find true balance, anyone can deceive you; Anyone can trick out of a thing of straw, And make you take it for gold Don't squat with a bowl before every boiling pot; In each pot on the fire you find very different things. Not all sugarcanes have sugar, not all abysses a peak; Not all eyes possess vision, not every sea is full of pearls. O nightingale, with your voice of dark honey! Go on lamenting! Only your drunken ecstasy can pierce the rock's hard heart! Surrender yourself, and if you cannot be welcomes by the Friend, Know that you are rebelling inwardly like a thread That doesn't want to go through the needle's eye! The awakened heart is a lamp; protect it by the him of your robe! Hurry and get out of this wind, for the weather is bad. And when you've left this storm, you will come to a fountain; You'll find a Friend there who will always nourish your soul. And with your soul always green, you'll grow into a tall tree Flowering always with sweet light-fruit, whose growth is interior. ~ Rumi,

935:We walked down the back stairwell into the garden where the old breakfast table used to be. 'This was my father's spot. I call it his ghost spot. My spot used to be over there, if you remember.' I pointed to where my old table used to stand by the pool. 'Did I have a spot?' he asked with a half grin. 'You'll always have a spot.' I wanted to tell him that the pool, the garden, the house, the tennis court, the orle of paradise, the whole place, would always be his ghost spot. Instead, I pointed upstairs to the French windows of his room. Your eyes are forever there, I wanted to say, trapped in the sheer curtains, staring out from my bedroom upstairs where no one sleeps these days. When there's a breeze and they swell and I look up from down here or stand outside on the balcony, I'll catch myself thinking that you're in there, staring out from your world to my world, saying, as you did on that one night when I found you on the rock, I've been happy here. You're thousands of miles away but no sooner do I look at this window than I'll think of a bathing suit, a shirt thrown on on the fly, arms resting on the banister, and you're suddenly there, lighting up your first cigarette of the day—twenty years ago today. For as long as the house stands, this will be your ghost spot—and mine too, I wanted to say. ~ Andr Aciman,

936:Finders keepers!" Ian shouted, scooping up the overlay and hopping onto a rock outcropping. "You cheater!" Amy was furious. No way was he going to get away with that. She climbed the rock, matching him step for step until she reached the top. There he turned to her, panting for breath. "Not bad for a Cahill," he said, grinning. "You --y-y-you--" The words caught in her throat, the way they always did. He was staring at her, his eyes dancing with laughter, making her so knotted up with anger and hatred that she thought she would explode. "C-c-can't--" But in that moment, something totally weird happened. Maybe it was a flip of his head, a movement in his eyebrow, she couldn't tell. But it was as if someone had suddenly held a painting at a different angle, and what appeared to be a stormy sea transformed into a bright bouquet -- a trick of the eye that proved everything was just a matter of perspective. His eyes were not mocking at all. They were inviting her, asking her to laugh along. Suddenly, her rage billowed up and blew off in wisps, like a cloud. "You're ... a Cahill, too," she replied. "Touche." His eyes didn't move a millimeter from hers. This time she met his gaze. Solidly. This time she didn't feel like apologizing or attacking or running away. She wouldn't have minded if he just stared like that all day. ~ Peter Lerangis,

937:Tu Boca (Your Mouth) Spanish Yo hacía una divina labor, sobre la roca Creciente del Orgullo. De la vida lejana, Algún pétalo vívido me voló en la mañana, Algún beso en la noche. Tenaz como una loca, Sequía mi divina labor sobre la roca. Cuando tu voz que funde como sacra campana En la nota celeste la vibración humana, Tendió su lazo do oro al borde de tu boca; —Maravilloso nido del vértigo, tu boca! Dos pétalos de rosa abrochando un abismo…— Labor, labor de gloria, dolorosa y liviana; ¡Tela donde mi espíritu su fue tramando él mismo! Tú quedas en la testa soberbia de la roca, Y yo caigo, sin fin, en el sangriento abismo! English I was at my divine labor, upon the rock Swelling with Pride. From a distance, At dawn, some bright petal came to me, Some kiss in the night. Upon the rock, Tenacious a madwoman, I clung to my work. When your voice, like a sacred bell, A celestial note with a human tremor, Stretched its golden lasso from the edge of your mouth; —Marvelous nest of vertigo, your mouth! Two rose petals fastened to an abyss…— Labor, labor of glory, painful and frivolous; Fabric where my spirit went weaving herself! 30 You come to the arrogant head of the rock, And I fall, without end, into the bloody abyss! ~ Delmira Agustini,

938:She swam nearer and her breath caught. Lying atop the rock was a bow and quiver full of arrows beside a pair of beaded moccasins. She spun around in the water, joy bubbling up inside her. But before she could take a breath, firm hands caught her ankles and tugged her under. She came up sputtering and laughing, but he’d still not surfaced. So he swims like a fish. She remembered he could also run like a deer, overtaking her in the woods all those years before. “Yellow Bird.” The voice behind her seemed almost to drown her with its depth. She turned to Captain Jack, hard pressed to keep her pleasure down. How many days since they had walked in the meadow? Too many, from the feeling inside her. In one glance she took in the doused eagle feathers of his headdress and the fine silver bands encircling his solid upper arms. Shimmering with water, Captain Jack’s hair was blue black. The beads about his neck were the same startling jade as his eyes and made him even more appealing. Suddenly shy, she ducked beneath the water, then swam away. Would he follow? They did a dance of sorts in the warm current, circling, gliding, swaying. Each time he caught her she pulled free and swam farther downriver than she’d ever been before. But he continued to woo her, pursuing her until she was so breathless she could only lie upon her back and float, the river like a watery bed. ~ Laura Frantz,

939:After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water - The Waste Land (ll. 322-358) ~ T S Eliot,

940:Youth and death have always been an intoxicating combination for the myth makers left amongst the living. And dangerous, even violent, self-loathing has long been an essential ingredient in the fires of transformation. When the "new self" burns to life, the twins of great control *and* recklessness are immutably linked. It's what makes life interesting. The high tension between those two forces often makes a performer fascinating and fun to watch, but also a white-cross highway marker. Here, many who've come this way have burned out hard or died. The rock death cult is well loved and chronicled in literature and music, but in practice, there ain't much in it for the singer and his song, except a good life unlived, lovers and children left behind, and a six-foot-deep hole in the ground. The exit in a blaze of glory is bullshit. Now, if you're not one of the handful of music revolutionaries—and I was not—you naturally set your sights on something different. In a transient field, I was suited for the long haul. I had years of study behind me; I was physically built to endure and by disposition was not an edge dweller. I was interested in what I might accomplish over a lifetime of music making, so assumption number one is you are going to keep breathing. In my business, the above case studies prove, no matter who you are, that's not as easy as it sounds. ~ Bruce Springsteen,

941:The Obstacles That Lie Before Us There is an old Zen story about a king whose people had grown soft and entitled. Dissatisfied with this state of affairs, he hoped to teach them a lesson. His plan was simple: He would place a large boulder in the middle of the main road, completely blocking entry into the city. He would then hide nearby and observe their reactions. How would they respond? Would they band together to remove it? Or would they get discouraged, quit, and return home? With growing disappointment, the king watched as subject after subject came to this impediment and turned away. Or, at best, tried halfheartedly before giving up. Many openly complained or cursed the king or fortune or bemoaned the inconvenience, but none managed to do anything about it. After several days, a lone peasant came along on his way into town. He did not turn away. Instead he strained and strained, trying to push it out of the way. Then an idea came to him: He scrambled into the nearby woods to find something he could use for leverage. Finally, he returned with a large branch he had crafted into a lever and deployed it to dislodge the massive rock from the road. Beneath the rock were a purse of gold coins and a note from the king, which said: “The obstacle in the path becomes the path. Never forget, within every obstacle is an opportunity to improve our condition.” What holds you back? ~ Ryan Holiday,

942:For A REMOTE sky, prolonged to the sea's brim: One rock-point standing buffeted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim: A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, Reared at the rock: a woman fettered there, Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt: Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws: behind, That evil length of body chafes at fault. She does not hear nor see—she knows of them. II CLENCH thine eyes now,—'tis the last instant, girl: Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all: thy life is keen awake,— Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee?—or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache? Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh?—or thine own blood's anointing, girl? Now, silence: for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence; and except the sea, All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she, Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

943:Let me sleep," he said, and shut the door; it clicked in her face and she felt animal terror - this was what she feared most in life: the clicking shut of a man's door in her face. Instantly, she raised her hand to knock, discovered the rock... she banged on the door with the rock, but not loudly, just enough to let him know how desperate she was to get back in, but not enough to bother him if he didn't want to answer. He didn't. No sound, no movement of the door. Nothing but the void. "Tony?" she gasped, pressing her ear to the door. Silence. "Okay," she said numbly; clutching her rock she walked unsteadily across the porch toward her own living quarters. The rock vanished. Her hand felt nothing. "Damn," she said, not knowing how to react. Where had it gone? Into air. But then it must have been an illusion, she realized. He put me in a hypnotic state and made me believe. I should have known it wasn't really true. A million stars burst into wheels of light, blistering, cold light, that drenched her. It came from behind and she felt the great weight of it crash into her. "Tony," she said, and fell into the waiting void. She thought nothing; she felt nothing. She saw only, saw the void as it absorbed her, waiting below and beneath her as she plummeted down the many miles. On her hands and knees she died. Alone on the porch. Still clutching for what did not exist. ~ Philip K Dick,

944:THE BALLAD OF NEARLY HEADLESS NICK BY J.K. ROWLING It was a mistake any wizard could make Who was tired and caught on the hop One piffling error, and then, to my terror, I found myself facing the chop. Alas for the eve when I met Lady Grieve A-strolling the park in the dusk! She was of the belief I could straighten her teeth Next moment she’d sprouted a tusk. I cried through the night that I’d soon put her right But the process of justice was lax; They’d brought out the block, though they’d mislaid the rock Where they usually sharpened the axe. Next morning at dawn, with a face most forlorn, The priest said to try not to cry, ‘You can come just like that, no, you won’t need a hat,’ And I knew that my end must be nigh. The man in the mask who would have the sad task Of cleaving my head from my neck, Said ‘Nick, if you please, will you get to your knees,’ And I turned to a gibbering wreck. ‘This may sting a bit’ said the cack-handed twit As he swung the axe up in the air, But oh the blunt blade! No difference it made, My head was still definitely there. The axeman he hacked and he whacked and he thwacked, ‘Won’t be too long’, he assured me, But quick it was not, and the bone-headed clot Took forty-five goes ’til he floored me. And so I was dead, but my faithful old head It never saw fit to desert me, It still lingers on, that’s the end of my song, And now, please applaud, or you’ll hurt me. ~ J K Rowling,

945:Newton Pulsifer had never had a cause in his life. Nor had he, as far as he knew, ever believed in anything. It had been embarassing, because he quite wanted to believe in something, since he recognized that belief was the lifebelt that got most people through the choppy waters of Life. He'd have liked to believe in a supreme God, although he'd have preferred a half-hour's chat with Him before committing himself, to clear up one or two points. He'd sat in all sorts of churches, waiting for that single flash of blue light, and it hadn't come. And then he'd tried to become an official Atheist and hadn't got the rock-hard, self-satisfied strenght of belief even for that. And every single political party had seemed to him equally dishonest. And he'd given up on ecology when the ecology magazine he'd been subscribing to had shown its readers a plan of a self-suficient garden, and had drawn the ecological goat tethered within three feet of the ecological beehive. Newt had spent a lot of time at his grandmother's house in the country and thought he knew something about the habits of both goats and bees, and concluded therefore that the magazine was run by a bunch of bib-overalled maniacs. Besides, it used the word 'community' too often; Newton had always suspected that people who regularly used the word 'community' were using it in a very specific sense that excluded him and everyone he knew. ~ Terry Pratchett,

946:Ho! Everyone That Thirsts, Draw Nigh Ho! every one that thirsts, draw nigh! ('Tis God invites the fallen race) Mercy and free salvation buy; Buy wine, and milk, and gospel grace. Come to the living waters, come! Sinners, obey your Maker's call; Return, ye weary wanderers, home, And find my grace is free for all. See from the Rock a fountain rise! For you in healing streams it rolls; Money ye need not bring, nor price, Ye labouring, burdened, sin-sick souls. Nothing ye in exchange shall give, Leave all you have and are behind, Frankly the gift of God receive, Pardon and peace in Jesus find. Why seek ye that which is not bread, Nor can your hungry souls sustain? On ashes, husks, and air ye feed; Ye spend your little all in vain. In search of empty joys below, Ye toil with unavailing strife; Whither, ah! whither would ye go? I have the words of endless life. Hearken to me with earnest care, And freely eat substantial food, The sweetness of my mercy share, And taste that I alone am good. I bid you all my goodness prove, My promises for all are free, Come, taste the manna of my love, And let your souls delight in me. 12 Your willing ear and heart incline, My words believingly receive; Quickened your souls by faith divine An everlasting life shall live. ~ Charles Wesley,

947:Nobody Believes Nobody believes in lovenot even me. Love is the thing you wait to end. Love is the thing that will not, cannot work. Love is the thing they warn you ofthe dire parents, the friends with their dead marriages, their crushed hopes. Nothing crushes hope but the will to make the heart like rock. That will is strong. The rock-heart stands when the love songs crumble, their yellowing sheet music kept in a drawer, their sweet hugs & tugs forgotten, like the merest air of an old New England spring. Spring comes again & again, & the rock-hearts 142 feel the sap rising thinking it is sex, thinking the glands alone cause this tumult to the innards, this hidden spring, this secret river which is hope. Let them put it down to sex! Let them say we worship Dionysus, Bacchus, Pan, but not the proper gods. Let them have the proper godsJahweh with his heart like rock, Christ with his blood & thorns, Mammon with his stock certificates, his rates, his rates, his bull markets, & his late rallies. We are rallying alone. We spit our love into the wind. Nobody can bear to watch our love. Except the muse who smiles & sends 143 these poems. ~ Erica Jong,

948:There remained a main melody, or a path through a maze—a maze that was like the delta of the Po. He seemed to look down on it as he sang it. A great number of channels were weaving down a slightly tilted plain. Each channel was a mathematical specialty—some of them shallow and disappearing into the sand, but most making their loop and reconnecting to other flows. A few were the kind of deep channels that ships would use. Upstream they coalesced until there were fewer, scattered streams. Fewer tributaries rather than more, leading up in different directions to sources, often at springs. Water out of the rock. This was, he saw, an image of mathematics in time. Or maybe it was all time, or humanity in time; but it was the mathematics that sprang out at him. The fewer channels upstream, in the distant past, well before his time, were where Aurora’s tutorial now led him. Then he was flying over the time stream, or in it, sometimes returning upstream to view a contemporaneous discipline. Mainly he had a general sense of flying downstream, over or occasionally inside some eternal landscape, the nature of which could not be discerned. He inhabited an image he had heard some time before, of history as a river, in which people were water, eroding the banks and depositing soil elsewhere downstream, so that the banks slowly changed and the river ran otherwise than it had, without the water ever noticing the changed courses of the braiding stream. ~ Kim Stanley Robinson,

949:A hero takes steps with the vision of bringing what is beyond the eyes of mere men into reality for them to come to a certain realization. A hero opens doors for the eyes of mere men to see things inside the closed doors and ponder, learn lessons and think of different actions! A hero faces challenges in an overcoming manner with a certain charisma that surpasses the understanding of mere men! To be a hero, one needs a certain gut! It is not as if heroes don’t hit the rock bottom, never! Heroes meet big problems, but big problems and challenges are what defines heroism, and even if heroes are unable to arrest and cripple all the challenges they meet, they must never be discredited for their awesome ingenuity that brought awe, became a yardstick, natured minds, provoked thoughts and caused the envy of mere men to shake, gave people reasons to reason, showed people the essence of life, cleared the path for people to take their journey, and epitomized true heroism! Heroes die after they have blazed the trail! Heroes retire after they have done something unique and unthinkable! Heroes are heroes, regardless of their slips or the big or small things they could never do as heroes, for most times heroes die as heroes whilst challenging the unthinkable challenges! Even if all people don’t see and acknowledge the heroism of a hero, heroes see, feel and understand what it really takes to be a hero! A hero is a hero! Don’t ever undermine heroism! ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,

950:Where is the land of Luthany, Where is the tract of Elenore? I am bound therefore. 'Pierce thy heart to find the key; With thee take Only what none else would keep; Learn to dream when thou dost wake; Learn to wake when thou dost sleep. Learn to water joy with tears, Learn from fears to vanquish fears; To hope, for thou dar'st not despair; Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve; Plough thou the rock until it bear; Know, for thou else couldst not believe; Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive; Die, for none other way canst live. 'When earth and heave lay down their veil, And that apocalypse turns thee pale; When thy seeing blindeth thee To what thy fellow-mortals see; When their sight to thee is sightless; Their living, death; their light, most lightless; Search no more-- Pass the gates of Luthany, Tread the region Elenore!' Where is the land of Luthany? And where the region Elenore? I do faint therefore. 'When to the new eyes of thee All things by immortal power, Near or far, Hiddenly To each other linked are, That thou canst not stir a flower Without troubling of a star; When thy song is shield and mirror To the fair snake curled pain, Where thou dar'st affront her terror That on her thou may'st attain Persean Conquest; seek no more, O seek no more! Pass the gates of Luthany, Tread the region Elenore! ~ Francis Thompson,

951:50. Keep Grounded When was the last time you ventured into the great outdoors? I mean really ventured, where you set out into the unknown with just a map and compass, backpack and sleeping bag - the sort of venturing that makes your heart beat faster. Have you experienced the hypnotic patter of rain on your tent, the clear call of an owl or the rustling of the wind through the leaves at night? It’s a feeling of absolute freedom and belonging - a chance to reconnect with both ourselves and planet Earth. At night in the outdoors is also a reminder that the best things in life aren’t things. Money can’t buy the quiet calm that comes from sitting beside a mountain stream as it ‘tinkles’ through the rock and heather. Money can’t buy the inspiration that you feel sat on a clifftop above the pounding of the ocean surf as it hits the rocks far below. You can’t bottle feelings like that. And sitting around a campfire under a sky of stars is the most ancient and wonderful of human activities. It reminds us of our place in the world, and in history - and it’s hard not to be humbled. These sorts of simple activities cost so little yet they give us precious time to be ‘still- - time to reconnect, to clear our heads of the dross, to remind ourselves of our dreams and to see things in the perspective they often require. We all need that regularly in our lives - more than you might imagine. ~ Bear Grylls,

952:Oh tell me please, how does it go, the triple jump?" She pro nounced it tripee-el She had a way of pleading for things in her Brazilian English to make you understand that they were matters simultaneously of no consequence and of life and death. You could refuse, and nothing would be changed; or you could give, and earn undying gratitude. It was a great gift, which she had won by long effort and sorrow and laughter. It was the humorous residue of cravings which had once been corrosive enough to etch her face. "Is that the hop, skip and jump?" I asked lazily from the rock where I was sitting and reading. I did not want to leave my rock. I had my left leg over the side with the foot in the sand. Every thirty seconds or so the movements of the water combined to send a wave swishing along the side of the rock, covering my leg up to the knee and cooling it. I felt the sun's heat flowing through me into the sea. "I really don't know," I said. `Why? What's fascinating you?" She had asked about the triple jump once before, I remembered, in Rio. "I don't know," she said, each word long-drawn-out and husky. "I am going to try it anyway." She pursed her mouth and did a coltish sprint along the sand finishing with both feet together. She stood for a while with the sun on her back, her face in shadow, looking again at the prints she had left. I watched her still, exploring the shape of her body. I would have expected a dancer's body to be harder, to show more muscle. ~ Ted Simon,

953:The first thing he usually did when he got home was shower, but today he could scarcely make it into the house because the boys were blocking the steps. “How y’doin’?” he said, maneuvering around them and going inside. The boys got up and followed him. “Anything exciting happen today?” Jake inquired. “I told Mrs. Blake I wouldn’t deliver her mail unless she kept her dog in the house,” Father said. “Almost got my pants torn off by that beast of hers. Other than that, no.” “Anybody die?” asked Peter. Wally reached over and pinched his arm, but it was too late. “Not that I know of. Why? Did I miss something?” “I guess we’re getting bored,” Jake said quickly. “Nothing exciting ever happens around here.” “Well, you could always go check out that new family,” Father suggested. “Mr. Malloy is the new football coach at the college, I hear, and they’ve got three daughters about your ages.” “Did you meet them?” asked Josh. “No, but I will before too long. Want me to say something for you?” “No!” cried the four boys together. Father smiled a little as he took off his shirt. “Okay, then. We’ll just let things develop and see what happens.” What happens, Wally thought, is that someone’s going to find the body, and someone is going to ask questions, and someone—namely Wally himself—was going to jail. All because of two words. Two words! Dead fish. He swallowed, but it didn’t get rid of the rock in the pit of his stomach. ~ Phyllis Reynolds Naylor,

954:A rain of pebbles from overhead makes me glance up in time to see Ruthann step onto the lip of the cliff, another fifteen feet above me. Her body is wrapped tight in a pure white robe. "Ruthann!" I shout, my voice caroming off the rock walls, an obscenity. She looks down at me. Across the distance our eyes meet. "Ruthann, don't," I whisper, but she shakes her head. I'm sorry. In that half-second, I think about Wilma and Derek and me, all the people who do not want to beleft behind, who think we know what is best for her. I think about the doctors and the medicines Ruthann lied about taking. I think about how I could talk her down from that ledge like I have talked down a dozen potential suicide victims. Yet the right thing to do, here, is subjective. Ruthann's family, who wants her alive, will not be the one to lose hair from drugs, to have surgery to remove her breast, to die by degrees. It is easy to say that Ruthann should come down from that cliff, unless you are Ruthann. I know better than anyone what it feels like to have someone else make choices for you, when you deserve to be making them yourself. I look at Ruthann, and very slowly, I not. She smiles at me, and so I am her witness -- as she unwraps the wedding robe from her narrow shoulders and holds is across her back like the wide wings of a hawk. As she steps off the edge of the cliff and rises to the Spirit World. As the owls bear her body to the broken ground. ~ Jodi Picoult,

955:How about we up the stakes? I win, you talk to me.” Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “I’m afraid to ask what you mean by talk…” “Exactly that. I win, I get thirty minutes of your time tonight.” “To charm me and lie to me and pretend to be whoever you think I want?” “Nope. Tonight it’s me, in case you haven’t noticed. The real Rafe Martinez. A special one-night appearance.” “And if I win?” He grinned. “Then you get to spend thirty minutes with me, lucky birthday girl.” I laughed and motioned for Daniel to start the countdown. Rafe still pulled the “I don’t know what I’m doing” routine, starting slow and cautious, hoping I’d second-guess my assessment and take it easy. I didn’t. He realized that when my foot reached his shoulder level. By the midpoint, he’d shot up to my waist, but his muttered curses told me he’d underestimated how good I was--or overestimated how good he was--and it was clear he wasn’t going to catch up in time. So I stopped. Daniel leaned over and mouthed, “What are you doing?” Below, the others yelled, a cacophony of shouts and cheers and jeers. Rafe reached up, his bracelet hitting the rock with a ping. I glanced at it. A worn rawhide band with a cat’s-eye stone. I could see his tattoo better, too, as he pulled himself up, and I recognized the symbol. A crow mother kachina. Hopi. As he drew up alongside me, he cocked one brow. “You really want that kiss don’t you?” he said. “No, I just want to see what you can really do. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

956:The Panama Canal ABOVE it flies the flag we love, Within it is the blood we gave; It stands a part and portion of The courage that once freed the slave. The strength that fought for liberty Hewed out the rock that barred its way; The men who toiled that it might be Were children of the U. S. A. Within its sides there is no stone But what Americans have placed; Above it other flags have flown And seen their labors go to waste. To build it other lands have tried And have deserted in dismay, But they, who would not be defied, Were children of the U. S. A. Into its massive walls were poured The gold that bore the eagle's stamp; Within each foot of it is stored The grit of Valley Forge's camp. This wedding of divided seas, That is a finished fact today, Stands out among the victories That glorify the U. S. A. No alien land was asked to aid, No foreign friend was leaned upon; This by Americans was made While all the world stood looking on. And molded into every part From coast to coast, to last for aye, There are the blood and flesh and heart And genius of the U. S. A. Beneath Old Glory this was done, Beneath Old Glory shall it dwell; As long as there are seas'to run 910 This nation's splendor shall it tell. As long as human hearts shall thrill And patriotism men shall sway, This must remain to speak the skill And courage of the U. S. A. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

957:Not that living with her was any walk in the park. Her mood swings were fierce, and she was prone to savage dreams, often waking him up with her sleep talk, semicoherent tear-choked pleas to be left alone. And what he at first thought was a temporary desire for a protector in her life had over the years morphed into a river of visceral, mostly inarticulate need for him, a neediness her never quite understood but responded to with everything he had. She could never wear him out with her demands, there was something about her that made him want to be the best possible version of himself. He loved her, loved to come through for her, loved that what he had always thought of with embarrassment as his flatline personality, his bland stolidness, could become the rock in the raging sea of another soul's life. Still, there was something inside her he could never quite get at. Sometimes he felt like a knight assigned to protect a maiden from a dragon that only she could see, and so he paid attention to the words she cried out in her sleep, when her half-panicked rants became less coherent and maybe closer to the bone, but he was not a particularly analytical individual, so all his secret studying came to nothing. And given that he had been raised in a home in which he'd been taught to take people as they were, no questions asked, a home in which the character trait prized above all else was an Apache level of forbearance, he would die before straight up asking his wife of tweleve years, the mother of his two sons, Who Are You. ~ Richard Price,

958:In the Old Testament, we read a lot about the staffs people carried around with them. They weren’t just walking sticks, or something to keep wild animals away. They were more significant than that. Back in those days, people were nomadic. They were always on the move. They didn’t keep records with papers and computer files like we have today. Instead, they etched records of important events and dates on their walking staffs. That was their way of keeping personal records. They’d etch notations such as, “On this date we defeated the Amalekites. On this date my son was born. On this date God brought us out of slavery. On this date God gave us water out of the rock.” Their walking staffs provided a record of their history with God. When Moses parted the Red Sea, what did he do? He held up his staff. He was saying, “God, we thank You for all You’ve done in the past. We remember that You’ve delivered us time and time again.” Moses was remembering the great things God had done. When David went out to face Goliath, he didn’t just take his slingshot. The scripture says he took his staff. On that staff, no doubt, he had etched, “On this date I killed a lion with my bare hands. On this date I killed a bear. On this date Samuel anointed me as king.” David took his staff to remind him that God had helped him in the past. I can imagine just before he went out to fight, he ran over and read it one more time. That gave him the final boost. His attitude was, “God, You did it for me back then, so I know You can do it for me now. ~ Joel Osteen,

959:Why would you, the werecats, have been entrusted with this information? Because, I would guess, we have always been friends of the Riders and friends of the dragons…We are the watchers. The listeners. The wanderers. We walk alone in the dark places of the world, and we remember what is and what has been. Solembum’s gaze shifted away. Understand this, Eragon. None of us have been happy with the situation. We long debated whether it would cause more harm than good to pass on this information should the moment arise. In the end, the decision was mine, and I decided to tell you, for it seemed you needed all the help you could get. Make of it what you will. “But what am I supposed to do?” said Eragon. “How am I supposed to find the Rock of Kuthian?” That I cannot say. “Then what use is the information? I might as well have never heard it.” Solembum blinked, once. There is one other thing I can tell you. It may mean nothing, but perhaps it can show you the way. “What? What is it?” If you but wait, I will tell you. When I first met you in Teirm, I had a strange feeling that you ought to have the book Domia abr Wyrda. It took me time to arrange it, but it was I who was responsible for Jeod giving the book to you. Then the werecat lifted his other paw and, after a cursory examination, began to lick it. “Have you gotten any other strange feelings in the past few months?” asked Eragon. Only the urge to eat a small red mushroom, but it passed quickly enough. ~ Christopher Paolini,

960:The Fury Of Sunrises Darkness as black as your eyelid, poketricks of stars, the yellow mouth, the smell of a stranger, dawn coming up, dark blue, no stars, the smell of a love, warmer now as authentic as soap, wave after wave of lightness and the birds in their chains going mad with throat noises, the birds in their tracks yelling into their cheeks like clowns, lighter, lighter, the stars gone, the trees appearing in their green hoods, the house appearing across the way, the road and its sad macadam, the rock walls losing their cotton, lighter, lighter, letting the dog out and seeing fog lift by her legs, a gauze dance, lighter, lighter, yellow, blue at the tops of trees, more God, more God everywhere, lighter, lighter, more world everywhere, sheets bent back for people, the strange heads of love and breakfast, that sacrament, lighter, yellower, like the yolk of eggs, the flies gathering at the windowpane, 283 the dog inside whining for good and the day commencing, not to die, not to die, as in the last day breaking, a final day digesting itself, lighter, lighter, the endless colors, the same old trees stepping toward me, the rock unpacking its crevices, breakfast like a dream and the whole day to live through, steadfast, deep, interior. After the death, after the black of black, the lightness, not to die, not to die that God begot. ~ Anne Sexton,

961:The more I know you, the more I wonder who you are.” He counted off her qualities on his fingers. “You have the accent of a lady. You dress like a peasant. You shoot like a marksman. You view the world cynically, yet you venerate Miss Victorine. Your face and body would be the envy of a young goddess, yet you sport an air of innocence. And that innocence hides a criminal mind and the cheek to pull off the most outrageous of felonies.” “So I’m Athena, the goddess of war.” “Definitely not Diana, the goddess of virginity.” As the last shot hit home, he saw Amy’s mask slip. Blood rushed to her face. She bit her lip and looked toward the stairs as if only now realizing she could have—should have—left this whole discussion behind. He laughed softly, triumphantly. “Or perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps you have more in common with Diana than I thought.” “Pray remember, sir, that Diana was also the goddess of the hunt.” Amy leaned across the table, intent on making her point—but the blush still played across her cheeks. “She carried a bow and arrow, and she always bagged her quarry. Have a look at the bullet hole in the rock behind you and remember my skill and my cynicism. For we do know things about each other. I know that if you escape, you’ll make sure I’m hung from a gibbet. You know that if I catch you escaping, I’ll shoot you through the heart. Remember that as you cast longing glances toward the window.” With a flourish, she picked up the breakfast tray and walked up the stairs. Jermyn had learned something else about Amy. She liked to have the last word. ~ Christina Dodd,

962:St Cuthbert was called to be a hermit on Lindis­farne. This was more than a thousand years ago. There were only small wooden huts there then, and the wind and the wild sea and everything that lived in the wild sea. Cuthbert went out there to the mon­astery, but the monastery was not far enough and he was called out further. He rowed to an empty island, where he ate onions and the eggs of seabirds and stood in the sea and prayed while sea otters played around his ankles. He lived there alone for years, but then he was called back. The King of Northumbria came to him with some churchmen, and they told him he had been elected Bishop of Lindisfarne and they asked him to come back and serve. There’s a Victorian painting of the king and the her­mit. Cuthbert wears a dirty brown robe and has one calloused hand on a spade. The king is offering him a bishop’s crosier. Behind him, monks kneel on the sands and pray he will accept it. Behind them are the beached sailboats that brought them to the island. The air is filled with swallows. Cuthbert’s head is turned away from the king, he looks down at the ground and his left hand is held up in a gesture of refusal. But he didn’t refuse, in the end. He didn’t refuse the call. He went back. We head out because the emptiness negates us. We leave the cities and we go to the wild high places to be dissolved and to be small. We live and die at once, the topsoil is washed away and the rock is exposed and it is not possible to play the games anymore. Now I am exposed rock. Like Cuthbert, I have been washed clean. What do I see? ~ Paul Kingsnorth,

963:As we mentioned earlier,” Yusuf began, “Mount Moriah is the hill in Jerusalem that is graced by the Muslim shrine known as the Dome of the Rock. This real estate is no doubt the most religiously revered in the world. It is valued by Muslims as one of their holiest sites, remembered by Jews and Christians alike as the site of the Holy Temple in ancient times, and looked to by some as the site at which another temple will one day be built. The eyes and hearts of the world are focused on Mount Moriah. “Because of this, that revered piece of land is an outward symbol both of our conflicts and our possibilities. One side may say it is their holy place, set apart for millennia. Others may believe it was bequeathed them by God. There seems to be little opportunity for peace in such views. Looked at in another way, however, this passionate belief provides the portal to peace. “Think about it. From within the box, passions, beliefs, and personal needs seem to divide us. When we get out of the box, however, we learn that this has been a lie. Our passions, beliefs, and needs do not divide but unite: it is by virtue of our own passions, beliefs, and needs that we can see and understand others’. If we have beliefs we cherish, then we know how important others’ beliefs must be to them. And if we have needs, then our own experience equips us to notice the needs of others. To scale Mount Moriah is to ascend a mountain of hope. At least it is if one climbs in a way that lifts his soul to an out-of-the-box summit—a place from where he sees not only buildings and homes but people as well. ~ The Arbinger Institute,

964:from the Adairsville PD. What you’ve got to do is imply that you understand the subject, understand what was going through his mind and the stresses he was under. No matter how disgusting it feels to you, you’re going to have to project the blame onto the victim. Imply that she seduced him. Ask if she led him on, if she turned on him, if she threatened him with blackmail. Give him a face-saving scenario. Give him a way of explaining his actions. The other thing I knew from all the cases I’d seen is that in blunt-force-trauma or knife homicides, it’s difficult for the attacker to avoid getting at least traces of the victim’s blood on him. It’s common enough that you can use it. When he starts to waffle, even slightly, I said, look him straight in the eye and tell him the most disturbing part of the whole case is the known fact that he got Mary’s blood on him. “We know you got blood on you, Gene; on your hands, on your clothing. The question for us isn’t ‘Did you do it?’ We know you did. The question is ‘Why?’ We think we know why and we understand. All you have to do is tell us if we’re right.” And that was exactly how it went down. They bring Devier in. He looks instantly at the rock, starts perspiring and breathing heavily. His body language is completely different from the previous interviews: tentative, defensive. The interrogators project blame and responsibility onto the girl, and when he looks as if he’s going with it, they bring up the blood. This really upsets him. You can often tell you’ve got the right guy if he shuts up and starts listening intently as you speak. ~ John Edward Douglas,

965:A world without heroes is just an empty world! A world without heroes is just a world without great stories! There are heroes, and there are heroes! A hero takes steps with the vision of bringing what is beyond the eyes of mere men into reality for them to come to a certain realization. A hero opens doors for the eyes of mere men to see things inside the closed doors and ponder, learn lessons and think of different actions! A hero faces challenges in an overcoming manner with a certain charisma that surpasses the understanding of mere men! To be a hero, one needs a certain gut! It is not as if heroes don’t hit the rock bottom, never! Heroes meet big problems, but big problems and challenges are what define heroism, and even if heroes are unable to arrest and cripple all the challenges they meet, they must never be discredited for their awesome ingenuity that brought awe, became a yardstick, natured minds, provoked thoughts and caused the envy of mere men to shake, gave people reasons to reason, showed people the essence of life, cleared the path for people to take their journey, and epitomized true heroism! Heroes die after they have blazed the trail! Heroes retire after they have done something unique and unthinkable! Heroes are heroes, regardless of their slips or the big or small things they could never do as heroes, for most times heroes die as heroes whilst challenging the unthinkable challenges! Even if all people don’t see and acknowledge the heroism of a hero, heroes see, feel and understand what it really takes to be a hero! A hero is a hero! Don’t ever undermine heroism! ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,

966:What Jack remembered and craved in a way he could neither help nor understand was the time that distant summer on Brokeback when Ennis had come up behind him and pulled him close, the silent embrace satisfying some shared and sexless hunger. They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its burning tossing ruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies a single column against the rock. The minutes ticked by from the round watch in Ennis's pocket, from the sticks in the fire settling into coals. Stars bit through the wavy heat layers above the fire. Ennis's breath came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a little in the sparklight and Jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrations of the humming like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that was not sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up a rusty but still useable phrase from the childhood time before his mother died, said, "Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on, you're sleepin on your feet like a horse," and gave Jack a shake, a push, and went off in the darkness. Jack heard his spurs tremble as he mounted, the words "see you tomorrow," and the horse's shuddering snort, grind of hoof on stone. Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives. Nothing marred it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace him face to face because he did not want to see nor feel that it was Jack he held. And maybe, he thought, they'd never get much farther that that. Let be, let be. ~ Annie Proulx,

967:In 1846 Easter fell on the same date in the Latin and Greek Orthodox calendars, so the holy shrines were much more crowded than usual, and the mood was very tense. The two religious communities had long been arguing about who should have first right to carry out their Good Friday rituals on the altar of Calvary inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the spot where the cross of Jesus was supposed to have been inserted in the rock. During recent years the rivalry between the Latins and the Greeks had reached such fever pitch that Mehmet Pasha, the Ottoman governor of Jerusalem, had been forced to position soldiers inside and outside the church to preserve order. But even this had not prevented fights from breaking out. On this Good Friday the Latin priests arrived with their white linen altar-cloth to find that the Greeks had got there first with their silk embroidered cloth. The Catholics demanded to see the Greeks’ firman, their decree from the Sultan in Constantinople, empowering them to place their silk cloth on the altar first. The Greeks demanded to see the Latins’ firman allowing them to remove it. A fight broke out between the priests, who were quickly joined by monks and pilgrims on either side. Soon the whole church was a battlefield. The rival groups of worshippers fought not only with their fists, but with crucifixes, candlesticks, chalices, lamps and incense-burners, and even bits of wood which they tore from the sacred shrines. The fighting continued with knives and pistols smuggled into the Holy Sepulchre by worshippers of either side. By the time the church was cleared by Mehmet Pasha’s guards, more than forty people lay dead on the floor.1 ~ Orlando Figes,

968:I want to make love with you right here, Lorens.” Various thoughts flashed through his mind: they were on a public footpath, someone might come by, some other person crazy enough to visit this place in the middle of winter. But anyone crazy enough to do so would also be able to understand that certain forces, once set in motion, cannot be interrupted. He slipped his hands under her sweater and stroked her breasts. Brida surrendered herself entirely. The forces of the world were penetrating her five senses and these were becoming transformed into an overwhelming energy. They lay down on the ground among the rock, the precipice, and the sea, between the life of the seagulls flying up above and the death of the stones beneath. And they began, fearlessly, to make love, because God protects the innocent. They no longer felt the cold. Their blood was flowing so fast in their veins that she tore off some of her clothes and so did he. There was no more pain; knees and back were pressed into the stony ground, but that became part of their pleasure, completing it. Brida knew that she was close to orgasm, but it was still a very remote feeling, because she was entirely connected to the world: her body and Lorens’s body mingled with the sea and the stones, with life and death. She remained in that state for as long as possible, while some part of her was vaguely conscious that she was doing things she had never done before. What she was feeling, though, was the bringing together once more of herself and the meaning of life; it was a return to the garden of Eden; it was the moment when Eve was reabsorbed into Adam’s body and the two halves became Creation. ~ Paulo Coelho,

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

970:In the one hundred thirty years since Petrie published his seminal studies of the pyramids and temples of Egypt, the hand tools and building and sculpting tools used by men and women have improved exponentially in capability and efficiency and hard drives are better known as integral devices in a computer. Yet we are taught that during the three thousand years that the ancient Egyptians flourished on this planet, the tools used by men and women did not change. How could this be? The finely crafted and precise boxes inside the pyramids at Giza were supposedly created in the fourth dinasty, 2500 BCE, or forty-five hundred years ago. The finely crafted and precise boxes inside the rock tunnels of the Serapeum were supposedly created in the eighteenth dynasty, 1550-1200 BCE, or thirty-five hundred years ago. We are asked to believe that in a one-thousand-year span, the ancient Egyptians did not make any significant improvement in their tools and methods for cutting hard igneous rock. We, however, have examined the results of their labor, and it is clear that the Egyptians were not stupid people. In fact, they were geniuses in their accomplishments, yet we are to accept that while they tapped into the awesome power of the human spirit and creativity, they did not ask, over the course of a full millennium, how they could do their job better--how they could demand less pain and strain from their workforce, how they could do more with less effort, how they could reduce injuries and provide workers with more time off. If there is any mystery to ancient Egypt, it is why a paradigm that was established one hundred thirty years ago still holds force among many Egyptologists and archaeologists. ~ Christopher Dunn,

971:ALL day the waves assailed the rock, I heard no church-bell chime; The sea-beat scorns the minster clock And breaks the glass of Time. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes Like (0) 0 Ode O tenderly the haughty day Fills his blue urn with fire; One morn is in the mighty heaven, And one in our desire. The cannon booms from town to town, Our pulses are not less, The joy-bells chime their tidings down, Which children's voices bless. For He that flung the broad blue fold O'er-mantling land and sea, One third part of the sky unrolled For the banner of the free. The men are ripe of Saxon kind To build an equal state,-- To take the statute from the mind, And make of duty fate. United States! the ages plead,-- Present and Past in under-song,-- Go put your creed into your deed, Nor speak with double tongue. For sea and land don't understand, Nor skies without a frown See rights for which the one hand fights By the other cloven down. Be just at home; then write your scroll Of honour o'er the sea, And bid the broad Atlantic roll, A ferry of the free. And, henceforth, there shall be no chain, Save underneath the sea The wires shall murmur through the main Sweet songs of LIBERTY. The conscious stars accord above, The waters wild below, And under, through the cable wove, Her fiery errands go. For He that worketh high and wise, Nor pauses in his plan, Will take the sun out of the skies Ere freedom out of man. Ode Sung In The Town Hall 1857 by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Waves ,

972:The Master Hand looked at the jewel that glittered on Ged's palm, bright as the prize of a dragon's hoard. The old Master murmured one word, "Tolk," and there lay the pebble, no jewel but a rough grey bit of rock. The Master took it and held it out on his own hand. "This is a rock; tolk in the True Speech," he said, looking mildly up at Ged now. "A bit of the stone of which Roke Isle is made, a little bit of the dry land on which men live. It is itself. It is part of the world. By the Illusion-Change you can make it look like a diamond – or a flower or a fly or an eye or a flame – " The rock flickered from shape to shape as he named them, and returned to rock. "But that is mere seeming. Illusion fools the beholder's senses; it makes him see and hear and feel that the thing is changed. But it does not change the thing. To change this rock into a jewel, you must change its true name. And to do that, my son, even to so small a scrap of the world, is to change the world. It can be done. Indeed it can be done. It is the art of the Master Changer, and you will learn it, when you are ready to learn it. But you must not change one thing, one pebble, one grain of sand, until you know what good and evil will follow on that act. The world is in balance, in Equilibrium. A wizard's power of Changing and of Summoning can shake the balance of the world. It is dangerous, that power. It is most perilous. It must follow knowledge, and serve need. To light a candle is to cast a shadow..." He looked down at the pebble again. "A rock is a good thing, too, you know," he said, speaking less gravely. "If the Isles of Eartbsea were all made of diamond, we'd lead a hard life here. Enjoy illusions, lad, and let the rocks be rocks. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

973:And now it is said of me That my love is nothing because I have borne no children, Or because I have fathered none; That I twisted the twig in my hands And cut the blossom free too soon from the seed; That I lay across the fire, And snuffed it dead sooner than draft or rain. But I have turned away, and drawn myself Upright to walk along the room alone. Across the dark the spines of cactus plants Remind me how I go—aloof, obscure, Indifferent to the words the children chalk Against my house and down the garden walls. They cannot tear the garden out of me, Nor smear my love with names. Love is a cliff, A clear, cold curve of stone, mottled by stars, smirched by the morning, carved by the dark sea Till stars and dawn and waves can slash no more, Till the rock’s heart is found and shaped again. I keep the house and say no words, the evening Falls like a petal down the shawl of trees. I light the fire and see the blossom dance On air alone; I will not douse that flame, That searing flower; I will burn in it. I will not banish love to empty rain. For I know that I am asked to hate myself For their sweet sake Who sow the world with child. I am given to burn on the dark fire they make With their sly voices. But I have burned already down to bone. There is a fire that burns beyond the names Of sludge and filth of which this world is made. Agony sears the dark flesh of the body, And lifts me higher than the smoke, to rise Above the earth, above the sacrifice; Until my soul flares outward like a blue Blossom of gas fire dancing in mid-air: Free of the body’s work of twisted iron. ~ James Wright,

974:She picked up a roundish thing from the ground and shook the sand off. It was the top of an old ceramic jar, once painted bright blue and gold. The humans had so many jars. And amphorae. And vases. And vessels. And kegs. And tankards. So many... things... to put other... things in. Merfolk rarely had a necessity to store anything beyond the occasional rare and fancy comestible, like the sweet golden-wine they used to trade for when she was a child. Merfolk ate when they were hungry, almost never had the need to drink anything, and rarely had a reason to store food for the future. She dropped the lid and sighed, drifting over to the rock she used to perch on while admiring her collection. Things, so many things. Things she never found out the proper use for in her short time on land. Because she had been too busy mooning over Eric. In some ways, that was the part of the seagull's story that bothered her the most. She could not believe the reaction her traitor heart had when the bird mentioned his name. Eric. Eric remembered something? He wrote an opera about it? About her? It wasn't just the flattery of it, though. If Eric remembered enough to compose music about it... would he remember her, too? A little? She remembered him far too often. Despite the fact that her life had been ruined because of her pursuit of Eric, when she closed her eyes to go to sleep, her last thoughts were often still of him. Or when a perfectly handsome, reasonably amusing (and mostly immortal- not an irrelevant point) merman tried to win her affections, and all she could think about was how his hair might look when it was dry. Would it bounce, like Eric's? ~ Liz Braswell,

975:I have no idea why one person can be handed a tragic past and become healthy and selfless while another amplifies their pain into the lives of others. Almost without exception the most beautiful, selfless people I’ve met are ones who’ve experienced personal tragedy. They remind me of the trees I occasionally stumble across in the Columbia River Gorge, the ones that got started under boulders and wound slowly around the rock face to find an alternative route to the sun. What’s harder for me to admit, though, is there are also people who’ve become the very rocks that hindered them. And perhaps there is redemption for these people and perhaps there is hope, but this doesn’t change the fact they are not safe. I only say this because a positive evolution happened in my life when I realized healthy relationships happen best between healthy people. I’m not just talking about romance either. I’m talking about friendships, neighbors, and people we agree to do business with. One of the things I admire most about John is his ability to hold compassion in one hand and justice in the other. He offers both liberally and yet they don’t cancel each other out. I remember talking to my friend Ben once about a person who had once lied to me. We’d been working on a project together, and this person lied about some of the finances. Ben is a decade older than me, a cinematographer with a gentle heart, a guy you’d think could easily be taken advantage of. But when I told him about my friend, Ben said, “Don, I’ve learned there are givers and takers in this life. I’ve slowly let the takers go and I’ve had it for the better.” He continued, “God bless them, when they learn to play by the rules they are welcomed back, but my heart is worth protecting. ~ Donald Miller,

976:It may not have been very big, she said, but everyone will notice that it’s missing. How could they not? One might as well overlook a bare patch of earth on the crest of a snow-covered mountain. And her eyes rolled forward as she tried to peer down her long snout at the small, dark hole above her nostril. Eragon laughed and splashed a handful of water at her. Then, to soothe her injured pride, he said, “No one will notice, Saphira. Trust me. Besides, even if they do, they’ll take it for a battle wound and consider you all the more fearsome because of it.” You think so? She returned to examining herself in the lake. The water and her scales reflected off each other in a dazzling array of rainbow-hued flecks. What if a soldier stabs me there? The blade would go right through me. Perhaps I should ask the dwarves to make a metal plate to cover the area until the scale regrows. “That would look exceedingly ridiculous.” It would? “Mm-hmm.” He nodded, on the verge of laughing again. She sniffed. There’s no need to make fun of me. How would you like it if the fur on your head started falling out, or you lost one of those silly little nubs you call teeth? I would end up having to comfort you, no doubt. “No doubt,” he agreed easily. “But then, teeth don’t grow back.” He pushed himself off the rock and made his way up the shore to where he had left his boots, stepping carefully to avoid hurting his feet on the stones and branches that littered the water’s edge. Saphira followed him, the soft earth squishing between her talons. You could cast a spell to protect just that spot, she said as he pulled on his boots. “I could. Do you want me to?” I do. ~ Christopher Paolini,

977:Then I thought of the drive back, late at night, along the starlit river to this rickety antique New England hotel on a shoreline that I hoped would remind us both of the bay of B., and of Van Gogh's starry nights, and of the night I joined him on the rock and kissed him on the neck, and of the last night when we walked together on the coast road, sensing we'd run out of last-minute miracles to put off his leaving. I imagined being in his car asking myself, Who knows, would I want to, would he want to, perhaps a nightcap at the bar would decide, knowing that, all through dinner that evening, he and I would be worrying about the same exact thing, hoping it might happen, praying it might not, perhaps a nightcap would decide - I could just read it on his face as I pictured him looking away while uncorking a bottle of wine or while changing the music, because he too would catch the thought racing through my mind and want me to know he was debating the exact same thing, because, as he'd pour the wine for his wife, for me, for himself, it would finally dawn on us both that he was more me than I had ever been myself, because when he became me and I became him in bed so many years ago, he was and would forever remain, long after every forked road in life had done its work, my brother, my friend, my father, my son, my husband, my lover, myself. In the weeks we'd been thrown together that summer, our lives had scarcely touched, but we had crossed to the other bank, where time stops and heaven reaches down to earth and gives us that ration of what is from birth divinely ours. We looked the other way. We spoke of everything but. But we've always known, and not saying anything now confirmed it all the more. We had found the stars, you and I. And this is given once only. ~ Andr Aciman,

978:within the capitalist system all methods for raising the social productiveness of labour are brought about at the cost of the individual labourer; all means for the development of production transform themselves into means of domination over, and exploitation of, the producers; they mutilate the labourer into a fragment of a man, degrade him to the level of an appendage of a machine, destroy every remnant of charm in his work and turn it into a hated toil; they estrange from him the intellectual potentialities of the labour process in the same proportion as science is incorporated in it as an independent power; they distort the conditions under which he works, subject him during the labour process to a despotism the more hateful for its meanness; they transform his life-time into working-time, and drag his wife and child beneath the wheels of the Juggernaut of capital. But all methods for the production of surplus-value are at the same time methods of accumulation; and every extension of accumulation becomes again a means for the development of those methods. It follows therefore that in proportion as capital accumulates, the lot of the labourer, be his payment high or low, must grow worse. The law, finally, that always equilibrates the relative surplus population, or industrial reserve army, to the extent and energy of accumulation, this law rivets the labourer to capital more firmly than the wedges of Vulcan did Prometheus to the rock. It establishes an accumulation of misery, corresponding with accumulation of capital. Accumulation of wealth at one pole is, therefore, at the same time accumulation of misery, agony of toil slavery, ignorance, brutality, mental degradation, at the opposite pole, i.e., on the side of the class that produces its own product in the form of capital. ~ Karl Marx,

979:The Cyclops was about to roll the stone back into place, when from somewhere outside Annabeth shouted, "Hello, ugly!" Polyphemus stiffened. "Who said that?" "Nobody!" Annabeth yelled. That got exactl;y the reaction she'd been hoping for. The monster's face turned red with rage. "Nobody!" Polyphemus yelled back. "I remember you!" "You're too stupid to remember anybody," Annabeth taunted. "Much less Nobody." I hoped to the gods she was already moving when she said that, because Polyphemus bellowed furiously, grabbed the nearest boulder (which happened to be his front door) and threw it toward the sound of Annabeth's voice. I heard the rock smash into a thousand fragments. To a terrible moment, there was silence. Then Annabeth shouted, "You haven't learned to throw any better, either!" Polyphemus howled. "Come here! Let me kill you, Nobody!" "You can't kill Nobody, you stupid oaf," she taunted. "Come find me!" Polyphemus barreled down the hill toward her voice. Now, the "Nobody" thing would have confused anybody, but Annabeth had explained to me that it was the name Odysseus had used to trick Polyphemus centuries ago, right before he poked the Cyclops's eye out with a large hot stick. Annabeth had figured Polyphemus would still have a grudge about that name, and she was right. In his frenzy to find his old enemy, he forgot about resealing the cave entrance. Apparently, he did even stop to consider that Annabeth's voice was female, whereas the first Nobody had been male. On the other hand, he'd wanted to marry Grover, so he couldn't have been all that bright about the whole male/female thing. I just hoped Annabeth could stay alive and keep distracting him long enough for me to find Grover and Clarisse. ~ Rick Riordan,

980:It’s a geode. You can sess that, the way the rock around you abruptly changes to something else. The pebble in the stream, the warp in the weft; countless aeons ago a bubble formed in a flow of molten mineral within Father Earth. Within that pocket, nurtured by incomprehensible pressures and bathed in water and fire, crystals grew. This one’s the size of a city. Which is probably why someone built a city in this one. You stand before a vast, vaulted cavern that is full of glowing crystal shafts the size of tree trunks. Big tree trunks. Or buildings. Big buildings. They jut forth from the walls in an utterly haphazard jumble: different lengths, different circumferences, some white and translucent and a few smoky or tinged with purple. Some are stubby, their pointed tips ending only a few feet away from the walls that grew them—but many stretch from one side of the vast cavern into the indistinct distance. They form struts and roads too steep to climb, going in directions that make no sense. It is as if someone found an architect, made her build a city out of the most beautiful materials available, then threw all those buildings into a box and jumbled them up for laughs. And they’re definitely living in it. As you stare, you notice narrow rope bridges and wooden platforms everywhere. There are dangling lines strung with electric lanterns, ropes and pulleys carrying small lifts from one platform to another. In the distance a man walks down a wooden stairway built around a titanic slanted column of white; two children play on the ground far below, in between stubby crystals the size of houses. Actually, some of the crystals are houses. They have holes cut in them—doors and windows. You can see people moving around inside some of them. Smoke curls from chimney holes cut in pointed crystal tips. ~ N K Jemisin,

981:My Prayer O God! forgive the erring thought, The erring word and deed, And in thy mercy hear the Christ Who comes to intercede. My sins, like mountain-weights of lead, Weigh heavy on my soul; I'm bruised and broken in this strife, But Thou canst make me whole. Allay this fever of unrest, That fights against the Will; And in Thy still small voice do Thou But whisper, 'Peace, be still!' Until within this heart of mine Thy lasting peace come down, Will all the waves of Passion roll, Each good resolve to drown. We walk in blindness and dark night Through half our earthly way; Our clouds of weaknesses obscure The glory of the day. We cannot lead the lives we would, But grope in dumb amaze, Leaving the straight and flowery paths To tread the crooked ways. We are as pilgrims toiling on Through all the weary hours; And our poor hands are torn with thorns, Plucking life's tempting flowers. We worship at a thousand shrines, And build upon the sands, Passing the one great Temple, and The Rock on which it stands. 101 O, fading dream of human life! What can this change portend? I long for higher walks, and true Progression without end. Here I know nothing, and my search Can find no secret out; I cannot think a single thought That is not mixed with doubt. Relying on the higher source, The influence divine, I can but hope that light may dawn Within this soul of mine. I ask not wisdom, such as that To which the world is prone, Nor knowledge ask, unless it come Direct from God alone. Send down then, God! in mercy send Thy Love and Truth to me, That I may henceforth walk in light That comes direct from Thee. ~ Charles Sangster,

982:Moses Come. When? Now. This way. I will guide you. Wait! Not so fast. Hurry. You. I said you. Who am I? Certainly I will be with thee. Is nothing, then, what it is? I had rather the rod had stayed a rod and not become a serpent. Come. Quickly. While the blast of my breath opens the sea. Stop. I'm thirsty. Drink water from this rock. But the rock moves on before us. Go with it and drink. I'm tired. Can't you stop for a while? You have already tarried too long. But if I am to follow you I must know your name. I will be that I will be. You have set the mountain on fire. Come. Climb. I will be lost in the terror of your cloud. You are stiff-necked and of a stiff-necked people. YOUR poeple, Lord, Indubitably. Your wrath waxes hot. I burn. Thus to become great. Show me, then, they glory. No man may see my face and live. But I will cover you with my hand while I pass by. My people turn away and cry because the skin of my face shines Did you not expect this? I cannot enter the tent of the congregation while your cloud covers it and your glory fills the tabernacle. Look. It moves before us again. Can you not stay still? Come. Follow. But this river is death. The waters are dark and deep. Swim. Now will I see your face? Where are you taking me now? Up the mountain with me before I die. But death bursts into light. The death is what it will be. These men: they want to keep us here in three tabernacles. But the cloud moves. The water springs from a rock that journeys on. You are contained in me. But how can we contain you in ark or tabernacle or You cannot. Where, then? In your heart. Come. Still? I will be with thee. Who am I? You are that I will be. Come. ~ Madeleine L Engle,

983:Shall I tell you a story? A new and terrible one? A ghost story?" The voice, a faint echo in the cave, belongs to Felicity. She turns around on the rock, faces us, wraps her arms across bent knees, hugging them close. "Are you ready? Shall I begin? Once upon a time there were four girls. One was pretty. One was clever. One charming, and one..." She glances at me. "One was mysterious. But they were all damaged, you see. Something not right about the lot of them. Bad blood. Big dreams. Oh, I left that part out. Sorry, that should have come before. They were all dreamers, these girls." Felicity...," I start, because it's her and not the story that's beginning to frighten me. You wanted a story, and I'm going to give you one." Lightning shoots across the cave walls, bathing half her face in light, the other in shadows. "One by one, night after night, the girls came together. And they sinned. Do you know what that sin was? No one? Pippa? Ann?" Felicity." Pippa sounds anxious. "Let's go back and have a nice cup of tea. It's too cold out here." Felicity's voice expands, fills the space around us, a bell tolling. "Their sin was that they believed. Believed they could be different. Special. They believed they could change what they were--damaged, unloved. Cast-off things. They would be alive, adored, needed. Necessary. But it wasn't true. This is a ghost story, remember? A tragedy." The lightning's back, a big one, two, three of light that lets me see Felicity's face, slick with tears, nose running. "They were mislead. Betrayed by their own stupid hopes. Things couldn't be different for them, because they weren't special after all. So life took them, led them, and they went along, you see? They faded before their own eyes, till they were nothing more than living ghosts, haunting each other with what could be. What can't be. ~ Libba Bray,

984:He pulled me toward him so that I was resting on my side. I coughed up some more water. He took off his wet shirt and folded it. Then he gently lifted me and placed it under my sore head, which hurt too much to appreciate his…bronzed…sculpted…muscular…bare chest. Well I guess I must be okay if I can appreciate the view, I thought. Sheesh, I’d have to be dead not to appreciate it. I winced as Ren’s hand brushed against my head, shaking me from my reverie. “You’ve got a major bump here.” I reached up to feel the giant lump on the back of my skull. I gingerly touched it and recalled the source of my headache. I must have lost consciousness when the rock hit me. Ren saved my life. Again. I looked up at him. He was kneeling next to me with a look of desperation on his face, and his body was shaking. I realized that he must have changed to a man, dragged me out of the pool, and then remained by my side until I woke up. Who knows how long I’ve been laying here unconscious. “Ren, you’re in pain. You’ve been in this form too long today.” He shook his head in denial, but I saw him grit his teeth. I pressed my hand on his arm. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a bump on the head. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure Mr. Kadam has some aspirin tucked away in the backpack. I’ll just take that and lie down to rest for a while. I’ll be alright.” He trailed his finger slowly from my temple to my cheek and smiled softly. When he pulled back, his whole arm shook and tremors rippled under the surface of his skin. “Kells, I-“ His face tightened. He threw his head to the side, snarled angrily, and morphed to a tiger again. He softly growled, then quieted, and drew close beside me. He lay down next to me and watched me carefully with his alert blue eyes. I stroked his back, partly to reassure him and partly because it soothed me too. ~ Colleen Houck,

985:All-Saints' Day (1867) Blessed are they whose baby-souls are bright, Whose brows are sealèd with the cross of light, Whom God Himself has deign'd to robe in white— Blessed are they! Blessed are they who follow through the wild His sacred footprints, as a little child; Who strive to keep their garments undefiled— Blessed are they! Blessed are they who commune with the Christ, Midst holy angels, at the Eucharist— Who aye seek sunlight through the rain and mist— Blessed are they! Blessed are they—the strong in faith and grace— Who humbly fill their own appointed place; They who with steadfast patience run the race— Blessed are they! Blessed are they who suffer and endure— They who through thorns and briars walk safe and sure; Gold in the fire made beautiful and pure!— Blessed are they! Blessed are they on whom the angels wait, To keep them facing the celestial gate, To help them keep their vows inviolate— Blessed are they! Blessed are they to whom, at dead of night,— In work, in prayer—though veiled from mortal sight, The great King's messengers bring love and light— Blessed are they! Blessed are they whose labours only cease When God decrees the quiet, sweet release; Who lie down calmly in the sleep of peace— Blessed are they! 48 Whose dust is angel-guarded, where the flowers And soft moss cover it, in this earth of ours; Whose souls are roaming in celestial bowers— Blessed are they! Blessed are they—our precious ones—who trod A pathway for us o'er the rock-strewn sod. How are they number'd with the saints of God! Blessed are they! Blessed are they, elected to sit down With Christ, in that day of supreme renown, When His own Bride shall wear her bridal crown— Blessed are they! ~ Ada Cambridge,

986:Song To The Rock Demoness ::: River, ripples, and waves, these three, When emerging, arise from the ocean itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the ocean itself. Habitual thinking, love, and possessiveness, these three, When arising, arise from the alaya consciousness itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the alaya consciousness itself. Self-awareness, self-illumination, self-liberation, these three, When arising, arise from the mind itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the mind itself. The unborn, unceasing, and unexpressed, these three, When emerging, arise from the nature of being itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the nature of being itself. The visions of demons, clinging to demons, and thoughts of demons, When arising, arise from the Yogin himself. When disappearing, they disappear into the Yogin himself. Since demons are the phantoms of the mind, If it is not understood by the Yogin that they are empty appearances, And even if he thinks they are real, meditation is confused. But the root of the delusion is in his own mind. By observation of the nature of manifestations, He realizes the identity of manifestation and void, And by understanding, he knows that the two are not different. Meditation and not meditation are not two but one, The cause of all errors is to look upon the two things as different. From the ultimate point of view, there is no view. If you make comparison between the nature of the mind And the nature of the heavens, Then the true nature of being itself is penetrated. See, now, that you look into the true meaning which is beyond thought. Arrange to enter into undisturbed meditation. And be mindful of the Unceasing Intuitive Sensation! ~ Jetsun Milarepa,

987:He led them forth by the right way." Psalm 107:7 Changeful experience often leads the anxious believer to inquire "Why is it thus with me?" I looked for light, but lo, darkness came; for peace, but behold, trouble. I said in my heart, my mountain standeth firm; I shall never be moved. Lord, thou dost hide thy face, and I am troubled. It was but yesterday that I could read my title clear; today my evidences are bedimmed, and my hopes are clouded. Yesterday, I could climb to Pisgah's top, and view the landscape o'er, and rejoice with confidence in my future inheritance; today, my spirit has no hopes, but many fears; no joys, but much distress. Is this part of God's plan with me? Can this be the way in which God would bring me to heaven? Yes, it is even so. The eclipse of your faith, the darkness of your mind, the fainting of your hope, all these things are but parts of God's method of making you ripe for the great inheritance upon which you shall soon enter. These trials are for the testing and strengthening of your faith--they are waves that wash you further upon the rock--they are winds which waft your ship the more swiftly towards the desired haven. According to David's words, so it might be said of you, "So he bringeth them to their desired haven." By honour and dishonour, by evil report and by good report, by plenty and by poverty, by joy and by distress, by persecution and by peace, by all these things is the life of your souls maintained, and by each of these are you helped on your way. Oh, think not, believer, that your sorrows are out of God's plan; they are necessary parts of it. "We must, through much tribulation, enter the kingdom." Learn, then, even to "count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations." "O let my trembling soul be still, And wait thy wise, thy holy will! I cannot, Lord, thy purpose see, Yet all is well since ruled by thee. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

988:It was marijuana that drew the line between us and them, that bright generational line between the cool and the uncool. My timidity about pot, as I first encountered it in Hawaii, vanished when, a few months later, during my first year of high school, it hit Woodland Hills. We scored our first joints from a friend of Pete's. The quality of the dope was terrible -- Mexican rag weed, people called it -- but the quality of the high was so wondrous, so nerve-end-opening, so cerebral compared to wine's effects, that I don't think we ever cracked another Purex jug. The laughs were harder and finer. And music that had been merely good, the rock and roll soundtrack of our lives, turned into rapture and prophecy. Jimi Hendrix, Dylan, the Doors, Cream, late Beatles, Janis Joplin, the Stones, Paul Butterfield -- the music they were making, with its impact and beauty amplified a hundredfold by dope, became a sacramental rite, simply inexplicable to noninitiates. And the ceremonial aspects of smoking pot -- scoring from the million-strong network of small-time dealers, cleaning "lids," rolling joints, sneaking off to places (hilltops, beaches, empty fields) where it seemed safe to smoke, in tight little outlaw groups of three or four, and then giggling and grooving together -- all of this took on a strong tribal color. There was the "counterculture" out in the greater world, with all its affinities and inspirations, but there were also, more immediately, the realignments in our personal lives. Kids, including girls, who were "straight" became strangers. What the hell was a debutante, anyway? As for adults -- it became increasingly difficult not to buy that awful Yippie line about not trusting anyone over thirty. How could parents, teachers, coaches, possibly understand the ineluctable weirdness of every moment, fully perceived? None of them had been out on Highway 61. ~ William Finnegan,

989:English version by Antoinette K. Gordon River, ripples, and waves, these three, When emerging, arise from the ocean itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the ocean itself. Habitual thinking, love, and possessiveness, these three, When arising, arise from the alaya consciousness itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the alaya consciousness itself. Self-awareness, self-illumination, self-liberation, these three, When arising, arise from the mind itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the mind itself. The unborn, unceasing, and unexpressed, these three, When emerging, arise from the nature of being itself. When disappearing, they disappear into the nature of being itself. The visions of demons, clinging to demons, and thoughts of demons, When arising, arise from the Yogin himself. When disappearing, they disappear into the Yogin himself. Since demons are the phantoms of the mind, If it is not understood by the Yogin that they are empty appearances, And even if he thinks they are real, meditation is confused. But the root of the delusion is in his own mind. By observation of the nature of manifestations, He realizes the identity of manifestation and void, And by understanding, he knows that the two are not different. Meditation and not meditation are not two but one, The cause of all errors is to look upon the two things as different. From the ultimate point of view, there is no view. If you make comparison between the nature of the mind And the nature of the heavens, Then the true nature of being itself is penetrated. See, now, that you look into the true meaning which is beyond thought. Arrange to enter into undisturbed meditation. And be mindful of the Unceasing Intuitive Sensation! ~ Jetsun Milarepa, Song to the Rock Demoness ,

990:The Lord will perfect that which concerneth me." Psalm 138:8 Most manifestly the confidence which the Psalmist here expressed was a divine confidence. He did not say, "I have grace enough to perfect that which concerneth me--my faith is so steady that it will not stagger--my love is so warm that it will never grow cold--my resolution is so firm that nothing can move it"; no, his dependence was on the Lord alone. If we indulge in any confidence which is not grounded on the Rock of Ages, our confidence is worse than a dream, it will fall upon us, and cover us with its ruins, to our sorrow and confusion. All that Nature spins time will unravel, to the eternal confusion of all who are clothed therein. The Psalmist was wise, he rested upon nothing short of the Lord's work. It is the Lord who has begun the good work within us; it is he who has carried it on; and if he does not finish it, it never will be complete. If there be one stitch in the celestial garment of our righteousness which we are to insert ourselves, then we are lost; but this is our confidence, the Lord who began will perfect. He has done it all, must do it all, and will do it all. Our confidence must not be in what we have done, nor in what we have resolved to do, but entirely in what the Lord will do. Unbelief insinuates--"You will never be able to stand. Look at the evil of your heart, you can never conquer sin; remember the sinful pleasures and temptations of the world that beset you, you will be certainly allured by them and led astray." Ah! yes, we should indeed perish if left to our own strength. If we had alone to navigate our frail vessels over so rough a sea, we might well give up the voyage in despair; but, thanks be to God, he will perfect that which concerneth us, and bring us to the desired haven. We can never be too confident when we confide in him alone, and never too much concerned to have such a trust. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

991:February 4 MORNING “The love of the Lord.” — Hosea 3:1 BELIEVER, look back through all thine experience, and think of the way whereby the Lord thy God has led thee in the wilderness, and how He hath fed and clothed thee every day — how He hath borne with thine ill manners — how He hath put up with all thy murmurings, and all thy longings after the flesh-pots of Egypt — how He has opened the rock to supply thee, and fed thee with manna that came down from heaven. Think of how His grace has been sufficient for thee in all thy troubles — how His blood has been a pardon to thee in all thy sins — how His rod and His staff have comforted thee. When thou hast thus looked back upon the love of the Lord, then let faith survey His love in the future, for remember that Christ’s covenant and blood have something more in them than the past. He who has loved thee and pardoned thee, shall never cease to love and pardon. He is Alpha, and He shall be Omega also: He is first, and He shall be last. Therefore, bethink thee, when thou shalt pass through the valley of the shadow of death, thou needest fear no evil, for He is with thee. When thou shalt stand in the cold floods of Jordan, thou needest not fear, for death cannot separate thee from His love; and when thou shalt come into the mysteries of eternity thou needest not tremble, “For I am persuaded, that neither death; nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Now, soul, is not thy love refreshed? Does not this make thee love Jesus? Doth not a flight through illimitable plains of the ether of love inflame thy heart and compel thee to delight thyself in the Lord thy God? Surely as we meditate on “the love of the Lord,” our hearts burn within us, and we long to love Him more. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

992:Wealth Who shall tell what did befall, Far away in time, when once, Over the lifeless ball, Hung idle stars and suns? What god the element obeyed? Wings of what wind the lichen bore, Wafting the puny seeds of power, Which, lodged in rock, the rock abrade? And well the primal pioneer Knew the strong task to it assigned, Patient through Heaven's enormous year To build in matter home for mind. From air the creeping centuries drew The matted thicked low and wide, This must the leaves of ages strew The granite slab to clothe and hide, Ere wheat can wave its golden pride. What smiths, and in what furnace, rolled (In dizzy aeons dim and mute The reeling brain can ill compute) Copper and iron, lead and gold? What oldest star the fame can save Of races perishing to pave The planet with a floor of lime? Dust is their pyramid and mole: Who saw that ferns and palms were pressed Under the trembling mountain's breast, In the safe herbal of the coal? But when the quarried means were piled, All is waste and worthless, till Arrives the wise selecting will, And,out of slime and chaos, Wit Draws the threads of fair and fit. Then temples rose, and towns, and marts, The shop of toil, the hall of arts; Then flew the sail across the seas To feed the North from tropic trees; The storm-wind wove, the torrent span, Where they were bid the rivers ran; New slaves fulfilled the poet's dream, Galvanic wire, strong-shouldered steam. Then docks were built, and crops were stored, And ingots added to the hoard. But, though light-hearted man forget, Remembering Matter pays her debt: Still, though her motes and masses, draw Electric thrills and ties of Law, Which bind the strength of Nature wild To the conscience of a child. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Wealth ,

993:So it’s up to Maya. She’s already won. I’m just the bonus round.” He grinned then, but it was a different kind of grin, a mock arrogance that made me laugh and shake my head. I looked into his eyes and saw the challenge sparkling there, and I hadn’t even decided what to do when I heard myself saying, “You’re on.” As Rafe walked over to the dangling harness, he stripped off his jacket, earning him giggles and whispers from the girls and grunts from the guys, who weren’t nearly as impressed. Rafe skipped gym whenever he could, so I’d assumed he wasn’t the athletic type. I was wrong. He wore an old T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, and his lean muscles moved under coppery skin. He had a tattoo on the inside of his forearm--a small one that looked like raven wings. When he turned around, I caught the faint edge of another tattoo on his shoulder peeking from under his shirt. He glanced over, like he’d sensed me looking. When I didn’t turn away, he grinned and mouthed something I didn’t catch, probably didn’t want to. Brendan helped Rafe into the harness. It took a while, the process punctuated by Rafe’s questions. Then he stood at the base of the rock face, saying, “You put your toes here, right? And you grab those things that stick out?” The others laughed and yelled, “Quit while you’re ahead!” Daniel relaxed and rolled his eyes at me. I rolled mine back, but not for the same reason. When we were finally in position, the others pulling away, I whispered, “Poseur.” Rafe glanced over, brows arching. “Keep calling me that and I might get insulted.” “Stop earning it and I’ll stop saying it.” I faced forward as I tested my rope and waited for Daniel to get to the top. “Are you implying that I know how to climb?” “Are you implying that I’m stupid enough to think you’d challenge me if you didn’t? Of course, you can’t be that good if you need to slow me down by pretending you don’t know what you’re doing. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

994:The River Note And I behold once more My old familiar haunts; here the blue river, The same blue wonder that my infant eye Admired, sage doubting whence the traveller came,-- Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed The fragrant flag-roots in my father's fields, And where thereafter in the world he went. Look, here he is, unaltered, save that now He hath broke his banks and flooded all the vales With his redundant waves. Here is the rock where, yet a simple child, I caught with bended pin my earliest fish, Much triumphing,--and these the fields Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly, A blooming hunter of a fairy fine. And hark! where overhead the ancient crows Hold their sour conversation in the sky:-- These are the same, but I am not the same, But wiser than I was, and wise enough Not to regret the changes, tho' they cost Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb; These trees and stones are audible to me, These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind, I understand their faery syllables, And all their sad significance. The wind, That rustles down the well-known forest road-- It hath a sound more eloquent than speech. The stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind, All of them utter sounds of 'monishment And grave parental love. They are not of our race, they seem to say, And yet have knowledge of our moral race, And somewhat of majestic sympathy, Something of pity for the puny clay, That holds and boasts the immeasurable mind. I feel as I were welcome to these trees After long months of weary wandering, Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs; They know me as their son, for side by side, They were coeval with my ancestors, Adorned with them my country's primitive times, And soon may give my dust their funeral shade. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, The River Note ,

995:By the midpoint, he’d shot up to my waist, but his muttered curses told me he’d underestimated how good I was--or overestimated how good he was--and it was clear he wasn’t going to catch up in time. So I stopped. Daniel leaned over and mouthed, “What are you doing?” Below, the others yelled, a cacophony of shouts and cheers and jeers. Rafe reached up, his bracelet hitting the rock with a ping. I glanced at it. A worn rawhide band with a cat’s-eye stone. I could see his tattoo better, too, as he pulled himself up, and I recognized the symbol. A crow mother kachina. Hopi. As he drew up alongside me, he cocked one brow. “You really want that kiss don’t you?” he said. “No, I just want to see what you can really do.” He smiled then, a blaze of a grin that made me forget I was hanging twenty feet above the ground. “All right then,” he said. “No holds barred. On my count?” I nodded. “One, two, three…” We took off. I kept my face to the wall, throwing everything I had into the climb, certain I’d pull away to victory. But he stayed alongside me, his grunts and labored breathing telling me he was trying just as hard. I struggled to concentrate, but all I could hear was his breathing. It was weirdly relaxing, like the ticking of a metronome, and I found myself moving faster, smoother, the rock seeming to glide under me, hands and feet finding the notches and grips automatically, like climbing a tree, that blissful feeling of going higher and higher, the earth and everything earthly vanishing below me, the air getting thinner, the world quieter as I pulled away until-- My hand hit the top ledge and I jolted out of it, and looked over to see Rafe beside me, sweat dripping down his face, eyes glowing, face glowing, his gaze locked on mine again, lips parting to say something-- A jerk on my harness made me look up sharply as Daniel adjusted the rope, preparing to let me belay down. The look on his face told me who’d won. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

996:February 25 MORNING “The wrath to come.” — Matthew 3:7 IT is pleasant to pass over a country after a storm has spent itself; to smell the freshness of the herbs after the rain has passed away, and to note the drops while they glisten like purest diamonds in the sunlight. That is the position of a Christian. He is going through a land where the storm has spent itself upon His Saviour’s head, and if there be a few drops of sorrow falling, they distil from clouds of mercy, and Jesus cheers him by the assurance that they are not for his destruction. But how terrible it is to witness the approach of a tempest: to note the forewarnings of the storm; to mark the birds of heaven as they droop their wings; to see the cattle as they lay their heads low in terror; to discern the face of the sky as it groweth black, and look to the sun which shineth not, and the heavens which are angry and frowning! How terrible to await the dread advance of a hurricane — such as occurs, sometimes, in the tropics — to wait in terrible apprehension till the wind shall rush forth in fury, tearing up trees from their roots, forcing rocks from their pedestals, and hurling down all the dwelling-places of man! And yet, sinner, this is your present position. No hot drops have as yet fallen, but a shower of fire is coming. No terrible winds howl around you, but God’s tempest is gathering its dread artillery. As yet the water-floods are dammed up by mercy, but the flood-gates shall soon be opened: the thunderbolts of God are yet in His storehouse, but lo! the tempest hastens, and how awful shall that moment be when God, robed in vengeance, shall march forth in fury! Where, where, where, O sinner, wilt thou hide thy head, or whither wilt thou flee? O that the hand of mercy may now lead you to Christ! He is freely set before you in the gospel: His riven side is the rock of shelter. Thou knowest thy need of Him; believe in Him, cast thyself upon Him, and then the fury shall be overpast for ever. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

997:Giant Toad I am too big. Too big by far. Pity me. My eyes bulge and hurt. They are my one great beauty, even so. They see too much, above, below. And yet, there is not much to see. The rain has stopped. The mist is gathering on my skin in drops. The drops run down my back, run from the corners of my downturned mouth, run down my sides and drip beneath my belly. Perhaps the droplets on my mottled hide are pretty, like dewdrops, silver on a moldering leaf? They chill me through and through. I feel my colors changing now, my pigments gradually shudder and shift over. Now I shall get beneath that overhanging ledge. Slowly. Hop. Two or three times more, silently. That was too far. I'm standing up. The lichen's gray, and rough to my front feet. Get down. Turn facing out, it's safer. Don't breathe until the snail gets by. But we go travelling the same weathers. Swallow the air and mouthfuls of cold mist. Give voice, just once. O how it echoed from the rock! What a profound, angelic bell I rang! I live, I breathe, by swallowing. Once, some naughty children picked me up, me and two brothers. They set us down again somewhere and in our mouths they put lit cigarettes. We could not help but smoke them, to the end. I thought it was the death of me, but when I was entirely filled with smoke, when my slack mouth was burning, and all my tripes were hot and dry, they let us go. But I was sick for days. I have big shoulders, like a boxer. They are not muscle, however, and their color is dark. They are my sacs of poison, the almost unused poison that I bear, my burden and my great responsibility. Big wings of poison, folded on my back. Beware, I am an angel in disguise; my wings are evil, but not deadly. If I will it, the poison could break through, blue-black, and dangerous to all. Blue-black fumes would rise upon the air. Beware, you frivolous crab. ~ Elizabeth Bishop,

998:I have no idea how long I doze, but when I open my eyes again, the sirens have quieted. Ryder’s lying beside me, our shoulders touching. “You awake?” he asks. “Yeah,” I mumble sleepily. “Is it morning yet?” “Not quite. Soon.” I nod, and we both fall silent. Inexplicably, I find myself scooting closer to him, fitting myself against his side, seeking his warmth. He puts an arm around me, drawing me closer. I let out a contented sigh. There’s something so familiar--and yet so foreign--about his closeness. I think about those shared cribs, the communal Pack ’n Plays our mothers insisted on. Maybe that explains it--old memories, too far out of reach to be easily accessed, but there all the same. That’s why this feels so…right. It must be. I feel Ryder’s fingers in my hair, combing through it absently. His heart is thumping noisily against my ear, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “Jem?” I swallow hard before answering. “Yeah?” “I’ve been thinking about what you said--you know, about the eighth-grade dance. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out what you were talking about. And”--he swallows hard--“there’s something I need to tell you.” Why is he bringing this up now? “You don’t have to, Ryder,” I say, my heart accelerating. “You were right. It was a long time ago.” “I know, but, well…just hear me out, okay?” I nod, mentally bracing myself. I’m not sure I want to hear this--to open those old wounds again. “I said some things that night, things I’m not proud of. And…it occurred to me that someone might have told you, and--” “I heard you, Ryder,” I say, cutting him off. “I was there, hiding in those trees by the rock. I heard everything.” He lets out his breath in a low whistle. “Shit. I am so sorry, Jemma. I didn’t think--I mean, not that it makes any difference, but I didn’t know. I figured you’d had second thoughts or something and decided you didn’t want to go with me.” “I wish,” I mumble. ~ Kristi Cook,

999:Suddenly he felt like everything was all wrong. He’d made wrong choices every day of his life. In his mind’s eye floated everyone who’d died because of him. Everyone who’d been hurt. From Mindor to Endor, back to Yavin—back to the corpses that had lain, still smoking, in the ruined doorway of the Lars moisture farm. I guess I sort of thought everything was over. I got my happy ending. I thought I did. I mean, didn’t I do everything you asked me to? Master Yoda, you wanted to break the rule of the Sith. And they’re gone. Ben, you asked me to destroy Darth Vader. I did that, too. Father—even you, Father. You told me that together we would throw down the Emperor. And we did. Now it’s over. But it’s not the end. It’s never the end. The cave boomed and shivered as the rock storm arrived like an artillery barrage. Luke just sat, head down, letting dust and grit trickle inside the back of his collar as meteorites pounded the hills. I guess I was still kind of hoping there might be a Happily Ever After in there somewhere. Not even for me. I was ready to die. I still am. It’s everybody else. It’s like everything we went through, it was for nothing. We’re still fighting. We’ll always be fighting. It’s like I didn’t actually save anybody. Gone is the past, he remembered Master Yoda saying once. Imaginary is the future. Always now, even eternity will be. Which Luke had always interpreted as Don’t worry about what’s already done, and don’t worry about what you’ll do later. Do something now. Which would be fine advice, if he had the faintest clue what that something should be. Maybe if he’d had more experience as a general, he’d know if he should search for his missing men, or return to the crash site and wait for pickup, or try to find some way to signal the task force spaceside. I never should have taken this job. I just don’t know what a general would be doing right now. All I know is what a Jedi … Then his head came up. I do know what a Jedi would be doing—and it isn’t sitting around feeling sorry for himself, for starters. ~ Matthew Woodring Stover,

1000:Tis the middle of night by the castle clock" 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu—whit!—Tu—whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock She maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud; Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. The thin gray cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 'Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way. The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothèd knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away. She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low, And naught was green upon the oak But moss and rarest mistletoe: She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, And in silence prayeth she. The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is she cannot tell.— On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek— There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky … ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

1001:It is not death that human beings are most afraid of, it is love. The heart is bigger than a mountain. One human life is deeper than the ocean. Strange fishes and sea-monsters and mighty plants live in the rock-bed of our spirits. The whole of human history is an undiscovered continent deep in our souls. There are dolphins, plants that dream, magic birds inside us. The sky is inside us. The earth is in us. The trees of the forest, the animals of the bushes, tortoises, birds, and flowers know our future. The world that we see and the world that is there are two different things. Wars are not fought on battlegrounds but in a space smaller than the head of a needle. We need a new language to talk to one another. Inside a cat there are many histories, many books. When you look into the eyes of dogs strange fishes swim in your mind. All roads lead to death, but some roads lead to things which can never be finished. Wonderful things. There are human beings who are small but if you can SEE you will notice that their spirits are ten thousand feet wide. In my dream I met a child sitting on a cloud and his spirit covered half the earth. Angels and demons are amongst us; they take many forms. They can enter us and dwell there for one second or half a lifetime. Sometimes both of them dwell in us together. Before everything was born there was first the spirit. It is the spirit which invites things in, good things, or bad. Invite only good things, my son. Listen to the spirit of things. To your own spirit. Follow it. Master it. So long as we are alive, so long as we feel, so long as we love, everything in us is an energy we can use. There is a stillness which makes you travel faster. There is a silence which makes you fly. If your heart is a friend of Time nothing can destroy you. Death has taught me the religion of living – I am converted – I am blinded – I am beginning to see – I am drunk on sleep – My words are the words of a stranger – Wear a smile on your faces – Pour me some wine and buy me some cigarettes, my son, for your father has returned to his true home. ~ Ben Okri,

1002:The foaming stream from out the rock    With thunder roar begins to rush, The oak falls prostrate at the shock,    And mountain-wrecks attend the gush. With rapturous awe, in wonder lost,    The wanderer hearkens to the sound; From cliff to cliff he hears it tossed,    Yet knows not whither it is bound: 'Tis thus that song's bright waters pour From sources never known before. In union with those dreaded ones    That spin life's thread all-silently, Who can resist the singer's tones?    Who from his magic set him free? With wand like that the gods bestow,    He guides the heaving bosom's chords, He steeps it in the realms below,    He bears it, wondering, heavenward, And rocks it, 'twixt the grave and gay, On feeling's scales that trembling sway. As when before the startled eyes    Of some glad throng, mysteriously, With giant-step, in spirit-guise,    Appears a wondrous deity, Then bows each greatness of the earth    Before the stranger heaven-born, Mute are the thoughtless sounds of mirth,    While from each face the mask is torn, And from the truth's triumphant might Each work of falsehood takes to flight. So from each idle burden free,    When summoned by the voice of song, Man soars to spirit-dignity,    Receiving force divinely strong: Among the gods is now his home,    Naught earthly ventures to approach All other powers must now be dumb,    No fate can on his realms encroach; Care's gloomy wrinkles disappear, Whilst music's charms still linger here, As after long and hopeless yearning,    And separation's bitter smart, A child, with tears repentant burning,    Clings fondly to his mother's heart So to his youthful happy dwelling,    To rapture pure and free from stain, All strange and false conceits expelling,    Song guides the wanderer back again, In faithful Nature's loving arm, From chilling precepts to grow warm. ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Power Of Song ,

1003:He didn’t take her back to the shooting range right away. There was a lookout point between here and there. Linc swerved the dark cobalt car into it, pulling alongside the rock wall and switching the engine off. They had the lookout to themselves. “Why are we stopping?” she asked. Rhetorically. “Great view.” She glanced at the distant DC skyline, seeing the dome of the Capitol to the east and the tip of the Washington Monument. The Mall, its grassy expanse invisible from where they were, stretched to the Lincoln Memorial at the other end. Its blocky rectangular top appeared through the bare-branched trees. “Sure is.” Kenzie tossed her handbag into the footwell and turned to him. That grin on his handsome face was not about sightseeing. She allowed herself the pleasure of looking him over one last time. He pretended not to notice. Even looking straight ahead through the windshield, his dark eyes had a knowing glint. It was arrogant of him to assume that he knew what she wanted, even though he was right. And annoying of him to wait for her to make the first move. One strong hand rested on the wheel and the other on his thigh. Kenzie unbuckled her seat belt and leaned over. Two could play that game. She put her lips against his ear and he stiffened visibly. “What’s on your mind, Linc?” she breathed, teasing him. She was amused to see his eyes close with pleasure. Maybe he hadn’t been expecting her to say something like that. Too bad. She’d said it. Kenzie slid her hand over his smooth-shaven jaw and turned his face to hers. Wow. His gaze burned with passion. She’d never seen Linc like this. He was all man and then some. Hard to say who began the kiss, but it went on for a while. She didn’t remember taking the knot out of his tie, which hung open. A couple of buttons had parted company with the buttonholes on his shirt. Linc sat back when she did. “Wow. I mean, maybe you should take me home,” she said. “Not that I don’t want more, but--” Linc nodded, turning the key in the ignition until the engine revved. “Tell me when, Kenzie. That’s all I ask. ~ Janet Dailey,

1004:What?' He cried, darting at him a look of fury: 'Dare you still implore the Eternal's mercy? Would you feign penitence, and again act an Hypocrite's part? Villain, resign your hopes of pardon. Thus I secure my prey!' As He said this, darting his talons into the Monk's shaven crown, He sprang with him from the rock. The Caves and mountains rang with Ambrosio's shrieks. The Daemon continued to soar aloft, till reaching a dreadful height, He released the sufferer. Headlong fell the Monk through the airy waste; The sharp point of a rock received him; and He rolled from precipice to precipice, till bruised and mangled He rested on the river's banks. Life still existed in his miserable frame: He attempted in vain to raise himself; His broken and dislocated limbs refused to perform their office, nor was He able to quit the spot where He had first fallen. The Sun now rose above the horizon; Its scorching beams darted full upon the head of the expiring Sinner. Myriads of insects were called forth by the warmth; They drank the blood which trickled from Ambrosio's wounds; He had no power to drive them from him, and they fastened upon his sores, darted their stings into his body, covered him with their multitudes, and inflicted on him tortures the most exquisite and insupportable. The Eagles of the rock tore his flesh piecemeal, and dug out his eyeballs with their crooked beaks. A burning thirst tormented him; He heard the river's murmur as it rolled beside him, but strove in vain to drag himself towards the sound. Blind, maimed, helpless, and despairing, venting his rage in blasphemy and curses, execrating his existence, yet dreading the arrival of death destined to yield him up to greater torments, six miserable days did the Villain languish. On the Seventh a violent storm arose: The winds in fury rent up rocks and forests: The sky was now black with clouds, now sheeted with fire: The rain fell in torrents; It swelled the stream; The waves overflowed their banks; They reached the spot where Ambrosio lay, and when they abated carried with them into the river the Corse of the despairing Monk. ~ Matthew Lewis,

1005:He knew exactly what he wanted, he had been working over it in his mind for some seven years now... he had yet to see how much ground he had to use, but neither beauty nor splendor have need of great size. What he wanted was light, light and space, and the upward surge of stone like a growing tree from foundations to vault. No oppression, no darkness, no burden of thick, groaning columns and lowering roofs like the stony weight of guilt. He saw the shape clearly. No chevet of chapels, but a square east end, so that he could have a whole wall of invading light pouring in upon the high altar. Short, strong transepts, lofty aisles, and the clerestory tall and fully glazed above a shallow triforium. The west front with a great, deeply-cut doorway and a vast window above, set back in course on course of moulding, where the light could harp all day long on strings of stone, making even that greyer northern air shine lucid and sharp as the dazzling south. Over the west front two minor turrets, tapering to slender fingers of stone. Over the crossing the great tower, as in Normandy, binding all together, rooting all impregnably into the earth, drawing all erect with it towards heaven. In that tension was the significance of life, and next to light, this he wanted above all, the duality of flesh and spirit, manhood and godhead, the tension of man on his way to God. A noble tower, tall and tapered, its long surfaces so subtly fluted and molded that light and shadow might stroke it into a hundred changing shapes of majesty and beauty as the hours of the daylight passed. Permanence and change, diversity and oneness, in that grey-gold stone that glowed in his memory like - what was Adam's phrase?- a mine of sunshine. There is no growth nor fruitfulness but rises from these paired opposites of darkness and light, earth and heaven. My feet as roots in the earth, my forehead straining into the sun. The tower at once anchoring my church fast to the rock, and translating it into a balanced arrow of light aimed at the sky. There is no beauty where there is doubt or insecurity. A sense of unbalance is the death of art. ~ Edith Pargeter,

1006:It was on the morning of the first day at my school after the long summer break this year that I noticed something stunning as I was about to enter my school through the rock garden gate. As usual, I was so much eager to have a first glimpse of my favourite red brick house from a distance, but instead something even redder captured my eyes. It was an elegant tree full bloomed with red coloured flowers in the morning sun waiting to welcome me back to school after the break, which immediately lifted little remaining home sickness. The guard uncle told that the majestic tree is called Krishnachura. Again I was awed by the beauty of the name. I have seen this tree a plenty in my locality at Salt Lake, but they never ever drew my attention the way this tree did at the school gate at the backdrop of the red building that summer morning. After returning home, I immediately searched for more details of the Krishnachura and found that the tree originally belongs to the islands of the Madagascar. In other parts of India, this tree is known as the Gulmohar. They are also fondly called “Flames of forest”, which somebody rightly resembled them to the flames of the bushfires in hot dry summer. I also found that in many countries, e.g. in Japan, every school must plant at least few flowering cherry trees in their premises. These cherry blossoms have influenced the Japanese society and its art and culture tremendously. Similarly, the Krishnachura has also influenced many poets and appears in the Indian literature and music. However, in our country, they are not mandatorily planted in our school. I am so fortunate to have these trees in my school. I again realized the visions of the founders and subsequent nurturers of my school. I have been seeing this tree since my nursery days, but probably, I was too little to be conscious about its beauty. I told about this to my father, but he further astonished me when he told me that even he looks forward every year for the blossom. Probably, me too will be waiting every year henceforth for the Krishnachura to bloom, but the trail of the sight of the tree of my school that very morning of June with remain with me forever. ~ Anonymous,

1007:The hardest part was coming to terms with the constant dispiriting discovery that there is always more hill. The thing about being on a hill, as opposed to standing back from it, is that you can almost never see exactly what’s to come. Between the curtain of trees at every side, the ever-receding contour of rising slope before you, and your own plodding weariness, you gradually lose track of how far you have come. Each time you haul yourself up to what you think must surely be the crest, you find that there is in fact more hill beyond, sloped at an angle that kept it from view before, and that beyond that slope there is another, and beyond that another and another, and beyond each of those more still, until it seems impossible that any hill could run on this long. Eventually you reach a height where you can see the tops of the topmost trees, with nothing but clear sky beyond, and your faltering spirit stirs—nearly there now!—but this is a pitiless deception. The elusive summit continually retreats by whatever distance you press forward, so that each time the canopy parts enough to give a view you are dismayed to see that the topmost trees are as remote, as unattainable, as before. Still you stagger on. What else can you do? When, after ages and ages, you finally reach the telltale world of truly high ground, where the chilled air smells of pine sap and the vegetation is gnarled and tough and wind bent, and push through to the mountain’s open pinnacle, you are, alas, past caring. You sprawl face down on a sloping pavement of gneiss, pressed to the rock by the weight of your pack, and lie there for some minutes, reflecting in a distant, out-of-body way that you have never before looked this closely at lichen, not in fact looked this closely at anything in the natural world since you were four years old and had your first magnifying glass. Finally, with a weary puff, you roll over, unhook yourself from your pack, struggle to your feet, and realize—again in a remote, light-headed, curiously not-there way—that the view is sensational: a boundless vista of wooded mountains, unmarked by human hand, marching off in every direction. This really could be heaven. ~ Bill Bryson,

1008:You make springs gush forth in the valleys;         they flow between the hills;     11 they give drink to every beast of the field;         the wild donkeys quench their thirst.     12 Beside them the birds of the heavens dwell;         they sing among the branches.     13 From your lofty abode you water the mountains;         the earth is satisfied with the fruit of your work.     14 You cause the grass to grow for the livestock         and plants for man to cultivate,     that he may bring forth food from the earth         15 and wine to gladden the heart of man,     oil to make his face shine         and bread to strengthen man's heart.     16 The trees of the LORD are watered abundantly,         the cedars of Lebanon that he planted.     17 In them the birds build their nests;         the stork has her home in the fir trees.     18 The high mountains are for the wild goats;         the rocks are a refuge for the rock badgers.     19 He made the moon to mark the seasons; [1]         the sun knows its time for setting.     20 You make darkness, and it is night,         when all the beasts of the forest creep about.     21 The young lions roar for their prey,         seeking their food from God.     22 When the sun rises, they steal away         and lie down in their dens.     23 Man goes out to his work         and to his labor until the evening.     24 O LORD, how manifold are your works!         In wisdom have you made them all;         the earth is full of your creatures.     25 Here is the sea, great and wide,         which teems with creatures innumerable,         living things both small and great.     26 There go the ships,         and Leviathan, which you formed to play in it. [2]     27 These all look to you,         to give them their food in due season.     28 When you give it to them, they gather it up;         when you open your hand, they are filled with good things.     29 When you hide your face, they are dismayed;         when you take away their breath, they die         and return to their dust.     30 When you send forth your Spirit, [3] they are created,         and you renew the face of the ground.     31 May the glory of the LORD endure forever; ~ Anonymous,

1009:Mermaid I AS we lay musing in our beds, So well and so warm at ease, I thought upon those lodging-beds Poor seamen have at seas. Last Easter day, in the morning fair, We was not far from land, Where we spied a mermaid on the rock, With comb and glass in hand. The first came up the mate of our ship, With lead and line in hand, To sound and see how deep we was From any rock or sand. The next came up the boatswain of our ship, With courage stout and bold: ‘Stand fast, stand fast, my brave lively lads, Stand fast, my brave hearts of gold!’ Our gallant ship is gone to wreck, Which was so lately trimmd; The raging seas has sprung a leak, And the salt water does run in. Our gold and silver, and all our cloths, And all that ever we had, We forced was to heave them overboard, Thinking our lives to save. In all, the number that was on board Was five hundred and sixty-four, And all that ever came alive on shore There was but poor ninety-five. The first bespoke the captain of our ship, And a well-spoke man was he; ‘I have a wife in fair Plymouth town, And a widow I fear she must be.’ The next bespoke the mate of our ship, And a well-bespoke man was he; ‘I have a wife in fair Portsmouth, And a widow I fear she must be.’ The next bespoke the boatswain of our ship, And a well-bespoke man was he; ‘I have a wife in fair Exeter, 482 And a widow I fear she must be.’ The next bespoke the little cabbin-boy, And a well-bespoke boy was he; ‘I am as sorry for my mother dear As you are for your wives all three. ‘Last night, when the moon shin’d bright, My mother had sons five, But now she may look in the salt seas And find but one alive.’ ‘Call a boat, call a boat, you little Plymouth boys, Don’t you hear how the trumpet[s] sound? [For] the want of our boat our gallant ship is lost, And the most of our merry men is drownd.’ Whilst the raging seas do roar, And the lofty winds do blow, And we poor seamen do lie on the top, Whilst the landmen lies below. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

1010:The Song Of The Surf White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the shore, Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain, When speech the harshest and roughest is seldom studied in vain ? My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone, In a hieroglyphic 'tis written—'tis spoken in a tongue unknown ; Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and shivering, say ! What is the tale you are telling ? what is the drift of your lay ? You come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of your countless years ; You break, with a rainbow of glory, through the spray of your glittering tears. Is your song a song of gladness ? a paean of joyous might ? Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right ? For the empty seat by the ingle ? for children reft of their sire ? For the bride, sitting sad, and single, and pale, by the flickering fire ? For your ravenous pools of suction ? for your shattering billow swell ? For your ceaseless work of destruction ? for your hunger insatiable ? Not far from this very place, on the sand and the shingle dry, He lay, with his batter'd face upturned to the frowning sky. When your waters wash'd and swill'd high over his drowning head, When his nostrils and lungs were filled, when his feet and hands were as lead, When against the rock he was hurl'd, and suck'd again to the sea, On the shores of another world, on the brink of eternity, On the verge of annihilation, did it come to that swimmer strong, The sudden interpretation of your mystical weird-like song ? 'Mortal ! that which thou askest, ask not thou of the waves ; Fool ! thou foolishly taskest us—we are only slaves ; Might, more mighty, impels us—we must our lot fulfil, He who gathers and swells us curbs us, too, at His will. Think'st thou the wave that shatters questioneth His decree ? Little to us matters, and naught it matters to thee. Not thus, murmuring idly, we from our duty would swerve, Over the world spread widely ever we labour and serve. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

1011:Newton Pulsifer had never had a cause in his life. Nor had he, as far as he knew, ever believed in anything. It had been embarrassing, because he quite wanted to believe in something, since he recognized that belief was the lifebelt that got most people through the choppy waters of Life. He’d have liked to believe in a supreme God, although he’d have preferred a half-hour’s chat with Him before committing himself, to clear up one or two points. He’d sat in all sorts of churches, waiting for that single flash of blue light, and it hadn’t come. And then he’d tried to become an official Atheist and hadn’t got the rock-hard, self-satisfied strength of belief even for that. And every single political party had seemed to him equally dishonest. And he’d given up on ecology when the ecology magazine he’d been subscribing to had shown its readers a plan of a self-sufficient garden, and had drawn the ecological goat tethered within three feet of the ecological beehive. Newt had spent a lot of time at his grandmother’s house in the country and thought he knew something about the habits of both goats and bees, and concluded therefore that the magazine was run by a bunch of bib-overalled maniacs. Besides, it used the word “community” too often; Newt had always suspected that people who regularly used the word “community” were using it in a very specific sense that excluded him and everyone he knew. Then he’d tried believing in the Universe, which seemed sound enough until he’d innocently started reading new books with words like Chaos and Time and Quantum in the titles. He’d found that even the people whose job of work was, so to speak, the Universe, didn’t really believe in it and were actually quite proud of not knowing what it really was or even if it could theoretically exist. To Newt’s straightforward mind this was intolerable. Newt had not believed in the Cub Scouts and then, when he was old enough, not in the Scouts either. He was prepared to believe, though, that the job of wages clerk at United Holdings [Holdings] PLC, was possibly the most boring in the world. This is how Newton Pulsifer looked as a man: if he went into a phone booth and changed, he might manage to come out looking like Clark Kent. ~ Terry Pratchett,

1012:SEE the rock-born stream! Like the gleam Of a star so bright Kindly spirits High above the clouds Nourished him while youthful In the copse between the cliffs. Young and fresh. From the clouds he danceth Down upon the marble rocks; Then tow'rd heaven Leaps exulting. Through the mountain-passes Chaseth he the colour'd pebbles, And, advancing like a chief, Tears his brother streamlets with him In his course. In the valley down below 'Neath his footsteps spring the flowers, And the meadow In his breath finds life. Yet no shady vale can stay him, Nor can flowers, Round his knees all-softly twining With their loving eyes detain him; To the plain his course he taketh, Serpent-winding, Social streamlets Join his waters. And now moves he O'er the plain in silv'ry glory, And the plain in him exults, And the rivers from the plain, And the streamlets from the mountain, Shout with joy, exclaiming: "Brother, Brother, take thy brethren with thee, With thee to thine aged father, To the everlasting ocean, Who, with arms outstretching far, Waiteth for us; Ah, in vain those arms lie open To embrace his yearning children; For the thirsty sand consumes us In the desert waste; the sunbeams Drink our life-blood; hills around us Into lakes would dam us! Brother, Take thy brethren of the plain, Take thy brethren of the mountain With thee, to thy father's arms! Let all come, then!-- And now swells he Lordlier still; yea, e'en a people Bears his regal flood on high! And in triumph onward rolling, Names to countries gives he,--cities Spring to light beneath his foot. Ever, ever, on he rushes, Leaves the towers' flame-tipp'd summits, Marble palaces, the offspring Of his fullness, far behind. Cedar-houses bears the Atlas On his giant shoulders; flutt'ring In the breeze far, far above him Thousand flags are gaily floating, Bearing witness to his might. And so beareth he his brethren, All his treasures, all his children, Wildly shouting, to the bosom Of his long-expectant sire. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Mahomets Song ,

1013:No one charged you with being my savior,” Camille’s voice shook, the confrontation not something she really wanted. “No one had to charge me with it. I made the decision on my own the night the Christina went down.” Oscar sealed his lips as if he’d let something slip he hadn’t intended. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her boots slipping once on the moss. He avoided her by looking out at the stream. He took a few moments to answer, and when he did he still didn’t meet her stare. “Do you remember when you woke up on the Londoner? When you asked me if I’d seen your father?” Camille nodded, and hoped their argument was over. “You said you didn’t see him.” He shook his head. “I lied. I did see him in the water. He was trying to stay above the surface after I got ahold of the dory.” It was as though freezing shocks of ocean water were striking Camille in the face all over again. She jumped from the rock, the hem of her skirt nearly tripping her. “Did you row to him? Did you try and save him?” He shook his head again. “No.” “Why not?” she screeched. “Oscar, how could you not help him?” She couldn’t blink. She couldn’t do anything but stare at him in disbelief. He’d abandoned her father, the man who had given him everything. “Because I spotted you,” he answered, hardly loud enough for her to hear. “I saw you in the waves and I chose to row to you.” She loosened her fists, stunned. Oscar sat down on the rock, the toes of his scuffed leather boots buried in the dry layer of pine needles. “I tried to go back for him,” he said, kicking at the needles, “but by the time I pulled you out of the water and looked back, he was gone.” She couldn’t move, could barely breathe. If she’d only held on to her father’s hand. Oscar would have been able to save them both. “If there had just been a way to get to the both of you,” he said. Camille sat on the rock beside him, laying a tentative hand on his arm. “You’re the most capable man I know, Oscar. If there had been a way, you’d have found it.” She pressed her hand against his solid arm, the flaxen hairs covering his skin coarse against her fingertips. She wanted to soothe him more, reassure him like he always did her. ~ Angie Frazier,

1014:A scraping sound across the room startled her. Jake emerged from the fireplace grate. Soot covered his hands and streaked his cheek. “Want to come look?” Her mind still on the message from the teacher, she approached the fireplace. Jake made room on the hearth. “See these cracks? Crumbling mortar, loose stone. Feel this.” He reached for a river rock, and she touched it. He placed his hand over hers and wobbled the rock, but she barely felt the movement for the jolt that went through her at his touch. She jerked her hand away. His eyes scanned her face, which grew warmer by the second. She studied the blackened rocks as if mesmerized by them. “So the, uh, loosened rocks caused it to smoke?” Was that her squeaky voice? “Right.” She still felt his touch on her hand, though it was now cradled safely in her lap. She ran her other palm over it and felt the protrusion of her ring. Stephen. Wonderful, steady Stephen. She still felt Jake watching her. She was probably glowing like hot coals by now. Confound it. “So, you can, uh, patch it or something?” “Or something.” She wondered if the amusement in his tone was caused by her question or the fact that she’d ripped her hand away as if he’d jabbed her with a poker. She flickered a glance at him, but it stuck and held. The amusement slid slowly from his face, replaced by something else. Something that made her stomach feel as if it contained a batch of quickly rising dough. You just had to look. Heat radiated off his arm, inches away, and flowed over her skin. She could smell the faint scent of pine and musk. She looked away. Told her heart to stay put. Deep breaths. She sucked in a lungful of his woodsy scent. Ix-nay on the eath-bray. Meridith jumped to her feet and put distance between them. Jake cleared his throat, then leaned into the grate. “Don’t see any daylight.” Back to business. “That’s good, right?” “Not if you want to use this thing. Flue’s blocked. Debris or bird’s nest, could be anything.” “You can fix it?” He pulled out of the grate, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Sure.” Meridith hated how unsettled she felt around him. And the faulty fireplace only prolonged his presence. Why did he have to make her feel this way? Why did she have to keep reminding herself this was business? “Can ~ Denise Hunter,

1015:Sea Holly Begotten by the meeting of rock with rock, The mating of rock and rock, rocks gnashing together; Created so, and yet forgetful, walks The seaward path, puts up her left hand, shades Blue eyes, the eyes of rock, to see better In slanting light the ancient sheep (which kneels Biting the grass) the while her other hand, Hooking the wicker handle, turns the basket Of eggs. The sea is high to-day. The eggs Are cheaper. The sea is blown from the southwest, Confused, taking up sand and mud in waves, The waves break, sluggish, in brown foam, the wind Disperses (on the sheep and hawthorn) spray,— And on her cheeks, the cheeks engendered of rock, And eyes, the colour of rock. The left hand Falls from the eyes, and undecided slides Over the left breast on which muslin lightly Rests, touching the nipple, and then down The hollow side, virgin as rock, and bitterly Caresses the blue hip. It was for this, This obtuse taking of the seaward path, This stupid hearing of larks, this hooking Of wicker, this absent observation of sheep Kneeling in harsh sea-grass, the cool hand shading The spray-stung eyes—it was for this the rock Smote itself. The sea is higher to-day, And eggs are cheaper. The eyes of rock take in The seaward path that winds toward the sea, The thistle-prodder, old woman under a bonnet, Forking the thistles, her back against the sea, Pausing, with hard hands on the handle, peering With rock eyes from her bonnet. It was for this, This rock-lipped facing of brown waves, half sand 113 And half water, this tentative hand that slides Over the breast of rock, and into the hollow Soft side of muslin rock, and then fiercely Almost as rock against the hip of rock— It was for this in midnight the rocks met, And dithered together, cracking and smoking. It was for this Barren beauty, barrenness of rock that aches On the seaward path, seeing the fruitful sea, Hearing the lark of rock that sings, smelling The rock-flower of hawthorn, sweetness of rock— It was for this, stone pain in the stony heart, The rock loved and laboured; and all is lost. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

1016:She comes, she comesthe burden of the deeps! Beneath her wails the universal sea! With clanking chains and a new god, she sweeps, And with a thousand thunders, unto thee! The ocean-castles and the floating hosts Ne'er on their like looked the wild water!Well May man the monster name "Invincible." O'er shuddering waves she gathers to thy coasts! The horror that she spreads can claim Just title to her haughty name. The trembling Neptune quails Under the silent and majestic forms; The doom of worlds in those dark sails; Near and more near they sweep! and slumber all the storms! Before thee, the array, Blest island, empress of the sea! The sea-born squadrons threaten thee, And thy great heart, Britannia! Woe to thy people, of their freedom proud She rests, a thunder heavy in its cloud! Who, to thy hand the orb and sceptre gave, That thou should'st be the sovereign of the nations? To tyrant kings thou wert thyself the slave, Till freedom dug from law its deep foundations; The mighty Chart the citizens made kings, And kings to citizens sublimely bowed! And thou thyself, upon thy realm of water, Hast thou not rendered millions up to slaughter, When thy ships brought upon their sailing wings The sceptreand the shroud? What should'st thou thank?Blush, earth, to hear and feel What should'st thou thank?Thy genius and thy steel! Behold the hidden and the giant fires! Behold thy glory trembling to its fall! Thy coming doom the round earth shall appal, And all the hearts of freemen beat for thee, And all free souls their fate in thine foresee Theirs is thy glory's fall! One look below the Almighty gave, Where streamed the lion-flags of thy proud foe; And near and wider yawned the horrent grave. "And who," saith He, "shall lay mine England low The stem that blooms with hero-deeds The rock when man from wrong a refuge needs The stronghold where the tyrant comes in vain? Who shall bid England vanish from the main? Ne'er be this only Eden freedom knew, Man's stout defence from power, to fate consigned." God the Almighty blew, And the Armada went to every wind! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Invincible Armada ,

1017:In The Manner Of Spenser So long estranged from every Muse's lyre, And groveling in the tangled net of Care; What powerful breath shall kindle up that fire Smothered with damps of most unkindly air? Ah, how is quenched the lamp that burnt so fair! Come, sweet seducers, late too far away, Once more to my deserted cell repair; Your rebel courts again your gentle sway;— Come, soothe the winter's night, and charm the summer's day. Come, dear companions of my youthful hour, Fill my fond breast with your majestic themes; Meet me again on hill, by stream, or bower, And bathe my fancy in the bliss of dreams. Vain wish! no more the star of Fancy gleams; They with becoming scorn reject thy prayer: Nor will they haunt thy bower, or bless thy streams, No more to thy deserted cell repair:— “Go, court the world,” they cry, “thou art not worth our care.” Bustle and hurry, noise and thrall they hate, And plodding Method with her leaden rule; And all that swells the' unwieldy pomp of state, And all that binds to earth the golden fool; And creeping Labour with his patient tool: Free like the birds they wander unconfined, Nor dip their wings in Lucre's muddy pool; Business they hate, in crowded nook enshrined, That spins her dirty web, and clouds the' ethereal mind. Ah, why should man, in hard unsocial strife, And withering care whose vigils never cease, Fretting away this little thread of life, Of his sad birthright reap such large increase! Why should he toil for aught but bread and peace? Why rear to heaven his clay-built pyramids? Nor from his tasks himself, poor slave! release; With anxious thought, which wholesome rest forbids, Drying the balm of sleep from sorrow's swollen lids. Despising cheap delights, he loves to scoop 75 His marble palace from the rock's hard breast, And in close dungeon walls himself to coop, On golden couches wooing pale unrest; With foreign looms his stately halls are drest, And grim-wrought tapestry clothes the darkened room; While in the flowery vale Peace builds her nest, Amidst the purple heath or yellow broom, Or where midst rustling corn the nodding poppies bloom. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,

1018:The beauty of Mars exists in the human mind. without the human presence it is just a concatenation of atoms, no different than any other random speck of matter in the universe. It's we who understand it, and we who give it meaning. All our centuries of looking up at the night sky and watching it wander through the stars. All those nights of watching it through the telescopes, looking at a tiny disk trying to see canals in the albedo changes. All those dumb sci-fi novels with their monsters and maidens and dying civilizations. And all the scientists who studied the data, or got us here. That's what makes Mars Beautiful. Not the basalt and the oxides. Now that we are here, it isn't enough to just hide under ten meters of soil and study the rock. That's science, yes, and needed science too. But science is more than that. Science is part of a larger human enterprise, and that enterprise includes going to the stars, adapting to other planets, adapting them to us. Science is creation. The lack of life here, and the lack of any finding in fifty years of the SETI program, indicates that life is rare, and intelligent life even rarer. And yet the whole meaning of the universe, its beauty, is contained in the consciousness of intelligent life. We are the consciousness of the universe, and our job is to spread that around, to go look at things, to live everywhere we can. It's too dangerous to keep the consciousness of the universe on only one planet, it could be wiped out. And so now we're on two, three if you count the moon. And we can change this one to make it safer to live on. Changing it won't destroy it. Reading its past might get harder, but the beauty of it won't go away. If there are lakes, or forests, or glaciers, how does that diminish Mars beauty? I don't think it does. I think it only enhances it. It adds life, the most beautiful system of all. But nothing life can do will bring Tharsis down, or fill Marineris. Mars will always remain Mars, different from Earth, colder and wilder. But it can be Mars and ours at the same time. And it will be. There is this about the human mind; if it can be done, it will be done. We can transform Mars and build it like you would build a cathedral, as a monument to humanity and the universe both. We can do it, so we will do it. So, we might as well start. ~ Kim Stanley Robinson,

1019:You dismiss the idea that the death of Jesus—the “torture and death of a single individual in a backward part of the Middle East” — could possibly be the solution to the sorrows of our brutish existence. When I said that Jesus is good for the world because he is the life of the world, you just tossed this away. You said, “You cannot possibly ‘know’ this. Nor can you present any evidence for it.” Actually, I believe I can present evidence for what I know. But evidence comes to us like food, and that is why we say grace over it. And we are supposed to eat it, not push it around on the plate—and if we don’t give thanks, it never tastes right. But here is some evidence for you, in no particular order. The engineering that went into ankles. The taste of beer. That Jesus rose from the dead on the third day, just like he said. A woman’s neck. Bees fooling around in the flower bed. The ability of acorns to manufacture enormous oaks out of stuff they find in the air and dirt. Forgiveness of sin. Storms out of the North, the kind with lightning. Joyous laughter (diaphragm spasms to the atheistic materialist). The ocean at night with a full moon. Delta blues. The peacock that lives in my yard. Sunrise, in color. Baptizing babies. The pleasure of sneezing. Eye contact. Having your feet removed from the miry clay, and established forever on the rock. You may say none of this tastes right to you. But suppose you were to bow your head and say grace over all of it. Try it that way. You say that you cannot believe that Christ’s death on the Cross was salvation for the world because the idea is absurd. I have shown in various ways that absurdity has not been a disqualifier for any number of your current beliefs. You praise reason to the heights, yet will not give reasons for your strident and inflexible moral judgments, or why you have arbitrarily dubbed certain chemical processes “rational argument.” That’s absurd right now, and yet there you are, holding it. So for you to refuse to accept Christ because it is absurd is like a man at one end of the pool refusing to move to the other end because he might get wet. Given your premises, you will have to come up with a different reason for rejecting Christ as you do. But for you to make this move would reveal the two fundamental tenets of true atheism. One: There is no God. Two: I hate Him. ~ Anonymous,

1020:Wall, Cave, And Pillar Statements, After Asoka In order to perfect all readers the statements should he carved on rock walls, on cave walls, and on the sides of pillars so the charm of their instruction can affect the mountain climbers near the cliffs, the plainsmen near the pillars, and the city people near the caves they go to on vacations. The statements should, and in a fair script, spell out the right text and gloss of the Philosopher’s jocular remark. Text: “Honesty is the best policy.” Gloss: “He means not ‘best’ but ‘policy,’ (this is the joke of it) whereas in fact Honesty is Honesty, Best is Best, and Policy is Policy, the three terms being not related, but here loosely allied. What is more important is that ‘is’ is, but the rocklike truth of the text resides in the ‘the’. The ‘the’ is The. By this means the amusing sage has raised or caused to be raised the triple standard in stone: the single is too simple for life, the double is mere degrading hypocrisy, but the third combines the first two in a possible way, and contributes something unsayable of its own: this is the pit, nut, seed, or stone of the fruit when the fruit has been digested: It is good to do good for the wrong reason, better to do good for the good reason, and best of all to do good good: i.e. when the doer and doee and whatever passes between them 28 are beyond all words like ‘grace’ or ‘anagogic insight,’ or definitions like ‘particular instance of a hoped-at-law,’ and which the rocks alone can convey. This is the real reason for the rock walls, the cave walls and pillars, and not the base desires for permanence and display that the teacher’s conceit suggests.” That is the end of the statements, but, in order to go on a way after the end so as to make up for having begun after the beginning, and thus to come around to it in order to include the whole thing, add: “In some places the poignant slogan, ‘Morality is a bad joke like everything else,’ may be written or not, granted that space exists for the vulgar remarks, the dates, initials and hearts of lovers, and all other graffiti of the prisoners of this world.” ~ Alan Dugan,

1021:In The Moonlight The moon is bright, and the winds are laid, and the river is roaring by; Orion swings, with his belted lights low down in the western sky; North and south from the mountain gorge to the heart of the silver plain There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again; There’s many a hand will toil to-night, from the centre down to the sea; And I’m far from the men I used to know—and my love is far from me. Where the broad flood eddies the dredge is moored to the beach of shingle white, And the straining cable whips the stream in a spray of silver light; The groaning buckets bear their load, and the engine throbs away, And the wash pours red on the turning screen that knows not night or day; For there’s many an ounce of gold to save, from the gorge to the shining sea— And there’s many a league of the bare brown hills between my love and me. Where the lines of gorse are parched and dry, and the sheaves are small and thin, The engine beats and the combine sings to the drays that are leading in, For they’re thrashing out of the stook to-night, and the plain is as bright as day, And the fork-tines flash as the sheaves are turned on the frame of the one-horse dray; For many a hand will toil to-night, from the mountains down to the sea;— But I’m far from the lips of the girl I love, and the heart that beats for me. The trappers are out on the hills to-night, and the sickly lantern-shine Is mocking the gleam of the silver moon in the scrub on the long trap-line; The tallies are big on the rock-strewn spur, and the rattling clink of the chain Comes weirdly mixed from the moon-bright hill with the whistling shriek of pain; For many a hand will toil to-night where the tussocks are waving free;— But it’s over the hills and over the plain to the heart that beats for me. The stars are bright, and the night is still, and the river is singing by, And many a face is upward turned to gaze at the moon’s bright eye. North and south, from the forest deeps to the heart of the silver plain, There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again; There’s many a hand will toil to-night by shining land and sea. O moonlight, bear my message of love to the heart that beats for me. 18 ~ David McKee Wright,

1022:The Feast Of Lights Kindle the taper like the steadfast star Ablaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth, And add each night a lustre till afar An eightfold splendor shine above thy hearth. Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre, Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn; Chant psalms of victory till the heart takes fire, The Maccabean spirit leap new-born. Remember how from wintry dawn till night, Such songs were sung in Zion, when again On the high altar flamed the sacred light, And, purified from every Syrian stain, The foam-white walls with golden shields were hung, With crowns and silken spoils, and at the shrine, Stood, midst their conqueror-tribe, five chieftains sprung From one heroic stock, one seed divine. Five branches grown from Mattathias' stem, The Blessed John, the Keen-Eyed Jonathan, Simon the fair, the Burst-of Spring, the Gem, Eleazar, Help of-God; o'er all his clan Judas the Lion-Prince, the Avenging Rod, Towered in warrior-beauty, uncrowned king, Armed with the breastplate and the sword of God, Whose praise is: 'He received the perishing.' They who had camped within the mountain-pass, Couched on the rock, and tented neath the sky, Who saw from Mizpah's heights the tangled grass Choke the wide Temple-courts, the altar lie Disfigured and polluted-who had flung Their faces on the stones, and mourned aloud And rent their garments, wailing with one tongue, Crushed as a wind-swept bed of reeds is bowed, Even they by one voice fired, one heart of flame, Though broken reeds, had risen, and were men, They rushed upon the spoiler and o'ercame, 251 Each arm for freedom had the strength of ten. Now is their mourning into dancing turned, Their sackcloth doffed for garments of delight, Week-long the festive torches shall be burned, Music and revelry wed day with night. Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm, The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word. Where is our Judas? Where our five-branched palm? Where are the lion-warriors of the Lord? Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre, Sound the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn, Chant hymns of victory till the heart take fire, The Maccabean spirit leap new-born! ~ Emma Lazarus,

1023:Giant Snail The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body--foot, that is--is wet and cold and covered with sharp gravel. It is white, the size of a dinner plate. I have set myself a goal, a certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there. Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely graze the ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles are already tired. I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it is only with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above the smallest stones and sticks. And I must not let myself be distracted by those rough spears of grass. Don't touch them. Draw back. Withdrawal is always best. The rain has stopped. The waterfall makes such a noise! (And what if I fall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off such clouds of steam! Shiny streamers are hanging down their sides. When this occurs, we have a saying that the Snail Gods have come down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarpments, much less dream of climbing them. That toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched my love. Our proportions horrify our neighbors. Rest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is like a pallid, decomposing leaf. What's that tapping on my shell? Nothing. Let's go on. My sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from front to back, the wake of a ship, wax-white water, or a slowly melting floe. I am cold, cold, cold as ice. My blind, white bull's head was a Cretan scare-head; degenerate, my four horns that can't attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. They press the earth and suck it hard. Ah, but I know my shell is beautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. I know it well, although I have not seen it. Its curled white lip is of the finest enamel. Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection. My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely opalescent ribbon: I know this. But O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me. If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack there for the night. The waterfall below will vibrate through my shell and body all night long. In that steady pulsing I can rest. All night I shall be like a sleeping ear. 41 ~ Elizabeth Bishop,

1024:And I came to a hill that I never saw before. I was in a dismal thicket full of black twisted boughs that tore me as I went through them, and I cried out because I was smarting all over, and then I found that I was climbing, and I went up and up a long way, till at last the thicket stopped and I came out crying just under the top of a big bare place, where there were ugly grey stones lying all about on the grass, and here and there a little, twisted stunted tree came out from under a stone, like a snake. And I went up, right to the top, a long way. I never saw such big ugly stones before; they came out of the earth some of them, and some looked as if they had been rolled to where they were, and they went on and on as far as I could see, a long, long way. I looked out from them and saw the country, but it was strange. It was winter time, and there were black terrible woods hanging from the hills all round; it was like seeing a large room hung with black curtains, and the shape of the trees seemed quite different from any I had ever seen before. I was afraid. Then beyond the woods there were other hills round in a great ring, but I had never seen any of them; it all looked black, and everything had a voor over it. It was all so still and silent, and the sky was heavy and grey and sad, like a wicked voorish dome in Deep Dendo. I went on into the dreadful rocks. There were hundreds and hundreds of them. Some were like horrid-grinning men; I could see their faces as if they would jump at me out of the stone, and catch hold of me, and drag me with them back into the rock, so that I should always be there. And there were other rocks that were like animals, creeping horrible animals, putting out their tongues, and others were like words I could not say, and others were like dead people lying on the grass. I went on among them, though they frightened me, and my heart was full of wicked songs that they put into it; and I wanted to make faces and twist myself about in the way they did, and I went on and on a long way till at last I liked the rocks, and they didn't frighten me any more. I sang the songs I thought of; songs full of words that must not be spoken or written down. Then I made faces like the faces on the rocks, and I twisted myself about like the twisted ones, and I lay down flat on the ground like the dead ones, and I went up to one that was grinning, and put my arms round him and hugged him. ~ Arthur Machen,

1025:I was asked to talk to a roomful of undergraduates in a university in a beautiful coastal valley. I talked about place, about the way we often talk about love of place, but seldom how places love us back, of what they give us. They give us continuity, something to return to, and offer familiarity that allows some portion of our lives to remain collected and coherent. They give us an expansive scale in which our troubles are set into context, in which the largeness of the world is a balm to loss, trouble, and ugliness. And distant places give us refuge in territories where our own histories aren't so deeply entrenched and we can imagine other stories, other selves, or just drink up quiet and respite. The bigness of the world is redemption. Despair compresses you into a small space, and a depression is literally a hollow in the ground. To dig deeper into the self, to go underground, is sometimes necessary, but so is the other route of getting out of yourself, into the larger world, into the openness in which you need not clutch your story and your troubles so tightly to your chest. Being able to travel in both ways matters, and sometimes the way back into the heart of the question begins by going outward and beyond. This is the expansiveness that comes literally in a landscape or that tugs you out of yourself in a story..... I told the student that they were at an age when they might begin to choose the places that would sustain them the rest of their lives, that places were much more reliable than human beings, and often much longer-lasting, and I asked each of them where they felt at home. They answered, each of them, down the rows, for an hour, the immigrants who had never stayed anywhere long or left a familiar world behind, the teenagers who'd left the home they'd spent their whole lives in for the first time, the ones who loved or missed familiar landscapes and the ones who had not yet noticed them. I found books and places before I found friends and mentors, and they gave me a lot, if not quite what a human being would. As a child, I spun outward in trouble, for in that inside-out world [of my family], everywhere but home was safe. Happily, the oaks were there, the hills, the creeks, the groves, the birds, the old dairy and horse ranches, the rock outcroppings, the open space inviting me to leap out of the personal into the embrace of the nonhuman world. ~ Rebecca Solnit,

1026:Ronan was waiting for her beyond the estate’s guarded gate. From the looks of things, he had been waiting for some time. His horse was nosing brown grass as Ronan sat on a nearby boulder, throwing pebbles at the general’s stone wall. When he saw Kestrel ride through the gate on Javelin, he flung his handful of rocks to the path. He remained sitting, elbows propped on his bended knees as he stared at her, his face pinched and white. He said, “I have half a mind to tear you down from your horse.” “You got my message, then.” “And rode instantly here, where guards told me that the lady of the house gave strict orders not to let anyone--even me--inside.” His eyes raked over her, taking in the black fighting clothes. “I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. After you vanished last night, everyone at the party was talking about the challenge, yet I was sure it was just a rumor started by Irex because of whatever has caused that ill will between you. Kestrel, how could you expose yourself like this?” Her hands tightened around the reins. She thought about how, when she let go, her palms would smell like leather and sweat. She concentrated on imagining that scent. This was easier than paying heed to the sick feeling swimming inside her. She knew what Ronan was going to say. She tried to deflect it. She tried to talk about the duel itself, which seemed straightforward next to her reasons for it. Lightly, she said, “No one seems to believe that I might win.” Ronan vaulted off the rock and strode toward her horse. He seized the saddle’s pommel. “You’ll get what you want. But what do you want? Whom do you want?” “Ronan.” Kestrel swallowed. “Think about what you are saying.” “Only what everyone has been saying. That Lady Kestrel has a lover.” “That’s not true.” “He is her shadow, skulking behind her, listening, watching.” “He isn’t,” Kestrel tried to say, and was horrified to hear her voice falter. She felt a stinging in her eyes. “He has a girl.” “Why do you even know that? So what if he does? It doesn’t matter. Not in the eyes of society.” Kestrel’s feelings were like banners in a storm, snapping at their ties. They tangled and wound around her. She focused, and when she spoke, she made her words disdainful. “He is a slave.” “He is a man, as I am.” Kestrel slipped from her saddle, stood face-to-face with Ronan, and lied. “He is nothing to me. ~ Marie Rutkoski,

1027:Ronan was waiting for her beyond the estate’s guarded gate. From the looks of things, he had been waiting for some time. His horse was nosing brown grass as Ronan sat on a nearby boulder, throwing pebbles at the general’s stone wall. When he saw Kestrel ride through the gate on Javelin, he flung his handful of rocks to the path. He remained sitting, elbows propped on his bended knees as he stared at her, his face pinched and white. He said, “I have half a mind to tear you down from your horse.” “You got my message, then.” “And rode instantly here, where guards told me that the lady of the house gave strict orders not to let anyone--even me--inside.” His eyes raked over her, taking in the black fighting clothes. “I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. After you vanished last night, everyone at the party was talking about the challenge, yet I was sure it was just a rumor started by Irex because of whatever has caused that ill will between you. Kestrel, how could you expose yourself like this?” Her hands tightened around the reins. She thought about how, when she let go, her palms would smell like leather and sweat. She concentrated on imagining that scent. This was easier than paying heed to the sick feeling swimming inside her. She knew what Ronan was going to say. She tried to deflect it. She tried to talk about the duel itself, which seemed straightforward next to her reasons for it. Lightly, she said, “No one seems to believe that I might win.” Ronan vaulted off the rock and strode toward her horse. He seized the saddle’s pommel. “You��ll get what you want. But what do you want? Whom do you want?” “Ronan.” Kestrel swallowed. “Think about what you are saying.” “Only what everyone has been saying. That Lady Kestrel has a lover.” “That’s not true.” “He is her shadow, skulking behind her, listening, watching.” “He isn’t,” Kestrel tried to say, and was horrified to hear her voice falter. She felt a stinging in her eyes. “He has a girl.” “Why do you even know that? So what if he does? It doesn’t matter. Not in the eyes of society.” Kestrel’s feelings were like banners in a storm, snapping at their ties. They tangled and wound around her. She focused, and when she spoke, she made her words disdainful. “He is a slave.” “He is a man, as I am.” Kestrel slipped from her saddle, stood face-to-face with Ronan, and lied. “He is nothing to me. ~ Marie Rutkoski,

1028:There was once a stone cutter who was dissatisfied with himself and with his position in life. One day he passed a wealthy merchant's house. Through the open gateway, he saw many fine possessions and important visitors. "How powerful that merchant must be!" thought the stone cutter. He became very envious and wished that he could be like the merchant. To his great surprise, he suddenly became the merchant, enjoying more luxuries and power than he had ever imagined, but envied and detested by those less wealthy than himself. Soon a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants and escorted by soldiers beating gongs. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession. "How powerful that official is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a high official!" Then he became the high official, carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by the people all around. It was a hot summer day, so the official felt very uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence. "How powerful the sun is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the sun!" Then he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, scorching the fields, cursed by the farmers and laborers. But a huge black cloud moved between him and the earth, so that his light could no longer shine on everything below. "How powerful that storm cloud is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a cloud!" Then he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But soon he found that he was being pushed away by some great force, and realized that it was the wind. "How powerful it is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the wind!" Then he became the wind, blowing tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooting trees, feared and hated by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that would not move, no matter how forcefully he blew against it - a huge, towering rock. "How powerful that rock is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a rock!" Then he became the rock, more powerful than anything else on earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the hard surface, and felt himself being changed. "What could be more powerful than I, the rock?" he thought. He looked down and saw far below him the figure of a stone cutter. ~ Benjamin Hoff,

1029:I’ve been thinking about what you said--you know, about the eighth-grade dance. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out what you were talking about. And”--he swallows hard--“there’s something I need to tell you.” Why is he bringing this up now? “You don’t have to, Ryder,” I say, my heart accelerating. “You were right. It was a long time ago.” “I know, but, well…just hear me out, okay?” I nod, mentally bracing myself. I’m not sure I want to hear this--to open those old wounds again. “I said some things that night, things I’m not proud of. And…it occurred to me that someone might have told you, and--” “I heard you, Ryder,” I say, cutting him off. “I was there, hiding in those trees by the rock. I heard everything.” He lets out his breath in a low whistle. “Shit. I am so sorry, Jemma. I didn’t think--I mean, not that it makes any difference, but I didn’t know. I figured you’d had second thoughts or something and decided you didn’t want to go with me.” “I wish,” I mumble. “The thing is, Jem, those things I said? I didn’t mean them. I was there waiting for you, when Mason and Ben showed up and started teasing me. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to get rid of them, and then they started saying stuff. You know, about you.” “Yeah, I heard.” Even now, all these years later, the memory makes me cringe. “And I knew that if they knew the truth--if they knew how much I really liked you, it’d be even worse. I swear, in some crazy, convoluted way, I thought I was protecting you or something.” “I still can’t believe Laura Grace made you ask me,” I say. “Was Mama in on it too?” He shakes his head. “No. Don’t you get it? I made that up. My mom had nothing to do with it--she didn’t even know. The truth is, I wanted to go with you. Something had changed between us, remember? At the beach over Christmas break?” “I remember.” I’d been hyperaware of him on that trip--self-conscious and nervous and giddy and excited all at once. I’d caught him staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, and I’d stolen some secret glances myself. “That was when I realized you were the prettiest girl in Magnolia Branch,” he says. “Hell, maybe in all of Mississippi. Anyway, I was excited about the dance. I even snuck into town that afternoon and bought you a corsage. I had it in my pocket when I went to the rock to meet you.” I barely hear him, because I’m still stuck on the “prettiest girl” part of his speech. ~ Kristi Cook,

1030:The Unfortunate Lover Alas, how pleasant are their dayes With whom the Infant Love yet playes! Sorted by pairs, they still are seen By Fountains cool, and Shadows green. But soon these Flames do lose their light, Like Meteors of a Summers night: Nor can they to that Region climb, To make impression upon Time. 'Twas in a Shipwrack, when the Seas Rul'd, and the Winds did what they please, That my poor Lover floting lay, And, e're brought forth, was cast away: Till at the last the master-Wave. Upon the Rock his Mother drave; And there she split against the Stone, In a Cesarian Section. The Sea him lent these bitter Tears Which at his Eyes he alwaies bears. And from the Winds the Sighs he bore, Which through his surging Breast do roar. No Day he saw but that which breaks, Through frighted Clouds in forked streaks. While round the ratling Thunder hurl'd, As at the Fun'ral of the World. While Nature to his Birth presents This masque of quarrelling Elements; A num'rous fleet of Corm'rants black, That sail'd insulting o're the Wrack, Receiv'd into their cruel Care, Th' unfortunate and abject Heir: Guardians most fit to entertain The Orphan of the Hurricane. They fed him up with Hopes and Air, Which soon digested to Despair. And as one Corm'rant fed him, still 164 Another on his Heart did bill. Thus while they famish him, and feast, He both consumed, and increast: And languished with doubtful Breath, Th' Amphibium of Life and Death. And now, when angry Heaven wou'd Behold a spectacle of Blood, Fortune and He are call'd to play At sharp before it all the day: And Tyrant Love his brest does ply With all his wing'd Artillery. Whilst he, betwixt the Flames and Waves, Like Ajax, the mad Tempest braves. See how he nak'd and fierce does stand, Cuffing the Thunder with one hand; While with the other he does lock, And grapple, with the stubborn Rock: From which he with each Wave rebounds, Torn into Flames, and ragg'd with Wounds. And all he saies, a Lover drest In his own Blood does relish best. This is the only Banneret That ever Love created yet: Who though, by the Malignant Starrs, Forced to live in Storms and Warrs; Yet dying leaves a Perfume here, And Musick within every Ear: And he in Story only rules, In a Field Sable a Lover Gules. ~ Andrew Marvell,

1031:The rock came loose, but Jake’s satisfied grunt turned into a howl of outraged pain as a set of huge teeth in the next stall clamped into Jake’s ample rear end. “You vicious bag of bones,” he shouted, jumping to his feet and throwing himself half over the rail in an attempt to land a punch on Attila’s body. As if the horse anticipated retribution, he sidled to the edge of his stall and regarded Jake from the corner of his eye with an expression that looked to Jake like complacent satisfaction. “I’ll get you for that,” Jake promised, and he started to shake his fist when he realized how absurd it was to threaten a dumb beast. Rubbing his offended backside, he turned to Mayhem and carefully put his own rump against the outside wall of the barn. He checked the hoof to make certain it was clean, but the moment his fingers touched the place where the rock had been lodged the chestnut jerked in pain. “Bruised you, did it?” Jake said sympathetically. “It’s not surprisin’, considering the size and shape of the rock. But you never gave a sign yesterday that you were hurtin’,” he continued. Raising his voice and infusing it with a wealth of exaggerated admiration, the patted the chestnut’s flank and glanced disdainfully at Attila while he spoke to Mayhem. “That’s because you’re a true aristocrat and a fine, brave animal-not a miserable, sneaky mule who’s not fit to be your stallmate!” If Attila cared one way or another for Jake’s opinion, he was disappointingly careful not to show it, which only made Jake’s mood more stormy when he stomped into the cottage. Ian was sitting at the table, a cup of steaming coffee cradled between his palms. “Good morning,” he said to Jake, studying the older man’s thunderous frown. “Mebbe you think so, but I can’t see it. Course, I’ve spent the night freezin’ out there, bedded down next to a horse that wants to make a meal of me, and who broke his fast with a bit of my arse already this mornin’. And,” he finished irately as he poured coffee from the tin pot into an earthenware mug and cast a quelling look at his amused friend, “your horse is lame!” Flinging himself into the chair beside Ian, he gulped down the scalding coffee without thinking what he was doing; his eyes bulged, and sweat popped out on his forehead. Ian’s grin faded. “He’s what?” “Picked up a rock, and he’s favoring his left foreleg.” Ian’s chair legs scraped against the wooden floor as he shoved his chair back and started to go to the barn. “There’s no need. It’s just a bruise. ~ Judith McNaught,

1032:No Mirrors in My Nana’s House” Sweet Honey in the Rock LYRICS BY YSAYE MARIA BARNWELL Sweet Honey in the Rock is a Grammy Award–winning vocal group of black women vocalists founded in 1973 by Bernice Johnson Reagon. The group’s members have changed during its long tenure, but it retains a core of five vocalists and a sign-language interpreter. Their performances are deeply embodied celebrations of black women’s lived experiences. The group’s name is derived from Psalm 81:16: “But you would be fed with the finest of wheat; with honey from the rock I would satisfy you.” Sign-language interpreter Dr. Ysaye Barnwell joined Sweet Honey in the Rock in 1979 and appears in more than thirty recordings with the group. She is the author of one of the group’s most popular recordings, “No Mirrors in My Nana’s House.” It is a stirring piece that reveals how the loving protection of black women can shield black girls from a painful world that seeks to negate their beauty and worth. In 1998 the lyrics became a children’s book published by Harcourt Brace. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). I never knew that my skin was too black. I never knew that my nose was too flat. I never knew that my clothes didn’t fit. I never knew there were things that I’d missed, cause the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun); . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). I was intrigued by the cracks in the walls. I tasted, with joy, the dust that would fall. The noise in the hallway was music to me. The trash and the rubbish just cushioned my feet. And the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). The world outside was a magical place. I only knew love. I never knew hate, and the beauty in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). . . . was in her eyes. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. There were no mirrors in my Nana’s house, no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And the beauty that I saw in everything was in her eyes (like the rising of the sun). ~ Melissa V Harris Perry,

1033:Sometimes during the night I'd look at my poor sleeping mother cruelly crucified there in the American night because of no-money, no-hope-of-money, no family, no nothing, just myself the stupid son of plans all of them compacted of eventual darkness. God how right Hemingway was when he said there was no remedy for life - and to think that negative little paper-shuffling prissies should write condescending obituaries about a man who told the truth, nay who drew breath in pain to tell a tale like that! ... No remedy but in my mind I raise a fist to High Heaven promising that I shall bull whip the first bastard who makes fun of human hopelessness anyway - I know it's ridiculous to pray to my father that hunk of dung in a grave yet I pray to him anyway, what else shall I do? sneer? shuffle paper on a desk and burp rationality? Ah thank God for all the Rationalists the worms and vermin got. Thank God for all the hate mongering political pamphleteers with no left or right to yell about in the Grave of Space. I say that we shall all be reborn with the Only One, and that's what makes me go on, and my mother too. She has her rosary in the bus, don't deny her that, that's her way of stating the fact. If there can't be love among men let there be love at least between men and God. Human courage is an opiate but opiates are human too. If God is an opiate so am I. Thefore eat me. Eat the night, the long desolate American between Sanford and Shlamford and Blamford and Crapford, eat the hematodes that hang parasitically from dreary southern trees, eat the blood in the ground, the dead Indians, the dead pioneers, the dead Fords and Pontiacs, the dead Mississippis, the dead arms of forlorn hopelessness washing underneath - Who are men, that they can insult men? Who are these people who wear pants and dresses and sneer? What am I talking about? I'm talking about human helplessness and unbelievable loneliness in the darkness of birth and death and asking 'What is there to laugh about in that?' 'How can you be clever in a meatgrinder?' 'Who makes fun of misery?' There's my mother a hunk of flesh that didn't ask to be born, sleeping restlessly, dreaming hopefully, beside her son who also didn't ask to be born, thinking desperately, praying hopelessly, in a bouncing earthly vehicle going from nowhere to nowhere, all in the night, worst of all for that matter all in noonday glare of bestial Gulf Coast roads - Where is the rock that will sustain us? Why are we here? What kind of crazy college would feature a seminar where people talk about hopelessness, forever? ~ Jack Kerouac,

1034:The crust [of the earth] is very thin. Estimates of its thickness range from a minimum of about twenty to a maximum of about forty miles. The crust is made of comparatively rigid, crystalline rock, but it is fractured in many places, and does not have great strength. Immediately under the crust is a layer that is thought to be extremely weak, because it is, presumably, too hot to crystallize. Moreover, it is thought that pressure at that depth renders the rock extremely plastic, so that it will yield easily to pressures. The rock at that depth is supposed to have high viscosity; that is, it is fluid but very stiff, as tar may be. It is known that a viscous material will yield easily to a comparatively slight pressure exerted over a long period of time, even though it may act as a solid when subjected to a sudden pressure, such as an earthquake wave. If a gentle push is exerted horizontally on the earth's crust, to shove it in a given direction, and if the push is maintained steadily for a long time, it is highly probable that the crust willl be displaced over this plastic and viscous lower layer. The crust, in this case, will move as a single unit, the whole crust at the same time. This idea has nothing whatever to do with the much discussed theory of drifting continents, according to which the continents drifted separately, in different directions. [...] Let us visualize briefly the consequences of a displacement of the whole crustal shell of the earth. First, there will be the changes in latitude. Places on the earth's surface will change their distances from the equator. Some will be shifted nearer the equator, and others farther away. Points on opposite sides of the earth will move in opposite directions. For example, if New York should be moved 2,000 miles south, the Indian Ocean, diametrically opposite, would have to be shifted 2,000 miles north. [...] Naturally, climatic changes will be more or less proportionate to changes in latitude, and, because areas on opposite sides of the globe will be moving in opposite directions, some areas will be getting colder while others get hotter; some will be undergoing radical changes of climate, some mild changes of climate, and some no changes at all. Along with the climatic changes, there will be many other consequences of a displacement of the crust. Because of the slight flattening of the earth, there will be stretching and compressional effects to crack and fold the crust, possibly contributing to the formation of mountain ranges. there will be changes in sea level, and many other consequences. ~ Charles H Hapgood,

1035:The Two Children Part I Heavy hangs the raindrop From the burdened spray; Heavy broods the damp mist On Uplands far away; Heavy looms the dull sky, Heavy rolls the sea And heavy beats the young heart Beneath that lonely Tree Never has a blue streak Cleft the clouds since morn Never has his grim Fate Smiled since he was born Frowning on the infant, Shadowing childhood's joy; Guardian angel knows not That melancholy boy. Day is passing swiftly Its sad and sombre prime; Youth is fast invading Sterner manhood's time All the flowers are praying For sun before they close, And he prays too, unknowing, That sunless human rose! Blossoms, that the westwind Has never wooed to blow, Scentless are your petals, Your dew as cold as snow Soul, where kindred kindness No early promise woke, Barren is your beauty 104 As weed upon the rock Wither, Brothers, wither, You were vainly given Earth reserves no blessing For the unblessed of Heaven! Part II Child of Delight! with sunbright hair And seablue, sea-deep eyes; Spirit of Bliss, what brings thee here, Beneath these sullen skies? Thou shouldest live in eternal spring, Where endless day is never dim; Why, seraph, has thy erring wing Borne thee down to weep with him? 'Ah, not from heaven am I descended, And I do not come to mingle tears; But sweet is day though with shadows blended; And, though clouded, sweet are youthful years I, the image of light and gladness, Saw and pitied that mournful boy; And I swore to take his gloomy sadness, And give to him my beamy joy 'Heavy and dark the night is closing; Heavy and dark may its biding be; Better for all from grief reposing, And better for all who watch like me 'Guardian angel, he lacks no longer; Evil fortune he need not fear; Fate is strong–but Love is stronger, And more unsleeping than angel's care. (May 28, 1845) 105 Emily's name for these two poems in the Gondal saga was 'A. E. and R. C'; it was Charlotte who gave them this title. The image of two children appears a number of times in Emily Brontë's poetry as well as in her novel. In this poem, the 'melancholy boy' resembles Heathcliff and Hareton, while the 'Child of Delight! with sunbright hair' resembles Catherine Earnshaw and Cathy Linton; the poem hints that they are to redeem the 'melancholy boy.' The dark-light, male-female pair appears in the novel and in the Gondal saga as well. ~ Emily Jane Brontë,

1036:Shut your disgusting mouth, mole,” spit Asherah. They stood in the large secret cavern carved out of the rock fifty feet beneath the temple of Dagon. Dagon and Ba’alzebul watched Asherah walk up to the rock wall where they had fastened Mikael’s body. Or rather, where they had fastened the parts of Mikael’s body. When they had ambushed Mikael in the Valley of Hinnom, Ba’alzebul had fallen with him some two hundred feet to the valley floor where all Mikael’s bones had been shattered. Ba’alzebul was also incapacitated in the fall, but because he used Mikael’s body as a cushion, and because he had a much stronger bodily structure, he had healed more quickly and was ready for action. But before Mikael could heal to move at all, they had him drawn and quartered. All four of his limbs were severed from his body, and he was beheaded. As an angel, he could not die, but this was surely a living hell as they pinned all his body parts spread out on the wall so he could look helplessly down upon them and their mockery. Asherah looked into Mikael’s eyes. He could not respond verbally because his head was severed from his voice box and lungs, which were separated from each other by about six feet, like a sick spread-out puzzle. But he could watch her and hear their discussion. Ba’alzebul said, “The only time all of them came together like this was to take back the body of Moses from Mastema.” Molech said, “I think they plan much more than retrieving the prince of Israel here. I think they came to bind us into the earth.” “Of course, you idiot,” said Asherah. “But why do they not hide themselves?” said Dagon. Ba’alzebul said, “They want us to stand and fight.” “And why not?” said Asherah. “We are in our stronghold, we are empowered by the Philistines.” “We are confident,” added Ba’alzebul. “Presumptuous. So we will be reckless.” “Exactly,” said Asherah. “If they can deliver this blow to us now, they will control all of Canaan. Which we cannot allow. So we will run.” “Like cowards?” worried Dagon. “Like insurgents,” said Asherah. “Look at the Amalekites. They were almost wiped out. But their few roaming hordes have become a terror to the Israelites, because they cannot be targeted in a specific location. They hit and they run, and Israel has nowhere to respond or retaliate. In our fortified Philistine cities, the archangels know exactly where we are, and what we are doing in our temples. And they can come get us whenever they want. Because they know where we are. As they do this very moment.” The other gods nodded with understanding. Asherah added, “It is time we become more mobile. ~ Brian Godawa,

1037:The Himalayas O Himalah! O rampart of the realm of India! Bowing down, the sky kisses your forehead Your condition does not show any signs of old age You are young in the midst of day and night's alternation The Kalâm of ñër Sân« witnessed but one Effulgence For the discerning eye you are an embodiment of Effulgence To the outward eye you are a mere mountain range In reality you are our sentinel, you are India's rampart You are the diwan whose opening verse is the sky You lead Man to the solitudes of his heart's retreat Snow has endowed you with the turban of honour Which scoffs at the crown of the world-illuminating sun Antiquity is but a moment of your bygone age Dark clouds are encamped in your valleys Your peaks are matching with the pleiades in elegance Though you are standing on earth your abode is sky's expanse The stream in your flank is a fast flowing mirror For which the breeze is working like a kerchief The mountain top's lightning has given a whip In the hands of cloud for the ambling horse O Himalah! Are you like a theater stage Which nature's hand has made for its elements? Ah! How the cloud is swaying in excessive joy The cloud like an unchained elephant is speeding Gentle movement of the morning zephyr is acting like a cradle Every flower bud is swinging with intoxication of existence 48 The flower bud's silence with the petal's tongue is saying 'I have never experienced the jerk of the florist's hand Silence itself is relating the tale of mine The corner of nature's solitude is the abode of mine' The brook is melodiously descending from the high land Putting the waves of Kawthar and Tasnâm to embarrassment As if showing the mirror to Nature's beauty Now evading now rowing against the rock in its way Play in passing this orchestra of beautiful music O wayfarer! The heart comprehends your music When the night's Lailah unfurls her long hair The sound of water-falls allures the heart That silence of the night whose beauty surpasses speech That state of silent meditation overshadowing the trees That dusk's beauty which shivers along the mountain range Very beautiful looks this rouge on your cheeks O Himalah! Do relate to us some stories of the time When your valleys became abode of Man's ancestors Relate something of the life without sophistication Which had not been stained by the rouge of sophistication O Imagination! Bring back that period O Vicissitudes of Time speed backwards ~ Allama Muhammad Iqbal,

1038:He was beautiful. Whatever else he was, Sage was by far the most magnetic man I had ever seen. I had felt it in my dreams, and it was even more true in real life. I welcomed the chance to study him without his knowledge. He glanced up, and I quickly closed my eyes, feigning sleep. Had he seen me? The scratching stopped. He was looking at me, I knew it. I held my breath and willed my eyes not to pop open and see if he was staring. Finally the scratching started up again. I forced myself to slowly count to ten before I opened my eyelids the tiniest bit and peeked through my lashes. Good-he wasn’t looking at me. I opened my eyes a little wider. What was he doing? Moving only my eyes, I glanced down at the dirt floor in front of him… …and saw a picture of me, fast asleep. It was incredible. I could see his tools laid out beside the picture: rocks in several sizes and shapes, a couple of twigs…the most rudimentary materials, and yet what he was etching into the floor wouldn’t look out of place on an art gallery wall. It was beautiful…far more beautiful than I thought I actually looked in my sleep. Is that how he saw me? Sage lifted his head again, and I shut my eyes. I imagined him studying me, taking careful note of my features and filtering them through his own senses. My heartbeat quickened, and it took all my willpower to remain still. “You can keep pretending to be asleep if you’d like, but I don’t see a career for you as an actress,” he teased. My eyes sprang open. Sage’s head was again bent over his etching, but a grin played on his face as he worked. “You knew?” I asked, mortified. Sage put a finger to his lips, glancing toward Ben. “About two minutes before you woke up, I knew,” he whispered. “Your breathing hanged.” He bent back over the drawing, then impishly asked, “Pleasant dreams?” My heart stopped, and I felt myself blush bright crimson as I remembered our encounter in the bottom of the rowboat. I sent a quick prayer to whoever or whatever might be listening that I hadn’t re-enacted any of it in my sleep, then said as nonchalantly as possible, “I don’t know, I can’t remember what I dreamed about. Why?” He swapped out the rock in his hand for one with a thinner edge and worked for another moment. “No reason…just heard my name.” I hoped the dim moonlight shadowed the worst of my blush. “Your name,” I reiterated. “That’s…interesting. They say dreams sort out things that happen when we’re awake.” “Hmm. Did you sort anything out?” he asked. “Like I said, I can’t remember.” I knew he didn’t believe me. Time to change the subject. I nodded to the etching. “Can I come look? ~ Hilary Duff,

1039:This was not an academic matter. Biology, as George Wald had said, was a unique science because it could not define its subject matter. Nobody had a definition for life. Nobody knew what it was, really. The old definitions-- an organism that showed ingestion, excretion, metabolism, reproduction, and so on-- were worthless. One could always find exceptions.   The group had finally concluded that energy conversion was the hallmark of life. All living organisms in some way took in energy-- as food, or sunlight-- and converted it to another form of energy, and put it to use. (Viruses were the exception to this rule, but the group was prepared to define viruses as nonliving.)   For the next meeting, Leavitt was asked to prepare a rebuttal to the definition. He pondered it for a week, and returned with three objects: a swatch of black cloth, a watch, and a piece of granite. He set them down before the group and said, "Gentleman, I give you three living things."   He then challenged the team to prove that they were not living. He placed the black cloth in the sunlight; it became warm. This, he announced, was an example of energy conversion-radiant energy to heat.   It was objected that this was merely passive energy absorption, not conversion. It was also objected that the conversion, if it could be called that, was not purposeful. It served no function.   "How do you know it is not purposeful?" Leavitt had demanded.   They then turned to the watch. Leavitt pointed to the radium dial, which glowed in the dark. Decay was taking place, and light was being produced.   The men argued that this was merely release of potential energy held in unstable electron levels. But there was growing confusion; Leavitt was making his point.   Finally, they came to the granite. "This is alive," Leavitt said. "It is living, breathing, walking, and talking. Only we cannot see it, because it is happening too slowly. Rock has a lifespan of three billion years. We have a lifespan of sixty or seventy years. We cannot see what is happening to this rock for the same reason that we cannot make out the tune on a record being played at the rate of one revolution every century. And the rock, for its part, is not even aware of our existence because we are alive for only a brief instant of its lifespan. To it, we are like flashes in the dark."   He held up his watch.   His point was clear enough, and they revised their thinking in one important respect. They conceded that it was possible that they might not be able to analyze certain life forms. It was possible that they might not be able to make the slightest headway, the least beginning, in such an analysis. ========== ~ Anonymous,

1040:Billos ran. He tore down the shore, bounded up on the rock, and dove into the air. The warm water engulfed him. A boiling heat knocked the wind from his lungs. The shock alone might kill him. But it was pleasure that surged through his body, not pain. The sensations coursed through his bones in great unrelenting waves. Elyon. How he was certain, he did not know. But he knew. Elyon was in this lake with him. Billos opened his eyes. Gold light drifted by. He lost all sense of direction. The water pressed in on every inch of his body, as intense as any acid, but one that burned with pleasure instead of pain. He sank into the water, opened his mouth and laughed. He wanted more, much more. He wanted to suck the water in and drink it. Without thinking, he did just that. The liquid hit his lungs. Billos pulled up, panicked. He tried to hack the water from his lungs, but inhaled more instead. No pain. He carefully sucked more water and breathed it out slowly. Then again, deep and hard. Out with a soft whoosh. He was breathing the water! Billos shrieked with laughter. He swam into the lake, deeper and deeper. The power contained in this lake was far greater than anything he'd ever imagined. "I made this, Billos." Billos whipped his body around, searching for the words' source. "Elyon?" His voice was muffled, hardly a voice at all. "Do you like it?" "Yes!" Billos said. He might have spoken; he might have shouted--he didn't know. He only knew that his whole body screamed it. Billos looked around. "Elyon?" "Why do you doubt me, Billos?" In that single moment the full weight of Billos's foolishness crashed on him like a sledgehammer. "I see you, Billos." "I made you." "I love you." The words crashed over him, reaching into the deepest folds of his flesh, caressing each hidden synapse, flowing through every vein, as though he had been given a transfusion. "I choose you, Billos." Billos began to weep. The feeling was more intense than any pain he had ever felt. The current pulled at him, tugging him up through the colors. His body trembled with pleasure. He wanted to speak, to yell, to tell the whole world that he was the most fortunate person in the universe. That he was loved by Elyon. Elyon himself. "Never leave me, Billos." "Never! I will never leave you." The current pushed him through the water and then above the surface not ten meters from the shore. He stood on the sandy bottom. For a moment he had such clarity of mind that he was sure he could understand the very fabric of space if he put his mind to it. He was chosen. He was loved. ~ Ted Dekker,

1041:Bluefur headed along the fern tunnel. Why wasn’t Goosefeather helping more? Why did ThunderClan seem to have the laziest, dumbest medicine cat? As she reached the end of the tunnel, she stopped. The medicine clearing was cool and green and empty. “Goosefeather!” Bluefur guessed he was sleeping in his den. Two eyes peered from the crack in the rock. Bluefur tensed. They were round and wild, and for a moment she thought a fox had got in. “Goosefeather?” she ventured shakily. The medicine cat padded out, his pelt ruffled. His eyes were still wild, but less startling in the daylight. “What is it?” “Featherwhisker sent me for herbs for my belly. I shared a bad mouse with Sweetpaw and Rosepaw last night.” “You as well?” He rolled his eyes. Bluefur nodded. “Evil omens everywhere.” Bluefur wondered if she’d heard the medicine cat correctly. He was muttering as he turned back into his den and still muttering as he came out and shoved a pawful of shredded leaves in front of her. “It was just a bad mouse,” she meowed, wondering why he was so upset. He leaned toward her, his breath stinky in her face. “Just a bad mouse?” he echoed. “Another warning, that’s what it was! I should have seen it coming. I should have noticed.” “How?” Bluefur backed away. “It didn’t taste bad.” She realized that his pelt wasn’t ruffled from sleep, but simply ungroomed. It clung to his frame as though the season were leaf-bare and he hadn’t eaten properly for a moon. She took another pace back. “It was just a bad mouse,” she repeated. He turned a disbelieving look on her. “How can you—you of all cats—ignore the signs?” he spat. “Me?” What did he mean? “You have a prophecy hanging over your head like a hawk. You’re fire, and only water can destroy you! You can’t ignore the signs.” “B-but…I’m just a warrior.” Was she supposed to have the insight of a medicine cat? That wasn’t fair. He should be giving her answers, not taunting her with the promise of a destiny she didn’t understand. She had wondered when Goosefeather would again speak to her about the prophecy, but now he was making even less sense than before. “Just a warrior?” His whiskers trembled. “Too many omens. Three cats poisoned, two only whiskers from StarClan, Leopardfoot nearly dead, her three kits hanging on to life like rabbits in a fox den.” He stared through her, seeming to forget she was there. “Why such a difficult birth for the Clan leader’s mate? The kits may not make it through another night. The tom is too weak to mew, let alone feed. I should help them, and yet how can I when the signs are clear?” What in the name of StarClan was he talking about? Forgetting the herbs, Bluefur backed out of the den. Only whiskers from StarClan. ~ Erin Hunter,

1042:German Joe SKIRTING the swamp and the tangled scrub, Tramping and turning amidst the trees, Carrying nothing but blankets and grub, Careless of pleasure and health and ease, Hither and thither with never a goal, Heavy, and solemn, and stiff, and slow, Seeking a track and a long-lost line, ‘Blazed avay to dot lead of mine,’— Restless and rickety German Joe. Down in the gully and up the range, Stung by the gale and the hate-hot sun, Never a greeting to give in change, Never a tip from the nearest run,— Seeking a guide to a golden hole, Lost in the lone land long ago, Left in the keep of the hills and trees; Jealous to have and to hold are these, Hope you may get it, though, German Joe. ‘Likely old yarn for a horse marine! Struck it, you say, at the river head— Back where the bellowing bunyip’s seen, Out beyond everywhere—rich and red; Left it for tucker, and lost the track, Blazed till your arm couldn’t strike a blow; Gravel that gleams with the golden stuff, Nuggets ‘shust like as der plums in duff,’— What are you giving us, German Joe?’ ‘Blaze? Yes; you strike for the Granite Stair, Make to the left when you cross the creek, South till you meet with a monkey bear, Tramp in his tracks for about a week; Then you can travel the sky-line back. So long, old chap, if you’re bound to go. Don’t you forget when you’re rich and great Who laid you on to the lost lead, mate— Mad as a hatter is German Joe.’ 42 Laugh as they may, they will stand his friends. Right as rain when the old man takes Down to his bunk in the hut, and spends Seven weeks fighting the fever and shakes, Muttering still of his lucky lead: ‘Vhisper—I leds you all in der know, Den you pe richer nor as der pank.’ Boys, he’s a man if he is a crank— Whisky and physic for German Joe. Now he’s abroad in a wild dream-land, Baring his breast to the river breeze— Out where the rock-ribbed ridges stand, Telling his tale to the secret trees, Swift as the shadows his visions glide Over the plains where the mad winds blow. Cover his face now, and carve a stone, Henceforth his spirit must seek alone— Dead as a door-nail is German Joe. Bushmen have yarned of a ghost that went Blazing a track from the Granite Stair Down to a shaft and a tattered tent, Many days’ journey from anywhere. Others have said that the bushmen lied. Liars or not, it is true, we know, Men have discovered a golden mine Out in the track of an old blazed line, Led by the spirit of German Joe. ~ Edward George Dyson,

1043:Ars Longa [A Song of Pilgrimage] Our hopes are wild imaginings, Our schemes are airy castles, Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings, And we their slaves and vassals ; Yon dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth, Most ready to deceive is, But age will own the bitter truth, 'Ars longa, vita brevis.' The hill of life with eager feet We climbed in merry morning, But on the downward track we meet The shades of twilight warning ; The shadows gaunt they fall aslant ; And those who scaled Ben Nevis, Against the mole-hills toil and pant, 'Ars longa, vita brevis.' The obstacles that barr'd our path We seldom quail'd to dash on In youth , for youth one motto hath, 'The will, the way must fashion.' Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot, Too ready to believe is, But thin and cold our blood hath got, 'Ars longa, vita brevis.' And 'art is long', and 'life is short', And man is slow at learning ; And yet by divers dealings taught, For divers follies yearning, He owns at last, with grief downcast (For man disposed to grieve is)— One adage old stands true and fast, 'Ars longa, vita brevis.' We journey, manhood, youth, and age, 24 The matron, and the maiden, Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage, Loins girded, heavy laden :— Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng, Most eager to achieve is, Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song, 'Ars longa, vita brevis.' At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon, We travel brisk and cheery, But some have laid them down ere noon, And all at eve are weary ; The noontide glows with no repose, And bitter chill the eve is, The grasshopper a burden grows, 'Ars longa, vita brevis.' The staff is snapp'd, the sandal fray'd, The flint-stone galls and blisters, Our brother's steps we cannot aid, Ah me ! nor aid our sister's : The pit prepares its hidden snares, The rock prepared to cleave is, We cry, in falling unawares, 'Ars longa, vita brevis.' Oh ! Wisdom, which we sought to win ! Oh ! Strength in which we trusted ! Oh ! Glory, which we gloried in ! Oh ! puppets we adjusted ! On barren land our seed is sand, And torn the web we weave is, The bruised reed hath pierced the hand, 'Ars longa, vita brevis.' We, too, 'Job's comforters' have met, With steps, like ours, unsteady, They could not help themselves, and yet To judge us they were ready ; Life's path is trod at last, and God More ready to reprieve is, They know,who rest beneath the sod, 25 'Mors grata, vita brevis.' ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

1044:Molech had the advantage. This was his turf and his dwelling. He had spent much of his time over the millennia below the surface, which made his skin pale white and his eyes unable to see well when up above on the surface. But down below, he was the god of the underworld. He could see better than even Mikael’s preternatural night vision. Mikael didn’t know what he was running into down here. He arrived at a fork in the small tunnel. He looked at the dirt and could see that his adversary had gone to the right. Mikael followed. The tunnels were quite small, only big enough for the bulky eight foot deity to move, with little leeway. For Mikael, there was more room because he was smaller, but not by much. He stopped again. Another split. But this time, three options. He took the middle way. Mikael figured that by now, his comrade archangels would have moved the stone away and were on their way to join him. He felt his pathway was circling back. When he saw another crossroads, he realized what he was now inside: a maze. The mole god had burrowed out a complex labyrinth of tunnels that seemed to Mikael a web of confusion. The rock was harder and the dust sparser, making it even more difficult for Mikael to follow his prey’s foot prints. About the only thing he could follow now was the creature’s stench. He heard the sound of footsteps in the dark, not far from him. He picked up his pace, trying not to make as much noise as the clumsy brute was making. He turned a corner and saw the deity jump down into an opening in the rocky floor. When he reached it, he saw it was an opening that led deeper still, to a lower level. He heard the voices of his comrades in the distance, shouting for him. He decided he would take this one time to give some direction, even though it would also warn Molech. But he needed his comrades. He shouted, “Down here, Angels! There’s an opening to a deeper level!” Then he jumped. He landed twenty feet below. Before him, a new opening to a new maze of tunnels. He thought, This has been one busy little worm. He followed the smell. His opponent now knew how close he was. Mikael turned another corner and saw the god waiting for him, before bolting down a pathway. Mikael responded instinctively to the sight of the fleeing divinity. It wasn’t until he was almost upon the pathway that it registered in his mind that he was being led into a trap. He slid to a stop. It was too late. He heard the sound of a release being tripped and rocks shifting. Above him. A triggered cave-in crushed him beneath a ton of rock. He was completely immobilized. He could not get to his weapons. He could only see through a thin crevice of some rocks as Molech walked up to him, laughed and spit at him, before disappearing deeper into the network of twisting tunnels. ~ Brian Godawa,

1045:Within minutes, the other angels followed the sound of the collapsed tunnel and found Mikael’s location. They were able to dislodge enough of the rock and pull his broken body from the rubble. He had been severely crushed. Gabriel held him. “I can bring him back to the surface to heal.” Raphael said, “That leaves five. We can split up and try to surround the mole. He can’t hide here forever.” They heard the sound of a howl. “Dire wolves,” said Uriel. “We can’t chase him here forever.” Dire wolves were vicious, fanged black hounds of hell almost as tall as a man. Raphael said, “He must have bred them down here. There could be dozens.” “Or hundreds,” said Uriel. The angels could kill dozens of the wolves. But hundreds was another matter altogether. Several of them had almost been overwhelmed by a hundred dire wolves in the days of the giant King Arba, while rescuing Abraham and Sarah from the clutches of the Anakim in Kiriath-arba. They were rescued by a hundred archers. But they didn’t have a hundred archers down in this dungeon of dread darkness. “Take Mikael to safety,” said Uriel. “The rest of you draw the wolves back up to the surface.” They looked at Uriel with fear. Gabriel said, “No, Uriel. We can do this together.” Uriel grasped the leather harness of the special weapon strapped to his back. “I must do this alone.” They all knew what it meant. Uriel had the most sensitive senses. He was the best tracker of all of them. Gabriel protested more, “I will not let you.” “You have no choice.” They heard the sound of wolves getting closer. “And I have no time to quibble with you, Gabriel. Leave — all of you. Draw them after you.” Gabriel teared up. What Uriel was going to do was akin to suicide for humans. Raphael said, “He’s right.” They agreed silently. Gabriel went and grasped his friend in a bear hug that he didn’t seem to want to let go. “My brother.” “Stop your pouting, Gabriel. It’s only until the judgment.” Gabriel pulled away with an angry look in his face. It softened, and he said with a smirk, “You will finally outdo me, little friend.” Uriel gave him a dirty look. Little friend. There was still time to tease. “I outdid you a long time ago,” said Uriel with a grin. Gabriel added, “But there is still Armageddon. You don’t know what I might be capable of.” Uriel said, “Go. We’ll have all eternity to debate that.” They turned to leave. But their delay had lost them time. The underworld dire wolves were upon them. Fifty glowing eyes locked on them, approaching slowly, ready to pounce. There was only enough room to fight against one or two wolves at a time through the narrow passages. Gabriel stood at the back, carrying the broken form of Mikael, who was starting to heal, but not able to fight yet. The other four approached the wolves in single file. ~ Brian Godawa,

1046:I. Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star! II. My star, God's glow-worm! Why extend That loving hand of his which leads you Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless he needs you, just saves your light to spend? III. His clenched hand shall unclose at last, I know, and let out all the beauty: My poet holds the future fast, Accepts the coming ages' duty, Their present for this past. IV. That day, the earth's feast-master's brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising; ``Others give best at first, but thou ``Forever set'st our table praising, ``Keep'st the good wine till now!'' V. Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder: I'll say-a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land. VI. Who has not heard how Tyrian shells Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes Whereof one drop worked miracles, And coloured like Astarte's eyes Raw silk the merchant sells? VII. And each bystander of them all Could criticize, and quote tradition How depths of blue sublimed some pall -To get which, pricked a king's ambition Worth sceptre, crown and ball. VIII. Yet there's the dye, in that rough mesh, The sea has only just o'erwhispered! Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh, As if they still the water's lisp heard Through foam the rock-weeds thresh. IX. Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar-house, That, when gold-robed he took the throne In that abyss of blue, the Spouse Might swear his presence shone X. Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb, What time, with ardours manifold, The bee goes singing to her groom, Drunken and overbold. XI. Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof! Till cunning come to pound and squeeze And clarify,-refine to proof The liquor filtered by degrees, While the world stands aloof. XII. And there's the extract, flasked and fine, And priced and saleable at last! And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combine To paint the future from the past, Put blue into their line. XIII. Hobbs hints blue,-Straight he turtle eats: Nobbs prints blue,-claret crowns his cup: Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,- Both gorge. Who fished the murex up? What porridge had John Keats? The Syrian Venus. Molluscs from which the famous Tyrian *  purple dye was obtained. ~ Robert Browning, Popularity ,

1047:Off Mesolongi The lights of Mesolongi gleam Before me, now the day is gone; And vague as leaf on drifting stream, My keel glides on. No mellow moon, no stars arise; In other lands they shine and roam: All I discern are darkening skies And whitening foam. So on those lights I gaze that seem Ghosts of the beacons of my youth, Ere, rescued from their treacherous gleam, I steered towards truth. And you, too, Byron, did awake, And ransomed from the cheating breath Of living adulation, stake Greatness on death! Alas! the choice was made too late. You treated Fame as one that begs, And, having drained the joys that sate, Offered the dregs. The lees of life you scornful brought, Scornful she poured upon the ground: The honoured doom in shame you sought, You never found. ``The Spartan borne upon his shield'' Is not the meed of jaded lust; And, ere your feet could reach the field, Death claimed your dust. Upon the pillow, not the rock, Like meaner things you ebbed away, Yearning in vain for instant shock Of mortal fray. 360 The futile prayer, the feeble tear, All that deforms the face of death, You had to bear, whilst in your ear Hummed battle's breath. You begged the vulture, not the worm, Might feed upon your empty corse. In vain! Just Nemesis was firm 'Gainst late remorse. Too much you asked, too little gave, The crown without the cross of strife. What is it earns a soldier's grave? A soldier's life. Think not I come to taunt the dead. My earliest master still is dear; And what few tears I have to shed, Are gathering here. Behind me lies Ulysses' isle, The wanderer wise who pined for home. But Byron! Neither tear nor smile Forbade you roam. Yours was that bitterest mortal fate, No choice save thirst or swinish trough: Love's self but offered sensuous bait, Or virtuous scoff. Yet was it well to wince, and cry For anguish, and at wrong to gird? Best,-like your gladiator, die Without a word! There be, who in that fault rejoice, Since sobs survive as sweetest lays, And yours remains the strongest voice Of later days. For me, I think of you as One 361 Who vaguely pined for worthier lot Than to be blinked at like the sun, But found it not. Who blindly fought his way from birth, Nor learned, till 'twas too late to heed, Not all the noblest songs are worth One noble deed: Who, with the doom of glory cursed, Still played the athlete's hollow part, And 'neath his bay-green temples nursed A withered heart. On, silent keel, through silent sea. I will not land where He, alas! Just missed Fame's crown. Enough for me To gaze, and pass. ~ Alfred Austin,

1048:In 1908, in a wild and remote area of the North Caucasus, Leo Tolstoy, the greatest writer of the age, was the guest of a tribal chief “living far away from civilized life in the mountains.” Gathering his family and neighbors, the chief asked Tolstoy to tell stories about the famous men of history. Tolstoy told how he entertained the eager crowd for hours with tales of Alexander, Caesar, Frederick the Great, and Napoleon. When he was winding to a close, the chief stood and said, “But you have not told us a syllable about the greatest general and greatest ruler of the world. We want to know something about him. He was a hero. He spoke with a voice of thunder; he laughed like the sunrise and his deeds were strong as the rock….His name was Lincoln and the country in which he lived is called America, which is so far away that if a youth should journey to reach it he would be an old man when he arrived. Tell us of that man.” “I looked at them,” Tolstoy recalled, “and saw their faces all aglow, while their eyes were burning. I saw that those rude barbarians were really interested in a man whose name and deeds had already become a legend.” He told them everything he knew about Lincoln’s “home life and youth…his habits, his influence upon the people and his physical strength.” When he finished, they were so grateful for the story that they presented him with “a wonderful Arabian horse.” The next morning, as Tolstoy prepared to leave, they asked if he could possibly acquire for them a picture of Lincoln. Thinking that he might find one at a friend’s house in the neighboring town, Tolstoy asked one of the riders to accompany him. “I was successful in getting a large photograph from my friend,” recalled Tolstoy. As he handed it to the rider, he noted that the man’s hand trembled as he took it. “He gazed for several minutes silently, like one in a reverent prayer, his eyes filled with tears.” Tolstoy went on to observe, “This little incident proves how largely the name of Lincoln is worshipped throughout the world and how legendary his personality has become. Now, why was Lincoln so great that he overshadows all other national heroes? He really was not a great general like Napoleon or Washington; he was not such a skilful statesman as Gladstone or Frederick the Great; but his supremacy expresses itself altogether in his peculiar moral power and in the greatness of his character. “Washington was a typical American. Napoleon was a typical Frenchman, but Lincoln was a humanitarian as broad as the world. He was bigger than his country—bigger than all the Presidents together. “We are still too near to his greatness,” Tolstoy concluded, “but after a few centuries more our posterity will find him considerably bigger than we do. His genius is still too strong and too powerful for the common understanding, just as the sun is too hot when its light beams directly on us. ~ Doris Kearns Goodwin,

1049:Via Amoris I. IT is not Love, this beautiful unrest, This tremor of longing that invades my breast: For Love is in his grave this many a year, He will not rise--I do not wish him here. It is not memory, for your face and eyes Are not reflected where that dark pool lies: It is not hope, for life makes no amends, And hope and I are long no longer friends: It is a ghost out of another Spring It needs but little for its comforting-That I should hold your hand and see your face And muse a little in this quiet place, Where, through the silence, I can hear you sigh And feel you sadden, O Virgin Mystery, And know my thought has in your thought begot Sadness, its child, and that you know it not. II. If this were Love, if all this bitter pain Were but the birth-pang of Love born again, If through the doubts and dreams resolved, smiled The prophetic promise of the holy child, What should I gain? The Love whose dream-lips smiled Could never be my own and only child, But to Love's birth would come, with the last pain, Renunciation, also born again. III. If this were Love why should I turn away? Am I not, too, made of the common clay? Is life so fair, am I so fortunate, I can refuse the capricious gift of Fate, The sudden glory, the unhoped-for flowers, The transfiguration of my earthly hours? 459 Come, Love! the house is garnished and is swept, Washed clean with all the tears that I have wept, Washed from the stain of my unworthy fears, Hung with the splendid spoils of wasted years, Lighted with lamps of hope, and curtained fast Against the gathered darkness of the past. I draw the bolts! I throw the portals wide, The darkness rushes shivering to my side, Love is not here--the darkness creeps about My house wherein the lamps of hope die out. Ah Love! it was not then your hand that came Beating my door? your voice that called my name? IV. 'It is not Love, it is not Love,' I said, And bowed in fearful hope my trembling head. 'It is not Love, for Love could never rise Out of the rock-hewn grave wherein he lies.' But as I spake, the heavenly form drew near Where close I clasped a hope grown keen as fear, Upon my head His very hand He laid And whispered, 'It is I, be not afraid!' V. And this is Love, no rose-crowned laughing guest By whom my passionate heart should be caressed, But one re-risen from the grave; austere, Cold as the grave, and infinitely dear, To follow whom I lay the whole world down, Take up the cross, bind on the thorny crown; And, following whom, my bleeding pilgrim feet Find the rough pathway sure and very sweet. The august environment of mighty wings Shuts out the snare of vain imaginings, For by my side, crowned with Love's death-white rose, The Angel of Renunciation goes. ~ Edith Nesbit,

1050:The Tale Of Steven ’TIS the tale of Simon Steven, braceman at the Odd-and-Even, At The Nations, in the gully. They were sinking in the rock. Sim was small and wiry rather, and a husband and a father, But he’s gone and left his family as a consequence of shock. Shock was Sim’s disease, we reckoned, for it took him in a second, And no doctor born could dognose what the symptoms were, I think, But we’re missin’ Sim completely—he could play the whistle sweetly, And was always very sociable and brotherly in drink. That was how poor Steven drifted into trouble—being gifted, He was hungry for an audience, and it led him up to Coy’s; But his wife made no deductions for the artist, and the ructions What she raised around that public were just fireworks for the boys. When she caught him on the liquor, being stronger like and quicker, She would hammer him in company, which, I take it, wasn’t right; Yet he bore it like a martyr while his wife played up the tartar, And she gave her straight opinion of each mother’s son in sight. Sim had marks of her corrections scattered round in all directions On his features and his figure, but he didn’t seem to care— For he thought his missus clearly did her duty by him merely When she pommelled him for boosing with a poker or a chair. ’Twas a Wednesday, boss, I’m thinking. There’d been much promiscuous drinking Up the gully, where some city chaps were christening Spooner’s mill; Sim was dayshift at The Nations, and he missed the grand orations, But, with help from men and brothers, he contrived to get his fill. They’d been shooting holes, an’ Steven, when he left the Odd-and-Even, Carried with him in his pocket here a plug of dynamite. Sim had put it there to soften—which is done by miners often, But it’s not the sort of practice that I’d recommend as right. Well, the braceman didn’t worry after tea that day, nor hurry To the bosom of his family, but took drink for drink with Mack; When they aimed him homewards kindly, Steven went the distance blindly, And his feet performed the lockstitch all the way along the track. 159 Mrs. Sim was primed and ready, and she met him with a neddy, And she passed no vain remarks, but aimed an awful blow at him; Came a sound of roaring thunder—Mrs. Sim was blown from under, And the universe was ruined, and the sun went out for Sim. After search in all directions, we found very few selections Of the widow’s dear departed, but we did the best we could. For, you see, by passion goaded, and not knowing Sim was loaded, She’d concussed that plug of dynamite, and blown him up for good. There was room for no reproaches ’bout the hearse and mourning coaches; Though we only buried samples, yet we ’lowed for style and tone— Man’s-size coffin, grave, and preacher for a broken fellow creature, And we wrote ‘In Death Divided’ at the bottom of the stone. ~ Edward George Dyson,

1051:Doc was collecting marine animals in the Great Tide Pool on the tip of the Peninsula. It is a fabulous place: when the tide is in, a wave-churned basin, creamy with foam, whipped by the combers that roll in from the whistling buoy on the reef. But when the tide goes out the little water world becomes quiet and lovely. The sea is very clear and the bottom becomes fantastic with hurrying, fighting, feeding, breeding animals. Crabs rush from frond to frond of the waving algae. Starfish squat over mussels and limpets, attach their million little suckers and then slowly lift with incredible power until the prey is broken from the rock. And then the starfish stomach comes out and envelops its food. Orange and speckled and fluted nudibranchs slide gracefully over the rocks, their skirts waving like the dresses of Spanish dancers. And black eels poke their heads out of crevices and wait for prey. The snapping shrimps with their trigger claws pop loudly. The lovely, colored world is glassed over. Hermit crabs like frantic children scamper on the bottom sand. And now one, finding an empty snail shell he likes better than his own, creeps out, exposing his soft body to the enemy for a moment, and then pops into the new shell. A wave breaks over the barrier, and churns the glassy water for a moment and mixes bubbles into the pool, and then it clears and is tranquil and lovely and murderous again. Here a crab tears a leg from his brother. The anemones expand like soft and brilliant flowers, inviting any tired and perplexed animal to lie for a moment in their arms, and when some small crab or little tide-pool Johnnie accepts the green and purple invitation, the petals whip in, the stinging cells shoot tiny narcotic needles into the prey and it grows weak and perhaps sleepy while the searing caustic digestive acids melt its body down. Then the creeping murderer, the octopus, steals out, slowly, softly, moving like a gray mist, pretending now to be a bit of weed, now a rock, now a lump of decaying meat while its evil goat eyes watch coldly. It oozes and flows toward a feeding crab, and as it comes close its yellow eyes burn and its body turns rosy with the pulsing color of anticipation and rage. Then suddenly it runs lightly on the tips of its arms, as ferociously as a charging cat. It leaps savagely on the crab, there is a puff of black fluid, and the struggling mass is obscured in the sepia cloud while the octopus murders the crab. On the exposed rocks out of water, the barnacles bubble behind their closed doors and the limpets dry out. And down to the rocks come the black flies to eat anything they can find. The sharp smell of iodine from the algae, and the lime smell of calcareous bodies and the smell of powerful protean, smell of sperm and ova fill the air. On the exposed rocks the starfish emit semen and eggs from between their rays. The smells of life and richness, of death and digestion, of decay and birth, burden the air. And salt spray blows in from the barrier where the ocean waits for its rising-tide strength to permit it back into the Great Tide Pool again. And on the reef the whistling buoy bellows like a sad and patient bull. ~ John Steinbeck,

1052:All right, now that the weirdness between us has caused actual physical damage, I think it’s time we talked it out, don’t you?” He gave a half smile and then turned back to the path. “We don’t need to be weird,” he said. “These past few days, since the thing with Elodie, I’ve been thinking.” He took a deep breath, and I knew that this was one of those rare occasions when Cal was about to say a lot of words at once. “I like you, Sophie. A lot. For a while, I thought it might be more than that. But you love Cross.” He said it matter-of-factly, but I still caught the way his ears reddened. “I know I’ve said some pretty awful stuff about him, but…I was wrong. He’s a good guy. So, I guess what I’m saying is that as the guy who’s betrothed to you, I wish we could be more than friends.” He stopped, turning around to face me. “But as your friend, I want you to be happy. And if Cross is who you want, then I’m not gonna stand in the way of that.” “I’m the worst fiancé ever, aren’t I?” Cal lifted one shoulder. “Nah. This one warlock I knew, his betrothed set him on fire.” Laughing so I wouldn’t cry, I tentatively lifted my arms to hug him. He folded me against his chest, and there was no awkwardness between us, and I knew the warmth in the pit of my stomach was love. Just a different kind. Sniffling, I pulled back and rubbed at my nose. “Okay, now that the hard part’s over, let’s go tackle the Underworld.” “Got room for two more?” Startled, I turned to see Jenna and Archer standing on the path, Jenna’s hand clutching Archer’s sleeve as she tried to stay on her feet. “What?” was all I could say. Archer took a few careful steps forward. “Hey, this has been a group effort so far. No reason to stop now.” “You guys can’t go into the Underworld with me,” I told them. “You heard Dad, I’m the only one with-“ “With powers strong enough. Yeah, we got that,” Jenna said. “But how are you supposed to carry a whole bunch of demonglass out of that place? It’ll burn you. And hey, maybe your powers will be strong enough to get all of us in, too.” She gestured to herself and the boys. “Plus it’s not like we don’t have powers of our own.” I knew I should tell them to go back. But having the three of them there made me feel a whole lot better and whole lot less terrified. So in the end, I gave an exaggerated sign and said, “Okay, fine. But just so you know, following me into hell means you’re all definitely the sidekicks.” “Darn, I was hoping to be the rakishly charming love interest,” Archer said, taking my hand. “Cal, any role you want?” I asked him, and he looked ruefully at the craggy rock looming over us. As he did, there was the grinding sound of stone against stone. We all stared at the opening that appeared. “I’m just hoping to be the Not Dead Guy,” Cal muttered. We faced the entrance. “Between the four of us, we fought ghouls, survived attacks by demons and L’Occhio di Dio, and practically raised the dead,” I said. “We can do this.” “See, inspiring speeches like that are why you get to be the leader,” Archer said, and he squeezed my hand. And then, moving almost as one, we stepped into the rock. ~ Rachel Hawkins,

1053:The family were wild," she said suddenly. "They tried to marry me off. And then when I'd begun to feel that after all life was scarcely worth living I found something"—her eyes went skyward exultantly—"I found something!" Carlyle waited and her words came with a rush. “Courage—just that; courage as a rule of life, and something to cling to always. I began to build up this enormous faith in myself. I began to see that in all my idols in the past some manifestation of courage had unconsciously been the thing that attracted me. I began separating courage from the other things of life. All sorts of courage—the beaten, bloody prize-fighter coming up for more—I used to make men take me to prize-fights; the déclassé woman sailing through a nest of cats and looking at them as if they were mud under her feet; the liking what you like always; the utter disregard for other people's opinions—just to live as I liked always and to die in my own way—Did you bring up the cigarettes?" He handed one over and held a match for her silently. "Still," Ardita continued, "the men kept gathering—old men and young men, my mental and physical inferiors, most of them, but all intensely desiring to have me—to own this rather magnificent proud tradition I'd built up round me. Do you see?" "Sort of. You never were beaten and you never apologized." "Never!" She sprang to the edge, poised or a moment like a crucified figure against the sky; then describing a dark parabola plunked without a slash between two silver ripples twenty feet below. Her voice floated up to him again. "And courage to me meant ploughing through that dull gray mist that comes down on life—not only over-riding people and circumstances but over-riding the bleakness of living. A sort of insistence on the value of life and the worth of transient things." She was climbing up now, and at her last words her head, with the damp yellow hair slicked symmetrically back, appeared on his level. "All very well," objected Carlyle. "You can call it courage, but your courage is really built, after all, on a pride of birth. You were bred to that defiant attitude. On my gray days even courage is one of the things that's gray and lifeless." She was sitting near the edge, hugging her knees and gazing abstractedly at the white moon; he was farther back, crammed like a grotesque god into a niche in the rock. "I don't want to sound like Pollyanna," she began, "but you haven't grasped me yet. My courage is faith—faith in the eternal resilience of me—that joy'll come back, and hope and spontaneity. And I feel that till it does I've got to keep my lips shut and my chin high, and my eyes wide—not necessarily any silly smiling. Oh, I've been through hell without a whine quite often—and the female hell is deadlier than the male." "But supposing," suggested Carlyle, "that before joy and hope and all that came back the curtain was drawn on you for good?" Ardita rose, and going to the wall climbed with some difficulty to the next ledge, another ten or fifteen feet above. "Why," she called back, "then I'd have won! ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

1054:I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept. Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions? If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds' tents. I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh's chariots. Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold. We will make thee borders of gold with studs of silver. While the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof. A bundle of myrrh is my wellbeloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir. ... I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me. I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please. The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice. My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely. Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes. My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether. -- Anon. (Hebrew, 6th century B.C.) ~ Anonymous, The Song of Songs ,

1055:The Last Song Of Sappho Thou tranquil night, and thou, O gentle ray Of the declining moon; and thou, that o'er The rock appearest, 'mid the silent grove, The messenger of day; how dear ye were, And how delightful to these eyes, while yet Unknown the furies, and grim Fate! But now, No gentle sight can soothe this wounded soul. Then, only, can forgotten joy revive, When through the air, and o'er the trembling fields The raging south wind whirls its clouds of dust; And when the car, the pondrous car of Jove, Omnipotent, high-thundering o'er our heads, A pathway cleaves athwart the dusky sky. Then would I love with storm-charged clouds to fly Along the cliffs, along the valleys deep, The headlong flight of frightened flocks to watch, Or hear, upon some swollen river's shore The angry billows' loud, triumphant roar. How beautiful thou art, O heaven divine, And thou, O dewy earth! Alas no part Of all this beauty infinite, the gods And cruel fate to wretched Sappho gave! To thy proud realms, O Nature, I, a poor, Unwelcome guest, rejected lover, come; To all thy varied forms of loveliness, My heart and eyes, a suppliant, lift in vain. The sun-lit shore hath smiles no more for me, Nor radiant morning light at heaven's gate; The birds no longer greet me with their songs, Nor whispering trees with gracious messages; And where, beneath the bending willows' shade, The limpid stream its bosom pure displays, As I, with trembling and uncertain foot, Oppressed with grief, upon its margin pause, The dimpled waves recoil, as in disdain, And urge their flight along the flowery plain. What fearful crime, what hideous excess 92 Have so defiled me, e'en before my birth, That heaven and fortune frown upon me thus? Wherein have I offended, as a child, When we of evil deeds are ignorant, That thus disfigured, of the bloom of youth Bereft, my little thread of life has from The spindle of the unrelenting Fate Been drawn? Alas, incautious are thy words! Mysterious counsels all events control, And all, except our grief, is mystery. Deserted children, we were born to weep; But why, is known to those above, alone. O vain the cares, the hopes of earlier years! To idle shows Jove gives eternal sway O'er human hearts. Unless in shining robes arrayed, All manly deeds in arms, or art, or song, Appeal in vain unto the vulgar throng. I die! This wretched veil to earth I cast, And for my naked soul a refuge seek Below, and for the cruel faults atone Of gods, the blind dispensers of events. And thou, to whom I have been bound so long, By hopeless love, and lasting faith, and by The frenzy vain of unappeased desire, Live, live, and if thou canst, be happy here! My cup o'erflows with bitterness, and Jove Has from his vase no drop of sweetness shed, For all my childhood's hopes and dreams have fled. The happiest day the soonest fades away; And then succeed disease, old age, the shade Of icy death. Behold, alas! Of all My longed-for laurels, my illusions dear, The end,--the gulf of hell! My spirit proud Must to the realm of Proserpine descend, The Stygian shore, the night that knows no end. ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

1056:...What I have denied and what my reason compels me to deny, is the existence of a Being throned above us as a god, directing our mundane affairs in detail, regarding us as individuals, punishing us, rewarding us as human judges might. When the churches learn to take this rational view of things, when they become true schools of ethics and stop teaching fables, they will be more effective than they are to-day... If they would turn all that ability to teaching this one thing – the fact that honesty is best, that selfishness and lies of any sort must surely fail to produce happiness – they would accomplish actual things. Religious faiths and creeds have greatly hampered our development. They have absorbed and wasted some fine intellects. That creeds are getting to be less and less important to the average mind with every passing year is a good sign, I think, although I do not wish to talk about what is commonly called theology. The criticisms which have been hurled at me have not worried me. A man cannot control his beliefs. If he is honest in his frank expression of them, that is all that can in justice be required of him. Professor Thomson and a thousand others do not in the least agree with me. His criticism of me, as I read it, charged that because I doubted the soul’s immortality, or ‘personality,’ as he called it, my mind must be abnormal, ‘pathological,’ in other, words, diseased... I try to say exactly what I honestly believe to be the truth, and more than that no man can do. I honestly believe that creedists have built up a mighty structure of inaccuracy, based, curiously, on those fundamental truths which I, with every honest man, must not alone admit but earnestly acclaim. I have been working on the same lines for many years. I have tried to go as far as possible toward the bottom of each subject I have studied. I have not reached my conclusions through study of traditions; I have reached them through the study of hard fact. I cannot see that unproved theories or sentiment should be permitted to have influence in the building of conviction upon matters so important. Science proves its theories or it rejects them. I have never seen the slightest scientific proof of the religious theories of heaven and hell, of future life for individuals, or of a personal God. I earnestly believe that I am right; I cannot help believing as I do... I cannot accept as final any theory which is not provable. The theories of the theologians cannot be proved. Proof, proof! That is what I always have been after; that is what my mind requires before it can accept a theory as fact. Some things are provable, some things disprovable, some things are doubtful. All the problems which perplex us, now, will, soon or late, be solved, and solved beyond a question through scientific investigation. The thing which most impresses me about theology is that it does not seem to be investigating. It seems to be asserting, merely, without actual study. ...Moral teaching is the thing we need most in this world, and many of these men could be great moral teachers if they would but give their whole time to it, and to scientific search for the rock-bottom truth, instead of wasting it upon expounding theories of theology which are not in the first place firmly based. What we need is search for fundamentals, not reiteration of traditions born in days when men knew even less than we do now. [Columbian Magazine interview] ~ Thomas A Edison,

1057:I like rainbows. We came back down to the meadow near the steaming terrace and sat in the river, just where one of the bigger hot streams poured into the cold water of the Ferris Fork. It is illegal – not to say suicidal – to bathe in any of the thermal features of the park. But when those features empty into the river, at what is called a hot pot, swimming and soaking are perfectly acceptable. So we were soaking off our long walk, talking about our favorite waterfalls, and discussing rainbows when it occurred to us that the moon was full. There wasn’t a hint of foul weather. And if you had a clear sky and a waterfall facing in just the right direction… Over the course of a couple of days we hked back down the canyon to the Boundary Creek Trail and followed it to Dunanda Falls, which is only about eight miles from the ranger station at the entrance to the park. Dunanda is a 150-foot-high plunge facing generally south, so that in the afternoons reliable rainbows dance over the rocks at its base. It is the archetype of all western waterfalls. Dunenda is an Indian name; in Shoshone it means “straight down,” which is a pretty good description of the plunge. ... …We had to walk three miles back toward the ranger station and our assigned campsite. We planned to set up our tents, eat, hang our food, and walk back to Dunanda Falls in the dark, using headlamps. We could be there by ten or eleven. At that time the full moon would clear the east ridge of the downriver canyon and would be shining directly on the fall. Walking at night is never a happy proposition, and this particular evening stroll involved five stream crossings, mostly on old logs, and took a lot longer than we’d anticipated. Still, we beat the moon to the fall. Most of us took up residence in one or another of the hot pots. Presently the moon, like a floodlight, rose over the canyon rim. The falling water took on a silver tinge, and the rock wall, which had looked gold under the sun, was now a slick black so the contrast of water and rock was incomparably stark. The pools below the lip of the fall were glowing, as from within, with a pale blue light. And then it started at the base of the fall: just a diagonal line in the spray that ran from the lower east to the upper west side of the wall. “It’s going to happen,” I told Kara, who was sitting beside me in one of the hot pots. Where falling water hit the rock at the base of the fall and exploded upward in vapor, the light was very bright. It concentrated itself in a shining ball. The diagonal line was above and slowly began to bend until, in the fullness of time (ten minutes, maybe), it formed a perfectly symmetrical bow, shining silver blue under the moon. The color was vaguely electrical. Kara said she could see colors in the moonbow, and when I looked very hard, I thought I could make out a faint line of reddish orange above, and some deep violet at the bottom. Both colors were very pale, flickering, like bad florescent light. In any case, it was exhilarating, the experience of a lifetime: an entirely perfect moonbow, silver and iridescent, all shining and spectral there at the base of Dunanda Falls. The hot pot itself was a luxury, and I considered myself a pretty swell fellow, doing all this for the sanity of city dwellers, who need such things more than anyone else. I even thought of naming the moonbow: Cahill’s Luminescence. Something like that. Otherwise, someone else might take credit for it. ~ Tim Cahill,

1058:And all this time I was keeping my eyes open, or trying to, only they kept closing, because I wanted to go on watching the stars, where the most extraordinary things were happening. A bright satellite, a man-made star, very slowly and somehow carefully crossed the sky in a great arc, from one side to the other, a close arc, one knew it was not far away, a friendly satellite slowly going about its business round and round the globe. And then, much much farther away, stars were quietly shooting and tumbling and disappearing, silently falling and being extinguished, lost utterly silent falling stars, falling from nowhere to nowhere into an unimaginable extinction. How many of them there were, as if the heavens were crumbling at last and being dismantled. And I wanted to show all these things to my father. Later I knew that I had been asleep and I opened my eyes with wonder and the sky had utterly changed again and was no longer dark but bright, golden, gold-dust golden, as if curtain after curtain had been removed behind the stars I had seen before, and now I was looking into the vast interior of the universe, as if the universe were quietly turning itself inside out. Stars behind stars and stars behind stars behind stars until there was nothing between them, nothing beyond them, but dusty dim gold of stars and no space and no light but stars. The moon was gone. The water lapped higher, nearer, touching the rock so lightly it was audible only as a kind of vibration. The sea had fallen dark, in submission to the stars. And the stars seemed to move as if one could see the rotation of the heavens as a kind of vast crepitation, only now there were no more events, no shooting stars, no falling stars, which human senses could grasp or even conceive of. All was movement, all was change, and somehow this was visible and yet unimaginable. And I was no longer I but something pinned down as an atom, an atom of an atom, a necessary captive spectator, a tiny mirror into which it was all indifferently beamed, as it motionlessly seethed and boiled, gold behind gold behind gold. Later still I awoke and it had all gone; and for a few moments I thought that I had seen all those stars only in a dream. There was a weird shocking sudden quiet, as at the cessation of a great symphony or of some immense prolonged indescribable din. Had the stars then been audible as well as visible and had I indeed heard the music of the spheres? The early dawn light hung over the rocks and over the sea, with an awful intent gripping silence, as if it had seized these faintly visible shapes and were very slowly drawing tgem out of a darkness in which they wanted to remain. Even the water was now totally silent, not a tap, not a vibration. The sky was a faintly lucid grey and the sea was a lightless grey, and the rocks were a dark fuzzy greyish brown. The sense of loneliness was far more intense than it had been under the stars. Then I had felt no fear. Now I felt fear. I discovered that I was feeling very stiff and rather cold. The rock beneath me was very hard and I felt bruised and aching. I was surprised to find my rugs and cushions were wet with dew. I got up stiffly and shook them. I looked around me. Mountainous piled-up rocks hid the house. And I saw myself as a dark figure in the midst of this empty awfully silent dawn, where light was scarcely yet light, and I was afraid of myself and quickly lay down again and settled my rug and closed my eyes, lying there stiffly and not imagining that I would sleep again. ~ Iris Murdoch,

1059:Lights Along The Mile THE NIGHT descends in glory, and adown the purple west The young moon, like a crescent skiff, upon some fairy quest, Has dropped below the opal lights that linger low and far To havens that are beaconed by the Pilot’s evening star; And slowly, softly, from above the darkness is unfurled A wondrous curtain loosened on the windows of the world. Then suddenly, like magic, where smoke-stacks fumed the while, Ten thousand lights flash out aflame along the Golden Mile. And thro’ the dusky gauze that falls upon the looming mines Dim spires and spars of poppet-heads in faintly broken lines Grow clearer to the vision, till the shadow picture seems The argosies from half the world i’ the misty Port o’ Dreams; And lo! where golden Day had reigned in radiant robes of blue, A god of joy and hope, who thrilled the sons of toil and rue, Now comes the Queen of Starland forth to scatter with a smile Her diamonds that flash and blaze along the Golden Mile. And all the night a thousand stamps in ceaseless rhythmic roar Are beating out the tragic gold from endless streams of ore, These harnessed giants of the will that so are trained and taught To answer to the sentient touch and catch the thrill of thought, From nerve to nerve that quivers thro’ the animated steel, And makes it live and makes it move and strength emotions feel, Till in their voices music comes insistent all the while Reverberating massive chants along the Golden Mile. And down below, a thousand feet, a thousand miners tear The golden ore, the glistening ore that holds such joy and care; Ah! down below, another world, with hopes, desires, and dreams,— Such playthings as the tyrant Fate in fickle will beseems. Ah! down below, where panting drills are eating thro’ the rock, Where life and death are lurking in the fire’s convulsive shock,— Where many a sturdy hero delves within the lode’s long aisle To win him love, the gold of love, along the Golden Mile. Now speeding westward flies the train into the wondrous night, The engine pulsing as a man who strives with strenuous might; Its great heart seems to throb and throb, its breath comes fierce and warm To vitalize the force that sleeps along its sinuous form; So dreaming back from Somerville, a sad thought fills the air, And starts a poignant fancy o’er the wondrous city where From Lamington to Ivanhoe there’s many a tear and smile Beneath the myriad lights that gleam along the Golden Mile. How bright they glitter down the streets o’er camp, and mill, and mine, The reflex of that mystic stream that flows from dark to shine— The brother of that vital spark that wakes from mystery, And grows to life and will and power and human entity; The confluent currents of the mind that holds us all in fief, And gives to some the thrill of joy, to some the pang of grief— Ah! many noble deeds are done and many that are vile Where love is lost and love is won, along the Golden Mile. So midnight chimes across the gloom, as we are speeding west, And sirens screech the respite sweet that ends in sleep and rest; The cool breeze meets the tired brow and whispers gentler tales That seem to murmur with the metre sung by wheels and rails. The night has grown in glory and from out the purple dome Ten thousand stars are gleaming to show the wanderer home; While fainter fades the glimmer, like a city on an isle, Till swallowed in the darkness are the lights along the Mile. ~ Alfred Thomas Chandler,

1060:Are you going to put your feet in?” he asked. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It would be foolish. Besides that, I’m already breaking too many rules by sitting here alone with you. Though if anyone finds me, I shall claim that I was abducted by a pirate.” “And then you would be forced to wed me to save your reputation,” he suggested. “Which is not so very dreadful.” “I disagree,” she countered. “You, Lord Ashton, are a very wicked man with no sense of propriety.” But her eyes revealed her amusement. “If I worried about what others think, I would not be sitting with a beautiful woman on a sunny day, now, would I?” He leaned back with his arms crooked behind his head. He had the feeling that Lady Rose had a rebellious side to her, buried beneath her years of good manners. She shook her head and sighed. Then she lifted up one foot and began unbuttoning her shoe. “I must be mad.” A rebel indeed. He grinned and helped her with the other shoe, until she was clad in stockings. “No more than I. But it was an invigorating swim.” “You ought to put your shirt on,” she reminded him. “Someone will see you and think you are intent on seducing me.” “You did accuse me of being a pirate, a chara.” He kept his voice light, but leaned a little closer. “We aren’t known for being gentlemen.” In response, Rose dipped her hand into the water and splashed it at his chest. “Then I’ll be forced to defend myself from you.” The frigid water spilled down his bare chest, dampening his waistband. Iain rested his arms on either side of her, trapping her against the rock. “Now that wasn’t fair, Lady Rose.” Her smile faded instantly. “I was teasing, Lord Ashton.” “Were you?” He was feeling rather bold at the moment. He drank in the sight of her—those wide brown eyes, the delicate nose and sweet lips. Her hair was hidden beneath the bonnet, and he took it off, setting it aside. “You don’t need this.” “My face will be covered in freckles if I don’t wear it.” But she didn’t appear to mind his interference. And instead of shoving him aside, she was watching him with interest. Sunlight gleamed across her brown hair, revealing the hints of auburn. He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. Her eyes widened, but she remained fixed upon his face. “Did Burkham ever kiss you?” “Of course.” Her voice held a hint of panic, but she didn’t pull away. He was caught up in the beauty of her. Her breath warmed his mouth, and for a moment, he remained near to her. She was forbidden to him, and he would not intrude where he wasn’t wanted. And yet, every part of him was entranced by her. “Tell me to leave you alone,” he said in a low voice. But she remained silent. Her hand moved up to touch the roughness of his face, and it only deepened the intimacy. She trailed her fingers upon his jaw, and the simple touch undid him. Iain bent and brushed his mouth against hers. It was the barest hint of a kiss, the promise of more if she wanted it. He pulled back immediately, searching her expression. He never wanted her to feel threatened by him. “Tell me if you’re wanting me to stop.” He leaned in again, nipping at her lips a second time. He waited for a long moment, giving her more than enough time to refuse. She could tell him no at any moment, and he would pull back. Instead, her eyes were wild, as if she didn’t know what to say or do. She tasted of summer, a softness and warmth like sunlight. Her eyes were caught up with his, her expression emboldened by a taste of the forbidden. Iain bent and claimed her mouth deeply, framing her face with both hands. He didn’t stop kissing her, learning the shape of her mouth and drawing her even closer. ~ Michelle Willingham,

1061:Bohémiens En Voyage (Gypsies On The Road) La tribu prophétique aux prunelles ardentes Hier s'est mise en route, emportant ses petits Sur son dos, ou livrant à leurs fiers appétits Le trésor toujours prêt des mamelles pendantes. Les hommes vont à pied sous leurs armes luisantes Le long des chariots où les leurs sont blottis, Promenant sur le ciel des yeux appesantis Par le morne regret des chimères absentes. Du fond de son réduit sablonneux, le grillon, Les regardant passer, redouble sa chanson; Cybèle, qui les aime, augmente ses verdures, Fait couler le rocher et fleurir le désert Devant ces voyageurs, pour lesquels est ouvert L'empire familier des ténèbres futures. Gypsies Traveling The prophetical tribe, that ardent eyed people, Set out last night, carrying their children On their backs, or yielding to those fierce appetites The ever ready treasure of pendulous breasts. The men travel on foot with their gleaming weapons Alongside the wagons where their kin are huddled, Surveying the heavens with eyes rendered heavy By a mournful regret for vanished illusions. The cricket from the depths of his sandy retreat Watches them as they pass, and louder grows his song; Cybele, who loves them, increases her verdure, Makes the desert blossom, water spurt from the rock Before these travelers for whom is opened wide The familiar domain of the future's darkness. 127 — Translated by William Aggeler Gipsies on the Road The tribe of seers, last night, began its match With burning eyes, and shouldering its young To whose ferocious appetites it swung The wealth of hanging breasts that nought can parch. The men, their weapons glinting in the rays, Walk by the convoy where their folks are carted, Sweeping the far-off skylines with a gaze Regretful of Chimeras long-departed. Out of his hole the cricket sees them pass And sings the louder. Greener grows the grass Because Cybele loves them, and has made The barren rock to gush, the sands to flower, To greet these travellers, before whose power Familiar futures open realms of shade. — Translated by Roy Campbell The Gypsies They set out yesterday, the tribe of ragged seers With burning eyes — bearing their little ones in nests Upon their backs, or giving them, to stop their tears, The teats of inexhaustible and swarthy breasts. The men walk shouldering their rifles silently Beside the hooded wagons with bright tatters hung, And peer into the sky, as if they hoped to see Some old mirage that beckoned them when they were young. No matter where they journey through the meager land, The cricket will sing louder from his lair of sand, And Cybele, who loves them, will smile where they advance: The desert will be fruitful, the arid rock will flow 128 Before the footsteps of these wayfarers, who go Eternally into the lightless realm of chance. — Translated by George Dillon Travelling Bohemians The prophetic tribe of the ardent eyes Yesterday they took the road, holding their babies On their backs, delivering to fierce appetites The always ready treasure of pendulous breasts. The men stick their feet out, waving their guns Alongside the caravan where they tremble together, Scanning the sky their eyes are weighted down In mourning for absent chimeras. At the bottom of his sandy retreat, a cricket Watched passing, redoubles his song, Cybele, who loves, adds more flower, Makes fountains out of rock and blossoms from desert Opening up before these travelers in a yawn— A familiar empire, the inscrutable future. Translated by William A. Sigler ~ Charles Baudelaire,

1062:Skyscraper By day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and has a soul. Prairie and valley, streets of the city, pour people into it and they mingle among its twenty floors and are poured out again back to the streets, prairies and valleys. It is the men and women, boys and girls so poured in and out all day that give the building a soul of dreams and thoughts and memories. (Dumped in the sea or fixed in a desert, who would care for the building or speak its name or ask a policeman the way to it?) Elevators slide on their cables and tubes catch letters and parcels and iron pipes carry gas and water in and sewage out. Wires climb with secrets, carry light and carry words, and tell terrors and profits and loves--curses of men grappling plans of business and questions of women in plots of love. Hour by hour the caissons reach down to the rock of the earth and hold the building to a turning planet. Hour by hour the girders play as ribs and reach out and hold together the stone walls and floors. Hour by hour the hand of the mason and the stuff of the mortar clinch the pieces and parts to the shape an architect voted. Hour by hour the sun and the rain, the air and the rust, and the press of time running into centuries, play on the building inside and out and use it. Men who sunk the pilings and mixed the mortar are laid in graves where the wind whistles a wild song without words And so are men who strung the wires and fixed the pipes and tubes and those who saw it rise floor by floor. Souls of them all are here, even the hod carrier begging 379 at back doors hundreds of miles away and the bricklayer who went to state's prison for shooting another man while drunk. (One man fell from a girder and broke his neck at the end of a straight plunge--he is here--his soul has gone into the stones of the building.) On the office doors from tier to tier--hundreds of names and each name standing for a face written across with a dead child, a passionate lover, a driving ambition for a million dollar business or a lobster's ease of life. Behind the signs on the doors they work and the walls tell nothing from room to room. Ten-dollar-a-week stenographers take letters from corporation officers, lawyers, efficiency engineers, and tons of letters go bundled from the building to all ends of the earth. Smiles and tears of each office girl go into the soul of the building just the same as the master-men who rule the building. Hands of clocks turn to noon hours and each floor empties its men and women who go away and eat and come back to work. Toward the end of the afternoon all work slackens and all jobs go slower as the people feel day closing on them. One by one the floors are emptied. . . The uniformed elevator men are gone. Pails clang. . . Scrubbers work, talking in foreign tongues. Broom and water and mop clean from the floors human dust and spit, and machine grime of the day. Spelled in electric fire on the roof are words telling miles of houses and people where to buy a thing for money. The sign speaks till midnight. Darkness on the hallways. Voices echo. Silence holds. . . Watchmen walk slow from floor to floor and try the doors. Revolvers bulge from their hip pockets. . . Steel safes stand in corners. Money 380 is stacked in them. A young watchman leans at a window and sees the lights of barges butting their way across a harbor, nets of red and white lanterns in a railroad yard, and a span of glooms splashed with lines of white and blurs of crosses and clusters over the sleeping city. By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul. ~ Carl Sandburg,

1063:The Woodcutter's Hut Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods, Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes, The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow. In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, motionless air, The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and bare The woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and cracks With the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of his axe. Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird-The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch--is heard; Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed, And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the cedar-seed. Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge, Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's edge, With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word, And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord. Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there, Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling bear. And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and groan, And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of stone, As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames upcaught, Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of thought. Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey north-east, He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden beast, 237 Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown guttering fire, Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm to tire. Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines below, Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and go In roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull, and lift, All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing drift. But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered dreams, And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the gushing of streams; Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted floor, And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's door; The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on, The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is gone. He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields, To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the summer fields. He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined feet, The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete. And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and breeds, Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing forest-weeds; The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either hand, The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard stand. So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and snow, You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years ago; And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone, Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and 238 gone, The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's command, The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand. ~ Archibald Lampman,

1064:Audley Court Audley Court ‘The Bull, the Fleece are cramm’d, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court.’ I spoke, while Audley feast Humm’d like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat, And breathing of the sea. ‘With all my heart,’ Said Francis. Then we shoulder’d thro’ the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp’d The flat red granite; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach’d The griffin-guarded gates, and pass’d thro’ all The pillar’d dusk of sounding sycamores, And cross’d the garden to the gardener’s lodge, With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father’s vats, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat And talk’d old matters over; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall: 23 Then touch’d upon the game, how scarce it was This season; glancing thence, discuss’d the farm, The four-field system, and the price of grain; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh’d aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang– ‘Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell’d up into some bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life. ‘Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch’d like a crow upon a three-legg’d stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk? but let me live my life. ‘Who’d serve the state? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all: but let me live my life. ‘Oh! who would love? I woo’d a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn’d from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea; but let me live my life.’ He sang his song, and I replied with mine: I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock’d down to me, when old Sir Robert’s pride, His books–the more the pity, so I said– Came to the hammer here in March–and this– I set the words, and added names I knew. ‘Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me: Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister’s arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. ‘Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia’s arm; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. 24 ‘Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn. ‘I go, but I return: I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.’ So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer’s son, who lived across the bay, My friend; and I, that having wherewithal, And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and everywhere, Did what I would; but ere the night we rose And saunter’d home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rain’d about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach’d The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, The town was hush’d beneath us: lower down The bay was oily calm; the harbour-buoy, Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm, With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1065:Ode To Borrowdale IN CUMBERLAND. Hail , Derwent's beauteous pride! Whose charms rough rocks in threatening grandeur guard, Whose entrance seems to mortals barred, But to the Genius of the storm thrown wide. He on thy rock's dread height, Reclined beneath his canopy of clouds, His form in darkness shrouds, And frowns as fixt to keep thy beauties from the sight. But rocks and storms are vain: Midst mountains rough and rude Man's daring feet intrude, Till, lo! upon the ravished eye Burst thy clear stream, thy smiling sky, Thy wooded valley, and thy matchless plain. Bright vale! the Muse's choicest theme, My morning thought, my midnight dream; Still memory paints thee, smiling scene, Still views the robe of purest green, Refreshed by beauty-shedding rains, Which wraps thy flower-enamelled plains; Still marks thy mountains' fronts sublime, Force graces from the hand of time; Still I thy rugged rocks recall, Which seem as nodding to their fall, Whose wonders fixed my aching sight, Till terror yielded to delight, And my surprises, pleasures, fears, Were told by slow delicious tears. But suddenly the smiling day That cheered the valley, flies away; The wooded rocks, the rapid stream, No longer boast the noon-tide beam. 26 But storms athwart the mountains sail, And darkly brood o'er Borrowdale. The frightened swain his cottage seeks, Ere the thick cloud in terror speaks:-And see, pale lightning flashes round! While as the thunder's awful sound On Echo's pinion widely flies, Yon cataract's roar unheeded dies;.... And thee, Sublimity! I hail, Throned on the gloom of Borrowdale. But soon the thunder dies away, The flash withdraws its fearful ray; Again upon the silver stream Waves in bright wreaths the noon-tide beam. O scene sequestered, varied, wild, Scene formed to soothe Affliction's child, How blest were I to watch each charm That decks thy vale in storm or calm! To see Aurora's hand unbind The mists by night's chill power confined; Upon the mountain's dusky brow Then mark their colours as they flow, Gliding the colder West to seek, As from the East day's splendours break. Now the green plain enchants the sight, Adorned with spots of yellow light; While, by its magic influence, shade With contrast seems each charm to aid, And clothes the woods in deeper dyes, To suit the azure-vested skies. While, lo! the lofty rocks above, Where proudly towers the bird of Jove; See from the view yon radiant cloud His broad and sable pinions shroud, Till, as he onward wings his flight, He vanishes in floods of light; 27 Where feathered clouds on æther sail, And glittering hang o'er Borrowdale..... Or, at still midnight's solemn hour, When the dull bat revolves no more, In search of nature's awful grace, I'd go, with slow and cautious pace, Where the loud torrent's foaming tide Lashes the rock's uneven side,.... That rock which, o'er the stream below Bending its moss-clad crumbling brow, Makes pale with fear the wanderer's cheek, Nor midnight's silence fails to break By fragments from its aged head, Which, rushing to the river's bed, Cause, as they dash the waters round, A dread variety of sound; While I the gloomy grandeur hail, And awe-struck rove through Borrowdale. Yes, scene sequestered, varied, wild, So form'd to soothe Affliction's child, Sweet Borrowdale! to thee I'll fly, To hush my bosom's ceaseless sigh. If yet in Nature's store there be One kind heart-healing balm for me, Now the long hours are told by sighs, And sorrow steals health's crimson dyes,-If aught can smiles and bloom restore, Ah! surely thine's the precious power! Then take me to thy world of charms, And hush my tortured breast's alarms; Thy scenes with unobtrusive art Shall steal the mourner from her heart,.... The hands in sorrow claspt unclose, Bid her sick soul on Heaven repose, And, soothed by time and nature, hail Health, peace, and hope in Borrowdale. 28 ~ Amelia Opie,

1066:The Red Zouave The stars were bright, the breeze was still, The cicada and the whippoorwill, Alone disturbed the scene; A streamlet down the dark ravine, Hasted the gloomy spot to shun, And bear its little tribute to Cub Run. The wayward step of one astray, He scared the whippoorwill away. A soldier reels to the little rill, And tries his sordid cup to fill, Then dizzily pitches across the branch, Too weak his mortal wound to staunch. He wakes anon, but weaker yet, For the stones with his oozing gore is wet, Feebly he feels for his stolen store, In his shirt, made redder by his gore! But long ere the midnight cloud grows dark, The Red Zouave lies stiff and stark. Why did the dying miscreant stare? Why stood upright his clotted hair? He sees a phantom sentinel, A skeleton-man and musket as well, And the ghostly cry, Halt! who goes there? Made his glazing eyeballs wildly glare. The sentry's laugh was shrill, yet brief, Ere he spoke these words to the dying thief: 'I left old England long years ago, Where I plundered and plundered both high and low; To escape at once from my crimes and fears, I enlisted with Braddock for seven years. 'We crossed the sea and we cut a road, Where there never had been a christian abode, On our march, we encamped on a wooded height; You lay at the very same place last night; 351 I stole from a comrade a half a crown, And was whipped as a thief, till the blood ran down. 'I swore for revenge as we marched along; The jeers of the men made my vengeance strong: So Braddock I marked, when we lost the fight, And shot him through ere I took to flight; I wandered this terrible wilderness through, And died of my wounds here, as you will do. 'Though I saw our Sergeant-Major fall, By some hidden Indian's rifle ball, Yet plainly I heard him say, 'Murderer! Thief! Stand sentinel here, till Hell sends you relief; You shall challenge the panther, who prowls for his prey, You shall challenge the savage and fright him away. ''You shall challenge the bat as he wheels On his flight - and the serpent that steals By your desolate post. Without fail You shall halt! the storm, wind and hail. [As they whistle and drift through your marrowless bones,] And the turbulent stream, in its rush o'er the stones.' 'Then I shrank in my terror and asked in my grief, How long will it be, ere you send my relief? Then the spectre cursed me again and again, For he seemed to delight in my mortal pain: 'I will tell you,' he said, 'assassin and thief, When Hell will turn out your sentry relief. ''Over Braddock's road, will pass a throng, Better armed than our army and tenfold as strong. Over Braddock's road, will drift the same day, The wreck of that army, fleeing away. And Braddock's defeat is forever forgot, In the tenfold more shameful rout of Scott. ''You will see a wounded miscreant run From the battle-field, without firing a gun; He has robbed a dead comrade and driven his blade, Through his officer wounded, and begging for aid; 352 He will die on this rock, and his infamous ghost, Will relieve you (a century hence) on this post.'' Then the skeleton musket and ramrod rang, On the rock with the Zouave's dying pang, And soon the morning sun gleamed fair, On his pallid brow and his shaven hair Whilst his stiffened fingers closely hold A picture fair and a piece of gold, [And the picture smiled and the red gold shone, As they did in the eyes that first called them their own.] Now creep to the edge of that dark ravine, And say what those ghostly voices mean, A nice and transcendental ear, This dialogue then very plainly hear: Zouave. Halt! who comes here to cross this line? Bravo. Friend with the pass-word and countersign. d with the countersign advance. He knew his ghostly friend at a glance. Bravo. No sentinel posted will ever again, Here the countersign, 'Braddock.' or the pass-word, 'Duquesne.' Each spectre must give, as he passes this spot, The parole of dishonour, 'MANASSAS and SCOTT.' ~ Anonymous Americas,

1067:Ariosto. Orlando Furioso, Canto X, 91-99 Ruggiero, to amaze the British host, And wake more wonder in their wondering ranks, The bridle of his winged courser loosed, And clapped his spurs into the creature's flanks; High in the air, even to the topmost banks Of crudded cloud, uprose the flying horse, And now above the Welsh, and now the Manx, And now across the sea he shaped his course, Till gleaming far below lay Erin's emerald shores. There round Hibernia's fabled realm he coasted, Where the old saint had left the holy cave, Sought for the famous virtue that it boasted To purge the sinful visitor and save. Thence back returning over land and wave, Ruggiero came where the blue currents flow, The shores of Lesser Brittany to lave, And, looking down while sailing to and fro, He saw Angelica chained to the rock below. 'Twas on the Island of Complaint -- well named, For there to that inhospitable shore, A savage people, cruel and untamed, Brought the rich prize of many a hateful war. To feed a monster that bestead them sore, They of fair ladies those that loveliest shone, Of tender maidens they the tenderest bore, And, drowned in tears and making piteous moan, Left for that ravening beast, chained on the rocks alone. Thither transported by enchanter's art, Angelica from dreams most innocent (As the tale mentioned in another part) Awoke, the victim for that sad event. Beauty so rare, nor birth so excellent, Nor tears that make sweet Beauty lovelier still, 14 Could turn that people from their harsh intent. Alas, what temper is conceived so ill But, Pity moving not, Love's soft enthralment will? On the cold granite at the ocean's rim These folk had chained her fast and gone their way; Fresh in the softness of each delicate limb The pity of their bruising violence lay. Over her beauty, from the eye of day To hide its pleading charms, no veil was thrown. Only the fragments of the salt sea-spray Rose from the churning of the waves, wind-blown, To dash upon a whiteness creamier than their own. Carved out of candid marble without flaw, Or alabaster blemishless and rare, Ruggiero might have fancied what he saw, For statue-like it seemed, and fastened there By craft of cunningest artificer; Save in the wistful eyes Ruggiero thought A teardrop gleamed, and with the rippling hair The ocean breezes played as if they sought In its loose depths to hide that which her hand might not. Pity and wonder and awakening love Strove in the bosom of the Moorish Knight. Down from his soaring in the skies above He urged the tenor of his courser's flight. Fairer with every foot of lessening height Shone the sweet prisoner. With tightening reins He drew more nigh, and gently as he might: "O lady, worthy only of the chains With which his bounden slaves the God of Love constrains, "And least for this or any ill designed, Oh, what unnatural and perverted race Could the sweet flesh with flushing stricture bind, And leave to suffer in this cold embrace 15 That the warm arms so hunger to replace?" Into the damsel's cheeks such color flew As by the alchemy of ancient days If whitest ivory should take the hue Of coral where it blooms deep in the liquid blue. Nor yet so tightly drawn the cruel chains Clasped the slim ankles and the wounded hands, But with soft, cringing attitudes in vain She strove to shield her from that ardent glance. So, clinging to the walls of some old manse, The rose-vine strives to shield her tender flowers, When the rude wind, as autumn weeks advance, Beats on the walls and whirls about the towers And spills at every blast her pride in piteous showers. And first for choking sobs she might not speak, And then, "Alas!" she cried, "ah, woe is me!" And more had said in accents faint and weak, Pleading for succor and sweet liberty. But hark! across the wide ways of the sea Rose of a sudden such a fierce affray That any but the brave had turned to flee. Ruggiero, turning, looked. To his dismay, Lo, where the monster came to claim his quivering prey! ~ Alan Seeger,

1068:The Vision Of The Rock I SATE upon a lonely peak, A backwood river’s course to view, And watched the changing shadows freak Its liquid length of gleaming blue, Streaked by the crane slow gliding o’er, Or chequering to the leafy roar Of woods that ’neath me grew, Or curdling dark, as high o’erhead The gathering clouds before the sounding breezes fled. Straight I bethought how once the scene Spread in its primal horror there, When, but some lone bird’s weary threne Or howlings from the wild dog’s lair, Or rush of startled kangaroo, As near some stealthy savage drew With hunger in his air, Or, from the stream some murmur’d sound Broke the dread slumbrous calm of solitude profound. A change came o’er my thoughts—behind A length of coming time I threw, Till round me, on that rock reclined, Its folds prophetic vision drew; And purpling, like the morning, gave Mine eyes of freedom’s births to have A seeming ante-view; As haply in brave promise stole His country’s purer weal o’er youthful Hampden’s soul. All round me villages upgrew At once, with orchards clumped about, And oft between, tall pine-rows through, Some mansion’s pillard porch looked out, And thickening up from alleys green, Where rustic groups in dance were seen, Came merry cry and shout; While from tall groves beyond, the cheer Of maiden’s laughter soft, broke in rich wavelets near. 216 And in the gusts that overpassed The stir of neighbouring cities came, Whose structures in the distance massed Proclaimed their opulence and fame, O’er fields of ripening plenty viewed, Or hills with white flocks fleeced, and strewed With herds that grazed the same; While on the paven roads between The crowding chariots came with rapid-rolling din. Now gaining depth, the vision lay Around my being like a law, So that my spirit might not say But all was real that I saw: I mark a youth and maiden, pressed By love’s sweet power, elude the rest, And as they nearer draw I list the vow that each imparts Folded within the spells of harmonizing hearts. But suddenly a grim-faced sire Strides like a fatal wraith between With that cold whiteness is his ire Which in the bad alone is seen! Alas! This world can never be A poet’s Eden utterly— Twill be what it hath been! So long as love’s rich heart is red, And beauty’s eyes are bright—so long shall tears be shed. They pass; and lo, a lonely boy With wandering step goes musing by; Glory is in his air, and joy, And all the poet in his eye! And now, whilst rich emotions flush His happy face, as cloud-hues blush In morning’s radiant sky, He sings—and to the charmful sound Troops of angelic shapes throng into being round. But ’neath a sombre cypress tree, And clad in garbs of kindred gloom, 217 A mother and her child I see Both mourning o’er a lowly tomb! Ah! Life hath ever been a brief Mixed dream of glory and grief— Its earliest, latest doom! That heart in which love’s tides first ran Descends with all its risks to every child of man. Now turning see, with locks all grey, A form majestic; wisdom true Illumes his brow—the power to weigh All worth, and look all semblence through; And stately youths of studious mien, Children of light, with him are seen, His auditory—who Attend the speaking sage along And hearken to the wisdom of his manna-dropping tongue. And now doth his large utterance throw A sacred solemnizing spell O’er scenes that yet no record know, Round names that now I may not tell; But there was one—too long unknown! Whereat, as with a household tone Upon the ear it fell, Each listener’s speaking eyes were given To glisten with a tear and turn awhile to heaven. Thus night came on; for hours had flown, And yet its hold the vision kept, Till lulled by many a dying tone, I laid me on the rock and slept! And now the moon hung big between Two neighbouring summits sheath’d with sheen— When all with dews dewept, And roused by a loud coming gale, I sought our camp-fire’s glow, deep in the darkening vale. 218 ~ Charles Harpur,

1069:The Night II Watchman, what of the night? See you a streak of light? Whither, O Captain of the quest, The course we steer for Port of Rest? How shall he answer - he Who never put to sea? Within his tabernacle wall He cannot even hear us call. Behind the jealous door That he must pass no more, And whence he scarcely dares to look, He keeps his eyes upon his book. The little candles, lit Where the disciples sit, Light their small refuge round about, But show no gleam to those without Spirits that cannot dwell In such an airless cell, Sniffing the sea-winds from afar, Glimpsing the light of moon and star. We must fare forth, unsped, From homely board and bed; We must set sail for port unknown, On an uncharted course, alone. Push off. We have to go, Whether we choose or no. The Call, though faint and far away, Has reached us, and we must obey. O but the night is dark Beyond that only ark! The salt sea-winds blow keen and cold 229 Outside the shelter of the fold! Boom of the deep-sea swell, Solemn as funeral bell Silence transcending sound, to make High courage falter and heart quake . . . . . What will the voyage cost? We are already lost Who turn from land and love, to face This blank immensity of space. Push out. We have to go, Whether we fear or no. And why stand shivering and appalled? We go because the Voice has called. Noah's inspired dove Took wing to find her love. The sea is His - safe as the land Within the hollow of His hand. Here are the breakers - pull Before the boat is full! 'Ware the sharp reefs that line the shore! Row for the open evermore! O but the night is dark! Never the faintest spark Where surf and shore and cities were! And not a whisper in the air. The open - heart of grace, It is a lonely place! No light on any onward track! Too far - too late - for turning back! Where is that little ark Those candles in the dark The Rock of Ages cleft for me The Cross uprising in the sea - 230 Whereto the drowning grope With yearning faith and hope, And cling as to their mother's breast, And find safe shelter and sweet rest? Gone, gone - for ever gone! And still we must press on. Steady, true soul, too brave to fret! Press on - we are not drowning yet. The night is soft and still That was so wild and chill; The bosom of the mighty deep Breathes like a tired child asleep. So peaceful, so profound, The silence spread around! The very breakers of the shore Moan to the listening ear no more. Night - but the stars are out. Darkness of dread and doubt, The way so lonely and so rough, Have cleared a little, but enough. We know not where we areLight cannot reach so far, But shows us we have lost and gained As the compelling Voice ordained. Gone, gone beyond recall, Candle and prisoning wall, Last echo of the hue and cry, Last glint of an accusing eye. Too late for looking back Over the darkening track. How should the life-taught soul return That cannot unlive or unlearn? 231 . Changed, changed, for ever changed, Since hitherward we ranged, To vision in a space so vast, All the perspectives of the past. How infinitely small The once so broad and tall The aims, the pursuit and the strife Shut in the sheltered grooves of life! Those terrifying laws, The wrangles and the wars Of church with church and state with state The things men love, the things men hate Money and gauds and fame, And neighbours' scorn and blame The passion of desire and haste To gather, to possess, to waste . . . . . . How infinitely high, Broad as the sea and sky, The loyalty of man to man, Once almost missing from the plan The elemental law That codes and creeds ignore, Of duty to the trust we hold For heirs unborn and years untold . . . . . . Night - and the drifting soul Still without path or goal. Yet was the voyage worth the cost. We are not drowned. We are not lost. 'T'is I. Be not afraid. Moonlight and stars may fade. One walks the ocean and the night. We have no further need of light. 232 What matters where we go? We do not ask to know. He called us, and we came. The quest For us is ended, and we rest. ~ Ada Cambridge,

1070:A CURSING rogue with a merry face, A bundle of rags upon a crutch, Stumbled upon that windy place Called Cruachan, and it was as much As the one sturdy leg could do To keep him upright while he cursed. He had counted, where long years ago Queen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed, A pair of lapwings, one old sheep, And not a house to the plain's edge, When close to his right hand a heap Of grey stones and a rocky ledge Reminded him that he could make. If he but shifted a few stones, A shelter till the daylight broke. But while he fumbled with the stones They toppled over; "Were it not I have a lucky wooden shin I had been hurt'; and toppling brought Before his eyes, where stones had been, A dark deep hollow in the rock. He gave a gasp and thought to have fled, Being certain it was no right rock Because an ancient history said Hell Mouth lay open near that place, And yet stood still, because inside A great lad with a beery face Had tucked himself away beside A ladle and a tub of beer, And snored, no phantom by his look. So with a laugh at his own fear He crawled into that pleasant nook. "Night grows uneasy near the dawn Till even I sleep light; but who Has tired of his own company? What one of Maeve's nine brawling sons Sick of his grave has wakened me? But let him keep his grave for once That I may find the sleep I have lost." What care I if you sleep or wake? But I'Il have no man call me ghost." Say what you please, but from daybreak I'll sleep another century." And I will talk before I sleep And drink before I talk.' And he Had dipped the wooden ladle deep Into the sleeper's tub of beer Had not the sleeper started up. Before you have dipped it in the beer I dragged from Goban's mountain-top I'll have assurance that you are able To value beer; no half-legged fool Shall dip his nose into my ladle Merely for stumbling on this hole In the bad hour before the dawn." Why beer is only beer.' "But say ""I'll sleep until the winter's gone, Or maybe to Midsummer Day,'' And drink and you will sleep that length. "I'd like to sleep till winter's gone Or till the sun is in his strength. This blast has chilled me to the bone.' "I had no better plan at first. I thought to wait for that or this; Maybe the weather was accursed Or I had no woman there to kiss; So slept for half a year or so; But year by year I found that less Gave me such pleasure I'd forgo Even a half-hour's nothingness, And when at one year's end I found I had not waked a single minute, I chose this burrow under ground. I'll sleep away all time within it: My sleep were now nine centuries But for those mornings when I find The lapwing at their foolish dies And the sheep bleating at the wind As when I also played the fool.' The beggar in a rage began Upon his hunkers in the hole, "It's plain that you are no right man To mock at everything I love As if it were not worth, the doing. I'd have a merry life enough If a good Easter wind were blowing, And though the winter wind is bad I should not be too down in the mouth For anything you did or said If but this wind were in the south.' "You cry aloud, O would 'twere spring Or that the wind would shift a point, And do not know that you would bring, If time were suppler in the joint, Neither the spring nor the south wind But the hour when you shall pass away And leave no smoking wick behind, For all life longs for the Last Day And there's no man but cocks his ear To know when Michael's trumpet cries "That flesh and bone may disappear, And souls as if they were but sighs, And there be nothing but God left; But, I alone being blessed keep Like some old rabbit to my cleft And wait Him in a drunken sleep.' He dipped his ladle in the tub And drank and yawned and stretched him out, The other shouted, "You would rob My life of every pleasant thought And every comfortable thing, And so take that and that." Thereon He gave him a great pummelling, But might have pummelled at a stone For all the sleeper knew or cared; And after heaped up stone on stone, And then, grown weary, prayed and cursed And heaped up stone on stone again, And prayed and cursed and cursed and bed From Maeve and all that juggling plain, Nor gave God thanks till overhead The clouds were brightening with the dawn. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Hour Before Dawn ,

1071:A Border Burn Where Autumn runnels fret and foam Past banks of amber fern, Since track was none I chanced to roam Along a Border burn. The rain was gone, the winds were furled, No cloud was in the sky, So that there seemed in all the world Only the stream and I. At length upon a grey-green stone I sate me down to dream, Till, with its flow familiar grown, I thus addressed the stream: ``Dear Border Burn, that had your birth Where hills stand bright and high, Whose lowlier parent is the earth, Whose loftier the sky; ``Half-heavenly therefore in your source, Withal to man akin, Betraying by your wayward course Your mingled origin; ``Why, in a scene so fair as this, Not linger while you may, And lengthen out unchided bliss In childlike holiday? ``Encircled here by native hills, And fringed by wilding flowers, With all your playmate sister rills To wile away the hours, ``Past glowing heather, silvery sedge, You hurry on, and on, Rush at the rock, then leap the ledge, All eager to be gone. ``For you the mavis thrills the brake, For you the laverocks soar, And even snow and sleet but make You dance and sing the more. ``The water-ouzels dip and shoot Amid your flashing spray, Where flapping heron, skimming coot, Forage, and pair, and play. ``The forest doe forsakes the hill, Companioned by her fawn, In your clear pools to drink her fill, As darkness yields to dawn. ``When meadows gleam with burnished gold, Some tender-bosomed maid Comes down from far-off manse or fold, And, under birchen shade, ``Trembles to tale of manhood brave, Or courtship long and sweet, And sometimes in your freshening wave Will dip her dainty feet; ``And, deaf to sound from neighbouring glen Of summer-cooing doves, Hear but your voice, and deem it then The voice of him she loves. ``And, be the season keen or kind, Frowning or fair the sky, The poet, with his musing mind, Hither will ofttimes hie, ``And listening, lost among the fern, To murmur sweet or strong, Now not less strong than sweet, doth learn To modulate his song. ``And, thus attuned to every string Nature is skilled to strike, Mellows the thoughts that comfort bring To glad and sad alike. ``Friends fond and faithful such as these Why do you long to leave, For scenes that, since untried, can please, But lure you to deceive? ``The forward quest, the feverish chase, Foul city, venal mart, Will cloud the fairness of your face, And desecrate your heart. ``Here betwixt fern and flower you still Can wind and wander free; There granite banks will curb your will, And chain your liberty.'' I ceased. But though I paused to learn, No answer seemed to come, And, save an onward-bickering burn, All now again was dumb. It rolled and rippled, swept and swirled, No other sound was nigh; So that there seemed, in all the world, Only the stream and I. But, like the babbled words that make The mother's heart rejoice, Slowly the stream's soul seemed to wake, And find a human voice: Till, waxing stronger and more clear Still as it rushed along, Its answer sounded on mine ear, Lucid as poet's song: ``Here was I born, here nursed and bred, From here shall carry still Something of moor and bracken-bed, Something of heath and hill. ``Yet, like to you, who suckled first Where becks through boulders wind, In youth from loving bondage burst, And left your home behind, ``To seek the far-off larger life Where mind with mind contends, On peaceful fields, in generous strife, To further loftier ends; ``So do I quit my native hills, Red rowan, hawthorn pearled, My brother braes, my sister rills, To find a wider world, ``And, with a half-reluctant heart, Leave dingle, dale, and wood, To bear a meek but manly part In burdened brotherhood. ``Why should I selfishly remain A simple mountain stream, Or shrink, because some earthy stain Cloudeth each heavenly dream? ``Chide me not, then, nor seek to stay The current of my soul, Though conflict check or chafe my way, The Ocean is my goal; ``Where I from sea to sea shall ride, Shall roll from shore to shore, And with the Universal Tide Be one for evermore; ``Yet, by Heaven's Law of Love allowed, Revolving, to return, Wafted by wind, and borne on cloud, Still be a Border Burn.'' 10 ~ Alfred Austin,

1072:Song Of America And now, when poets are singing Their songs of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet Centennial lays, My muse goes wandering backward, To the groundwork of all these, To the time when our Pilgrim Fathers Came over the winter seas. The sons of a mighty kingdom, Of a cultured folk were they; Born amidst pomp and splendor, Bred in it day by day. Children of bloom and beauty, Reared under skies serene, Where the daisy and hawthorne blossomed, And the ivy was always green. And yet, for the sake of freedom, For a free religious faith, They turned from home and people, And stood face to face with death. They turned from a tyrant ruler, And stood on the new world's shore, With a waste of waters behind them, And a waste of land before. O, men of a great Republic; Of a land of untold worth; Of a nation that has no equal Upon God's round green earth: I hear you sighing and crying Of the hard, close times at hand; What think you of those old heroes, On the rock 'twixt sea and land? The bells of a million churches Go ringing out to-night, And the glitter of palace windows Fills all the land with light; And there is the home and college, And here is the feast and ball, And the angels of peace and freedom 515 Are hovering over all. They had no church, no college, No banks, no mining stock; They had but the waste before them, The sea, and Plymouth Rock. But there in the night and tempest, With gloom on every hand, They laid the first foundation Of a nation great and grand. There were no weak repinings, No shrinking from what might be, But with their brows to the tempest, And with their backs to the sea, They planned out a noble future, And planted the corner stone Of the grandest, greatest republic, The world has ever known. O women in homes of splendor, O lily-buds frail and fair, With fortunes upon your fingers, And milk-white pearls in your hair: I hear you longing and sighing For some new, fresh delight; But what of those Pilgrim mothers On that December night? I hear you talking of hardships, I hear you moaning of loss; Each has her fancied sorrow, Each bears her self-made cross. But they, they had only their husbands, The rain, the rock, and the sea, Yet, they looked up to God and blessed Him, And were glad because they were free. O grand old Pilgrim heroes, O souls that were tried and true, With all of our proud possessions We are humbled at thought of you: Men of such might and muscle, Women so brave and strong, Whose faith was fixed as the mountain, Through a night so dark and long. We know of your grim, grave errors, 516 As husbands and as wives; Of the rigid bleak ideas That starved your daily lives; Of pent-up, curbed emotions, Of feelings crushed, suppressed, That God with the heart created In every human breast; We know of that little remnant Of British tyranny, When you hunted Quakers and witches, And swumg them from a tree; Yet back to a holy motive, To live in the fear of God, To a purpose, high, exalted, To walk where martyrs trod, We can trace your gravest errors; Your aim was fixed and sure, And e'en if your acts were fanatic, We know your hearts were pure. You lived so near to heaven, You over-reached your trust, And deemed yourselves creators, Forgetting you were but dust. But we with our broader visions, With our wider realm of thought, I often think would be better If we lived as our fathers taught. Their lives seemed bleak and rigid, Narrow, and void of bloom; Our minds have too much freedom, And conscience too much room. They over-reached in duty, They starved their hearts for the right; We live too much in the senses, We bask too long in the light. They proved by their clinging to Him The image of God in man; And we, by our love of license, Strengthen a Darwin's plan. But bigotry reached its limit, And license must have its sway, And both shall result in profit 517 To those of a latter day. With the fetters of slavery broken, And freedom's flag unfurled, Our nation strides onward and upward, And stands the peer of the world. Spires and domes and steeples, Glitter from shore to shore; The waters are white with commerce, The earth is studded with ore; Peace is sitting above us, And Plenty with laden hand, Wedded to sturdy Labor, Goes singing through the land. Then let each child of the nation, Who glories in being free, Remember the Pilgrim Fathers Who stood on the rock by the sea; For there in the rain and tempest Of a night long passed away, They sowed the seeds of a harvest We gather in sheaves to-day. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

1073:I. THE FLOWER'S NAME Here's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. II. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her rope's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! III. This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name: What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. IV. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. V. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved for ever! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not: Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle- Is not the dear mark still to be seen? VI. Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow ber, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! -Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces- Roses, you are not so fair after all! II. SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS. Plague take all your pedants, say I! He who wrote what I hold in my hand, Centuries back was so good as to die, Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; This, that was a book in its time, Printed on paper and bound in leather, Last month in the white of a matin-prime Just when the birds sang all together. II. Into the garden I brought it to read, And under the arbute and laurustine Read it, so help me grace in my need, From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count, As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge; Added up the mortal amount; And then proceeded to my revenge. III. Yonder's a plum-tree with a crevice An owl would build in, were he but sage; For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis In a castle of the Middle Age, Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber; When he'd be private, there might he spend Hours alone in his lady's chamber: Into this crevice I dropped our friend. IV. Splash, went he, as under he ducked, -At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate: Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf, Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis; Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. V. Now, this morning, betwixt the moss And gum that locked our friend in limbo, A spider had spun his web across, And sat in the midst with arms akimbo: So, I took pity, for learning's sake, And, de profundis, accentibus ltis, Cantate! quoth I, as I got a rake; And up I fished his delectable treatise. VI. Here you have it, dry in the sun, With all the binding all of a blister, And great blue spots where the ink has run, And reddish streaks that wink and glister O'er the page so beautifully yellow: Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks! Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow? Here's one stuck in his chapter six! VII. How did he like it when the live creatures Tickled and toused and browsed him all over, And worm, slug, eft, with serious features, Came in, each one, for his right of trover? -When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face Made of her eggs the stately deposit, And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet? VIII. All that life and fun and romping, All that frisking and twisting and coupling, While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping And clasps were cracking and covers suppling! As if you bad carried sour John Knox To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich, Fastened him into a front-row box, And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. IX. Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it? Back to my room shall you take your sweet self. Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft, sufficit! See the snug niche I have made on my shelf! A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you, Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay, And with E. on each side, and F. right over you, Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day! ~ Robert Browning, Garden Francies ,

1074:From: Time In The Rock XXIV If one voice, not another, must speak first, out of the silence, the stillness, the preceding— speaking clearly, speaking slowly, measuring calmly the heavy syllables of doubt, or of despair— speaking passionately, speaking bitterly, hunger or hope ordering the words, that are like sounds of flame—: if one speaks first, before that other or the third, out of the silence bringing the dark message, the grave and great acceptance of the rock, the huge world, held in the huge hand of faith: and if it says, I hold the world like this; here in the light, amid these crumbling walls; here in the half-light, the deceptive moment, here in the darkness like a candle lifted—: take it, relieve me of it, bear it away; have it, now and forever, for your own; this that was mine, this that my voice made mine, this that my word has shaped for you— if this voice speaks before us, speaks before ourselves can speak, challenging thus the dark; waking the sleeping watcher from his sleep, altering the dreamer’s dream while still he dreams; so that on waking—ah, what despair he knows! to learn that while he slept the world was made— made by that voice, and himself made no less, and now inalterably curved forever— yes, if to wake, to cease to dream, be this, to face a self made ready while we slept, shaped in the world’s shape by the single voice— if thus we wake too late and find ourselves already weeping, already upon the road that climbs past shame and pain to crucifixion— seeing at once, with eyes, just opened, the world, 38 vast, bright, and cruciform, on which so soon ascending we must die— and to look backward, but know no turning back; to go forward, even as we turn our faces to the past; still gazing downward from the hill we climb, searching the dark for that strange dream we had, which the voice altered and broke— ah, can it comfort us, us helpless, us thus shaped by a word, sleepwalking shadows in the voice-shaped world, ah, can it comfort us that we ourselves will bear the word with us, we too, we too to speak, again, again, again, again,— ourselves the voice for those not yet awakened,— altering the dreams of those who dream, and shaping, while still they sleep, their inescapable pain—? LX The chairback will cast a shadow on the white wall, you can observe its shape, the square of paper will receive and record the impulse of the pencil and keep it too till time rubs it out the seed will arrange as suits it the shape of the earth to right or left thrusting, and the old clock goes fast or slow as it rusts or is oiled. These things or others for your consideration these changes or others, these records or others less permanent. Come if you will to the sea’s edge, the beach of hard sand, notice how the wave designs itself in quick bubbles the wave’s ghost etched in bubbles and then gone, froth of a suggestion, and then gone. Notice too the path of the wind in a field of wheat, the motion indicated. Notice in a mirror how the lips smile, so little, and for so little while. Notice how little, and how seldom, you notice the movement of the eyes in your own face, reflection of a moment’s reflection. What were you thinking to deliver to the glass this instant of change, what margin belonged only to the expectation of echo and was calculated perhaps to that end, what was left 39 essential or immortal? Your hand too, gloved perhaps, encased, but none the less already bone, already a skeleton, sharp as a fingerpost that points to time— what record does it leave, and where, what paper does it inscribe with an immortal message? where, and with what permanence, does it say ‘I’? Perhaps giving itself to the lover’s hand or in a farewell, or in a blow, or in a theft, which will pay interest. Perhaps in your own pocket, jingling coins, or against a woman’s breast. Perhaps holding the pencil dictated by another’s thought. These things do not perplex, these things are simple,— but what of the heart that wishes to survive change and cannot, its love lost in confusions and dismay—? what of the thought dispersed in its own algebras, hypothesis proved fallacy? what of the will which finds its aim unworthy? Are these, too, simple? LXVII Walk man on the stage of your own imagining peel an orange or dust your shoe, take from your pocket the soiled handkerchief and blow your nose as if it were indeed necessary to be natural and speak too if an idea should recommend itself speak to the large bright imaginary audience that flattering multiplication of yourself so handsomely deployed and so expectant tell them between flingings of orange peel or such other necessary details of your rôle precisely what they are, or what you are since—lamentably—they are so much the same thing. Decrepit inheritor of the initial star! do you yourself sometimes imagine or even perhaps say to that peculiar audience something of this? as that yourself and they comprise one statement? supercilious the actor may be, often is, to those who hear him 40 but to be supercilious to one’s self even in one’s dramatic moments!—marvellous decay of what in God’s first declaration might have been good. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

1075:The tyrant Dionys to seek, Stern Moerus with his poniard crept; The watchful guard upon him swept; The grim king marked his changeless cheek: "What wouldst thou with thy poniard? Speak!" "The city from the tyrant free!" "The death-cross shall thy guerdon be." "I am prepared for death, nor pray," Replied that haughty man, "I to live; Enough, if thou one grace wilt give For three brief suns the death delay To wed my sisterleagues away; I boast one friend whose life for mine, If I should fail the cross, is thine." The tyrant mused,and smiled,and said With gloomy craft, "So let it be; Three days I will vouchsafe to thee. But markif, when the time be sped, Thou fail'stthy surety dies instead. His life shall buy thine own release; Thy guilt atoned, my wrath shall cease." He sought his friend"The king's decree Ordains my life the cross upon Shall pay the deed I would have done; Yet grants three days' delay to me, My sister's marriage-rites to see; If thou, the hostage, wilt remain Till Iset freereturn again!" His friend embracedNo word he said, But silent to the tyrant strode The other went upon his road. Ere the third sun in heaven was red, The rite was o'er, the sister wed; And back, with anxious heart unquailing, He hastes to hold the pledge unfailing. Down the great rains unending bore, Down from the hills the torrents rushed, In one broad stream the brooklets gushed. The wanderer halts beside the shore, The bridge was swept the tides before The shattered arches o'er and under Went the tumultuous waves in thunder. Dismayed he takes his idle stand Dismayed, he strays and shouts around; His voice awakes no answering sound. No boat will leave the sheltering strand, To bear him to the wished-for land; No boatman will Death's pilot be; The wild stream gathers to a sea! Sunk by the banks, awhile he weeps, Then raised his arms to Jove, and cried, "Stay thou, oh stay the maddening tide; Midway behold the swift sun sweeps, And, ere he sinks adown the deeps, If I should fail, his beams will see My friend's last anguishslain for me!" More fierce it runs, more broad it flows, And wave on wave succeeds and dies And hour on hour remorseless flies; Despair at last to daring grows Amidst the flood his form he throws; With vigorous arms the roaring waves Cleavesand a God that pities, saves. He wins the bankhe scours the strand, He thanks the God in breathless prayer; When from the forest's gloomy lair, With ragged club in ruthless hand, And breathing murderrushed the band That find, in woods, their savage den, And savage prey in wandering men. "What," cried he, pale with generous fear; "What think to gain ye by the strife? All I bear with me is my life I take it to the king!"and here He snatched the club from him most near: And thrice he smote, and thrice his blows Dealt deathbefore him fly the foes! The sun is glowing as a brand; And faint before the parching heat, The strength forsakes the feeble feet: "Thou hast saved me from the robbers' hand, Through wild floods given the blessed land; And shall the weak limbs fail me now? And he!Divine one, nerve me, thou!" Hark! like some gracious murmur by, Babbles low music, silver-clear The wanderer holds his breath to hear; And from the rock, before his eye, Laughs forth the spring delightedly; Now the sweet waves he bends him o'er, And the sweet waves his strength restore. Through the green boughs the sun gleams dying, O'er fields that drink the rosy beam, The trees' huge shadows giant seem. Two strangers on the road are hieing; And as they fleet beside him flying, These muttered words his ear dismay: "Nownow the cross has claimed its prey!" Despair his winged path pursues, The anxious terrors hound him on There, reddening in the evening sun, From far, the domes of Syracuse! When towards him comes Philostratus (His leal and trusty herdsman he), And to the master bends his knee. "Backthou canst aid thy friend no more, The ****rd time already flown His life is forfeitsave thine own! Hour after hour in hope he bore, Nor might his soul its faith give o'er; Nor could the tyrant's scorn deriding, Steal from that faith one thought confiding!" "Too late! what horror hast thou spoken! Vain life, since it cannot requite him! But death with me can yet unite him; No boast the tyrant's scorn shall make How friend to friend can faith forsake. But from the double death shall know, That truth and love yet live below!" The sun sinks downthe gate's in view, The cross looms dismal on the ground The eager crowd gape murmuring round. His friend is bound the cross unto. . . . Crowdguardsall bursts he breathless through: "Me! Doomsman, me!" he shouts, "alone! His life is rescuedlo, mine own!" Amazement seized the circling ring! Linked in each other's arms the pair Weeping for joyyet anguish there! Moist every eye that gazed;they bring The wondrous tidings to the king His breast man's heart at last hath known, And the friends stand before his throne. Long silent, he, and wondering long, Gazed on the pair"In peace depart, Victors, ye have subdued my heart! Truth is no dream!its power is strong. Give grace to him who owns his wrong! 'Tis mine your suppliant now to be, Ah, let the band of lovebe three!" ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Hostage ,

1076:[an Integral conception of the Divine :::    But on that which as yet we know not how shall we concentrate? And yet we cannot know the Divine unless we have achieved this concentration of our being upon him. A concentration which culminates in a living realisation and the constant sense of the presence of the One in ourselves and in all of which we are aware, is what we mean in Yoga by knowledge and the effort after knowledge. It is not enough to devote ourselves by the reading of Scriptures or by the stress of philosophical reasoning to an intellectual understanding of the Divine; for at the end of our long mental labour we might know all that has been said of the Eternal, possess all that can be thought about the Infinite and yet we might not know him at all. This intellectual preparation can indeed be the first stage in a powerful Yoga, but it is not indispensable : it is not a step which all need or can be called upon to take. Yoga would be impossible, except for a very few, if the intellectual figure of knowledge arrived at by the speculative or meditative Reason were its indispensable condition or a binding preliminary. All that the Light from above asks of us that it may begin its work is a call from the soul and a sufficient point of support in the mind. This support can be reached through an insistent idea of the Divine in the thought, a corresponding will in the dynamic parts, an aspiration, a faith, a need in the heart. Any one of these may lead or predominate, if all cannot move in unison or in an equal rhythm. The idea may be and must in the beginning be inadequate; the aspiration may be narrow and imperfect, the faith poorly illumined or even, as not surely founded on the rock of knowledge, fluctuating, uncertain, easily diminished; often even it may be extinguished and need to be lit again with difficulty like a torch in a windy pass. But if once there is a resolute self-consecration from deep within, if there is an awakening to the soul's call, these inadequate things can be a sufficient instrument for the divine purpose. Therefore the wise have always been unwilling to limit man's avenues towards God; they would not shut against his entry even the narrowest portal, the lowest and darkest postern, the humblest wicket-gate. Any name, any form, any symbol, any offering has been held to be sufficient if there is the consecration along with it; for the Divine knows himself in the heart of the seeker and accepts the sacrifice.    But still the greater and wider the moving idea-force behind the consecration, the better for the seeker; his attainment is likely to be fuller and more ample. If we are to attempt an integral Yoga, it will be as well to start with an idea of the Divine that is itself integral. There should be an aspiration in the heart wide enough for a realisation without any narrow limits. Not only should we avoid a sectarian religious outlook, but also all onesided philosophical conceptions which try to shut up the Ineffable in a restricting mental formula. The dynamic conception or impelling sense with which our Yoga can best set out would be naturally the idea, the sense of a conscious all-embracing but all-exceeding Infinite. Our uplook must be to a free, all-powerful, perfect and blissful One and Oneness in which all beings move and live and through which all can meet and become one. This Eternal will be at once personal and impersonal in his self-revelation and touch upon the soul. He is personal because he is the conscious Divine, the infinite Person who casts some broken reflection of himself in the myriad divine and undivine personalities of the universe. He is impersonal because he appears to us as an infinite Existence, Consciousness and Ananda and because he is the fount, base and constituent of all existences and all energies, -the very material of our being and mind and life and body, our spirit and our matter. The thought, concentrating on him, must not merely understand in an intellectual form that he exists, or conceive of him as an abstraction, a logical necessity; it must become a seeing thought able to meet him here as the Inhabitant in all, realise him in ourselves, watch and take hold on the movement of his forces. He is the one Existence: he is the original and universal Delight that constitutes all things and exceeds them: he is the one infinite Consciousness that composes all consciousnesses and informs all their movements; he is the one illimitable Being who sustains all action and experience; his will guides the evolution of things towards their yet unrealised but inevitable aim and plenitude. To him the heart can consecrate itself, approach him as the supreme Beloved, beat and move in him as in a universal sweetness of Love and a living sea of Delight. For his is the secret Joy that supports the soul in all its experiences and maintains even the errant ego in its ordeals and struggles till all sorrow and suffering shall cease. His is the Love and the Bliss of the infinite divine Lover who is drawing all things by their own path towards his happy oneness. On him the Will can unalterably fix as the invisible Power that guides and fulfils it and as the source of its strength. In the impersonality this actuating Power is a self-illumined Force that contains all results and calmly works until it accomplishes, in the personality an all wise and omnipotent Master of the Yoga whom nothing can prevent from leading it to its goal. This is the faith with which the seeker has to begin his seeking and endeavour; for in all his effort here, but most of all in his effort towards the Unseen, mental man must perforce proceed by faith. When the realisation comes, the faith divinely fulfilled and completed will be transformed into an eternal flame of knowledge.    ~ Sri Aurobindo, The Synthesis Of Yoga, Self-Consecration, 82-83 [T1],

1077:Let us begin and carry up this corpse,     Singing together.   Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes     Each in its tether   Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain,     Cared-for till cock-crow:   Look out if yonder be not day again    Rimming the rock-row!   That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought,    Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,    Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop;    Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top,    Crowded with culture! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels;    Clouds overcome it; No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's    Circling its summit. Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights:    Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's;    He's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head,    'Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous, calm and dead,    Borne on our shoulders.   Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft,    Safe from the weather! He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft,    Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat,    Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note    Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!    Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon!    My dance is finished"? No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side,    Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride    Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world    Bent on escaping: "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled    Show me their shaping, Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,    Give!"So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page:    Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead,    Accents uncertain: "Time to taste life," another would have said,    "Up with the curtain!" This man said rather, "Actual life comes next?    Patience a moment! Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text,    Still there's the comment. Let me know all! Prate not of most or least,    Painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast,    Ay, nor feel queasy." Oh, such a life as he resolved to live,    When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give!    Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts    Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,    Ere mortar dab brick!   (Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place    Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace    (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he'd learn how to live    No end to learning: Earn the means firstGod surely will contrive    Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes:    Live now or never!" He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!    Man has Forever." Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head:    Calculus racked him: Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:    Tussis attacked him. "Now, master, take a little rest!"not he!    (Caution redoubled Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)    Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first,    Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)    Sucked at the flagon. Oh, if we draw a circle premature,    Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure    Bad is our bargain! Was it not great? did not he throw on God,    (He loves the burthen) God's task to make the heavenly period    Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear    Just what it all meant? He would not discount life, as fools do here,    Paid by instalment. He ventured neck or nothingheaven's success    Found, or earth's failure: "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes:    Hence with life's pale lure!" That low man seeks a little thing to do,    Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue,    Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one,    His hundred's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million,    Misses an unit. That, has the world hereshould he need the next,    Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed    Seeking shall find him. So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,    Ground he at grammar; Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife:    While he could stammer He settled Hoti's businesslet it be!    Properly based Oun Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,    Dead from the waist down. Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place:    Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race,    Swallows and curlews! Here's the top-peak; the multitude below    Live, for they can, there: This man decided not to Live but Know    Bury this man there? Herehere's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,    Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,    Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects:    Loftily lying, Leave himstill loftier than the world suspects,    Living and dying. ~ Robert Browning, A Grammarian's Funeral Shortly After The Revival Of Learning ,

1078:Romsdal Come up on deck! The morning is clear,Memory wakes, as the landmarks appear. How many the islands, green and cheery, The salt-licking skerries, weed-wound, smeary! On this side, on that side, they frolic before us, Good friends, but wild,-in frightened chorus Sea-fowl shriek round us, a flying legion. We are in a region Of storms historic, unique for aye. We fare the fishermen's venturesome way! Far out the bank and the big fish shoaling, The captain narrates; and just now unrolling Sails run to shore a swift racing match;Good is the catch. Yes, yes,-I recognize them again, Romsdal's boats' weather-beaten men. They know how to sail, when need's at hand. But I'm forgetting to look towards land! - - - It whelms the sight Like lightning bright,In memory graven, but not so great. Wherever I suffer my eyes to wander, Stand mountain-giants, both here and yonder, The loin of one by the other's shoulder, Naught else to where earth and sky are blending. The dread of a world's din daunts the beholder; The silence vastens the vision unending. Some are in white and others in blue, With pointed tops that emulous tower; Some mass their power, In marching columns their purpose pursue. Away, you small folk!-In there 'The Preacher' 128 In high assembly the service intoning Of magnates primeval, their patriarch owning! Of what does he preach, my childhood's teacher? So often, so often to him I listened, In eager worship, devout and lowly; My songs were christened In light that fell from his whiteness holy. - How great it is! I can finish never. Great thoughts that in life and legend we treasure Stream towards the scene in persistent endeavor, The mighty impression to grasp and measure,Dame's hell, India's myth-panorama, Shakespeare's earth-overarching drama, Aeschylus' thunders that purge and free, Beethoven's powerful symphony,They widen and heighten, they cloud and brighten -Like small ants scrambling and soft-cooing doves, They tumble backward and flee affrighted;As if a dandy in dress-coat and gloves The mountains approached and to dance invited. No, tempt them not! Their retainer be! You'll learn then later, How life with the great must make you greater. If you are humble, they'll say it themselves, That something is greater than e'en their greatest. Look how the little river that delves High in the notch within limits straitest, Through ice first burrowed and stone, a brook, Slowly the giants asunder wearing! Unmoved before, their face now and bearing They had to change 'mid the spring-flood's laughter; Millions of years have followed thereafter, Millions of years it also took. In stamps the fjord now to look on their party, Lifts his sou'-wester, gives greeting to them. Whoever at times in their fog could view them Has seen him near to their very noses;The fjord's not famed for his well-bred poses. Towards him hurry, all white-foam-faced, 129 Brooks and rivers in whirling haste, All of his family, frolicsome, naughty. If ever the mountains the fjord would immure, Their narrows press nigher, a prison sure;His water-hands then with a gesture haughty Seize the whole saucy pass like a shell; Set to his mouth, he begins to blow it With western-gale-lungs,-and then you may know it, Loud is the noise, and the swift currents swell. Forcing the coast, a big fjord, black and gray, Breaks us our way; Waterfalls rushing on both sides rumble. Sponge-wet and slow, Cloud-masses over the mountain-flanks fumble; The sun and mist, lo, Symbol of struggle eternal show. This is my Romsdal's unruly land! Home-love rejoices. All things I see, have eyes and have voices. The people? I know them, each man understand, Though never I saw him nor with him have spoken; I know this folk, for the fjord is their token. One is the fjord in the storm's battle-fray, Another is he when the sunbeams play In midsummer's splendor, And radiant, happy his heart is tender. Whatever has form, He bears on his breast with affection warm, Mirrors it, fondles it,Be it so bare as the mossy gray rubble, Be it so brief as a brook's fleeting bubble. Oh, what a brightness! Beauty, soul-ravishing, Shines from his prayer, that now he be shriven 130 Of all the past! And penitence lavishing, All he confesses; with glad homage given Mirrors and masses Deep the mountains' high peaks and passes. The old giants think now: He's not really bad; In greater degree he's wrathful and glad Than others perchance; is false not at all, But reckless, capricious,-true son of Romsdal. Right are the mountains! This race-type keeping, They saw men creeping Over the ridges, scant fodder reaping. They saw men eager Toil on the sea, though their take was meager, Plow the steep slope and trench the bog-valley, To bouts with the rock the brown nag rally. Saw their faults flaunted,Buck-like they bicker, Love well their liquor,But know not defeat,-hoist the sail undaunted! Different the districts; but all in all: Spirits vivacious, with longings that spur them, Depths full of song, with billows that stir them, Folk of the fjord and the sudden squall. Viking-abode, I hail you with wonder! High-built the wall, broad sea-floor thereunder, Hall lit by sun-bows on waterfall vapors, Hangings of green,-your dwellers the drapers. Viking-born race,-'t is you I exalt! It costs in under so high a vault A struggle long unto lordship stable; Not all who have tried to succeed, were able. It costs to recover the wealth of the fjord From wanton waste and in power to hoard. 131 It costs;-but who conquers is made a man. I know there are that can. ~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,

1079:Elegy: Walking the Line Every month or so, Sundays, we walked the line, The limit and the boundary. Past the sweet gum Superb above the cabin, along the wall— Stones gathered from the level field nearby When first we cleared it. (Angry bumblebees Stung the two mules. They kicked. Thirteen, I ran.) And then the field: thread-leaf maple, deciduous Magnolia, hybrid broom, and, further down, In light shade, one Franklinia Alatamaha In solstice bloom, all white, most graciously. On the sunnier slope, the wild plums that my mother Later would make preserves of, to give to friends Or sell, in autumn, with the foxgrape, quince, Elderberry, and muscadine. Around The granite overhang, moist den of foxes; Gradually up a long hill, high in pine, Park-like, years of dry needles on the ground, And dogwood, slopes the settlers terraced; pine We cut at Christmas, berries, hollies, anise, And cones for sale in Mister Haymore's yard In town, below the Courthouse Square. James Haymore, One of the two good teachers at Boys' High, Ironic and demanding, chemistry; Mary Lou Culver taught us English: essays, Plot summaries, outlines, meters, kinds of clauses (Noun, adjective, and adverb, five at a time), Written each day and then revised, and she Up half the night to read them once again Through her pince-nez, under a single lamp. Across the road, on a steeper hill, the settlers Set a house, unpainted, the porch fallen in, The road a red clay strip without a bridge, A shallow stream that liked to overflow. Oliver Brand's mules pulled our station wagon Out of the gluey mire, earth's rust. Then, here And there, back from the road, the specimen Shrubs and small trees my father planted, some Taller than we were, some in bloom, some berried, And some we still brought water to. We always 14 Paused at the weed-filled hole beside the beech That, one year, brought forth beech nuts by the thousands, A hole still reminiscent of the man Chewing tobacco in among his whiskers My father happened on, who, discovered, told Of dreaming he should dig there for the gold And promised to give half of what he found. During the wars with Germany and Japan, Descendents of the settlers, of Oliver Brand And of that man built Flying Fortresses For Lockheed, in Atlanta; now they build Brick mansions in the woods they left, with lawns To paved and lighted streets, azaleas, camellias Blooming among the pines and tulip trees— Mercedes Benz and Cadillac Republicans. There was another stream further along Divided through a marsh, lined by the fence We stretched to posts with Mister Garner's help The time he needed cash for his son's bail And offered all his place. A noble spring Under the oak root cooled his milk and butter. He called me "honey," working with us there (My father bought three acres as a gift), His wife pale, hair a country orange, voice Uncanny, like a ghost's, through the open door Behind her, chickens scratching on the floor. Barred Rocks, our chickens; one, a rooster, splendid Sliver and grey, red comb and long sharp spurs, Once chased Aunt Jennie as far as the daphne bed The two big king snakes were familiars of. My father's dog would challenge him sometimes To laughter and applause. Once, in Stone Mountain, Travelers, stopped for gas, drove off with Smokey; Angrily, grievingly, leaving his work, my father Traced the car and found them way far south, Had them arrested and, bringing Smokey home, Was proud as Sherlock Holmes, and happier. Above the spring, my sister's cats, black Amy, Grey Junior, down to meet us. The rose trees, Domestic, Asiatic, my father's favorites. The bridge, marauding dragonflies, the bullfrog, 15 Camellias cracked and blackened by the freeze, Bay tree, mimosa, mountain laurel, apple, Monkey pine twenty feet high, banana shrub, The owls' tall pine curved like a flattened S. The pump house Mort and I built block by block, Smooth concrete floor, roof pale aluminum Half-covered by a clematis, the pump Thirty feet down the mountain's granite foot. Mort was the hired man sent to us by Fortune, Childlike enough to lead us. He brought home, Although he could not even drive a tractor, Cheated, a worthless car, which we returned. When, at the trial to garnishee his wages, Frank Guess, the judge, Grandmother's longtime neighbor, Whose children my mother taught in Cradle Roll, Heard Mort's examination, he broke in As if in disbelief on the bank's attorneys: "Gentlemen, must we continue this charade?" Finally, past the compost heap, the garden, Tomatoes and sweet corn for succotash, Okra for frying, Kentucky Wonders, limas, Cucumbers, squashes, leeks heaped round with soil, Lavender, dill, parsley, and rosemary, Tithonia and zinnias between the rows; The greenhouse by the rock wall, used for cuttings In late spring, frames to grow them strong for planting Through winter into summer. Early one morning Mort called out, lying helpless by the bridge. His ashes we let drift where the magnolia We planted as a stem divides the path The others lie, too young, at Silver Hill, Except my mother. Ninety-five, she lives Three thousand miles away, beside the bare Pacific, in rooms that overlook the Mission, The Riviera, and the silver range La Cumbre east. Magnolia grandiflora And one druidic live oak guard the view. Proudly around the walls, she shows her paintings Of twenty years ago: the great oak's arm Extended, Zeuslike, straight and strong, wisteria Tangled among the branches, amaryllis 16 Around the base; her cat, UC, at ease In marigolds; the weeping cherry, pink And white arms like a blessing to the blue Bird feeder Mort made; cabin, scarlet sweet gum Superb when tribes migrated north and south. Alert, still quick of speech, a little blind, Active, ready for laughter, open to fear, Pity, and wonder that such things may be, Some Sundays, I think, she must walk the line, Aunt Jennie, too, if she were still alive, And Eleanor, whose story is untold, Their presences like muses, prompting me In my small study, all listening to the sea, All of one mind, the true posterity. ~ Edgar Bowers,

1080:Margaery 'Truth lights our minds as sunrise lights the world. The heart that shuts out truth, excludes the light That wakes the love of beauty in the soul; And being foe to these, despises God, The sole Dispenser of the gracious bliss That brings us nearer the celestial gate. They who might feed on rose-leaves of the True, And grow in loveliness of heart and soul, Catch at Deception's airy gossamers, As children clutch at stars. To some, the world Is a bleak desert, parched with blinding sand, With here and there a mirage, fair to view, But insubstantial as the visions born Of Folly and Despair. Could we but know How nigh we are to the true light of heaven; In what a world of love we live and breathe; On what a tide of truth our souls are borne! Yet we're but bubbles in the whirl of life, Mere flecks upon its ever-restless sea, Meteors in its ever-changing sky. Eternity alone is worth the thought That we expend upon the passing hour, Chasing the gaudy butterflies that lure Our footsteps from the path that leads us home. We will not see the beacon on the rock; The prompter is unheeded; and the spark Of the true spirit quenched in utter night, As we rush headlong, wrecked on Error's shoals. Some hearts will never open; all their wards Have grown so rusty, that the golden key Of Love Divine must fail to move the bolt That Self has drawn to keep God's angels out.' So spake the merry Margery, the while Her fingers lengthened out a filigree, That seemed to me so many golden threads Of thought between her fingers and her brain, Bestrung with priceless pearls; her lightsome mood, Worn as occasion might necessitate, 86 Replaced to-night by sober-sided Sense, That made her beauty like an eve in June, Just as the moon is risen. I, to mark My approbation of her present mood, Rehearsed a rambling lyric of my own, That seemed prophetic of her thoughts to-night: Within my mind there ever lives A yearning for the True, The Beautiful and Good. God gives These, as He gives the dew That falls upon the flowers at night, The grass, the thirsty trees, Because 'tis needful; and the light That suns my mind from theseTruth-Beauty-Goodness, doth but fill A void within my soul; And I fall prone before the Will Of Him who gave the wholeThe wondrous life-the power to think, And love, and act, and speak. Standing, half-poised, upon the brink Of being-strong, yet weakStrong in vast hopes, but weak in deeds, I lift my heart and pray, That where the tangled skein of creeds Excludes the light of day From human minds, God's purposes May be made plain, that all May walk in truth's and wisdom's ways, And lay aside the thrall Of enmity, whose clouds have kept Their souls as dark as night; That they whose love and hope have slept, May come into the light, 87 And live as men, with minds to grasp Within the sphere of thought The boundless universe, and clasp The good the wise have sought, As if it were a long-lost dove, Or a stray soul returned To worship in the fane of love, That it so long had spurned. Where'er I gaze, my eyes behold Nought but the beautiful. The world is grand as it is old; The only fitting school For man, where he may learn to live, And live to learn that what He needs heaven will in mercy give. Whatever be his lot, He shapes it for himself; his mind Is his own heaven or hell: Just as he peoples it, he'll find Himself compelled to dwell With good or evil. Good abounds In this delightful sphere; But man will walk his daily rounds, And evermore give ear To the false promptings that waylay His steps at every turn; Flinging the true and good away For joys that he should spurn, As being all unworthy of His greatness as a man. Why, man!-why tremble at the scoff Of fools and bigots? Scan The mental firmament, and see How men in every age, 88 Who strove for immortalityWhose errand was to wage Not War, but Peace-men of pure minds, Who sought and found the truth, And treasured it, as one who finds The secret of lost Youth Restored and made immortal-see How they were scorned, because Their Sphinx-lives spake of mystery To those to whom the laws Of nature are as clasped books!Poets, who ruled the world Of Thought; in whose prophetic looks And minds there lay impearled, But hidden from the vulgar sight, Such universal truths, That many, blinded by the lightGray-haired, green-gosling youths, With whips of satire, looks of scorn, And finger of disdain, Have crushed these harbingers of morn, But could not kill the strain That was a part of nature's mind, And therefore can not die. That which men spurned, angels have shrined Among God's truths on high. And so 't will ever be, till man Knows more of Goodness, Truth, And Beauty-more of nature's plan, And Love that brings back youth To hearts that have grown frail and old By groping in the dark With blinded eyes; their idol, Gold, And Gain, their Pleasure-bark! 89 ''Tis well that nature hath her ministers,' She said, her voice and looks so passing sweet; 'Great-hearts that let in love, and keep it there, Like the true flame within the diamond's heart, Informing, blessing, chastening their lives. Man has but one great love-his love for God; All other loves are lesser and more less As they recede from Him, as are the streams The farthest from the fountain. God is Love. Who loves God most, loves most his fellow-men; Sees the Creator in the creature's form Where others see but man-and he, so frail The very devils are akin to him! There is no light that is not born of love; No truth where love is not its guiding star; Faith without love is noonday without sun, For love begetteth works both good and true, And these give faith its immortality.' We parted at the outer door. The stars Seemed never half so bright or numberless As they appeared to-night. Margery's laugh Tripped after me in merry cadences, Like the quick steps of fairies in the air United to the chorus of their hearts Breathed into silvery music. Happy soul! Nature's epitome in all her moods. ~ Charles Sangster,

1081:A Winter's Tale It is a winter's tale That the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakes And floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales, Gliding windless through the hand folded flakes, The pale breath of cattle at the stealthy sail, And the stars falling cold, And the smell of hay in the snow, and the far owl Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold Flocked with the sheep white smoke of the farm house cowl In the river wended vales where the tale was told. Once when the world turned old On a star of faith pure as the drifting bread, As the food and flames of the snow, a man unrolled The scrolls of fire that burned in his heart and head, Torn and alone in a farm house in a fold Of fields. And burning then In his firelit island ringed by the winged snow And the dung hills white as wool and the hen Roosts sleeping chill till the flame of the cock crow Combs through the mantled yards and the morning men Stumble out with their spades, The cattle stirring, the mousing cat stepping shy, The puffed birds hopping and hunting, the milkmaids Gentle in their clogs over the fallen sky, And all the woken farm at its white trades, He knelt, he wept, he prayed, By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light And the cup and the cut bread in the dancing shade, In the muffled house, in the quick of night, At the point of love, forsaken and afraid. He knelt on the cold stones, He wept form the crest of grief, he prayed to the veiled sky May his hunger go howling on bare white bones 23 Past the statues of the stables and the sky roofed sties And the duck pond glass and the blinding byres alone Into the home of prayers And fires where he should prowl down the cloud Of his snow blind love and rush in the white lairs. His naked need struck him howling and bowed Though no sound flowed down the hand folded air But only the wind strung Hunger of birds in the fields of the bread of water, tossed In high corn and the harvest melting on their tongues. And his nameless need bound him burning and lost When cold as snow he should run the wended vales among The rivers mouthed in night, And drown in the drifts of his need, and lie curled caught In the always desiring centre of the white Inhuman cradle and the bride bed forever sought By the believer lost and the hurled outcast of light. Deliver him, he cried, By losing him all in love, and cast his need Alone and naked in the engulfing bride, Never to flourish in the fields of the white seed Or flower under the time dying flesh astride. Listen. The minstrels sing In the departed villages. The nightingale, Dust in the buried wood, flies on the grains of her wings And spells on the winds of the dead his winter's tale. The voice of the dust of water from the withered spring Is telling. The wizened Stream with bells and baying water bounds. The dew rings On the gristed leaves and the long gone glistening Parish of snow. The carved mouths in the rock are wind swept strings. Time sings through the intricately dead snow drop. Listen. It was a hand or sound In the long ago land that glided the dark door wide And there outside on the bread of the ground 24 A she bird rose and rayed like a burning bride. A she bird dawned, and her breast with snow and scarlet downed. Look. And the dancers move On the departed, snow bushed green, wanton in moon light As a dust of pigeons. Exulting, the grave hooved Horses, centaur dead, turn and tread the drenched white Paddocks in the farms of birds. The dead oak walks for love. The carved limbs in the rock Leap, as to trumpets. Calligraphy of the old Leaves is dancing. Lines of age on the stones weave in a flock. And the harp shaped voice of the water's dust plucks in a fold Of fields. For love, the long ago she bird rises. Look. And the wild wings were raised Above her folded head, and the soft feathered voice Was flying through the house as though the she bird praised And all the elements of the slow fall rejoiced That a man knelt alone in the cup of the vales, In the mantle and calm, By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light. And the sky of birds in the plumed voice charmed Him up and he ran like a wind after the kindling flight Past the blind barns and byres of the windless farm. In the poles of the year When black birds died like priests in the cloaked hedge row And over the cloth of counties the far hills rode near, Under the one leaved trees ran a scarecrow of snow And fast through the drifts of the thickets antlered like deer, Rags and prayers down the kneeDeep hillocks and loud on the numbed lakes, All night lost and long wading in the wake of the sheBird through the times and lands and tribes of the slow flakes. Listen and look where she sails the goose plucked sea, The sky, the bird, the bride, The cloud, the need, the planted stars, the joy beyond The fields of seed and the time dying flesh astride, 25 The heavens, the heaven, the grave, the burning font. In the far ago land the door of his death glided wide, And the bird descended. On a bread white hill over the cupped farm And the lakes and floating fields and the river wended Vales where he prayed to come to the last harm And the home of prayers and fires, the tale ended. The dancing perishes On the white, no longer growing green, and, minstrel dead, The singing breaks in the snow shoed villages of wishes That once cut the figures of birds on the deep bread And over the glazed lakes skated the shapes of fishes Flying. The rite is shorn Of nightingale and centaur dead horse. The springs wither Back. Lines of age sleep on the stones till trumpeting dawn. Exultation lies down. Time buries the spring weather That belled and bounded with the fossil and the dew reborn. For the bird lay bedded In a choir of wings, as though she slept or died, And the wings glided wide and he was hymned and wedded, And through the thighs of the engulfing bride, The woman breasted and the heaven headed Bird, he was brought low, Burning in the bride bed of love, in the whirlPool at the wanting centre, in the folds Of paradise, in the spun bud of the world. And she rose with him flowering in her melting snow. ~ Dylan Thomas,

1082:L'Héautontimorouménos (The Man Who Tortures Himself) L'Héautontimorouménos Je te frapperai sans colère Et sans haine, comme un boucher, Comme Moïse le rocher Et je ferai de ta paupière, Pour abreuver mon Saharah Jaillir les eaux de la souffrance. Mon désir gonflé d'espérance Sur tes pleurs salés nagera Comme un vaisseau qui prend le large, Et dans mon coeur qu'ils soûleront Tes chers sanglots retentiront Comme un tambour qui bat la charge! Ne suis-je pas un faux accord Dans la divine symphonie, Grâce à la vorace Ironie Qui me secoue et qui me mord Elle est dans ma voix, la criarde! C'est tout mon sang ce poison noir! Je suis le sinistre miroir Où la mégère se regarde. Je Je Je Et suis la plaie et le couteau! suis le soufflet et la joue! suis les membres et la roue, la victime et le bourreau! Je suis de mon coeur le vampire, — Un de ces grands abandonnés Au rire éternel condamnés Et qui ne peuvent plus sourire! The Man Who Tortures Himself I shall strike you without anger 356 And without hate, like a butcher, As Moses struck the rock! And from your eyelids I shall make The waters of suffering gush forth To inundate my Sahara. My desire swollen with hope Will float upon your salty tears Like a vessel which puts to sea, And in my heart that they'll make drunk Your beloved sobs will resound Like a drum beating the charge! Am I not a discord In the heavenly symphony, Thanks to voracious Irony Who shakes me and who bites me? She's in my voice, the termagant! All my blood is her black poison! I am the sinister mirror In which the vixen looks. I am the wound and the dagger! I am the blow and the cheek! I am the members and the wheel, Victim and executioner! I'm the vampire of my own heart — One of those utter derelicts Condemned to eternal laughter, But who can no longer smile! — Translated by William Aggeler Heautontimoroumenos I'll strike you, but without the least Anger — as butchers poll an ox, Or Moses, when he struck the rocks — 357 That from your eyelid thus released, The lymph of suffering may brim To slake my desert of its drought. So my desire, by hope made stout, Upon your salty tears may swim, Like a proud ship, far out from shore. Within my heart, which they'll confound With drunken joy, your sobs will sound Like drums that beat a charge in war. I am I not a faulty chord In all this symphony divine, Thanks to the irony malign That shakes and cuts me like a sword? It's in my voice, the raucous jade! It's in my blood's black venom too! I am the looking-glass, wherethrough Megera sees herself portrayed! I am the wound, and yet the blade! The smack, and yet the cheek that takes it! The limb, and yet the wheel that breaks it, The torturer, and he who's flayed! One of the sort whom all revile, A Vampire, my own blood I quaff, Condemned to an eternal laugh Because I know not how to smile. — Translated by Roy Campbell Heauton Timoroumenos I mean to strike you without hate, As butchers do; as Moses did The rock. From under either lid Your tears will flow to inundate 358 This huge Sahara which is I. My heart, insensible with pain, Caught in that flood will live again: Will care whether it live or die — Will strive as in the salty sea, Drunken with brine and all but drowned, Yet driven onward by the sound Of your wild sobbing endlessly! For look — I am at war, my dear, With the whole universe. I know There is no medicine for my woe. Believe me, it is called Despair. It runs in all my veins. I pray: It cries in all my words. I am The very glass where what I damn Leers and admires itself all day. I am the wound — I am the knife The deep wound scabbards; the outdrawn Rack, and the writhing thereupon; The lifeless, and the taker of life. I murder what I most adore, Laughing: I am indeed of those Condemned for ever without repose To laugh — but who can smile no more. — Translated by George Dillon Heautontimoroumenos The Man Who Tortures Himself I shall cleave without scrape or shock, And, like a butcher, without hate, Like Moses, when he struck the rock. From your eyes I shall generate 359 Waters of woe throughout the years To quench my fierce Sahara fires, Swollen with vast hope, my desires Shall float upon your bitter tears Like a proud vessel, sailing large; And in my heart, drunk at the sound, Your cherished sobbing shall resound Like drums beating the long lost charge. Am I not a discordant note In the celestial symphony, Thanks to voracious Irony Who shakes and bites me at the throat? She's in my voice, the scold; her black Poison is all my blood, alas! I am the direful looking glass Which flashes her reflection back. I am the wound, the knives that strike, The blows that crush, the head that reels, I am wrenched limbs and grinding wheels, Victim and hangman, as you like! Vampire of my own heart, meanwhile, A derelict, I am of those Doomed to eternal laughter's throes, Yet powerless to frame a smile! — Translated by Jacques LeClercq L'Héautontimouroménos I'll strike thee without enmity nor wrath, like butchers at the block, like Moses when he smote the rock! I'll make those eyelids gush for me with springs of suffering, whose flow shall slake the desert of my thirst; — a salt flood, where my lust accurst, with Hope to plump her sail, shall go 360 as from the port a pitching barge, and in my heart they satiate thy sobs I love shall fulminate loud as a drum that beats a charge! for am I not a clashing chord in all Thy heavenly symphony, thanks to this vulture Irony that shakes and bites me always, Lord? she's in my voice, the screaming elf! my poisoned blood came all from her! I am the mirror sinister in which the vixen sees herself! I am the wound and I the knife! I am the blow I give, and feel! I am the broken limbs, the wheel, the hangman and the strangled life! I am my heart's own vampire, for God has forsaken me, and men, these lips can never smile again, but laugh they must, and evermore! — Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931) ~ Charles Baudelaire,

1083:Orpheus Love will make men dare to die for their beloved. . . Of this Alcestis is a monument . . . for she was willing to lay down her life for her husband . . . and so noble did this appear to the gods that they granted her the privilege of returning to earth . . . but Orpheus, the son of OEagrus, they sent empty away. . . Plato: The Symposium Orpheus the Harper, coming to the gate Where the implacable dim warder sate, Besought for parley with a shade within, Dearer to him than life itself had been, Sweeter than sunlight on Illyrian sea, Or bloom of myrtle, or murmur of laden bee, Whom lately from his unconsenting breast The Fates, at some capricious blind behest, Intolerably had reft—Eurydice, Dear to the sunlight as Illyrian sea, Sweet as the murmur of bees, or myrtle bloom— And uncompanioned led her to the tomb. There, solitary by the Stygian tide, Strayed her dear feet, the shadow of his own, Since, ’mid the desolate millions who have died, Each phantom walks its crowded path alone; And there her head, that slept upon his breast, No more had such sweet harbour for its rest, Nor her swift ear from those disvoiced throats Could catch one echo of his living notes, And, dreaming nightly of her pallid doom, No solace had he of his own young bloom, But yearned to pour his blood into her veins And buy her back with unimagined pains. To whom the Shepherd of the Shadows said: “Yea, many thus would bargain for their dead; But when they hear my fatal gateway clang Life quivers in them with a last sweet pang. They see the smoke of home above the trees, 51 The cordage whistles on the harbour breeze; The beaten path that wanders to the shore Grows dear because they shall not tread it more, The dog that drowsing on their threshold lies Looks at them with their childhood in his eyes, And in the sunset’s melancholy fall They read a sunrise that shall give them all.” “Not thus am I,” the Harper smiled his scorn. “I see no path but those her feet have worn; My roof-tree is the shadow of her hair, And the light breaking through her long despair The only sunrise that mine eyelids crave; For doubly dead without me in the grave Is she who, if my feet had gone before, Had found life dark as death’s abhorred shore.” The gate clanged on him, and he went his way Amid the alien millions, mute and grey, Swept like a cold mist down an unlit strand, Where nameless wreckage gluts the stealthy sand, Drift of the cockle-shells of hope and faith Wherein they foundered on the rock of death. So came he to the image that he sought (Less living than her semblance in his thought), Who, at the summons of his thrilling notes, Drew back to life as a drowned creature floats Back to the surface; yet no less is dead. And cold fear smote him till she spoke and said: “Art thou then come to lay thy lips on mine, And pour thy life’s libation out like wine? Shall I, through thee, revisit earth again, Traverse the shining sea, the fruitful plain, Behold the house we dwelt in, lay my head Upon the happy pillows of our bed, And feel in dreams the pressure of thine arms Kindle these pulses that no memory warms? Nay: give me for a space upon thy breast Death’s shadowy substitute for rapture—rest; Then join again the joyous living throng, And give me life, but give it in thy song; 52 For only they that die themselves may give Life to the dead: and I would have thee live.” Fear seized him closer than her arms; but he Answered: “Not so—for thou shalt come with me! I sought thee not that we should part again, But that fresh joy should bud from the old pain; And the gods, if grudgingly their gifts they make, Yield all to them that without asking take.” “The gods,” she said, “(so runs life’s ancient lore) Yield all man takes, but always claim their score. The iron wings of the Eumenides When heard far off seem but a summer breeze; But me thou’lt have alive on earth again Only by paying here my meed of pain. Then lay on my cold lips the tender ghost Of the dear kiss that used to warm them most, Take from my frozen hands thy hands of fire, And of my heart-strings make thee a new lyre, That in thy music men may find my voice, And something of me still on earth rejoice.” Shuddering he heard her, but with close-flung arm Swept her resisting through the ghostly swarm. “Swift, hide thee ’neath my cloak, that we may glide Past the dim warder as the gate swings wide.” He whirled her with him, lighter than a leaf Unwittingly whirled onward by a brief Autumnal eddy; but when the fatal door Suddenly yielded him to life once more, And issuing to the all-consoling skies He turned to seek the sunlight in her eyes, He clutched at emptiness—she was not there; And the dim warder answered to his prayer: “Only once have I seen the wonder wrought. But when Alcestis thus her master sought, Living she sought him not, nor dreamed that fate For any subterfuge would swing my gate. Loving, she gave herself to livid death, Joyous she bought his respite with her breath, Came, not embodied, but a tenuous shade, 53 In whom her rapture a great radiance made. For never saw I ghost upon this shore Shine with such living ecstasy before, Nor heard an exile from the light above Hail me with smiles: Thou art not Death but Love! “But when the gods, frustrated, this beheld, How, living still, among the dead she dwelled, Because she lived in him whose life she won, And her blood beat in his beneath the sun, They reasoned: ‘When the bitter Stygian wave The sweetness of love’s kisses cannot lave, When the pale flood of Lethe washes not From mortal mind one high immortal thought, Akin to us the earthly creature grows, Since nature suffers only what it knows. If she whom we to this grey desert banned Still dreams she treads with him the sunlit land That for his sake she left without a tear, Set wide the gates—her being is not here.’ “So ruled the gods; but thou, that sought’st to give Thy life for love, yet for thyself wouldst live. They know not for their kin; but back to earth Give, pitying, one that is of mortal birth.” Humbled the Harper heard, and turned away, Mounting alone to the empoverished day; Yet, as he left the Stygian shades behind, He heard the cordage on the harbour wind, Saw the blue smoke above the homestead trees, And in his hidden heart was glad of these. ~ Edith Wharton,

1084:At Delphi Apollo! Apollo! Apollo! II Where hast thou, Apollo, gone? I have wandered on and on, Through the shaggy Dorian gorges, Down from where Parnassus forges Thunder for the Phocian valleys; Where the Pleistus springs and sallies Past ravines and caverns dread, Have, like it, meanderëd; But I cannot see thee, hear thee, Find thee, feel thee, get anear thee. Though in quest of thee I go where Thou didst haunt, I find thee nowhere, Apollo! Apollo! Apollo! III Still no answer comes. . . . Apollo! Vainly do I call and holloa Into each Crissoean cleft Where the last year's leaves are left. Deem not I have pushed my way But from stony Amphissà. I have come from far-off land, Traversed foam, traversed sand, From green pastures sea-surrounded, Where thy phorminx never sounded; O'er the broad and barren acres Of the vainly furrowed breakers, Across mountains loftier far Than the peaks of Pindus are; Skirted groves of pine and fir Denser than lone Tempe's were, With no selfish tread, but only I might find thee, lovely, lonely, Lingering by thy sacred city: On me wilt thou not have pity? 152 Sun-god! Song-god! I implore thee! Glow, and let me pale before thee, Apollo! Apollo! Apollo! IV Fallen tablet, prostrate column, Solitude and silence solemn! Half-tilled patches, squalid hovels, Where life multiplies and grovelsIs this Delphi, this the shrine Of the Musagete divine? This the cavern, this the cell, Of the Pythian oracle! Where the tripod, where the altar, Incense, embassy, and psalter? Can this pool of cresses be Cradle of pure Castaly? From the rock though still it bubbles, Travels onwards, halts, and doubles, Where the Muses wont to lave Limbs as vestal as its wave, 'Mong the flashing waters flashing,Gaunt and withered crones are washing. Not a note of lyre or zittern, But, below, the booming bittern Waits his quarry to inveigle, While o'erhead the silent eagle, Blinking, stares at the blank sunAll of thee that is not gone, Apollo! Apollo! Who art thou, intruder weird! With the fine and flowing beard? Whom no snowy robes encumber, But a habit black and sombre, Yet in whose composëd eyes Lurks the light of mysteries. Priest thou seemest, but not one Of the loved Latona's son. In thy aspect is no gladness, Glance nor gleam of joyous madness, 153 Only gloom, only sadness. Underneath thy knotted girdle Thoughts congeal and passions curdle, And about thy brow ascetic Lives nor light nor line prophetic. Priest, but priest not of Apollo, Whither wouldst thou have me follow? Lead but onward, I will enter Where thy cold gaze seems to centre, Underneath yon portal dismal, Into dusk and chill abysmal. Hast thou pent him? Is He lying There within, dethroned and dying? If thou breathest, hear me crying, ``Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!'' VI No, but here He cannot be, God of light and poesy! What are these I see around, Gloomy upon gloomy ground, Making wall and roof to seem Sepulchre of morbid dream? Visages with aspect stony, Bodies lean, and lank, and bony, In whose lineaments I trace Neither love, nor joy, nor grace: Youth with limbs disused and old, Maidens pale, contorted, cold, Flames devouring, pincers wrenching Muscles naked but unblenching, Writhing snakes forked venom darting Into flesh-wounds, gaping, smarting, Furies shagged with tresses fell, Ghouls and ghosts of nether hell! Priest of beauty! Priest of song! Aid me, if thou still art strong! See me! save me! bear me whither Glows thy light that brought me hither, Apollo! Apollo! Apollo! VII 154 O the sunshine once again! O to stand a man 'mong men! Lo! the horrid nightmare pales In the light of flowing vales, In the gaze of steadfast mountains, Sidelong runnels, forward fountains, Spacious sky, receding air, Breadth and bounty everywhere. What if all the gods be dead, Nature reigneth in their stead. Let me dream the noon away Underneath this full-blown bay, Where the yellow bees are busy, Till they stagger, drowsy, dizzy, From the honeyed wine that wells Up the branches to the cells Of the myriad-clustered flowers Dropping golden flakes in showers. Here reclined, I will surrender Sense and soul unto the tender Mingling of remote and close: Gods voluptuous, gods morose; Altars at whose marble meet Downcast eyes and dancing feet; Awful dirges, glad carouse, Unveiled bosoms, shaded brows, Wreathëd steer and tonsured skull, Shapes austere with beautiful; Till the past and present swim In an ether distant, dim, And the Delphic fumes rise denser From a silver-swinging censer, And in one harmonious dream, Through a heavenly nimbus, gleam Lovely limbs and longings saintly, And pale virgins murmur faintly, ``Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!'' VIII Priest, but priest not of Apollo, Why dost thou my footsteps follow From the deep dark shrine down there 155 To this temple of the air? What, profaner! wouldst thou lay Hands upon the sacred bay, Tearing Daphne limb from limb! Hast thou, then, no dread of Him? How? For me? Avaunt, and pass! I am not fool Marsyas. Stay! Then to my forehead bind it, Round my temples wreathe and wind it; 'Chance the Avenger then will come, Haunt and grot no more be dumb, But the rills and steeps be ringing, And a long array come singing, ``Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!'' IX All in vain! Nor prayer nor taunt Tempts him back to his loved haunt. Fretted tablet, fallen column, Solitude and silence solemn! He again from Peneus ne'er Will to Castaly repair; Never more in cavern dread Will his oracles be read; Now I know that Thou art dead, Apollo! Then like fountain in mine ear Spake the god aloud and clear: ``Take it! Wear it! Tis for thee, Singer from the Northern Sea. If the least, not last of those, Suckled 'mong the genial snows. Though the Muses may have left Tempe's glen and Delphi's cleft, Wanderer! they have only gone Hence to murmuring Albion. Need was none to travel hither: Child of England, go back thither. Traverse foam, traverse sand; Back, and in thy native land 156 Thou wilt find what thou dost seek. There the oracles still speak; There the mounting fumes inspire Glowing brain and living lyre. There the Muses prompt the strain, There they renovate my reign; There thou wilt not call in vain, `Apollo! Apollo! Apollo!''' ~ Alfred Austin,

1085:wrote a series of memorials in remonstrance. As Governor of Hangzhou Again, ~ Bai Juyi was sent away from the court and the capital, but this time to the important position of the thriving town of Hangzhou, which was at the southern terminus of the Grand Canal and located in the scenic neighborhood of West Lake. Fortunately for their friendship, Yuan Zhen at the time was serving an assignment in nearby Ningbo, also in what is today Zhejiang, so the two could occasionally get together, at least until ~ Bai Juyi 's term as Governor expired. As governor of Hangzhou ~ Bai Juyi realised that the farmland nearby depended on the water of West Lake, but due to the negligence of previous governors, the old dike had collapsed, and the lake so dried out that the local farmers were suffering from severe drought. He ordered the construction of a stronger and taller dike, with a dam to control the flow of water, thus providing water for irrigation and so relieving the drought and improving the livelihood of the local people over the following years. ~ Bai Juyi used his leisure time to enjoy the beauty of West Lake, visiting the lake almost every day. He ordered the construction of a causeway connecting Broken Bridge with Solitary Hill to allow walking on foot, instead of requiring the services of a boat. He then planted trees along the dike, making it a beautiful landmark. Afterwards, this causeway was named Bai Causeway, in ~ Bai Juyi 's honour. Life Near Luoyang In 824, ~ Bai Juyi 's commission as governor expired, and he received the nominal rank of Imperial Tutor, which provided more in the way of official salary than official duties, and he relocated his household to a suburb of the "eastern capital", Luoyang. At this time, Luoyang was the known as the 'Eastern Capital' of the empire and was a major metropolis with a population of around one million, and a reputation as the "cultural capital", as opposed to the more politically-oriented capital of Chang'an. Governor of Suzhou In 825, and fifty-three years old, ~ Bai Juyi was given the position of Governor (or Prefect) of Suzhou, on the lower reaches of the Yangtze River and on the shores of Taihu Lake. For the first two years he enjoyed himself with feasts and picnic outings, but after a couple of years he became ill, and he was forced into a period of retirement. Later Career After his time as Prefect of Hangzhou (822-824) and then Suzhou (825-827), Bai Juyi returned to the capital. He then served in various official posts in the capital, and then again as prefect/governor, this time of Henan province, which was the province in which Luoyang was part of. It was in Henan that his first son was born, though only to die prematurely the next year; and, in 831 Yuan Zhen died. For the next thirteen years, ~ Bai Juyi continued to hold various nominal posts, but actually lived in retirement. Retirement In 832, ~ Bai Juyi repaired an unused part of the Xiangshan Monastery, at Longmen, about 7.5 miles south of Luoyang. ~ Bai Juyi moved to this location, and began to refer to himself as the "Hermit of Xianshang".This area, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is famous for its tens of thousands of statues of Buddha and his disciples carved out of the rock. In 839, he experienced a paralytic attack, losing the use of his left leg, and became a bedridden invalid for several months. After his partial recovery, he spent his final years arranging his Collected Works, which he presented to the main monasteries of those localities in which he had spent time. Death In 846, ~ Bai Juyi died, leaving instructions for a simple burial in a grave at the monastery, with a plain style funeral, and not to have a posthumous title conferred upon him. He has a tomb monument, in Longmen, situated on Xiangshan, across the Yi River from the Longmen cave temples in the vicinity of Luoyang, Henan. It is a circular mound of earth 4 meters high, 52 meters in circumference, and with a 2.80 meter high Monument inscribed "~ Bai Juyi ". Works ~ Bai Juyi has been known for his plain, direct, and easily comprehensible style of verse, as well as for his social and political criticism. Besides his surviving poems, several letters and essays are also extent. History One of the most prolific of the Tang poets, ~ Bai Juyi wrote over 2,800 poems, which he had copied and distributed to ensure their survival. They are notable for their relative accessibility: it is said that he would rewrite any part of a poem if one of his servants was unable to understand it. The accessibility of ~ Bai Juyi 's poems made them extremely popular in his lifetime, in both China and Japan, and they continue to be read in these countries today. Famous Poems Two of his most famous works are the long narrative poems The Song of Everlasting Sorrow, which tells the story of Yang Guifei, and The Song of the Pipa Player. Like Du Fu, he had a strong sense of social responsibility and is well known for his satirical poems, such as The Elderly Charcoal Seller. ~ Bai Juyi also wrote intensely romantic poems to fellow officials with whom he studied and traveled. These speak of sharing wine, sleeping together, and viewing the moon and mountains. One friend, Yu Shunzhi, sent Bai a bolt of cloth as a gift from a far-off posting, and ~ Bai Juyi debated on how best to use the precious material: About to cut it to make a mattress, pitying the breaking of the leaves; about to cut it to make a bag, pitying the dividing of the flowers. It is better to sew it, making a coverlet of joined delight; I think of you as if I'm with you, day or night. Technical Virtuosity ~ Bai Juyi was known for his interest in the old yuefu form of poetry, which was a typical form of Han poetry, namely folk ballad verses, collected or written by the Music Bureau. These were often a form of social protest. And, in fact, writing poetry to promote social progress was explicitly one of his objectives. He is also known for his well-written poems in the regulated verse style. A Foresaken Garden I enter the court Through the middle gate— And my sleeve is wet with tears. The flowers still grow In the courtyard, Though two springs have fled Since last their master came. The windows, porch, and bamboo screen Are just as they always were, But at the entrance to the house Someone is missing— You! ~ Bai Juyi,

1086:was also renowned in Japan. Burton Watson says of ~ Bai Juyi : "he worked to develop a style that was simple and easy to understand, and posterity has requited his efforts by making him one of the most well-loved and widely read of all Chinese poets, both in his native land and in the other countries of the East that participate in the appreciation of Chinese culture. He also, thanks to the translations and biographical studies by Arthur Waley, one of the most accessible to English readers". Today the fame of ~ Bai Juyi is worldwide. Name variants Names Pinyin: Bó Juyì or Bái Juyì Wade-Giles: Po Chü-i or Pai Chü-i Zì : Lètian Hào : Xiangshan Jushì Zuìyín Xiansheng Shì Wén (hence referred to as Bái Wéngong ) ~ Bai Juyi often referred to himself in life as Letian, the older English transcription version being Lo-t'ien, meaning something like "happy-go-lucky". Later in life, he referred to himself as the Hermit of Xiangshan. Life ~ Bai Juyi lived during the Middle Tang period. This was a period of rebuilding and recovery for the Tang Empire, following the An Shi Rebellion, and following the poetically flourishing era famous for Li Bo (701-762), Wang Wei (701-761), and Du Fu (712-770). ~ Bai Juyi lived through the reign of eight or nine emperors, being born in the Dali regnal era (766-779) of Emperor Daizong of Tang. He had a long and successful career both as a government official and a poet, although these two facets of his career seemed to have come in conflict with each other at certain points. ~ Bai Juyi was also a devoted Chan Buddist. Birth and childhood ~ Bai Juyi was born in 772, in Taiyuan, Shanxi, which was then a few miles from location of the modern city. Although he was in Zhengyang, Henan for most of his childhood. His family was poor but scholarly, his father being an Assistant Department Magistrate of the second-class. At the age of ten he was sent away from his family to avoid a war that broke out in the north of China, and went to live with relatives in the area known as Jiangnan, more specifically Xuzhou. Early career ~ Bai Juyi 's official career was initially successful. He passed the jinshi examinations in 800. ~ Bai Juyi may have taken up residence in the western capital city of Chang'an, in 801. Not long after this, ~ Bai Juyi and formed a long friendship with a scholar Yuan Zhen. ~ Bai Juyi 's father died in 804, and the young Bai spent the traditional period of retirement mourning the death of his parent, which he did along the Wei River, near to the capital. 806 was the first full year of the reign of Emperor Xianzong of Tang. Also, 806 was the ~ Bai Juyi was appointed to a minor post as a government official, at Zhouzhi, which was not far from the Chang'an (and also in Shaanxi province). He was made a member (scholar) of the Hanlin Academy, in 807, and Reminder of the Left from 807 until 815, except in 811 when his mother died. He spent the traditional three year mourning period again along the Wei River, and returned to court in the winter of 814, where he held the title of Assistant Secretary to the Prince's Tutor. It was not a high ranking position, but nevertheless one which he was soon to lose. Exile While serving as a minor palace official, 814, Bei Juyi managed to get himself in official trouble. He made a few enemies at court and with certain individuals in other positions. It was partly his written works which lead him into trouble. He wrote two long memorials, translated by Arthur Waley as "On Stopping the War", regarding what he considered to be an overly lengthy campaign against a minor group of Tatars; and he wrote a series of poems, in which he satirized the actions of greedy officials and highlighting the sufferings of the common folk. At this time, one of the post-An Lushan warlords (jiedushi), Wu Yuanji in Henan, had seized control of Zhangyi Circuit (centered in Zhumadian), an act for which he sought reconciliation with the imperial government, trying to get an imperial pardon as a necessary prerequisite. Despite the intercession of influential friends, Wu was denied, thus officially putting him in the position of rebellion. Still seeking a pardon, Wu turned to assassination, blaming the Prime Minister (another Wu, Wu Yuanheng) and other officials: the imperial court generally began by dawn, requiring the ministers to rise early in order to attend in a timely manner; and, on July 13, 815, before dawn, the Tang Prime Minister Wu Yuanheng was set to go to the palace for a meeting with Emperor Xianzong. As he left his house, arrows were fired at his retinue. His servants all fled, and the assassins seized Wu Yuanheng and his horse, and then decapitated him, taking his head with them. The assassins also attacked another official who favored the campaign against the rebellious warlords, Pei Du, but was unable to kill him. The people at the capital were shocked and there was turmoil, with officials refusing to leave their personal residences until after dawn. In this context, ~ Bai Juyi overstepped his minor position by memorializing the emperor. As Assistant Secretary to the Prince's Tutor, Bai's memorial was a breach of protocol — he should have waited for those of censorial authority to take the lead before offering his own criticism. This was not the only charge which his opponents used against him. His mother had died, apparently caused by falling into a well while looking at some flowers, and two poems written by Bai Juyi — the titles of which Waley translates as "In Praise of Flowers" and "The New Well" — were used against him as a sign of lack of Filial Piety, one of the Confucian ideals. The result was exile: ~ Bai Juyi was demoted to the rank of SubPrefect and banished from the court and the capital city to Jiujiang, then known as Xun Yang on the southern shores of the Yangtze River in northwest Jiangxi Province, China. After three years he was sent as Governor of a remote place in Sichuan. At the time, the main travel route there was up the Yangzi River. This trip allowed ~ Bai Juyi a few days to visit his friend Yuan Zhen, who was also in exile and with whom he explored the rock caves located at Yichang. ~ Bai Juyi was delighted by the flowers and trees for which his new location was noted. In 819, he was recalled back to the capital, ending his exile. Return to the capital and a new emperor In 819, ~ Bai Juyi was recalled to the capital and given the position of second-class Assistant Secretary. In 821, China got a new emperor, Muzong. After succeeding to the throne, Muzong spent his time feasting and heavily drinking, and neglecting his duties as emperor. Meanwhile, the temporarily subdued regional military governors (jiedushi) began to challenge the central Tang government, leading to the new de facto independence of three circuits north of the Yellow River, which had been previously subdued by Emperor Xianzong. Furthermore, Muzong's administration was characterized by massive corruption. Again, ~ Bai Juyi,

1087:"What knight or what vassal will be so bold As to plunge in the gulf below? See! I hurl in its depths a goblet of gold, Already the waters over it flow. The man who can bring back the goblet to me, May keep it henceforward,his own it shall be." Thus speaks the king, and he hurls from the height Of the cliffs that, rugged and steep, Hang over the boundless sea, with strong might, The goblet afar, in the bellowing deep. "And who'll be so daring,I ask it once more, As to plunge in these billows that wildly roar?" And the vassals and knights of high degree Hear his words, but silent remain. They cast their eyes on the raging sea, And none will attempt the goblet to gain. And a third time the question is asked by the king: "Is there none that will dare in the gulf now to spring?" Yet all as before in silence stand, When a page, with a modest pride, Steps out of the timorous squirely band, And his girdle and mantle soon throws aside, And all the knights, and the ladies too, The noble stripling with wonderment view. And when he draws nigh to the rocky brow, And looks in the gulf so black, The waters that she had swallowed but now, The howling Charybdis is giving back; And, with the distant thunder's dull sound. From her gloomy womb they all-foaming rebound. And it boils and it roars, and it hisses and seethes, As when water and fire first blend; To the sky spurts the foam in steam-laden wreaths, And wave presses hard upon wave without end. And the ocean will never exhausted be, As if striving to bring forth another sea. But at length the wild tumult seems pacified, And blackly amid the white swell A gaping chasm its jaws opens wide, As if leading down to the depths of hell: And the howling billows are seen by each eye Down the whirling funnel all madly to fly. Then quickly, before the breakers rebound, The stripling commends him to Heaven, Anda scream of horror is heard around, And now by the whirlpool away he is driven, And secretly over the swimmer brave Close the jaws, and he vanishes 'neath the dark wave. O'er the watery gulf dread silence now lies, But the deep sends up a dull yell, And from mouth to mouth thus trembling it flies: "Courageous stripling, oh, fare thee well!" And duller and duller the howls recommence, While they pause in anxious and fearful suspense. "If even thy crown in the gulf thou shouldst fling, And shouldst say, 'He who brings it to me Shall wear it henceforward, and be the king,' Thou couldst tempt me not e'en with that precious foe; What under the howling deep is concealed To no happy living soul is revealed!" Full many a ship, by the whirlpool held fast, Shoots straightway beneath the mad wave, And, dashed to pieces, the hull and the mast Emerge from the all-devouring grave, And the roaring approaches still nearer and nearer, Like the howl of the tempest, still clearer and clearer. And it boils and it roars, and it hisses and seethes, As when water and fire first blend; To the sky spurts the foam in steam-laden wreaths, And wave passes hard upon wave without end. And, with the distant thunder's dull sound, From the ocean-womb they all-bellowing bound. And lo! from the darkly flowing tide Comes a vision white as a swan, And an arm and a glistening neck are descried, With might and with active zeal steering on; And 'tis he, and behold! his left hand on high Waves the goblet, while beaming with joy is his eye. Then breathes he deeply, then breathes he long, And blesses the light of the day; While gladly exclaim to each other the throng: "He lives! he is here! he is not the sea's prey! From the tomb, from the eddying waters' control, The brave one has rescued his living soul!" And he comes, and they joyously round him stand; At the feet of the monarch he falls, The goblet he, kneeling, puts in his hand, And the king to his beauteous daughter calls, Who fills it with sparkling wine to the brim; The youth turns to the monarch, and speaks thus to him: "Long life to the king! Let all those be glad Who breathe in the light of the sky! For below all is fearful, of moment sad; Let not man to tempt the immortals e'er try, Let him never desire the thing to see That with terror and night they veil graciously." "I was torn below with the speed of light, When out of a cavern of rock Rushed towards me a spring with furious might; I was seized by the twofold torrent's wild shock, And like a top, with a whirl and a bound, Despite all resistance, was whirled around." "Then God pointed out,for to Him I cried In that terrible moment of need, A craggy reef in the gulf's dark side; I seized it in haste, and from death was then freed. And there, on sharp corals, was hanging the cup, The fathomless pit had else swallowed it up." "For under me lay it, still mountain-deep, In a darkness of purple-tinged dye, And though to the ear all might seem then asleep With shuddering awe 'twas seen by the eye How the salamanders' and dragons' dread forms Filled those terrible jaws of hell with their swarms." "There crowded, in union fearful and black, In a horrible mass entwined, The rock-fish, the ray with the thorny back, And the hammer-fish's misshapen kind, And the shark, the hyena dread of the sea, With his angry teeth, grinned fiercely on me." "There hung I, by fulness of terror possessed, Where all human aid was unknown, Amongst phantoms, the only sensitive breast, In that fearful solitude all alone, Where the voice of mankind could not reach to mine ear, 'Mid the monsters foul of that wilderness drear." "Thus shuddering methoughtwhen a something crawled near, And a hundred limbs it out-flung, And at me it snapped;in my mortal fear, I left hold of the coral to which I had clung; Then the whirlpool seized on me with maddened roar, Yet 'twas well, for it brought me to light once more." The story in wonderment hears the king, And he says, "The cup is thine own, And I purpose also to give thee this ring, Adorned with a costly, a priceless stone, If thou'lt try once again, and bring word to me What thou saw'st in the nethermost depths of the sea." His daughter hears this with emotions soft, And with flattering accent prays she: "That fearful sport, father, attempt not too oft! What none other would dare, he hath ventured for thee; If thy heart's wild longings thou canst not tame, Let the knights, if they can, put the squire to shame." The king then seizes the goblet in haste, In the gulf he hurls it with might: "When the goblet once more in my hands thou hast placed, Thou shalt rank at my court as the noblest knight, And her as a bride thou shalt clasp e'en to-day, Who for thee with tender compassion doth pray." Then a force, as from Heaven, descends on him there, And lightning gleams in his eye, And blushes he sees on her features so fair, And he sees her turn pale, and swooning lie; Then eager the precious guerdon to win, For life or for death, lo! he plunges him in! The breakers they hear, and the breakers return, Proclaimed by a thundering sound; They bend o'er the gulf with glances that yearn, And the waters are pouring in fast around; Though upwards and downwards they rush and they rave, The youth is brought back by no kindly wave. ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Driver ,

1088:A Ballad Of Boding There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams; What seems is not always as it seems. I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning, And there I saw three barges of manifold adorning Went sailing toward the East: The first had sails like fire, The next like glittering wire, But sackcloth were the sails of the least; And all the crews made music, and two had spread a feast. The first choir breathed in flutes, And fingered soft guitars; The second won from lutes Harmonious chords and jars, With drums for stormy bars: But the third was all of harpers and scarlet trumpeters; Notes of triumph, then An alarm again, As for onset, as for victory, rallies, stirs, Peace at last and glory to the vanquishers. The first barge showed for figurehead a Love with wings; The second showed for figurehead a Worm with stings; The third, a Lily tangled to a Rose which clings. The first bore for freight gold and spice and down; The second bore a sword, a sceptre, and a crown; The third, a heap of earth gone to dust and brown. Winged Love meseemed like Folly in the face; Stinged Worm meseemed loathly in his place; Lily and Rose were flowers of grace. Merry went the revel of the fire-sailed crew, Singing, feasting, dancing to and fro: Pleasures ever changing, ever graceful, ever new; Sighs, but scarce of woe; All the sighing Wooed such sweet replying; All the sighing, sweet and low, Used to come and go For more pleasure, merely so. Yet at intervals some one grew tired Of everything desired, And sank, I knew not whither, in sorry plight, Out of sight. The second crew seemed ever Wider-visioned, graver, More distinct of purpose, more sustained of will; With heads erect and proud, And voices sometimes loud; With endless tacking, counter-tacking, All things grasping, all things lacking, It would seem; Ever shifting helm, or sail, or shroud, Drifting on as in a dream. Hoarding to their utmost bent, Feasting to their fill, Yet gnawed by discontent, Envy, hatred, malice, on their road they went. Their freight was not a treasure, Their music not a pleasure; The sword flashed, cleaving through their bands, Sceptre and crown changed hands. The third crew as they went Seemed mostly different; They toiled in rowing, for to them the wind was contrary, As all the world might see. They labored at the oar, While on their heads they bore The fiery stress of sunshine more and more. They labored at the oar hand-sore, Till rain went splashing, And spray went dashing, Down on them, and up on them, more and more. Their sails were patched and rent, Their masts were bent, In peril of their lives they worked and went. For them no feast was spread, No soft luxurious bed Scented and white, No crown or sceptre hung in sight; In weariness and painfulness, In thirst and sore distress, They rowed and steered from left to right With all their might. Their trumpeters and harpers round about Incessantly played out, And sometimes they made answer with a shout; But oftener they groaned or wept, And seldom paused to eat, and seldom slept. I wept for pity watching them, but more I wept heart-sore Once and again to see Some weary man plunge overboard, and swim To Love or Worm ship floating buoyantly: And there all welcomed him. The ships steered each apart and seemed to scorn each other, Yet all the crews were interchangeable; Now one man, now another, —Like bloodless spectres some, some flushed by health,— Changed openly, or changed by stealth, Scaling a slippery side, and scaled it well. The most left Love ship, hauling wealth Up Worm ship's side; While some few hollow-eyed Left either for the sack-sailed boat; But this, though not remote, Was worst to mount, and whoso left it once Scarce ever came again, But seemed to loathe his erst companions, And wish and work them bane. Then I knew (I know not how) there lurked quicksands full of dread, Rocks and reefs and whirlpools in the water-bed, Whence a waterspout Instantaneously leaped out, Roaring as it reared its head. Soon I spied a something dim, Many-handed, grim, That went flitting to and fro the first and second ship; It puffed their sails full out With puffs of smoky breath From a smouldering lip, And cleared the waterspout Which reeled roaring round about Threatening death. With a horny hand it steered, And a horn appeared On its sneering head upreared Haughty and high Against the blackening lowering sky. With a hoof it swayed the waves; They opened here and there, Till I spied deep ocean graves Full of skeletons That were men and women once Foul or fair; Full of things that creep And fester in the deep And never breathe the clean life-nurturing air. The third bark held aloof From the Monster with the hoof, Despite his urgent beck, And fraught with guile Abominable his smile; Till I saw him take a flying leap on to that deck. Then full of awe, With these same eyes I saw His head incredible retract its horn Rounding like babe's new born, While silvery phosphorescence played About his dis-horned head. The sneer smoothed from his lip, He beamed blandly on the ship; All winds sank to a moan, All waves to a monotone (For all these seemed his realm), While he laid a strong caressing hand upon the helm. Then a cry well nigh of despair Shrieked to heaven, a clamor of desperate prayer. The harpers harped no more, While the trumpeters sounded sore An alarm to wake the dead from their bed: To the rescue, to the rescue, now or never, To the rescue, O ye living, O ye dead, Or no more help or hope for ever!— The planks strained as though they must part asunder, The masts bent as though they must dip under, And the winds and the waves at length Girt up their strength, And the depths were laid bare, And heaven flashed fire and volleyed thunder Through the rain-choked air, And sea and sky seemed to kiss In the horror and the hiss Of the whole world shuddering everywhere. Lo! a Flyer swooping down With wings to span the globe, And splendor for his robe And splendor for his crown. He lighted on the helm with a foot of fire, And spun the Monster overboard: And that monstrous thing abhorred, Gnashing with balked desire, Wriggled like a worm infirm Up the Worm Of the loathly figurehead. There he crouched and gnashed; And his head re-horned, and gashed From the other's grapple, dripped bloody red. I saw that thing accurst Wreak his worst On the first and second crew: Some with baited hook He angled for and took, Some dragged overboard in a net he threw, Some he did to death With hoof or horn or blasting breath. 10 I heard a voice of wailing Where the ships went sailing, A sorrowful voice prevailing Above the sound of the sea, Above the singers' voices, And musical merry noises; All songs had turned to sighing, The light was failing, The day was dying— Ah me, That such a sorrow should be! There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land When Love ship went down by the bottomless quicksand To its grave in the bitter wave. There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land When Worm ship went to pieces on the rock-bound strand, And the bitter wave was its grave. But land and sea waxed hoary In whiteness of a glory Never told in story Nor seen by mortal eye, When the third ship crossed the bar Where whirls and breakers are, And steered into the splendors of the sky; That third bark and that least Which had never seemed to feast, Yet kept high festival above sun and moon and star. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

1089:A gentle was Fridolin, And he his mistress dear, Savern's fair Countess, honored in All truth and godly fear. She was so meek, and, ah! so good! Yet each wish of her wayward mood, He would have studied to fulfil, To please his God, with earnest will. From the first hour when daylight shone Till rang the vesper-chime, He lived but for her will alone, And deemed e'en that scarce time. And if she said, "Less anxious be!" His eye then glistened tearfully. Thinking that he in duty failed, And so before no toil he quailed. And so, before her serving train, The Countess loved to raise him; While her fair mouth, in endless strain, Was ever wont to praise him. She never held him as her slave, Her heart a child's rights to him gave; Her clear eye hung in fond delight Upon his well-formed features bright. Soon in the huntsman Robert's breast Was poisonous anger fired; His black soul, long by lust possessed, With malice was inspired; He sought the Count, whom, quick in deed, A traitor might with ease mislead, As once from hunting home they rode, And in his heart suspicion sowed. "Happy art thou, great Count, in truth," Thus cunningly he spoke; "For ne'er mistrust's envenomed tooth Thy golden slumbers broke; A noble wife thy love rewards, And modesty her person guards. The tempter will be able ne'er Her true fidelity to snare." A gloomy scowl the Count's eye filled: "What's this thou say'st to me? Shall I on woman's virtue build, Inconstant as the sea? The flatterer's mouth with ease may lure; My trust is placed on ground more sure. No one, methinks, dare ever burn To tempt the wife of Count Savern." The other spoke: "Thou sayest it well, The fool deserves thy scorn Who ventures on such thoughts to dwell, A mere retainer born, Who to the lady he obeys Fears not his wishes' lust to raise." "What!" tremblingly the Count began, "Dost speak, then, of a living man?" "Is, then, the thing, to all revealed, Hid from my master's view? Yet, since with care from thee concealed, I'd fain conceal it too" "Speak quickly, villain! speak or die!" Exclaimed the other fearfully. "Who dares to look on Cunigond?" "'Tis the fair page that is so fond." "He's not ill-shaped in form, I wot," He craftily went on; The Count meanwhile felt cold and hot, By turns in every bone. "Is't possible thou seest not, sir, How he has eyes for none but her? At table ne'er attends to thee, But sighs behind her ceaselessly?" "Behold the rhymes that from him came His passion to confess" "Confess!""And for an answering flame, The impious knave!to press. My gracious lady, soft and meek, Through pity, doubtless, feared to speak; That it has 'scaped me, sore I rue; What, lord, canst thou to help it do?" Into the neighboring wood then rode The Count, inflamed with wrath, Where, in his iron foundry, glowed The ore, and bubbled forth. The workmen here, with busy hand, The fire both late and early fanned. The sparks fly out, the bellows ply, As if the rock to liquefy. The fire and water's might twofold Are here united found; The mill-wheel, by the flood seized hold, Is whirling round and round; The works are clattering night and day, With measured stroke the hammers play, And, yielding to the mighty blows, The very iron plastic grows. Then to two workmen beckons he, And speaks thus in his ire; "The first who's hither sent by me Thus of ye to inquire 'Have ye obeyed my lord's word well?' Him cast ye into yonder hell, That into ashes he may fly, And ne'er again torment mine eye!" The inhuman pair were overjoyed, With devilish glee possessed For as the iron, feeling void, Their heart was in their breast, And brisker with the bellows' blast, The foundry's womb now heat they fast, And with a murderous mind prepare To offer up the victim there. Then Robert to his comrade spake, With false hypocrisy: "Up, comrade, up! no tarrying make! Our lord has need of thee." The lord to Fridolin then said: "The pathway toward the foundry tread, And of the workmen there inquire, If they have done their lord's desire." The other answered, "Be it so!" But o'er him came this thought, When he was all-prepared to go, "Will she command me aught?" So to the Countess straight he went: "I'm to the iron-foundry sent; Then say, can I do aught for thee? For thou 'tis who commandest me." To this the Lady of Savern Replied in gentle tone: "To hear the holy mass I yearn, For sick now lies my son; So go, my child, and when thou'rt there, Utter for me a humble prayer, And of thy sins think ruefully, That grace may also fall on me." And in this welcome duty glad, He quickly left the place; But ere the village bounds he had Attained with rapid pace, The sound of bells struck on his ear, From the high belfry ringing clear, And every sinner, mercy-sent, Inviting to the sacrament. "Never from praising God refrain Where'er by thee He's found!" He spoke, and stepped into the fane, But there he heard no sound; For 'twas the harvest time, and now Glowed in the fields the reaper's brow; No choristers were gathered there, The duties of the mass to share. The matter paused he not to weigh, But took the sexton's part; "That thing," he said, "makes no delay Which heavenward guides the heart." Upon the priest, with helping hand, He placed the stole and sacred band, The vessels he prepared beside, That for the mass were sanctified. And when his duties here were o'er, Holding the mass-book, he, Ministering to the priest, before The altar bowed his knee, And knelt him left, and knelt him right, While not a look escaped his sight, And when the holy Sanctus came, The bell thrice rang he at the name. And when the priest, bowed humbly too, In hand uplifted high, Facing the altar, showed to view The present Deity, The sacristan proclaimed it well, Sounding the clearly-tinkling bell, While all knelt down, and beat the breast, And with a cross the Host confessed. The rites thus served he, leaving none, With quick and ready wit; Each thing that in God's house is done, He also practised it. Unweariedly he labored thus, Till the Vobiscum Dominus, When toward the people turned the priest, Blessed them,and so the service ceased. Then he disposed each thing again, In fair and due array; First purified the holy fane, And then he went his way, And gladly, with a mind at rest, On to the iron-foundry pressed, Saying the while, complete to be, Twelve paternosters silently. And when he saw the furnace smoke, And saw the workmen stand, "Have ye, ye fellows," thus he spoke, "Obeyed the Count's command?" Grinning they ope the orifice, And point into the fell abyss: "He's cared forall is at an end! The Count his servants will commend." The answer to his lord he brought, Returning hastily, Who, when his form his notice caught, Could scarcely trust his eye: "Unhappy one! whence comest thou?" "Back from the foundry""Strange, I vow! Hast in thy journey, then, delayed?" "'Twas only, lord, till I had prayed." "For when I from thy presence went (Oh pardon me!) to-day, As duty bid, my steps I bent To her whom I obey. She told me, lord, the mass to hear, I gladly to her wish gave ear, And told four rosaries at the shrine, For her salvation and for thine." In wonder deep the Count now fell, And, shuddering, thus spake he: "And, at the foundry, quickly tell, What answer gave they thee?" "Obscure the words they answered in, Showing the furnace with a grin: 'He's cared forall is at an end! The Count his servants will commend.'" "And Robert?" interrupted he, While deadly pale he stood, "Did he not, then, fall in with thee? I sent him to the wood." "Lord, neither in the wood nor field Was trace of Robert's foot revealed." "Then," cried the Count, with awe-struck mien, "Great God in heaven his judge hath been!" With kindness he before ne'er proved, He led him by the hand Up to the Countess,deeply moved, Who naught could understand. "This child, let him be dear to thee, No angel is so pure as he! Though we may have been counselled ill, God and His hosts watch o'er him still." ~ Friedrich Schiller, Fridolin (The Walk To The Iron Factory) ,

1090:ON THE VISION AND THE RIDDLE 1 When it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on board-for another man from the blessed isles had embarked with him-there was much curiosity and anticipation. But Zarathustra remained silent for two days and was cold and deaf from sadness and answered neither glances nor questions. But on the evening of the second day he opened his ears again, although he still remained silent, for there was much that was strange and dangerous to be heard on this ship, which came from far away and wanted to sail even farther. But Zarathustra was a friend of all who travel far and do not like to live without danger. And behold, eventually his own tongue was loosened as he listened, and the ice of his heart broke. Then he began to speak thus: To you, the bold searchers, researchers, and whoever 156 embarks with cunning sails on terrible seas-to you, drunk with riddles, glad of the twilight, whose soul flutes lure astray to every whirlpool, because you do not want to grope along a thread with cowardly hand; and where you can guess, you hate to deduce-to you alone I tell the riddle that I saw, the vision of the loneliest. Not long ago I walked gloomily through the deadly pallor of dusk-gloomy and hard, with lips pressed together. Not only one sun had set for me. A path that ascended defiantly through stones, malicious, lonely, not cheered by herb or shrub-a mountain path crunched under the defiance of my foot. Striding silently over the mocking clatter of pebbles, crushing the rock that made it slip, my foot forced its way upward. Upwarddefying the spirit that drew it downward toward the abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and archenemy. Upward-although he sat on me, half dwarf, half mole, lame, making lame, dripping lead into my ear, leaden thoughts into my brain. "O Zarathustra," he whispered mockingly, syllable by syllable; "you philosopher's stone You threw yourself up high, but every stone that is thrown must fall. 0 Zarathustra, you philosopher's stone, you slingstone, you star-crusherl You threw yourself up so high; but every stone that is thrown must fall. Sentenced to yourself and to your own stoning-O Zarathustra, far indeed have you thrown the stone, but it will fall back on yourself." Then the dwarf fell silent, and that lasted a long time. His silence, however, oppressed me; and such twosomeness is surely more lonesome than being alone. I climbed, I climbed, I dreamed, I thought; but everything oppressed me. I was like one sick whom his wicked torture makes weary, and who as he falls asleep 157 is awakened by a still more wicked dream. But there is something in me that I call courage; that has so far slain my every discouragement. This courage finally bade me stand still and speak: "Dwarf! It is you or II" For courage is the best slayer, courage which attacks; for in every attack there is playing and brass. Man, however, is the most courageous animal: hence he overcame every animal. With playing and brass he has so far overcome every pain; but human pain is the deepest pain. Courage also slays dizziness at the edge of abysses: and where does man not stand at the edge of abysses? Is not seeing always-seeing abysses? Courage is the best slayer: courage slays even pity. But pity is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man sees into life, he also sees into suffering. Courage, however, is the best slayer-courage which attacks: which slays even death itself, for it says, "Was that life? Well then! Once morel" In such words, however, there is much playing and brass. He that has ears to hear, let him hear 2 "Stop, dwarf!" I said. "It is I or you! But I am the stronger of us two: you do not know my abysmal thought. That you could not bear!" Then something happened that made me lighter, for the dwarf jumped from my shoulder, being curious; and he crouched on a stone before me. But there was a gateway just where we had stopped. "Behold this gateway, dwarfl" I continued. "It has two faces. Two paths meet here; no one has yet followed either to its end. This long lane stretches back for an eternity. And the long lane out there, that is another eternity. They contradict each other, these 158 paths; they offend each other face to face; and it is here at this gateway that they come together. The name of the gateway is inscribed above: 'Moment.' But whoever would follow one of them, on and on, farther and farther-do you believe, dwarf, that these paths contradict each other eternally?" "All that is straight lies," the dwarf murmured contemptuously. "All truth is crooked; time itself is a circle." "You spirit of gravity," I said angrily, "do not make things too easy for yourself Or I shall let you crouch where you are crouching, lamefoot; and it was I that carried you to this height. "Behold," I continued, "this moment! From this gateway, Moment, a long, eternal lane leads backward: behind us lies an eternity. Must not whatever can walk have walked on this lane before? Must not whatever can happen have happened, have been done, have passed by before? And if everything has been there before-what do you think, dwarf, of this moment? Must not this gateway too have been there before? And are not all things knotted together so firmly that this moment draws after it all that is to come? Therefore itself too? For whatever can walk-in this long lane out there too, it must walk once more. "And this slow spider, which crawls in the moonlight, and this moonlight itself, and I and you in the gateway, whispering together, whispering of eternal things-must not all of us have been there before? And return and walk in that other lane, out there, before us, in this long dreadful lane-must we not eternally return?" Thus I spoke, more and more softly; for I was afraid of my own thoughts and the thoughts behind my thoughts. Then suddenly I heard a dog howl nearby. Had I ever heard a dog howl like this? My thoughts 159 raced back. Yes, when I was a child, in the most distant childhood: then I heard a dog howl like this. And I saw him too, bristling, his head up, trembling, in the stillest midnight when even dogs believe in ghosts-and I took pity: for just then the full moon, silent as death, passed over the house; just then it stood still, a round glow-still on the flat roof, as if on another's property -that was why the dog was terrified, for dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. And when I heard such howling again I took pity again. Where was the dwarf gone now? And the gateway? And the spider? And all the whispering? Was I dreaming, then? Was I waking up? Among wild cliffs I stood suddenly alone, bleak, in the bleakest moonlight. But there lay a man. And there -the dog, jumping, bristling, whining-now he saw me coming; then he howled again, he cried. Had I ever heard a dog cry like this for help? And verily, what I saw-I had never seen the like. A young shepherd I saw, writhing, gagging, in spasms, his face distorted, and a heavy black snake hung out of his mouth. Had I ever seen so much nausea and pale dread on one face? He seemed to have been asleep when the snake crawled into his throat, and there bit itself fast. My hand tore at the snake and tore in vain; it did not tear the snake out of his throat. Then it cried out of me: "Bitel Bite its head offl Bitel" Thus it cried out of memy dread, my hatred, my nausea, my pity, all that is good and wicked in me cried out of me with a single cry. You bold ones who surround mel You searchers, researchers, and whoever among you has embarked with cunning sails on unexplored seas. You who are glad of riddles Guess me this riddle that I saw then, interpret me the vision of the loneliest. For it was a vision 160 and a foreseeing. What did I see then in a parable? And who is it who must yet come one day? Who is the shepherd into whose throat the snake crawled thus? Who is the man into whose throat all that is heaviest and blackest will crawl thus? The shepherd, however, bit as my cry counseled him; he bit with a good bite. Far away he spewed the head of the snake-and he jumped up. No longer shepherd, no longer human-one changed, radiant, laughing! Never yet on earth has a human being laughed as he laughed! 0 my brothers, I heard a laughter that was no human laughter; and now a thirst gnaws at me, a longing that never grows still. My longing for, this laughter gnaws at me; oh, how do I bear to go on living And how could I bear to die nowl Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON THE VISION AND THE RIDDLE ,

1091:The Kalevala - Rune Xli WAINAMOINEN'S HARP-SONGS. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, Laves his hands to snowy whiteness, Sits upon the rock of joyance, On the stone of song be settles, On the mount of silver clearness, On the summit, golden colored; Takes the harp by him created, In his hands the harp of fish-bone, With his knee the arch supporting, Takes the harp-strings in his fingers, Speaks these words to those assembled: 'Hither come, ye Northland people, Come and listen to my playing, To the harp's entrancing measures, To my songs of joy and gladness.' Then the singer of Wainola Took the harp of his creation, Quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, Deftly plied his skillful fingers To the strings that he had fashioned. Now was gladness rolled on gladness, And the harmony of pleasure Echoed from the hills and mountains: Added singing to his playing, Out of joy did joy come welling, Now resounded marvelous music, All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands, On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to listen to his playing, Came to hear his songs of joyance. Leaped the squirrels from the branches, Merrily from birch to aspen; Climbed the ermines on the fences, 186 O'er the plains the elk-deer bounded, And the lynxes purred with pleasure; Wolves awoke in far-off swamp-lands, Bounded o'er the marsh and heather, And the bear his den deserted, Left his lair within the pine-wood, Settled by a fence to listen, Leaned against the listening gate-posts, But the gate-posts yield beneath him; Now he climbs the fir-tree branches That he may enjoy and wonder, Climbs and listens to the music Of the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest senior, Metsola's most noble landlord, And of Tapio, the people, Young and aged, men and maidens, Flew like red-deer up the mountains There to listen to the playing, To the harp, of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest mistress, Hostess of the glen and forest, Robed herself in blue and scarlet, Bound her limbs with silken ribbons, Sat upon the woodland summit, On the branches of a birch-tree, There to listen to the playing, To the high-born hero's harping, To the songs of Wainamoinen. All the birds that fly in mid-air Fell like snow-flakes from the heavens, Flew to hear the minstrel's playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Eagles in their lofty eyrie Heard the songs of the enchanter; Swift they left their unfledged young ones, Flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended, From the, clouds down swooped the falcon, Ducks arose from inland waters, Swans came gliding from the marshes; Tiny finches, green and golden, 187 Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, Came in myriads to listen ' Perched upon the head and shoulders Of the charming Wainamoinen, Sweetly singing to the playing Of the ancient bard and minstrel. And the daughters of the welkin, Nature's well-beloved daughters, Listened all in rapt attention; Some were seated on the rainbow, Some upon the crimson cloudlets, Some upon the dome of heaven. In their hands the Moon's fair daughters Held their weaving-combs of silver; In their hands the Sun's sweet maidens Grasped the handles of their distaffs, Weaving with their golden shuttles, Spinning from their silver spindles, On the red rims of the cloudlets, On the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Quick they drop their combs of silver, Drop the spindles from their fingers, And the golden threads are broken, Broken are the threads of silver. All the fish in Suomi-waters Heard the songs of the magician, Came on flying fins to listen To the harp of Wainamoinen. Came the trout with graceful motions, Water-dogs with awkward movements, From the water-cliffs the salmon, From the sea-caves came the whiting, From the deeper caves the bill-fish; Came the pike from beds of sea-fern, Little fish with eyes of scarlet, Leaning on the reeds and rushes, With their heads above the surface; Came to bear the harp of joyance, Hear the songs of the enchanter. Ahto, king of all the waters, 188 Ancient king with beard of sea-grass, Raised his head above the billows, In a boat of water-lilies, Glided to the coast in silence, Listened to the wondrous singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. These the words the sea-king uttered: 'Never have I heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the sea was fashioned, As the songs of this enchanter, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen.' Satko's daughters from the blue-deep, Sisters of the wave-washed ledges, On the colored strands were sitting, Smoothing out their sea-green tresses With the combs of molten silver, With their silver-handled brushes, Brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Fall their brushes on the billows, Fall their combs with silver handles To the bottom of the waters, Unadorned their heads remaining, And uncombed their sea-green tresses. Came the hostess of the waters, Ancient hostess robed in flowers, Rising from her deep sea-castle, Swimming to the shore in wonder, Listened to the minstrel's playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. As the magic tones re-echoed, As the singer's song out-circled, Sank the hostess into slumber, On the rocks of many colors, On her watery couch of joyance, Deep the sleep that settled o'er her. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Played one day and then a second, Played the third from morn till even. There was neither man nor hero, 189 Neither ancient dame, nor maiden, Not in Metsola a daughter, Whom he did not touch to weeping; Wept the young, and wept the aged, Wept the mothers, wept the daughters Wept the warriors and heroes At the music of his playing, At the songs of the magician. Wainamoinen's tears came flowing, Welling from the master's eyelids, Pearly tear-drops coursing downward, Larger than the whortle-berries, Finer than the pearls of ocean, Smoother than the eggs of moor-hens, Brighter than the eyes of swallows. From his eves the tear-drops started, Flowed adown his furrowed visage, Falling from his beard in streamlets, Trickled on his heaving bosom, Streaming o'er his golden girdle, Coursing to his garment's border, Then beneath his shoes of ermine, Flowing on, and flowing ever, Part to earth for her possession, Part to water for her portion. As the tear-drops fall and mingle, Form they streamlets from the eyelids Of the minstrel, Wainamoinen, To the blue-mere's sandy margin, To the deeps of crystal waters, Lost among the reeds and rushes. Spake at last the ancient minstrel: 'Is there one in all this concourse, One in all this vast assembly That can gather up my tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters?' Thus the younger heroes answered, Answered thus the bearded seniors: 'There is none in all this concourse, None in all this vast assembly, That can gather up thy tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters.' 190 Spake again wise Wainamoinen: 'He that gathers up my tear-drops From the deeps of crystal waters Shall receive a beauteous plumage.' Came a raven, flying, croaking, And the minstrel thus addressed him: 'Bring, O raven, bring my tear-drops From the crystal lake's abysses; I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.' But the raven failed his master. Came a duck upon the waters, And the hero thus addressed him: 'Bring O water-bird, my tear-drops; Often thou dost dive the deep-sea, Sink thy bill upon the bottom Of the waters thou dost travel; Dive again my tears to gather, I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.' Thereupon the duck departed, Hither, thither, swam, and circled, Dived beneath the foam and billow, Gathered Wainamoinen's tear-drops From the blue-sea's pebbly bottom, From the deep, pellucid waters; Brought them to the great magician, Beautifully formed and colored, Glistening in the silver sunshine, Glimmering in the golden moonlight, Many-colored as the rainbow, Fitting ornaments for heroes, Jewels for the maids of beauty. This the origin of sea-pearls, And the blue-duck's beauteous plumage. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1092:See you the towers, that, gray and old, Frown through the sunlight's liquid gold, Steep sternly fronting steep? The Hellespont beneath them swells, And roaring cleaves the Dardanelles, The rock-gates of the deep! Hear you the sea, whose stormy wave, From Asia, Europe clove in thunder? That sea which rent a world, cannot Rend love from love asunder! In Hero's, in Leander's heart, Thrills the sweet anguish of the dart Whose feather flies from love. All Hebe's bloom in Hero's cheek And his the hunter's steps that seek Delight, the hills above! Between their sires the rival feud Forbids their plighted hearts to meet; Love's fruits hang over danger's gulf, By danger made more sweet. Alone on Sestos' rocky tower, Where upward sent in stormy shower, The whirling waters foam, Alone the maiden sits, and eyes The cliffs of fair Abydos rise Afarher lover's home. Oh, safely thrown from strand to strand, No bridge can love to love convey; No boatman shoots from yonder shore, Yet Love has found the way. That love, which could the labyrinth pierce Which nerves the weak, and curbs the fierce, And wings with wit the dull; That love which o'er the furrowed land Bowedtame beneath young Jason's hand The fiery-snorting bull! Yes, Styx itself, that ninefold flows, Has love, the fearless, ventured o'er, And back to daylight borne the bride, From Pluto's dreary shore! What marvel then that wind and wave, Leander doth but burn to brave, When love, that goads him, guides! Still when the day, with fainter glimmer, Wanes palehe leaps, the daring swimmer, Amid the darkening tides; With lusty arms he cleaves the waves, And strikes for that dear strand afar; Where high from Hero's lonely tower Lone streams the beacon-star. In vain his blood the wave may chill, These tender arms can warm it still And, weary if the way, By many a sweet embrace, above All earthly boonscan liberal love The lover's toil repay, Until Aurora breaks the dream, And warns the loiterer to depart Back to the ocean's icy bed, Scared from that loving heart. So thirty suns have sped their flight Still in that theft of sweet delight Exult the happy pair; Caress will never pall caress, And joys that gods might envy, bless The single bride-night there. Ah! never he has rapture known, Who has not, where the waves are driven Upon the fearful shores of hell, Plucked fruits that taste of heaven! Now changing in their season are, The morning and the Hesper star; Nor see those happy eyes The leaves that withering droop and fall, Nor hear, when, from its northern hall, The neighboring winter sighs; Or, if they see, the shortening days But seem to them to close in kindness; For longer joys, in lengthening nights, They thank the heaven in blindness. It is the time, when night and day, In equal scales contend for sway Lone, on her rocky steep, Lingers the girl with wistful eyes That watch the sun-steeds down the skies, Careering towards the deep. Lulled lay the smooth and silent sea, A mirror in translucent calm, The breeze, along that crystal realm, Unmurmuring, died in balm. In wanton swarms and blithe array, The merry dolphins glide and play Amid the silver waves. In gray and dusky troops are seen, The hosts that serve the ocean-queen, Upborne from coral caves: Theyonly theyhave witnessed love To rapture steal its secret way: And Hecate [36] seals the only lips That could the tale betray! She marks in joy the lulled water, And Sestos, thus thy tender daughter, Soft-flattering, woos the sea! "Fair godand canst thou then betray? No! falsehood dwells with them that say That falsehood dwells with thee! Ah! faithless is the race of man, And harsh a father's heart can prove; But thee, the gentle and the mild, The grief of love can move!" "Within these hated walls of stone, Should I, repining, mourn alone, And fade in ceaseless care, But thou, though o'er thy giant tide, Nor bridge may span, nor boat may glide, Dost safe my lover bear. And darksome is thy solemn deep, And fearful is thy roaring wave; But wave and deep are won by love Thou smilest on the brave!" "Nor vainly, sovereign of the sea, Did Eros send his shafts to thee What time the rain of gold, Bright Helle, with her brother bore, How stirred the waves she wandered o'er, How stirred thy deeps of old! Swift, by the maiden's charms subdued, Thou cam'st from out the gloomy waves, And in thy mighty arms, she sank Into thy bridal caves." "A goddess with a god, to keep In endless youth, beneath the deep, Her solemn ocean-court! And still she smooths thine angry tides, Tames thy wild heart, and favoring guides The sailor to the port! Beautiful Helle, bright one, hear Thy lone adoring suppliant pray! And guide, O goddessguide my love Along the wonted way!" Now twilight dims the waters' flow, And from the tower, the beacon's glow Waves flickering o'er the main. Ah, where athwart the dismal stream, Shall shine the beacon's faithful beam The lover's eyes shall strain! Hark! sounds moan threatening from afar From heaven the blessed stars are gone More darkly swells the rising sea The tempest labors on! Along the ocean's boundless plains Lies nightin torrents rush the rains From the dark-bosomed cloud Red lightning skirs the panting air, And, loosed from out their rocky lair, Sweep all the storms abroad. Huge wave on huge wave tumbling o'er, The yawning gulf is rent asunder, And shows, as through an opening pall, Grim earththe ocean under! Poor maiden! bootless wail or vow "Have mercy, Jovebe gracious, thou! Dread prayer was mine before!" What if the gods have heardand he, Lone victim of the stormy sea, Now struggles to the shore! There's not a sea-bird on the wave Their hurrying wings the shelter seek; The stoutest ship the storms have proved, Takes refuge in the creek. "Ah, still that heart, which oft has braved The danger where the daring saved, Love lureth o'er the sea; For many a vow at parting morn, That naught but death should bar return, Breathed those dear lips to me; And whirled around, the while I weep, Amid the storm that rides the wave, The giant gulf is grasping down The rash one to the grave! "False Pontus! and the calm I hailed, The awaiting murder darkly veiled The lulled pellucid flow, The smiles in which thou wert arrayed, Were but the snares that love betrayed To thy false realm below! Now in the midway of the main, Return relentlessly forbidden, Thou loosenest on the path beyond The horrors thou hadst hidden." Loud and more loud the tempest raves In thunder break the mountain waves, White-foaming on the rock No ship that ever swept the deep Its ribs of gnarled oak could keep Unshattered by the shock. Dies in the blast the guiding torch To light the struggler to the strand; 'Tis death to battle with the wave, And death no less to land! On Venus, daughter of the seas, She calls the tempest to appease To each wild-shrieking wind Along the ocean-desert borne, She vows a steer with golden horn Vain vowrelentless wind! On every goddess of the deep, On all the gods in heaven that be, She callsto soothe in calm, awhile The tempest-laden sea! "Hearken the anguish of my cries! From thy green halls, arisearise, Leucothoe the divine! Who, in the barren main afar, Oft on the storm-beat mariner Dost gently-saving shine. Oh,reach to him thy mystic veil, To which the drowning clasp may cling, And safely from that roaring grave, To shore my lover bring!" And now the savage winds are hushing. And o'er the arched horizon, blushing, Day's chariot gleams on high! Back to their wonted channels rolled, In crystal calm the waves behold One smile on sea and sky! All softly breaks the rippling tide, Low-murmuring on the rocky land, And playful wavelets gently float A corpse upon the strand! 'Tis he!who even in death would still Not fail the sweet vow to fulfil; She looksseesknows him there! From her pale lips no sorrow speaks, No tears glide down her hueless cheeks; Cold-numbed in her despair She looked along the silent deep, She looked upon the brightening heaven, Till to the marble face the soul Its light sublime had given! "Ye solemn powers men shrink to name, Your might is here, your rights ye claim Yet think not I repine Soon closed my course; yet I can bless The life that brought me happiness The fairest lot was mine! Living have I thy temple served, Thy consecrated priestess been My last glad offering now receive Venus, thou mightiest queen!" Flashed the white robe along the air, And from the tower that beetled there She sprang into the wave; Roused from his throne beneath the waste, Those holy forms the god embraced A god himself their grave! Pleased with his prey, he glides along More blithe the murmured music seems, A gush from unexhausted urns His everlasting streams! ~ Friedrich Schiller, Hero And Leander ,

1093:From House To House The first was like a dream through summer heat, The second like a tedious numbing swoon, While the half-frozen pulses lagged to beat Beneath a winter moon. 'But,' says my friend, 'what was this thing and where?' It was a pleasure-place within my soul; An earthly paradise supremely fair That lured me from the goal. The first part was a tissue of hugged lies; The second was its ruin fraught with pain: Why raise the fair delusion to the skies But to be dashed again? My castle stood of white transparent glass Glittering and frail with many a fretted spire, But when the summer sunset came to pass It kindled into fire. My pleasaunce was an undulating green, Stately with trees whose shadows slept below, With glimpses of smooth garden-beds between Like flame or sky or snow. Swift squirrels on the pastures took their ease, With leaping lambs safe from the unfeared knife; All singing-birds rejoicing in those trees Fulfilled their careless life. Woodpigeons cooed there, stockdoves nestled there; My trees were full of songs and flowers and fruit, Their branches spread a city to the air And mice lodged in their root. My heath lay farther off, where lizards lived In strange metallic mail, just spied and gone; Like darted lightnings here and there perceived But nowhere dwelt upon. 158 Frogs and fat toads were there to hop or plod And propagate in peace, an uncouth crew, Where velvet-headed rushes rustling nod And spill the morning dew. All caterpillars throve beneath my rule, With snails and slugs in corners out of sight; I never marred the curious sudden stool That perfects in a night. Safe in his excavated gallery The burrowing mole groped on from year to year; No harmless hedgehog curled because of me His prickly back for fear. Oft times one like an angel walked with me, With spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire, But deep as the unfathomed endless sea, Fulfilling my desire: And sometimes like a snowdrift he was fair, And sometimes like a sunset glorious red, And sometimes he had wings to scale the air With aureole round his head. We sang our songs together by the way, Calls and recalls and echoes of delight; So communed we together all the day, And so in dreams by night. I have no words to tell what way we walked. What unforgotten path now closed and sealed; I have no words to tell all things we talked, All things that he revealed: This only can I tell: that hour by hour I waxed more feastful, lifted up and glad; I felt no thorn-prick when I plucked a flower, Felt not my friend was sad. 'To-morrow,' once I said to him with smiles: 159 'To-night,' he answered gravely and was dumb, But pointed out the stones that numbered miles And miles to come. 'Not so,' I said: 'to-morrow shall be sweet; To-night is not so sweet as coming days.' Then first I saw that he had turned his feet, Had turned from me his face: Running and flying miles and miles he went, But once looked back to beckon with his hand And cry: 'Come home, O love, from banishment: Come to the distant land.' That night destroyed me like an avalanche; One night turned all my summer back to snow: Next morning not a bird upon my branch, Not a lamb woke below,— No bird, no lamb, no living breathing thing; No squirrel scampered on my breezy lawn, No mouse lodged by his hoard: all joys took wing And fled before that dawn. Azure and sun were starved from heaven above, No dew had fallen, but biting frost lay hoar: O love, I knew that I should meet my love, Should find my love no more. 'My love no more,' I muttered stunned with pain: I shed no tear, I wrung no passionate hand, Till something whispered: 'You shall meet again, Meet in a distant land.' Then with a cry like famine I arose, I lit my candle, searched from room to room, Searched up and down; a war of winds that froze Swept through the blank of gloom. I searched day after day, night after night; Scant change there came to me of night or day: 'No more,' I wailed, 'no more:' and trimmed my light, 160 And gnashed but did not pray, Until my heart broke and my spirit broke: Upon the frost-bound floor I stumbled, fell, And moaned: 'It is enough: withhold the stroke. Farewell, O love, farewell.' Then life swooned from me. And I heard the song Of spheres and spirits rejoicing over me: One cried: 'Our sister, she hath suffered long.'— One answered: 'Make her see.'— One cried: 'Oh blessed she who no more pain, Who no more disappointment shall receive.'— One answered: 'Not so: she must live again; Strengthen thou her to live.' So while I lay entranced a curtain seemed To shrivel with crackling from before my face; Across mine eyes a waxing radiance beamed And showed a certain place. I saw a vision of a woman, where Night and new morning strive for domination; Incomparably pale, and almost fair, And sad beyond expression. Her eyes were like some fire-enshrining gem, Were stately like the stars, and yet were tender; Her figure charmed me like a windy stem Quivering and drooped and slender. I stood upon the outer barren ground, She stood on inner ground that budded flowers; While circling in their never-slackening round Danced by the mystic hours. But every flower was lifted on a thorn, And every thorn shot upright from its sands To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn With cruel clapping hands. 161 She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength Was strung up until daybreak of delight: She measured measureless sorrow toward its length, And breadth, and depth, and height. Then marked I how a chain sustained her form, A chain of living links not made nor riven: It stretched sheer up through lighting, wind, and storm, And anchored fast in heaven. One cried: 'How long? yet founded on the Rock She shall do battle, suffer, and attain.'— One answered: 'Faith quakes in the tempest shock: Strengthen her soul again.' I saw a cup sent down and come to her Brimfull of loathing and of bitterness: She drank with livid lips that seemed to stir The depth, not make it less. But as she drank I spied a hand distil New wine and virgin honey; making it First bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, until She tasted only sweet. Her lips and cheeks waxed rosy-fresh and young; Drinking she sang: 'My soul shall nothing want;' And drank anew: while soft a song was sung, A mystical slow chant. One cried: 'The wounds are faithful of a friend: The wilderness shall blossom as a rose.'— One answered: 'Rend the veil, declare the end, Strengthen her ere she goes.' Then earth and heaven were rolled up like a scroll; Time and space, change and death, had passed away; Weight, number, measure, each had reached its whole; The day had come, that day. Multitudes—multitudes—stood up in bliss, Made equal to the angels, glorious, fair; 162 With harps, palms, wedding-garments, kiss of peace And crowned and haloed hair. They sang a song, a new song in the height, Harping with harps to Him Who is Strong and True: They drank new wine, their eyes saw with new light, Lo, all things were made new. Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose So high that it was dreadful, flames with flames: No man could number them, no tongue disclose Their secret sacred names. As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad-voiced, They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stood And worshipped and rejoiced. Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit, Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love; Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it And knew no end thereof. Glory touched glory on each blessed head, Hands locked dear hands never to sunder more: These were the new-begotten from the dead Whom the great birthday bore. Heart answered heart, soul answered soul at rest, Double against each other, filled, sufficed: All loving, loved of all; but loving best And best beloved of Christ. I saw that one who lost her love in pain, Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup; The lost in night, in day was found again; The fallen was lifted up. They stood together in the blessed noon, They sang together through the length of days; Each loving face bent Sunwards like a moon New-lit with love and praise. 163 Therefore, O friend, I would not if I might Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white, Cast down but not destroyed. Therefore in patience I possess my soul; Yea, therefore as a flint I set my face, To pluck down, to build up again the whole— But in a distant place. These thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them; This cup is loathsome, yet He makes it sweet: My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem, My heart remembers it. I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees— I, precious more than seven times molten gold— Until the day when from his storehouses God shall bring new and old; Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief, Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness: Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf, I languish and grow less. Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain, Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my root: To-morrow I shall put forth buds again And clothe myself with fruit. Although to-day I walk in tedious ways, To-day His staff is turned into a rod, Yet will I wait for Him the appointed days And stay upon my God. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

1094:PIANO DI SORRENTO Fort, Fort, my beloved one, Sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes, Let me keep you amused till he vanish In black from the skies, With telling my memories over As you tell your beads; All the Plain saw me gather, I garland -The flowers or the weeds. Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn Had net-worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches, Marked like a quail's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads,-speckled white Over brown like a great spider's back, As I told you last night,- Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting In halves on the tree: And betwixt the loose walls of great flint-stone, Or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, Wherever could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower Its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, Some five for one cup. So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, What change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets Which woke me before I could open my shutter, made fast With a bough and a stone, And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs, Sole lattice that's known. Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, While, busy beneath, Your priest and his brother tugged at them, The rain in their teeth. And out upon all the flat house-roofs Where split figs lay drying, The girls took the frails under cover: Nor use seemed in trying To get out the boats and go fishing, For, under the cliff, Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock. No seeing our skiff Arrive about noon from Amalfi, -Our fisher arrive And pitch down his basket before us, All trembling alive With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit; You touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at, While round him like imps Cling screaming the children as naked And brown as his shrimps; Himself too as bare to the middle -You see round his neck The string and its brass coin suspended, That saves him from wreck. But to-day not a bout reached Salerno, So back, to a man, Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards Grape-harvest began. In the vat, halfway up in our house-side, Like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort To keep the grapes under, Since still when he seems all but master, In pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going With basket on shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain's driving; Your girls that are older,- For under the hedges of aloe, And where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple Lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snails Tempted out by this first rainy weather,- Your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, When, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, Three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow In slippery ropes, And gourds fried in great purple slices, That colour of popes. Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you: The rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence: Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball That peels, flake by flake, Like an onion, each smoother and whiter; Next, sip this weak wine From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, A leaf of the vine; And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh That leaves thro' its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. Scirocco is loose! Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives Which, thick in one's track, Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, Tho' not yet half black! How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, The medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees Snap off, figs and all, For here comes the whole of the tempest! No refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, And listen or sleep. O how will your country show next week, When all the vine-boughs Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture The mules and the cows? Last eve, I rode over the mountains; Your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles That offered, each side, Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,- Or strip from the sorbs A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, Those hairy gold orbs! But my mule picked his sure sober path out, Just stopping to neigh When he recognized down in the valley His mates on their way With the ****s and barrels of water; And soon we emerged From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow; And still as we urged Our way, the woods wondered, and left us, As up still we trudged Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, And place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones Like the loose broken teeth Of some monster which climbed there to die From the ocean beneath- Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed That clung to the path, And dark rosemary ever a-dying That, 'spite the wind's wrath, So loves the salt rock's face to seaward, And lentisks as staunch To the stone where they root and bear berries, And what shows a branch Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets Of pale seagreen leaves; Over all trod my mule with the caution Of gleaners o'er sheaves, Still, foot after foot like a lady, Till, round after round, He climbed to the top of Calvano, And God's own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains, And under, the sea, And within me my heart to bear witness What was and shall be. Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal! No rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived In the blue solitudes. Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! Still moving with you; For, ever some new head and breast of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder; you see it If quickly you turn And before they escape you surprise them. They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over And love (they pretend) -Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches, The wild fruit-trees bend, E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut: All is silent and grave: 'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty, How fair! but a slave. So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered As greenly as ever Those isles of the siren, your Galli; No ages can sever The Three, nor enable their sister To join them,-halfway On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses- No farther to-day, Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave, Watches breast-high and steady From under the rock, her bold sister Swum halfway already. Fort, shall we sail there together And see from the sides Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts Where the siren abides? Shall we sail round and round them, close over The rocks, tho' unseen, That ruffle the grey glassy water To glorious green? Then scramble from splinter to splinter, Reach land and explore, On the largest, the strange square black turret With never a door, Just a loop to admit the quick lizards; Then, stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us What life is, so clear? -The secret they sang to Ulysses When, ages ago, He heard and he knew this life's secret I hear and I know. Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano; He strikes the great gloom And flutters it o'er the mount's summit In airy gold fume. All is over. Look out, see the gipsy, Our tinker and smith, Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, And down-squatted forthwith To his hammering, under the wall there; One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting His jews'-harps to proof, While the other, thro' locks of curled wire, Is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall -Chew, abbot's own cheek! All is over. Wake up and come out now, And down let us go, And see the fine things got in order At church for the show Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To-morrow's the Feast Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means Of Virgins the least, As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse Which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, Was getting by heart. Not a pillar nor post but is dizened With red and blue papers; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar A-blaze with long tapers; But the great masterpiece is the scaffold Rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers And trumpeters bold, Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, Who, when the priest's hoarse, Will strike us up something that's brisk For the feast's second course. And then will the flaxen-wigged Image Be carried in pomp Thro' the plain, while in gallant procession The priests mean to stomp. All round the glad church lie old bottles With gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters, Religiously popped; And at night from the crest of Calvano Great bonfires will hang, On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, And more poppers bang. At all events, come-to the garden As far as the wall; See me tap with a hoe on the plaster Till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers! -``Such trifles!'' you say? Fort, in my England at home, Men meet gravely to-day And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws Be righteous and wise -If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish In black from the skies! The mastic tree (resinous). ~ Robert Browning, The Englishman In Italy ,

1095:The Kalevala - Rune Xliv BIRTH OF THE SECOND HARP. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Long reflecting, sang these measures: 'It is now the time befitting To awaken joy and gladness, Time for me to touch the harp-strings, Time to sing the songs primeval, In these spacious halls and mansions, In these homes of Kalevala; But, alas! my harp lies hidden, Sunk upon the deep-sea's bottom, To the salmon's hiding-places, To the dwellings of the whiting, To the people of Wellamo, Where the Northland-pike assemble. Nevermore will I regain it, Ahto never will return it, Joy and music gone forever! 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Forge for me a rake of iron, Thickly set the teeth of copper, Many fathoms long the handle; Make a rake to search the waters, Search the broad-sea to the bottom, Rake the weeds and reeds together, Rake them to the curving sea-shore, That I may regain my treasure, May regain my harp of fish-bow From the whiting's place of resting, From the caverns of the salmon, From the castles of Wellamo.' Thereupon young Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forges well a rake of iron, Teeth in length a hundred fathoms, And a thousand long the handle, Thickly sets the teeth of copper. 215 Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Takes the rake of magic metals, Travels but a little distance, To the cylinders of oak-wood, To the copper-banded rollers, Where be finds two ships awaiting, One was new, the other ancient. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Thus addressed the new-made vessel: 'Go, thou boat of master-magic, Hasten to the willing waters, Speed away upon the blue-sea, And without the hand to move thee; Let my will impel thee seaward.' Quick the boat rolled to the billows On the cylinders of oak-wood, Quick descended to the waters, Willingly obeyed his master. Wainamoinen, the magician, Then began to rake the sea-beds, Raked up all the water-flowers, Bits of broken reeds and rushes, Deep-sea shells and colored pebbles, Did not find his harp of fish-bone, Lost forever to Wainola! Thereupon the ancient minstrel Left the waters, homeward hastened, Cap pulled clown upon his forehead, Sang this song with sorrow laden: 'Nevermore shall I awaken With my harp-strings, joy and gladness! Nevermore will Wainamoinen Charm the people of the Northland With the harp of his creation! Nevermore my songs will echo O'er the hills of Kalevala!' Thereupon the ancient singer Went lamenting through the forest, Wandered through the sighing pine-woods, Heard the wailing of a birch-tree, Heard a juniper complaining; Drawing nearer, waits and listens, 216 Thus the birch-tree he addresses: 'Wherefore, brother, art thou weeping, Merry birch enrobed in silver, Silver-leaved and silver-tasselled? Art thou shedding tears of sorrow, Since thou art not led to battle, Not enforced to war with wizards? Wisely does the birch make answer: 'This the language of the many, Others speak as thou, unjustly, That I only live in pleasure, That my silver leaves and tassels Only whisper my rejoicings; That I have no cares, no sorrows, That I have no hours unhappy, Knowing neither pain nor trouble. I am weeping for my smallness, Am lamenting for my weakness, Have no sympathy, no pity, Stand here motionless for ages, Stand alone in fen and forest, In these woodlands vast and joyless. Others hope for coming summers, For the beauties of the spring-time; I, alas! a helpless birch-tree, Dread the changing of the seasons, I must give my bark to, others, Lose my leaves and silken tassels. Men come the Suomi children, Peel my bark and drink my life-blood: Wicked shepherds in the summer, Come and steal my belt of silver, Of my bark make berry-baskets, Dishes make, and cups for drinking. Oftentimes the Northland maidens Cut my tender limbs for birch-brooms,' Bind my twigs and silver tassels Into brooms to sweep their cabins; Often have the Northland heroes Chopped me into chips for burning; Three times in the summer season, In the pleasant days of spring-time, 217 Foresters have ground their axes On my silver trunk and branches, Robbed me of my life for ages; This my spring-time joy and pleasure, This my happiness in summer, And my winter days no better! When I think of former troubles, Sorrow settles on my visage, And my face grows white with anguish; Often do the winds of winter And the hoar-frost bring me sadness, Blast my tender leaves and tassels, Bear my foliage to others, Rob me of my silver raiment, Leave me naked on the mountain, Lone, and helpless, and disheartened!' Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: 'Weep no longer, sacred birch-tree, Mourn no more, my friend and brother, Thou shalt have a better fortune; I will turn thy grief to joyance, Make thee laugh and sing with gladness.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Made a harp from sacred birch-wood, Fashioned in the days of summer, Beautiful the harp of magic, By the master's hand created On the fog-point in the Big-Sea, On the island forest-covered, Fashioned from the birch the archings, And the frame-work from the aspen. These the words of the magician: 'All the archings are completed, And the frame is fitly finished; Whence the hooks and pins for tuning, That the harp may sing in concord?' Near the way-side grew an oak-tree, Skyward grew with equal branches, On each twig an acorn growing, Golden balls upon each acorn, On each ball a singing cuckoo. As each cuckoo's call resounded, 218 Five the notes of song that issued From the songster's throat of joyance; From each throat came liquid music, Gold and silver for the master, Flowing to the hills and hillocks, To the silvery vales and mountains; Thence he took the merry harp-pins, That the harp might play in concord. Spake again wise Wainamoinen: 'I the pins have well completed, Still the harp is yet unfinished; Now I need five strings for playing, Where shall I procure the harp-strings?' Then the ancient bard and minstrel Journeyed through the fen and forest. On a hillock sat a maiden, Sat a virgin of the valley; And the maiden was not weeping, Joyful was the sylvan daughter, Singing with the woodland songsters, That the eventide might hasten, In the hope that her beloved Would the sooner sit beside her. Wainamoinen, old and trusted, Hastened, tripping to the virgin, Asked her for her golden ringleta, These the words of the magician. 'Give me, maiden, of thy tresses, Give to me thy golden ringlets; I will weave them into harp-strings, To the joy of Wainamoinen, To the pleasure of his people.' Thereupon the forest-maiden Gave the singer of her tresses, Gave him of her golden ringlets, And of these he made the harp-strings. Sources of eternal pleasure To the people of Wainola. Thus the sacred harp is finished, And the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Sits upon the rock of joyance, Takes the harp within his fingers, 219 Turns the arch up, looking skyward; With his knee the arch supporting, Sets the strings in tuneful order, Runs his fingers o'er the harp-strings, And the notes of pleasure follow. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, Plays upon his harp of birch-wood. Far away is heard the music, Wide the harp of joy re-echoes; Mountains dance and valleys listen, Flinty rocks are tom asunder, Stones are hurled upon the waters, Pebbles swim upon the Big-Sea, Pines and lindens laugh with pleasure, Alders skip about the heather, And the aspen sways in concord. All the daughters of Wainola Straightway leave their shining needles, Hasten forward like the current, Speed along like rapid rivers, That they may enjoy and wonder. Laugh the younger men and maidens, Happy-hearted are the matrons Flying swift to bear the playing, To enjoy the common pleasure, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Aged men and bearded seniors, Gray-haired mothers with their daughters Stop in wonderment and listen. Creeps the babe in full enjoyment As he hears the magic singing, Hears the harp of Wainamoinen. All of Northland stops in wonder, Speaks in unison these measures: 'Never have we heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the earth was fashioned, As the songs of this magician, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen!' Far and wide the sweet tones echo, Ring throughout the seven hamlets, 220 O'er the seven islands echo; Every creature of the Northland Hastens forth to look and listen, Listen to the songs of gladness, To the harp of Wainamoinen. All the beasts that haunt the woodlands Fall upon their knees and wonder At the playing of the minstrel, At his miracles of concord. All the songsters of the forests Perch upon the trembling branches, Singing to the wondrous playing Of the harp of Wainamoinen. All the dwellers of the waters Leave their beds, and eaves, and grottoes, Swim against the shore and listen To the playing of the minstrel, To the harp of Wainamoinen. All the little things in nature, Rise from earth, and fall from ether, Come and listen to the music, To the notes of the enchanter, To the songs of the magician, To the harp of Wainamoinen. Plays the singer of the Northland, Plays in miracles of sweetness, Plays one day, and then a second, Plays the third from morn till even; Plays within the halls and cabins, In the dwellings of his people, Till the floors and ceilings echo, Till resound the roofs of pine-wood, Till the windows speak and tremble, Till the portals echo joyance, And the hearth-stones sing in pleasure. As he journeys through the forest, As he wanders through the woodlands, Pine and sorb-tree bid him welcome, Birch and willow bend obeisance, Beech and aspen bow submission; And the linden waves her branches To the measure of his playing, 221 To the notes of the magician. As the minstrel plays and wanders, Sings upon the mead and heather, Glen and hill his songs re-echo, Ferns and flowers laugh in pleasure, And the shrubs attune their voices To the music of the harp-strings, To the songs of Wainamoinen. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1096:Ocean: An Ode. Concluding With A Wish.* I. Sweet rural scene! Of flocks and green! At careless ease my limbs are spread; All nature still But yonder rill; And listening pines not o'er my head: II In prospect wide, The boundless tide! Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar; Without a breeze, The curling seas Dance on, in measure, to the shore. III Who sings the source Of wealth and force? Vast field of commerce and big war: Where wonders dwell! Where terrors swell! And Neptune thunders from his car? IV Where? where are they, Whom Pean's ray Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave? What, none aspire? I snatch the lyre, And plunge into the foaming wave. The wave resounds! The rock rebounds! The Nereids to my song reply! I lead the choir, And they conspire With voice and shell to lift it high; VI They spread in air Their bosoms fair; Their verdant tresses pour behind. 36 The billows beat With nimble feet, With notes triumphant swell the wind. VII Who love the shore, And they conspire With voice and shell to lift it high; Let those adore The God Apollo, and his Nine, Parnassus' hill, And Orpheus' skill; But let Arion's harp be mine. VIII The main! the main! Is Britain's reign; Her strength, her glory, is her fleet; The main! the main! Be Briton's strain; As Triton's strong, as Syren's sweet. IX Through nature wide, Is nought descry'd So rich in pleasure, or surprize; When all-serene How sweet the scene! How dreadful, when the billows rise. And storms deface The fluid glass In which ere-while Britannia fair Look'd down with pride, Like Ocean's bride, Adjusting her majestic air. XI When tempests cease, And hush'd in peace The flatten'd surges smoothly spread Deep silence keep, And seem to sleep Recumbent on their oozy bed; XII With what a trance 37 The level glance, Unbroken, shoots along the seas! Whichtempt from shore the painted oar; And every canvas courts the breeze! XIII When rushes forth The frowning North On blackening billows, with what dread My shuddering soul Beholds them roll, And hears their roarings o'er my head! XIV With terror mark Yon flying bark! Now, center-deep descend the brave; Now, toss'd on high It takes the sky, A feather on the towering wave! XV Now, spins around In whirls profound; Now, whelm'd; now, pendant near the clouds; Now, stunn'd, it reels Midst thunder's peals; And, now, fierce lightening fires the shrouds. XVI All aether burns! Chaos returns! And blends once more the seas and skies; No space between Thy bosom green, O Deep! and the blue concave, lies. XVII The northern blast, The shatter'd mast, The fyrt, the whirlpool, and the rock, The breaking spout, the stars gone out, The boiling sreight, the monsters shock. XVIII Let others fear; 38 To Britain dear What'er promotes her daring claim; Those terrors charm, Which keep her warm In chace of honest gain or fame. XIX The stars are bright To chear the night, And shed, through shadows, temper'd fire; And Phoebus flames With burnish'd beams, Which some adore, and all admire. XX Are then the seas Outshone by these? Bright Thetys! thou art not outshone; With kinder beams And softer gleams, Thy bosom wears them as thy own XXI There, set in green, Gold-stars are seen, A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap; And when the sun His race has run He falls enamour'd in thy lap. XXII Those clouds, whose dyes Adorn the skies, That silver snow, that pearly rain; Has Phoebus stole To grace the pole, The plunder of th' invaded main! XXIII The gaudy bow, Whose colours glow, Whose arch with so much skill is bent, To Phoebus' ray Which paints so gay, By thee the watery woof was lent. XXIV In chambers deep, 39 Where waters sleep, What unknown treasures pave the floor! The pearl in rows Pale lustre throws; The wealth immense, which storms devour. XXV From Indian mines, With proud designs, the merchant, swoin, digs golden ore. The tempests rise, And seize the prize, And toss him breathless on the shore. XXVI His son complains In pious strains "Ah! cruel thirst of gold!" he cries; Then ploughs the main, In zeal for gain, The tears yet swelling in his eyes. XXVII Thou watery vast! What mounds are cast To bar thy dreadful flowings-o'er? Thy proudest foam Must know its home; But rage of gold disdains a shore. XXVIII Gold Pleasure buys; But Pleasure dies, Too soon the tross fruition cloys: Though raptures court, The sense is short; But Virtue kindles living joys; XXIX Joys felt alone! Joys ask'd of none! Which Time's and Fortune's arrows miss; Joys that subsist, Though Fates resist, And unprecarious endless bliss! XXX The soul refin'd 40 Is most inclin'd To every moral excellence; All Vice is dull, A knave's a fool; And Virtue is the child of Sense XXXI The virtuous mind Nor wave, nor wind, Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown, The shaken ball Nor planets fall, From its firm basis can dethrone. XXXII This Britain knows, And therefore glows With generous passions, and expends Her wealth and zeal On public weal, And brightens both by godlike ends. XXXIII What end so great, As that which late Awoke the Genius of the main, Which towering rose With George to close, And rival great Eliza's reign? XXXIV A voice has flown From Britain's throne To reinflame a grand design; That voice shall rear Yon fabrick fair,1 As Nature's rose at the divine. XXXV When nature sprung, Blest angels sung, And shouted o'er the rising balll; For strains as high As main's can fly, These sea-devoted honours call. XXXVI From boisterous seas, 41 The lap of ease Receives our wounded and our old; High domes ascend! Stretc'd arches bend! Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold! XXXVII So sleeps the grain, In fostering rain, And vital beams, till Jove descend; Then bursts the root! the verdures shoot! And earth enrich, adorn, defend! XXXVIII Here, soft-reclin'd From wave, from wind, And Fortune's tempest safe ashore, To cheat their care, Of former war They talk the pleasing shadows o'er. XXXIX In lengthen'd tales, Our fleet prevails; In tales the lenitives of age! And, o'er the bowl, They fire the soul Of listening youth, to martial rage. XL The story done, Their setting sun, Serenely smiling down the West, In soft decay, They drop away; And Honour leads them to their rest. XLI Unhappy they! And falsely gay! Who bask for ever in success; A constant feast Quite palls the taste, And long enjoyment is distress. XLII What charms us most, 42 Our joy, our boast, Familiar, loses all its bloss; And gold refin'd The fated mind Fastidious turns to perfect dross. XLIII When, after toil, His native soil The panting mariner regains What transport flows From bare repose! We reap our pleasure from our pains. XLIV Ye warlike slain! Beneath the main, Wrapt in a watery winding sheet; Who bought with blood Your country's good, Your country's full-blown glorys greet. XLV What powerful charm Can death disarm? Your long, your iron slumbers break? By Jove, by Fame, By George's name, Awake! awake! awake! XLVI Our joy so proud, Our shout so loud, Without a charm the dead might hear: And see, they rouze! Their awful brows, Deep-scar'd, froomm oozy pillows rear! XLVII With spiral shell, Full-blasted, tell That all your watery realms should sing; Your pearl-alcoves, Your coral-groves, Should echo theirs, and Britain's king. XLVIII As long as stars 43 Guide mariners, As Carolina's virtues please, Or suns invite The ravish'd sight, The British flag shall sweep the seas. XLIX Pecular both! Our soil's strong growth, And our bold natives hardy mind; Sure Heaven bespoke Our hearts, and oak, To give a master to minkind. That noblest birth Of teaming earth, Of forests fair that daughter proud, To foreign coasts Our grandeur boasts And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud. LI Now big with war Sends Fate from far, If rebel realms their Fate demand; Now, sumptuous spoils Of foreign soils Pours in the bottom of our land. LII Hence, Britain lays In scales, and weighs The fates of kingdoms and of kings; And as she frowns Or smiles, on crown A night or day of glory springs. LIII Thus Ocean swells The streams and rills, And to their borders lifts them high; Or else withdraws The mighty cause, And leaves their famish'd channels dry. LIV How mixt, how frail, 44 How sure to fail, Is every pleasure of mankind! A damp destroys My blooming joys, While Britain's glory fires my mind. LV For who can gaze On restless seas, Unstruck with life's more restless state? Where all are toss'd, And most are lost By tides of passion, blasts of fate? LVI The world's the main, How vext! how vain! Ambition swells, and Anger foams; May good men find, Beneath the wind, A noiseless shore, unruffled homes! LVII The public scene Of harden'd men Teach me, O teach me to despise! The world few know But to their woe, Our crimes with our experience rise; LVIII All tender sense Is banish'd thence,. All maiden nature's first alarms; What shock'd before Disgusts no more, And what disgusted has its charms LIX In landskips green True Bliss is seen, With Innocence, in shades, the sports; In wealthy towns Proud labour frowns, And painted Sorrow smiles in courts. LX These scenes untry'd 45 Seduc'd my pride, To Fortune's arrows bar'd my breast; Till Wisdom came, A hoary dame! And told me pleasure was in rest. LXI "O may I steal "Along the vale "Of humble life, secure from foes! "My friend sincere! "My judgment clear! "And gentle business my repose! ~ Edward Young,

1097:The Princess (Prologue) Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun Up to the people: thither flocked at noon His tenants, wife and child, and thither half The neighbouring borough with their Institute Of which he was the patron. I was there From college, visiting the son,--the son A Walter too,--with others of our set, Five others: we were seven at Vivian-place. And me that morning Walter showed the house, Greek, set with busts: from vases in the hall Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names, Grew side by side; and on the pavement lay Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time; And on the tables every clime and age Jumbled together; celts and calumets, Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs From the isles of palm: and higher on the walls, Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, His own forefathers' arms and armour hung. And 'this' he said 'was Hugh's at Agincourt; And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon: A good knight he! we keep a chronicle With all about him'--which he brought, and I Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights, Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings Who laid about them at their wills and died; And mixt with these, a lady, one that armed Her own fair head, and sallying through the gate, Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. 'O miracle of women,' said the book, 'O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 798 By this wild king to force her to his wish, Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunned a soldier's death, But now when all was lost or seemed as lost-Her stature more than mortal in the burst Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire-Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, And, falling on them like a thunderbolt, She trampled some beneath her horses' heels, And some were whelmed with missiles of the wall, And some were pushed with lances from the rock, And part were drowned within the whirling brook: O miracle of noble womanhood!' So sang the gallant glorious chronicle; And, I all rapt in this, 'Come out,' he said, 'To the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth And sister Lilia with the rest.' We went (I kept the book and had my finger in it) Down through the park: strange was the sight to me; For all the sloping pasture murmured, sown With happy faces and with holiday. There moved the multitude, a thousand heads: The patient leaders of their Institute Taught them with facts. One reared a font of stone And drew, from butts of water on the slope, The fountain of the moment, playing, now A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball Danced like a wisp: and somewhat lower down A man with knobs and wires and vials fired A cannon: Echo answered in her sleep From hollow fields: and here were telescopes For azure views; and there a group of girls In circle waited, whom the electric shock Dislinked with shrieks and laughter: round the lake A little clock-work steamer paddling plied And shook the lilies: perched about the knolls A dozen angry models jetted steam: A petty railway ran: a fire-balloon Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves And dropt a fairy parachute and past: And there through twenty posts of telegraph 799 They flashed a saucy message to and fro Between the mimic stations; so that sport Went hand in hand with Science; otherwhere Pure sport; a herd of boys with clamour bowled And stumped the wicket; babies rolled about Like tumbled fruit in grass; and men and maids Arranged a country dance, and flew through light And shadow, while the twangling violin Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. Strange was the sight and smacking of the time; And long we gazed, but satiated at length Came to the ruins. High-arched and ivy-claspt, Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, Through one wide chasm of time and frost they gave The park, the crowd, the house; but all within The sward was trim as any garden lawn: And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends From neighbour seats: and there was Ralph himself, A broken statue propt against the wall, As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, Half child half woman as she was, had wound A scarf of orange round the stony helm, And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, That made the old warrior from his ivied nook Glow like a sunbeam: near his tomb a feast Shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests, And there we joined them: then the maiden Aunt Took this fair day for text, and from it preached An universal culture for the crowd, And all things great; but we, unworthier, told Of college: he had climbed across the spikes, And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars, And he had breathed the Proctor's dogs; and one Discussed his tutor, rough to common men, But honeying at the whisper of a lord; And one the Master, as a rogue in grain Veneered with sanctimonious theory. But while they talked, above their heads I saw 800 The feudal warrior lady-clad; which brought My book to mind: and opening this I read Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls, And much I praised her nobleness, and 'Where,' Asked Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay Beside him) 'lives there such a woman now?' Quick answered Lilia 'There are thousands now Such women, but convention beats them down: It is but bringing up; no more than that: You men have done it: how I hate you all! Ah, were I something great! I wish I were Some might poetess, I would shame you then, That love to keep us children! O I wish That I were some great princess, I would build Far off from men a college like a man's, And I would teach them all that men are taught; We are twice as quick!' And here she shook aside The hand that played the patron with her curls. And one said smiling 'Pretty were the sight If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. I think they should not wear our rusty gowns, But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph Who shines so in the corner; yet I fear, If there were many Lilias in the brood, However deep you might embower the nest, Some boy would spy it.' At this upon the sward She tapt her tiny silken-sandaled foot: 'That's your light way; but I would make it death For any male thing but to peep at us.' Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laughed; A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make her, she: But Walter hailed a score of names upon her, And 'petty Ogress', and 'ungrateful Puss', 801 And swore he longed at college, only longed, All else was well, for she-society. They boated and they cricketed; they talked At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics; They lost their weeks; they vext the souls of deans; They rode; they betted; made a hundred friends, And caught the blossom of the flying terms, But missed the mignonette of Vivian-place, The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke, Part banter, part affection. 'True,' she said, 'We doubt not that. O yes, you missed us much. I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you did.' She held it out; and as a parrot turns Up through gilt wires a crafty loving eye, And takes a lady's finger with all care, And bites it for true heart and not for harm, So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shrieked And wrung it. 'Doubt my word again!' he said. 'Come, listen! here is proof that you were missed: We seven stayed at Christmas up to read; And there we took one tutor as to read: The hard-grained Muses of the cube and square Were out of season: never man, I think, So mouldered in a sinecure as he: For while our cloisters echoed frosty feet, And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms, We did but talk you over, pledge you all In wassail; often, like as many girls-Sick for the hollies and the yews of home-As many little trifling Lilias--played Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, And ~what's my thought~ and ~when~ and ~where~ and ~how~, As here at Christmas.' She remembered that: A pleasant game, she thought: she liked it more Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. But these--what kind of tales did men tell men, She wondered, by themselves? A half-disdain Perched on the pouted blossom of her lips: 802 And Walter nodded at me; '~He~ began, The rest would follow, each in turn; and so We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? what kind? Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms, Seven-headed monsters only made to kill Time by the fire in winter.' 'Kill him now, The tyrant! kill him in the summer too,' Said Lilia; 'Why not now?' the maiden Aunt. 'Why not a summer's as a winter's tale? A tale for summer as befits the time, And something it should be to suit the place, Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, Grave, solemn!' Walter warped his mouth at this To something so mock-solemn, that I laughed And Lilia woke with sudden-thrilling mirth An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, Hid in the ruins; till the maiden Aunt (A little sense of wrong had touched her face With colour) turned to me with 'As you will; Heroic if you will, or what you will, Or be yourself you hero if you will.' 'Take Lilia, then, for heroine' clamoured he, 'And make her some great Princess, six feet high, Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you The Prince to win her!' 'Then follow me, the Prince,' I answered, 'each be hero in his turn! Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream.-Heroic seems our Princess as required-But something made to suit with Time and place, A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, A talk of college and of ladies' rights, A feudal knight in silken masquerade, And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all-This ~were~ a medley! we should have him back Who told the "Winter's tale" to do it for us. No matter: we will say whatever comes. And let the ladies sing us, if they will, 803 From time to time, some ballad or a song To give us breathing-space.' So I began, And the rest followed: and the women sang Between the rougher voices of the men, Like linnets in the pauses of the wind: And here I give the story and the songs. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1098:Saint Maura: A.D. 304 Thank God! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last! The guards are crouching underneath the rock; The lights are fading in the town below, Around the cottage which this morn was ours. Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone; Alone upon our crosses with our God; While all the angels watch us from the stars. Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him, And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord! Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb! Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love, Never till now loved utterly! Oh say, Say you forgive me! No-you must not speak: You said it to me hours ago-long hours! Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes Speak to the people, call them home to God, A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church; And plead from off the tree with outspread arms, To show them that the Son of God endured For them-and me. Hush! I alone will speak, And while away the hours till dawn for you. I know you have forgiven me; as I lay Beneath your feet, while they were binding me, I knew I was forgiven then! When I cried 'Here am I, husband! The lost lamb returned, All re-baptized in blood!' and you said, 'Come! Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!' From that same moment all my pain was gone; And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled Love-love! Alas, those eyes! They made me fall. I could not bear to see them, bleeding, dark, Never, no never to look into mine; Never to watch me round the little room Singing about my work, or flash on me Looks bright with counsel.-Then they drove me mad With talk of nameless tortures waiting youAnd I could save you! You would hear your loveThey knew you loved me, cruel men! And then- 76 Then came a dream; to say one little word, One easy wicked word, we both might say, And no one hear us, but the lictors round; One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains, And both, both free! And life had just begunOnly three months-short months-your wedded wife Only three months within the cottage thereHoping I bore your child. . . . Ah! husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me! I am forgiven! . . . And then another dream; A flash-so quick, I could not bear the blaze; I could not see the smoke among the lightTo wander out through unknown lands, and lead You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town, On, on, until we died; and stand each day To glory in you, as you preached and prayed From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words, Mingled with fire and honey-you would wake, Bend, save whole nations! would not that atone For one short word?-ay, make it right, to save You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord? And so-and so-alas! you knew the rest! You answered me. . . . Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words. You had done nobly had you struck me dead, Instead of striking me to life!-the temptress! . . . 'Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!''The smell of death upon me?'-so it was! True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped, Those words, my madness, like the angel's voice Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear. There was but one right thing in the world to do; And I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ! Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail Yet, as I failed before! . . . I could not speakI could not speak for shame and misery, And terror of my sin, and of the things I knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven! There we should meet, perhaps-and by that time I might be worthy of you once againOf you, and of my God. . . . So I went out. 77 ...... Will you hear more, and so forget the pain? And yet I dread to tell you what comes next; Your love will feel it all again for me. No! it is over; and the woe that's dead Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love! Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry! To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat, And they will give you water. One to-day, A soldier, gave me water in a sponge Upon a reed, and said, 'Too fair! too young! She might have been a gallant soldier's wife!' And then I cried, 'I am a soldier's wife! A hero's!' And he smiled, but let me drink. God bless him for it! So they led me back: And as I went, a voice was in my ears Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath And blaze of all the garden slopes below, And through the harvest-voices, and the moan Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above, And round the shining rivers, and the peaks Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west, And round the ancient stones about my feet. Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried, 'My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak To give thee strength to say so?' Then my soul Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast, While all the people made a ring around, And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly'Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?' 'No! He has brought me to a better mind!'I cried, and said beside-I know not whatWords which I learnt from thee-I trust in God Nought fierce or rude-for was I not a girl Three months ago beneath my mother's roof? I thought of that. She might be there! I lookedShe was not there! I hid my face and wept. And when I looked again, the judge's eye Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought'She knows what shame is still; so strip her.' 'Ah!' I shrieked, 'Not that, Sir! Any pain! So young 78 I am-a wife too-I am not my own, But his-my husband's!' But they took my shawl, And tore my tunic off, and there I stood Before them all. . . . Husband! you love me still? Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon, And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed, While some cried 'Shame!' and some, 'She is too young!' And some mocked-ugly words: God shut my ears. And yet no earthquake came to swallow me. While all the court around, and walls, and roofs, And all the earth and air were full of eyes, Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame, Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow: And yet no earthquake came! And then I knew This body was not yours alone, but God'sHis loan-He needed it: and after that The worst was come, and any torture more A change-a lightening; and I did not shriekOnce only-once, when first I felt the whipIt coiled so keen around my side, and sent A fire-flash through my heart which choked me-then I shrieked-that once. The foolish echo rang So far and long-I prayed you might not hear. And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes, Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears Of humming bees around the limes at home; And I was all alone with you and God. And what they did to me I hardly know; I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back, It was not after all so very sharp: So do not pity me. It made me pray; Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you, And you in God: and once, when I looked down, And saw an ugly sight-so many wounds! 'What matter?' thought I. 'His dear eyes are dark; For them alone I kept these limbs so whiteA foolish pride! As God wills now. 'Tis just.' But then the judge spoke out in haste: 'She is mad, Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!' He did not know I was on fire within: Better he should not; so his sin was less. Then he cried fiercely, 'Take the slave away, 79 And crucify her by her husband's side!' And at those words a film came on my faceA sickening rush of joy-was that the end? That my reward? I rose, and tried to goBut all the eyes had vanished, and the judge; And all the buildings melted into mist: So how they brought me here I cannot tellHere, here, by you, until the judgment-day, And after that for ever and for ever! Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch! One finger tip, to send the thrill through me I felt but yesterday!-No! I can wait:Another body!-Oh, new limbs are ready, Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve, Kept for us in the treasuries of God. They will not mar the love they try to speak, They will not fail my soul, as these have done! ..... Will you hear more? Nay-you know all the rest: Yet those poor eyes-alas! they could not see My waking, when you hung above me there With hands outstretched to bless the penitentYour penitent-even like The Lord HimselfI gloried in you!-like The Lord Himself! Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow To make you like Him-show you as you were! I told them so! I bid them look on you, And see there what was the highest throne on earthThe throne of suffering, where the Son of God Endured and triumphed for them. But they laughed; All but one soldier, gray, with many scars; And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you, And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloudYou heard me! You know all! I am at peace. Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile, And kept me happy, when they dragged me back From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross, And bound my wrists and ankles-Do not sigh: I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own, 80 Nor will, till death comes! . . . Do I feel much pain? Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear. It has become like part of my own life, Or part of God's life in me-honour-bliss! I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest; Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night. I should be easy, now, if I could move . . . I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fire Through all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you! Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed? Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil Unless it conquers us. These little wrists, nowYou said, one blessed night, they were too slender, Too soft and slender for a deacon's wifePerhaps a martyr's:-You forgot the strength Which God can give. The cord has cut them through; And yet my voice has never faltered yet. Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray That you may die: and you must not die yet. Not yet-they told us we might live three days . . . Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak Words which may wake the dead! ..... Hush! is he sleeping? They say that men have slept upon the cross; So why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe: And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!-save Souls, crowds, for Thee! And they will know his worth Years hence-poor things, they know not what they do!And crown him martyr; and his name will ring Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see His triumph-Preacher! Martyr!-Ah-and me?If they must couple my poor name with his, Let them tell all the truth-say how I loved him, And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord! Returning good for evil! and was this The payment I deserved for such a sin? To hang here on my cross, and look at him Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven! 81 Eversley, 1852. ~ Charles Kingsley,

1099:I. How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark autumn-evenings come: And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life's November too! II. I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose! III. Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, ``There he is at it, deep in Greek: ``Now then, or never, out we slip ``To cut from the hazels by the creek ``A mainmast for our ship!'' IV. I shall be at it indeed, my friends: Greek puts already on either side Such a branch-work forth as soon extends To a vista opening far and wide, And I pass out where it ends. V. The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees: But the inside-archway widens fast, And a rarer sort succeeds to these, And we slope to Italy at last And youth, by green degrees. VI. I follow wherever I am led, Knowing so well the leader's hand: Oh woman-country, wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead! VII. Look at the ruined chapel again Half-way up in the Alpine gorge! Is that a tower, I point you plain, Or is it a mill, or an iron-forge Breaks solitude in vain? VIII. A turn, and we stand in the heart of things: The woods are round us, heaped and dim; From slab to slab how it slips and springs, The thread of water single and slim, Through the ravage some torrent brings! IX. Does it feed the little lake below? That speck of white just on its marge Is Pella; see, in the evening-glow, How sharp the silver spear-heads charge When Alp meets heaven in snow! X. On our other side is the straight-up rock; And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it By boulder-stones where lichens mock The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit Their teeth to the polished block. XI. Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers , And thorny balls, each three in one, The chestnuts throw on our path in showers! For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun, These early November hours, XII. That crimson the creeper's leaf across Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt, O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss, And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped Elf-needled mat of moss, XIII. By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged Last evening-nay, in to-day's first dew Yon sudden coral nipple bulged, Where a freaked fawn-coloured flaky crew Of toadstools peep indulged. XIV. And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge That takes the turn to a range beyond, Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond Danced over by the midge. XV. The chapel and bridge are of stone alike, Blackish-grey and mostly wet; Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke. See here again, how the lichens fret And the roots of the ivy strike! XVI. Poor little place, where its one priest comes On a festa-day, if he comes at all, To the dozen folk from their scattered homes, Gathered within that precinct small By the dozen ways one roams- XVII. To drop from the charcoal-burners ' huts, Or climb from the hemp-dressers' low shed, Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts, Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread Their gear on the rock's bare juts. XVIII. It has some pretension too, this front, With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise Set over the porch, Art's early wont: 'Tis John in the Desert, I surmise, But has borne the weather's brunt- XIX. Not from the fault of the builder, though, For a pent-house properly projects Where three carved beams make a certain show, Dating-good thought of our architect's- 'Five, six, nine, he lets you know. XX. And all day long a bird sings there, And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times; The place is silent and aware; It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, But that is its own affair. XXI. My perfect wife, my Leonor, Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too, Whom else could I dare look backward for, With whom beside should I dare pursue The path grey heads abhor? XXII. For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them; Youth, flowery all the way, there stops- Not they; age threatens and they contemn, Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops, One inch from life's safe hem! XXIII. With me, youth led I will speak now, No longer watch you as you sit Reading by fire-light, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Mutely, my heart knows how- XXIV. When, if I think but deep enough, You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; And you, too, find without rebuff Response your soul seeks many a time Piercing its fine flesh-stuff. XXV. My own, confirm me! If I tread This path back, is it not in pride To think how little I dreamed it led To an age so blest that, by its side, Youth seems the waste instead? XXVI. My own, see where the years conduct! At first, 'twas something our two souls Should mix as mists do; each is sucked In each now: on, the new stream rolls, Whatever rocks obstruct. XXVII. Think, when our one soul understands The great Word which makes all things new, When earth breaks up and heaven expands, How will the change strike me and you ln the house not made with hands? XXVIII. Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine, Your heart anticipate my heart, You must be just before, in fine, See and make me see, for your part, New depths of the divine! XXIX. But who could have expected this When we two drew together first Just for the obvious human bliss, To satisfy life's daily thirst With a thing men seldom miss? XXX. Come back with me to the first of all, Let us lean and love it over again, Let us now forget and now recall, Break the rosary in a pearly rain, And gather what we let fall! XXXI. What did I say?-that a small bird sings All day long, save when a brown pair Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings Strained to a bell: 'gainst noon-day glare You count the streaks and rings. XXXII. But at afternoon or almost eve 'Tis better; then the silence grows To that degree, you half believe It must get rid of what it knows, Its bosom does so heave. XXXIII. Hither we walked then, side by side, Arm in arm and cheek to cheek, And still I questioned or replied, While my heart, convulsed to really speak, Lay choking in its pride. XXXIV. Silent the crumbling bridge we cross, And pity and praise the chapel sweet, And care about the fresco's loss, And wish for our souls a like retreat, And wonder at the moss. XXXV. Stoop and kneel on the settle under, Look through the window's grated square: Nothing to see! For fear of plunder, The cross is down and the altar bare, As if thieves don't fear thunder. XXXVI. We stoop and look in through the grate, See the little porch and rustic door, Read duly the dead builder's date; Then cross the bridge that we crossed before, Take the path again-but wait! XXXVII. Oh moment, one and infinite! The water slips o'er stock and stone; The West is tender, hardly bright: How grey at once is the evening grown- One star, its chrysolite! XXXVIII. We two stood there with never a third, But each by each, as each knew well: The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred. XXXIX. Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away! How a sound shall quicken content to bliss, Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, And life be a proof of this! XL. Had she willed it, still had stood the screen So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her: I could fix her face with a guard between, And find her soul as when friends confer, Friends-lovers that might have been. XLI. For my heart had a touch of the woodland-time, Wanting to sleep now over its best. Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime, But bring to the Iast leaf no such test! ``Hold the last fast!'' runs the rhyme. XLII. For a chance to make your little much, To gain a lover and lose a friend, Venture the tree and a myriad such, When nothing you mar but the year can mend: But a last leaf-fear to touch! XLIII. Yet should it unfasten itself and fall Eddying down till it find your face At some slight wind-best chance of all! Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place You trembled to forestall! XLIV. Worth how well, those dark grey eyes, That hair so dark and dear, how worth That a man should strive and agonize, And taste a veriest hell on earth For the hope of such a prize! XIIV. You might have turned and tried a man, Set him a space to weary and wear, And prove which suited more your plan, His best of hope or his worst despair, Yet end as he began. XLVI. But you spared me this, like the heart you are, And filled my empty heart at a word. If two lives join, there is oft a scar, They are one and one, with a shadowy third; One near one is too far. XLVII. A moment after, and hands unseen Were hanging the night around us fast But we knew that a bar was broken between Life and life: we were mixed at last In spite of the mortal screen. XLVIII. The forests had done it; there they stood; We caught for a moment the powers at play: They had mingled us so, for once and good, Their work was done-we might go or stay, They relapsed to their ancient mood. XLIX. How the world is made for each of us! How all we perceive and know in it Tends to some moment's product thus, When a soul declares itself-to wit, By its fruit, the thing it does L. Be hate that fruit or love that fruit, It forwards the general deed of man, And each of the Many helps to recruit The life of the race by a general plan; Each living his own, to boot. LI. I am named and known by that moment's feat; There took my station and degree; So grew my own small life complete, As nature obtained her best of me- One born to love you, sweet! LII. And to watch you sink by the fire-side now Back again, as you mutely sit Musing by fire-light, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Yonder, my heart knows how! LIII. So, earth has gained by one man the more, And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too; And the whole is well worth thinking o'er When autumn comes: which I mean to do One day, as I said before. ~ Robert Browning, By The Fire-Side ,

1100:Why run the crowd? What means the throng That rushes fast the streets along? Can Rhodes a prey to flames, then, be? In crowds they gather hastily, And, on his steed, a noble knight Amid the rabble, meets my sight; Behind himprodigy unknown! A monster fierce they're drawing on; A dragon stems it by its shape, With wide and crocodile-like jaw, And on the knight and dragon gape, In turns, the people, filled with awe. And thousand voices shout with glee "The fiery dragon come and see, Who hind and flock tore limb from limb! The hero see, who vanquished him! Full many a one before him went, To dare the fearful combat bent, But none returned home from the fight; Honor ye, then, the noble knight!" And toward the convent move they all, While met in hasty council there The brave knights of the Hospital, St. John the Baptist's Order, were. Up to the noble master sped The youth, with firm but modest tread; The people followed with wild shout, And stood the landing-place about, While thus outspoke that daring one: "My knightly duty I have done. The dragon that laid waste the land Has fallen beneath my conquering hand. The way is to the wanderer free, The shepherd o'er the plains may rove; Across the mountains joyfully The pilgrim to the shrine may move." But sternly looked the prince, and said: "The hero's part thou well hast played By courage is the true knight known, A dauntless spirit thou hast shown. Yet speak! What duty first should he Regard, who would Christ's champion be, Who wears the emblem of the Cross?" And all turned pale at his discourse. Yet he replied, with noble grace, While blushingly he bent him low: "That he deserves so proud a place Obedience best of all can show." "My son," the master answering spoke, "Thy daring act this duty broke. The conflict that the law forbade Thou hast with impious mind essayed." "Lord, judge when all to thee is known," The other spake, in steadfast tone, "For I the law's commands and will Purposed with honor to fulfil. I went not out with heedless thought. Hoping the monster dread to find; To conquer in the fight I sought By cunning, and a prudent mind." "Five of our noble Order, then (Our faith could boast no better men), Had by their daring lost their life, When thou forbadest us the strife. And yet my heart I felt a prey To gloom, and panted for the fray; Ay, even in the stilly night, In vision gasped I in the fight; And when the glimmering morning came, And of fresh troubles knowledge gave, A raging grief consumed my frame, And I resolved the thing to brave." "And to myself I thus began: 'What is't adorns the youth, the man? What actions of the heroes bold, Of whom in ancient song we're told, Blind heathendom raised up on high To godlike fame and dignity? The world, by deeds known far and wide, From monsters fierce they purified; The lion in the fight they met, And wrestled with the minotaur, Unhappy victims free to set, And were not sparing of their gore.'" "'Are none but Saracens to feel The prowess of the Christian steel? False idols only shall be brave? His mission is the world to save; To free it, by his sturdy arm, From every hurt, from every harm; Yet wisdom must his courage bend, And cunning must with strength contend.' Thus spake I oft, and went alone The monster's traces to espy; When on my mind a bright light shone, 'I have it!' was my joyful cry." "To thee I went, and thus I spake: 'My homeward journey I would take.' Thou, lord, didst grant my prayer to me, Then safely traversed I the sea; And, when I reached my native strand, I caused a skilful artist's hand To make a dragon's image, true To his that now so well I knew. On feet of measure short was placed Its lengthy body's heavy load; A scaly coat of mail embraced The back, on which it fiercely showed." "Its stretching neck appeared to swell, And, ghastly as a gate of hell, Its fearful jaws were open wide, As if to seize the prey it tried; And in its black mouth, ranged about, Its teeth in prickly rows stood out; Its tongue was like a sharp-edged sword, And lightning from its small eyes poured; A serpent's tail of many a fold Ended its body's monstrous span, And round itself with fierceness rolled, So as to clasp both steed and man." "I formed the whole to nature true, In skin of gray and hideous hue; Part dragon it appeared, part snake, Engendered in the poisonous lake. And, when the figure was complete, A pair of dogs I chose me, fleet, Of mighty strength, of nimble pace, Inured the savage boar to chase; The dragon, then, I made them bait, Inflaming them to fury dread, With their sharp teeth to seize it straight, And with my voice their motions led." "And, where the belly's tender skin Allowed the tooth to enter in, I taught them how to seize it there, And, with their fangs, the part to tear. I mounted, then, my Arab steed, The offspring of a noble breed; My hand a dart on high held forth, And, when I had inflamed his wrath, I stuck my sharp spurs in his side, And urged him on as quick as thought, And hurled my dart in circles wide As if to pierce the beast I sought." "And though my steed reared high in pain, And champed and foamed beneath the rein, And though the dogs howled fearfully, Till they were calmed ne'er rested I. This plan I ceaselessly pursued, Till thrice the moon had been renewed; And when they had been duly taught, In swift ships here I had them brought; And since my foot these shores has pressed Flown has three mornings' narrow span; I scarce allowed my limbs to rest Ere I the mighty task began." "For hotly was my bosom stirred When of the land's fresh grief I heard; Shepherds of late had been his prey, When in the marsh they went astray. I formed my plans then hastily, My heart was all that counselled me. My squires instructing to proceed, I sprang upon my well-trained steed, And, followed by my noble pair Of dogs, by secret pathways rode, Where not an eye could witness bear, To find the monster's fell abode." "Thou, lord, must know the chapel well, Pitched on a rocky pinnacle, That overlooks the distant isle; A daring mind 'twas raised the pile. Though humble, mean, and small it shows Its walls a miracle enclose, The Virgin and her infant Son, Vowed by the three kings of Cologne. By three times thirty steps is led The pilgrim to the giddy height; Yet, when he gains it with bold tread, He's quickened by his Saviour's sight." "Deep in the rock to which it clings, A cavern dark its arms outflings, Moist with the neighboring moorland's dew, Where heaven's bright rays can ne'er pierce through. There dwelt the monster, there he lay, His spoil awaiting, night and day; Like the hell-dragon, thus he kept Watch near the shrine, and never slept; And if a hapless pilgrim chanced To enter on that fatal way, From out his ambush quick advanced The foe, and seized him as his prey." "I mounted now the rocky height; Ere I commenced the fearful fight, There knelt I to the infant Lord, And pardon for my sins implored. Then in the holy fane I placed My shining armor round my waist, My right hand grasped my javelin, The fight then went I to begin; Instructions gave my squires among, Commanding them to tarry there; Then on my steed I nimbly sprung, And gave my spirit to God's care." "Soon as I reached the level plain, My dogs found out the scent amain; My frightened horse soon reared on high, His fear I could not pacify, For, coiled up in a circle, lo! There lay the fierce and hideous foe, Sunning himself upon the ground. Straight at him rushed each nimble hound; Yet thence they turned, dismayed and fast, When he his gaping jaws op'd wide, Vomited forth his poisonous blast, And like the howling jackal cried." "But soon their courage I restored; They seized with rage the foe abhorred, While I against the beast's loins threw My spear with sturdy arm and true: But, powerless as a bulrush frail, It bounded from his coat of mail; And ere I could repeat the throw, My horse reeled wildly to and fro Before his basilisk-like look, And at his poison-teeming breath, Sprang backward, and with terror shook, While I seemed doomed to certain death." "Then from my steed I nimbly sprung, My sharp-edged sword with vigor swung; Yet all in vain my strokes I plied, I could not pierce his rock-like hide. His tail with fury lashing round, Sudden he bore me to the ground. His jaws then opening fearfully, With angry teeth he struck at me; But now my dogs, with wrath new-born, Rushed on his belly with fierce bite, So that, by dreadful anguish torn, He howling stood before my sight." "And ere he from their teeth was free, I raised myself up hastily, The weak place of the foe explored, And in his entrails plunged my sword, Sinking it even to the hilt; Black gushing forth, his blood was spilt. Down sank he, burying in his fall Me with his body's giant ball, So that my senses quickly fled; And when I woke with strength renewed, The dragon in his blood lay dead, While round me grouped my squires all stood." The joyous shouts, so long suppressed, Now burst from every hearer's breast, Soon as the knight these words had spoken; And ten times 'gainst the high vault broken, The sound of mingled voices rang, Re-echoing back with hollow clang. The Order's sons demand, in haste, That with a crown his brow be graced, And gratefully in triumph now The mob the youth would bear along When, lo! the master knit his brow, And called for silence 'mongst the throng. And said, "The dragon that this land Laid waste, thou slew'st with daring hand; Although the people's idol thou, The Order's foe I deem thee now. Thy breast has to a fiend more base Than e'en this dragon given place. The serpent that the heart most stings, And hatred and destruction brings, That spirit is, which stubborn lies, And impiously cast off the rein, Despising order's sacred ties; 'Tis that destroys the world amain." "The Mameluke makes of courage boast, Obedience decks the Christian most; For where our great and blessed Lord As a mere servant walked abroad, The fathers, on that holy ground, This famous Order chose to found, That arduous duty to fulfil To overcome one's own self-will! 'Twas idle glory moved thee there: So take thee hence from out my sight! For who the Lord's yoke cannot bear, To wear his cross can have no right." A furious shout now raise the crowd, The place is filled with outcries loud; The brethren all for pardon cry; The youth in silence droops his eye Mutely his garment from him throws, Kisses the master's hand, andgoes. But he pursues him with his gaze, Recalls him lovingly, and says: "Let me embrace thee now, my son! The harder fight is gained by thee. Take, then, this crossthe guerdon won By self-subdued humility." ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Fight With The Dragon ,

1101:The Kalevala - Rune Xlviii CAPTURE OF THE FIRE-FISH. Wainamoinen, the enchanter, The eternal wisdom-singer, Long reflected, well considered, How to weave the net of flax-yarn, Weave the fish-net of the fathers. Spake the minstrel of Wainola: 'Who will plow the field and fallow, Sow the flax, and spin the flax-threads, That I may prepare the fish-net, Wherewith I may catch the Fire-pike, May secure the thing of evil?' Soon they found a fertile island, Found the fallow soil befitting, On the border of the heather, And between two stately oak-trees. They prepared the soil for sowing. Searching everywhere for flax-seed, Found it in Tuoni's kingdom, In the keeping of an insect. Then they found a pile of ashes, Where the fire had burned a vessel; In the ashes sowed the seedlings Near the Alue-lake and border, In the rich and loamy fallow. There the seed took root and flourished, Quickly grew to great proportions, In a single night in summer. Thus the flax was sowed at evening, Placed within the earth by moonlight; Quick it grew, and quickly ripened, Quick Wainola's heroes pulled it, Quick they broke it on the hackles, Hastened with it to the waters, Dipped it in the lake and washed it; Quickly brought it borne and dried it. Quickly broke, and combed, and smoothed it, 265 Brushed it well at early morning, Laid it into laps for spinning Quick the maidens twirl the spindles, Spin the flaxen threads for weaving, In a single night in summer. Quick the sisters wind and reel it, Make it ready for the needle. Brothers weave it into fish-nets, And the fathers twist the cordage, While the mothers knit the meshes, Rapidly the mesh-stick circles; Soon the fish-net is completed, In a single night in summer. As the magic net is finished, And in length a hundred fathoms, On the rim three hundred fathoms. Rounded stones are fastened to it, Joined thereto are seven float-boards. Now the young men take the fish-net, And the old men cheer them onward, Wish them good-luck at their fishing. Long they row and drag the flax-seine, Here and there the net is lowered; Now they drag it lengthwise, sidewise, Drag it through the slimy reed-beds; But they do not catch the Fire-pike, Only smelts, and luckless red-fish, Little fish of little value. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'O thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Let us go ourselves a-fishing, Let us catch the fish of evil!' To the fishing went the brothers, Magic heroes of the Northland, Pulled the fish-net through the waters, Toward an island in the deep-sea Then they turn and drag the fish-net Toward a meadow jutting seaward; Now they drag it toward Wainola, Draw it lengthwise, sidewise, crosswise, Catching fish of every species, salmon, trout, and pike, and whiting, 266 Do not catch the evil Fire-fish. Then the master, Wainamoinen, Made additions to its borders, Made it many fathoms wider, And a hundred fathoms longer, Then these words the hero uttered 'Famous blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Let us go again a-fishing, Row again the magic fish-net, Drag it well through all the waters, That we may obtain the Fire-pike!' Thereupon the Northland heroes Go a second time a-fishing, Drag their nets across the rivers, Lakelets, seas, and bays, and inlets, Catching fish of many species, But the Fire-fish is not taken. Wainamoinen, ancient singer, Long reflecting, spake these measures: 'Dear Wellamo, water-hostess, Ancient mother with the reed-breast, Come, exchange thy water-raiment, Change thy coat of reeds and rushes For the garments I shall give thee, Light sea-foam, thine inner vesture, And thine outer, moss and sea-grass, Fashioned by the wind's fair daughters, Woven by the flood's sweet maidens; I will give thee linen vestments Spun from flax of softest fiber, Woven by the Moon's white virgins, Fashioned by the Sun's bright daughters Fitting raiment for Wellamo! 'Ahto, king of all the waters, Ruler of a thousand grottoes, Take a pole of seven fathoms, Search with this the deepest waters, Rummage well the lowest bottoms; Stir up all the reeds and sea-weeds, Hither drive a school of gray-pike, Drive them to our magic fish-net, From the haunts in pike abounding, 267 From the caverns, and the trout-holes, From the whirlpools of the deep-sea, From the bottomless abysses, Where the sunshine never enters, Where the moonlight never visits, And the sands are never troubled.' Rose a pigmy from the waters, From the floods a little hero, Riding on a rolling billow, And the pigmy spake these measures: 'Dost thou wish a worthy helper, One to use the pole and frighten Pike and salmon to thy fish-nets?' Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Answered thus the lake-born hero: 'Yea, we need a worthy helper, One to hold the pole, and frighten Pike and salmon to our fish-nets.' Thereupon the water-pigmy Cut a linden from the border, Spake these words to Wainamoinen: 'Shall I scare with all my powers, With the forces of my being, As thou needest shall I scare them?' Spake the minstrel, Wainamoinen: 'If thou scarest as is needed, Thou wilt scare with all thy forces, With the strength of thy dominions.' Then began the pigmy-hero, To affright the deep-sea-dwellers; Drove the fish in countless numbers To the net of the magicians. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Drew his net along the waters, Drew it with his ropes of flax-thread, Spake these words of magic import: 'Come ye fish of Northland waters To the regions of my fish-net, As my hundred meshes lower.' Then the net was drawn and fastened, Many were the gray-pike taken By he master and magician. 268 Wainamoinen, happy-hearted, Hastened to a neighboring island, To a blue-point in the waters, Near a red-bridge on the headland; Landed there his draught of fishes, Cast the pike upon the sea-shore, And the Fire-pike was among them, Cast the others to the waters. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'May I touch thee with my fingers, Using not my gloves of iron, Using not my blue-stone mittens? This the Sun-child hears and answers: 'I should like to carve the Fire-fish, I should like this pike to handle, If I had the knife of good-luck.' Quick a knife falls from the heavens, From the clouds a magic fish-knife, Silver-edged and golden-headed, To the girdle of the Sun-child; Quick he grasps the copper handle, Quick the hero carves the Fire-pike, Finds therein the tortured lake-trout; Carves the lake-trout thus discovered. Finds therein the fated whiting; Carves the whiting, finds a blue-ball In the third cave of his body. He, the blue-ball quick unwinding, Finds within a ball of scarlet; Carefully removes the cover, Finds the ball of fire within it, Finds the flame from heaven fallen, From the heights of the seventh heaven, Through nine regions of the ether. Wainamoinen long reflected How to get the magic fire-ball To Wainola's fireless hearth-stones, To his cold and cheerless dwellings. Quick he snatched the fire of heaven From the fingers of the Sun-child. Wainamoinen's beard it singes, Burns the brow of Ilmarinen, 269 Burns the fingers of the blacksmith. Rolling forth it hastens westward, Hastens to the Alue shore-lines, Burns the juniper and alder, Burns the and heath and meadow, Rises to the lofty linden, Burns the firs upon the mountains; Hastens onward, onward, onward, Burns the islands of the Northland, Burns the Sawa fields and forests, Burns the dry lands of Karyala. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Hastens through the fields and fenlands, Tracks the ranger to the glen-wood, Finds the Fire-child in an elm-tree, Sleeping in a bed of fungus. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Wakes the child and speaks these measures: 'Wicked fire that God created, Flame of Ukko from the heavens, Thou hast gone in vain to sea-caves, To the lakes without a reason; Better go thou to my village, To the hearth-stones of my people; Hide thyself within my chimneys, In mine ashes sleep and linger. In the day-time I will use thee To devour the blocks of birch-wood; In the evening I will hide thee Underneath the golden circle.' Then he took the willing Panu, Took the willing fire of Ukko, Laid it in a box of tinder, In the punk-wood of a birch-tree, In a vessel forged from copper; Carried it with care and pleasure To the fog-point in the waters, To the island forest covered. Thus returned the fire to Northland, To the chambers of Wainola, To the hearths of Kalevala. Ilmarinen, famous blacksmith, 270 Hastened to the deep-sea's margin, Sat upon the rock of torture, Feeling pain the flame had given, Laved his wounds with briny water, Thus to still the Fire-child's fury, Thus to end his persecutions. Long reflecting, Ilmarinen Thus addressed the flame of Ukko: 'Evil Panu from the, heavens, Wicked son of God from ether, Tell me what has made thee angry, Made thee burn my weary members, Burn my beard, and face, and fingers, Made me suffer death-land tortures? Spake again young Ilmarinen: 'How can I wild Panu conquer, How shall I control his conduct, Make him end his evil doings? Come, thou daughter from Pohyola, Come, white virgin of the hoar-frost, Come on shoes of ice from Lapland, Icicles upon thy garments, In one band a cup of white-frost, In the other hand an ice-spoon; Sprinkle snow upon my members, Where the Fire-child has been resting, Let the hoar-frost fall and settle. 'Should this prayer be unavailing, Come, thou son of Sariola, Come, thou child of Frost from Pohya, Come, thou Long-man from the ice-plains, Of the height of stately pine-trees, Slender as the trunks of lindens, On thy hands the gloves of Hoar-frost, Cap of ice upon thy forehead, On thy waist a white-frost girdle; Bring the ice-dust from Pohyola, From the cold and sunless village. Rain is crystallized in Northland, Ice in Pohya is abundant, Lakes of ice and ice-bound rivers, Frozen smooth, the sea of ether. 271 Bounds the hare in frosted fur-robe, Climbs the bear in icy raiment, Ambles o'er the snowy mountains. Swans of frost descend the rivers, Ducks of ice in countless numbers Swim upon thy freezing waters, Near the cataract and whirlpool. Bring me frost upon thy snow-sledge, Snow and ice in great abundance, From the summit of the wild-top, From the borders of the mountains. With thine ice, and snow, and hoar-frost Cover well mine injured members Where wild Panu has been resting, Where the child of Fire has lingered. 'Should this call be ineffective, Ukko, God of love and mercy, First and last of the creators, From the east send forth a snow-cloud, From the west despatch a second, Join their edges well together, Let there be no vacant places, Let these clouds bring snow and Lay the healing balm of Ukko On my burning, tortured tissues, Where wild Panu has been resting.' Thus the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Stills the pains by fire engendered, Stills the agonies and tortures Brought him by the child of evil, Brought him by the wicked Panu. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1102:The Truant Dove, From Pilpay A MOUNTAIN stream, its channel deep Beneath a rock's rough base had torn; The cliff, like a vast castle wall, was steep By fretting rains in many a crevice worn; But the fern wav'd there, and the mosses crept, And o'er the summit, where the wind Peel'd from their stems the silver rind, Depending birches wept­­ There, tufts of broom a footing used to find, And heath and straggling grass to grow, And half-way down from roots enwreathing, broke The branches of a scathed oak, And seem'd to guard the cave below, Where each revolving year, Their twins, two faithful doves were wont to rear; Choice never join'd a fonder pair; To each their simple home was dear, No discord ever enter'd there; But there the soft affections dwell'd, And three returning springs beheld Secure within their fortress high The little happy family. 'Toujours perdrix, messieurs, ne valent rien'­ So did a Gallic monarch once harangue, And evil was the day whereon our bird This saying heard, From certain new acquaintance he had found, Who at their perfect ease, Amid a field of peas Boasted to him, that all the country round, The wheat, and oats, and barley, rye and tares, Quite to the neighbouring sea, were theirs; And theirs the oak, and beech-woods, far and near, For their right noble owner was a peer, And they themselves, luxuriantly were stored In a great dove-cote­to amuse my lord ! 'Toujours perdrix ne valent rien.' That's strange ! 198 When people once are happy, wherefore change ? So thought our stock-dove, but communication, With birds in his new friend's exalted station, Whose means of information, And knowledge of all sorts, must be so ample; Who saw great folks, and follow'd their example, Made on the dweller of the cave, impression; And soon, whatever was his best possession, His sanctuary within the rock's deep breast, His soft-eyed partner, and her nest, He thought of with indifference, then with loathing; So much insipid love was good for nothing.­ But sometimes tenderness return'd; his dame So long belov'd, so mild, so free from blame, How should he tell her, he had learn'd to cavil At happiness itself, and longed to travel ? His heart still smote him, so much wrong to do her, He knew not how to break the matter to her. But love, tho' blind himself, makes some discerning; His frequent absence, and his late returning, With ruffled plumage, and with alter'd eyes, His careless short replies, And to their couplets, coldness or neglect Had made his gentle wife suspect, All was not right; but she forbore to teaze him, Which would but give him an excuse to rove: She therefore tried by every art to please him, Endur'd his peevish starts with patient love, And when (like other husbands from a tavern) Of his new notions full, he sought his cavern She with dissembled cheerfulness, 'beguiled 'The thing she was,' and gaily coo-ed and smiled. 'Tis not in this most motley sphere uncommon, For man, (and so of course more feeble woman) Most strongly to suspect, what they're pursuing Will lead them to inevitable ruin, Yet rush with open eyes to their undoing; Thus felt the dove; but in the cant of fashion He talk'd of fate, and of predestination, 199 And in a grave oration, He to his much affrighted mate related, How he, yet slumbering in the egg, was fated, To gather knowledge, to instruct his kind, By observation elevate his mind, And give new impulse to Columbian life; 'If it be so,' exclaim'd his hapless wife, 'It is my fate, to pass my days in pain, 'To mourn your love estrang'd, and mourn in vain; 'Here in our once dear hut, to wake and weep, 'When thy unkindness shall have ‘murder'd sleep;’ 'And never that dear hut shall I prepare, 'And wait with fondness your arrival there, 'While me, and mine forgetting, you will go 'To some new love.' 'Why, no, I tell you no,­ 'What shall I say such foolish fears to cure ? 'I only mean to make a little tour, 'Just­just to see the world around me; then 'With new delight, I shall come home again; 'Such tours are quite the rage­at my return 'I shall have much to tell, and you to learn; 'Of fashions­some becoming, some grotesque 'Of change of empires, and ideas novel; 'Of buildings, Grecian, Gothic, Arabesque, 'And scenery sublime and picturesque; 'And all these things with pleasure we'll discuss­' 'Ah, me ! and what are all these things to us ?' 'So then, you'd have a bird of genius grovel, 'And never see beyond a farmer's hovel ? 'Even the sand-martin, that inferior creature, 'Goes once a year abroad.' 'It is his nature, 'But yours how different once !' and then she sigh'd, 'There was a time, Ah ! would that I had died, 'E'er you so chang'd ! when you'd have perish'd rather 'Than this poor breast should heave a single feather 'With grief and care. And all this cant of fashion 'Would but have rais'd your anger, or compassion,­ 'O my dear love ! You sought not then to range, 'But on my changeful neck as fell the light, 'You sweetly said, you wish'd no other change 200 'Than that soft neck could shew; to berries bright 'Of mountain ash, you fondly could compare 'My scarlet feet and bill; my shape and air, 'Ah ! faithless flatterer, did you not declare 'The soul of grace and beauty center'd there ? 'My eyes you said, were opals, brightly pink, 'Enchas'd in onyx; and you seem'd to think, 'Each charm might then the coldest heart enthrall: 'Those charms were mine. Alas ! I gave you all­ 'Your farthest wanderings then were but to fetch 'The pea, the tare, the beechmast, and the vetch, 'For my repast; within my rocky bower, 'With spleenwort shaded, and the blue-bell's flower, 'For prospects then you never wish'd to roam, 'But the best scenery was our happy home; 'And when, beneath my breast, then fair and young, 'Our first dear pair, our earliest nestlings sprung, 'And weakly, indistinctly, tried to coo­ 'Were not those moments picturesque to you ?' 'Yes, faith, my dear; and all you say is true.' 'Oh ! hear me then; if thus we have been blest, 'If on these wings it was your joy to rest, 'Love must from habit still new strength be gaining­' 'From habit ? 'tis of that, child, I'm complaining 'This everlasting fondness will not be 'For birds of flesh and blood. We sha'nt agree, 'So why dispute ? now prithee don't torment me; 'I shall not long be gone; let that content ye: 'Pshaw ! what a fuss ! Come, no more sighs and groans, 'Keep up your spirits; mind your little ones; 'My journey won't be far­my honour's pledged­ 'I shall be back again before they're fledged; 'Give me a kiss; and now my dear, adieu !' So light of heart and plumes, away he flew; And, as above the sheltering rock he springs, She listen'd to the echo of his wings; Those well-known sounds, so soothing heretofore, Which her heart whisper'd she should hear no more. Then to her cold and widow'd bed she crept, 201 Clasp'd her half-orphan'd young, and wept ! Her recreant mate, by other views attracted, A very different part enacted; He sought the dove-cote, and was greeted there With all that's tonish, elegant, and rare, Among the pigeon tribes; and there the rover Lived quite in clover ! His jolly comrades now, were blades of spirit; Their nymphs possess'd most fascinating merit; Nor fail'd our hero of the rock to prove, He thought not of inviolable love To his poor spouse at home. He bow'd and sigh'd, Now to a fantail's, now a cropper's bride; Then cow'ring low to a majestic powter, Declared he should not suffer life without her; And then with upturn'd eyes, in phrase still humbler, Implor'd the pity of an almond tumbler; Next, to a beauteous carrier's feet he'd run, And lived a week, the captive of a nun: Thus far in measureless content he revels, And blest the hour when he began his travels. Yet some things soon occurr'd not quite so pleasant; He had observ'd that an unfeeling peasant, It silence mounting on a ladder high, Seiz'd certain pigeons just as they could fly, Who never figur'd more, but in a pie; That was but aukward; then, his lordship's son Heard from the groom, that 'twould be famous fun To try on others his unpractis'd gun; Their fall, the rattling shot, his nerves perplex'd; He thought perhaps it might be his turn next. It has been seen ere now, that, much elated, To be by some great man caress'd and fêted, A youth of humble birth, and mind industrious, Foregoes in evil hour his independance; And, charm'd to wait upon his friend illustrious, Gives up his time to flattery and attendance. His patron, smiling at his folly, lets him­ Some newer whim succeeds, and he forgets him. So fared our bird; his new friend's vacant stare, 202 Told him he scarce remember'd he was there; And, when he talk'd of living more securely, This very dear friend, yawning, answered, 'Surely ! 'You are quite right to do what's most expedient, 'So, au revoir !­Good bye ! Your most obedient.' Allies in prosperous fortune thus he prov'd, And left them, unregretting, unbelov'd; Yet much his self-love suffer'd by the shock, And now, his quiet cabin in the rock, The faithful partner of his every care, And all the blessings he abandon'd there, Rush'd on his sickening heart; he felt it yearn, But pride and shame prevented his return; So wandering farther­at the close of day To the high woods he pensive wing'd his way; But new distress at every turn he found­ Struck by an hawk, and stunn'd upon the ground, He once by miracle escaped; then fled From a wild cat, and hid his trembling head Beneath a dock; recovering, on the wind He rose once more, and left his fears behind; And, as above the clouds he soar'd, the light Fell on an inland rock; the radiance bright Shew'd him his long deserted place of rest, And thitherward he flew; his throbbing breast Dwelt on his mate, so gentle, and so wrong'd, And on his memory throng'd The happiness he once at home had known; Then to forgive him earnest to engage her, And for his errors eager to atone, Onward he went; but ah ! not yet had flown Fate's sharpest arrow: to decide a wager, Two sportsmen shot at our deserter; down The wind swift wheeling, struggling, still he fell, Close to the margin of the stream that flow'd Beneath the foot of his regretted cell, And the fresh grass was spotted with his blood; To his dear home he turn'd his languid view, Deplor'd his folly, while he look'd his last, 203 And sigh'd a long adieu ! Thither to sip the brook, his nestlings, led By their still pensive mother, came; He saw; and murmuring forth her dear lov'd name, Implor'd her pity, and with shortening breath, Besought her to forgive him ere his death.­ And now, how hard in metre to relate The tears and tender pity of his mate ! Or with what generous zeal, his faithful moitie Taught her now feather'd young, with duteous piety, To aid her, on their mutual wings to bear, With stork-like care, Their suffering parent to the rock above; There, by the best physician, Love, His wounds were heal'd.­His wanderings at an end, And sober'd quite, the husband, and the friend, In proof of reformation and contrition, Gave to his race this prudent admonition; Advice, which this, our fabling muse, presumes May benefit the biped without plumes: 'If of domestic peace you are possess'd, 'Learn to believe yourself supremely bless'd; 'And gratefully enjoying your condition, 'Frisk not about, on whims and fancies strange, 'For ten to one, you for the worse will change: 'And 'tis most wise, to check all vain ambition­ 'By such aspiring pride the angels fell; 'So love your wife, and know when you are well.' ~ Charlotte Smith,

1103:Jubilate Agno: Fragment A Rejoice in God, O ye Tongues; give the glory to the Lord, and the Lamb. Nations, and languages, and every Creature, in which is the breath of Life. Let man and beast appear before him, and magnify his name together. Let Noah and his company approach the throne of Grace, and do homage to the Ark of their Salvation. Let Abraham present a Ram, and worship the God of his Redemption. Let Isaac, the Bridegroom, kneel with his Camels, and bless the hope of his pilgrimage. Let Jacob, and his speckled Drove adore the good Shepherd of Israel. Let Esau offer a scape Goat for his seed, and rejoice in the blessing of God his father. Let Nimrod, the mighty hunter, bind a Leopard to the altar, and consecrate his spear to the Lord. Let Ishmael dedicate a Tyger, and give praise for the liberty, in which the Lord has let him at large. Let Balaam appear with an Ass, and bless the Lord his people and his creatures for a reward eternal. Let Anah, the son of Zibion, lead a Mule to the temple, and bless God, who amerces the consolation of the creature for the service of Man. Let Daniel come forth with a Lion, and praise God with all his might through faith in Christ Jesus. Let Naphthali with an Hind give glory in the goodly words of Thanksgiving. Let Aaron, the high priest, sanctify a Bull, and let him go free to the Lord and Giver of Life. 32 Let the Levites of the Lord take the Beavers of the brook alive into the Ark of the Testimony. Let Eleazar with the Ermine serve the Lord decently and in purity. Let Ithamar minister with a Chamois, and bless the name of Him, which cloatheth the naked. Let Gershom with an Pygarg Hart bless the name of Him, who feedeth the hungry. Let Merari praise the wisdom and power of God with the Coney, who scoopeth the rock, and archeth in the sand. Let Kohath serve with the Sable, and bless God in the ornaments of the Temple. Let Jehoida bless God with an Hare, whose mazes are determined for the health of the body and to parry the adversary. Let Ahitub humble himself with an Ape before Almighty God, who is the maker of variety and pleasantry. Let Abiathar with a Fox praise the name of the Lord, who ballances craft against strength and skill against number. Let Moses, the Man of God, bless with a Lizard, in the sweet majesty of goodnature, and the magnanimity of meekness. Let Joshua praise God with an Unicorn -- the swiftness of the Lord, and the strength of the Lord, and the spear of the Lord mighty in battle. Let Caleb with an Ounce praise the Lord of the Land of beauty and rejoice in the blessing of his good Report. Let Othniel praise God with the Rhinoceros, who put on his armour for the reward of beauty in the Lord. Let Tola bless with the Toad, which is the good creature of God, tho' his virtue is in the secret, and his mention is not made. Let Barak praise with the Pard -- and great is the might of the faithful and great is the Lord in the nail of Jael and in the sword of the Son of Abinoam. 33 Let Gideon bless with the Panther -- the Word of the Lord is invincible by him that lappeth from the brook. Let Jotham praise with the Urchin, who took up his parable and provided himself for the adversary to kick against the pricks. Let Boaz, the Builder of Judah, bless with the Rat, which dwelleth in hardship and peril, that they may look to themselves and keep their houses in order. Let Obed-Edom with a Dormouse praise the Name of the Lord God his Guest for increase of his store and for peace. Let Abishai bless with the Hyaena -- the terror of the Lord, and the fierceness, of his wrath against the foes of the King and of Israel. Let Ethan praise with the Flea, his coat of mail, his piercer, and his vigour, which wisdom and providence have contrived to attract observation and to escape it. Let Heman bless with the Spider, his warp and his woof, his subtlety and industry, which are good. Let Chalcol praise with the Beetle, whose life is precious in the sight of God, tho his appearance is against him. Let Darda with a Leech bless the Name of the Physician of body and soul. Let Mahol praise the Maker of Earth and Sea with the Otter, whom God has given to dive and to burrow for his preservation. Let David bless with the Bear -- The beginning of victory to the Lord -- to the Lord the perfection of excellence -- Hallelujah from the heart of God, and from the hand of the artist inimitable, and from the echo of the heavenly harp in sweetness magnifical and mighty. Let Solomon praise with the Ant, and give the glory to the Fountain of all Wisdom. Let Romamti-ezer bless with the Ferret -- The Lord is a rewarder of them, that diligently seek him. Let Samuel, the Minister from a child, without ceasing praise with the Porcupine, 34 which is the creature of defence and stands upon his arms continually. Let Nathan with the Badger bless God for his retired fame, and privacy inaccessible to slander. Let Joseph, who from the abundance of his blessing may spare to him, that lacketh, praise with the Crocodile, which is pleasant and pure, when he is interpreted, tho' his look is of terror and offence. Let Esdras bless Christ Jesus with the Rose and his people, which is a nation of living sweetness. Let Mephibosheth with the Cricket praise the God of chearfulness, hospitality, and gratitude. Let Shallum with the Frog bless God for the meadows of Canaan, the fleece, the milk and the honey. Let Hilkiah praise with the Weasel, which sneaks for his prey in craft, and dwelleth at ambush. Let Job bless with the Worm -- the life of the Lord is in Humiliation, the Spirit also and the truth. Let Elihu bless with the Tortoise, which is food for praise and thanksgiving. Let Hezekiah praise with the Dromedary -- the zeal for the glory of God is excellence, and to bear his burden is grace. Let Zadoc worship with the Mole -- before honour is humility, and he that looketh low shall learn. Let Gad with the Adder bless in the simplicity of the preacher and the wisdom of the creature. Let Tobias bless Charity with his Dog, who is faithful, vigilant, and a friend in poverty. Let Anna bless God with the Cat, who is worthy to be presented before the throne of grace, when he has trampled upon the idol in his prank. Let Benaiah praise with the Asp -- to conquer malice is nobler, than to slay the 35 lion. Let Barzillai bless with the Snail -- a friend in need is as the balm of Gilead, or as the slime to the wounded bark. Let Joab with the Horse worship the Lord God of Hosts. Let Shemaiah bless God with the Caterpiller -- the minister of vengeance is the harbinger of mercy. Let Ahimelech with the Locust bless God from the tyranny of numbers. Let Cornelius with the Swine bless God, which purifyeth all things for the poor. Let Araunah bless with the Squirrel, which is a gift of homage from the poor man to the wealthy and increaseth good will. Let Bakbakkar bless with the Salamander, which feedeth upon ashes as bread, and whose joy is at the mouth of the furnace. Let Jabez bless with Tarantula, who maketh his bed in the moss, which he feedeth, that the pilgrim may take heed to his way. Let Jakim with the Satyr bless God in the dance. -Let Iddo praise the Lord with the Moth -- the writings of man perish as the garment, but the Book of God endureth for ever. Let Nebuchadnezzar bless with the Grashopper -- the pomp and vanities of the world are as the herb of the field, but the glory of the Lord increaseth for ever. Let Naboth bless with the Canker-worm -- envy is cruel and killeth and preyeth upon that which God has given to aspire and bear fruit. Let Lud bless with the Elk, the strenuous asserter of his liberty, and the maintainer of his ground. Let Obadiah with the Palmer-worm bless God for the remnant that is left. Let Agur bless with the Cockatrice -- The consolation of the world is deceitful, and temporal honour the crown of him that creepeth. 36 Let Ithiel bless with the Baboon, whose motions are regular in the wilderness, and who defendeth himself with a staff against the assailant. Let Ucal bless with the Cameleon, which feedeth on the Flowers and washeth himself in the dew. Let Lemuel bless with the Wolf, which is a dog without a master, but the Lord hears his cries and feeds him in the desert. Let Hananiah bless with the Civet, which is pure from benevolence. Let Azarias bless with the Reindeer, who runneth upon the waters, and wadeth thro the land in snow. Let Mishael bless with the Stoat -- the praise of the Lord gives propriety to all things. Let Savaran bless with the Elephant, who gave his life for his country that he might put on immortality. Let Nehemiah, the imitator of God, bless with the Monkey, who is work'd down from Man. Let Manasses bless with the Wild-Ass -- liberty begetteth insolence, but necessity is the mother of prayer. Let Jebus bless with the Camelopard, which is good to carry and to parry and to kneel. Let Huz bless with the Polypus -- lively subtlety is acceptable to the Lord. Let Buz bless with the Jackall -- but the Lord is the Lion's provider. Let Meshullam bless with the Dragon, who maketh his den in desolation and rejoiceth amongst the ruins. Let Enoch bless with the Rackoon, who walked with God as by the instinct. Let Hashbadana bless with the Catamountain, who stood by the Pulpit of God against the dissensions of the Heathen. Let Ebed-Melech bless with the Mantiger, the blood of the Lord is sufficient to do 37 away the offence of Cain, and reinstate the creature which is amerced. Let A Little Child with a Serpent bless Him, who ordaineth strength in babes to the confusion of the Adversary. Let Huldah bless with the Silkworm -- the ornaments of the Proud are from the bowells of their Betters. Let Susanna bless with the Butterfly -- beauty hath wings, but chastity is the Cherub. Let Sampson bless with the Bee, to whom the Lord hath given strength to annoy the assailant and wisdom to his strength. Let Amasiah bless with the Chaffer -- the top of the tree is for the brow of the champion, who has given the glory to God. Let Hashum bless with the Fly, whose health is the honey of the air, but he feeds upon the thing strangled, and perisheth. Let Malchiah bless with the Gnat -- it is good for man and beast to mend their pace. Let Pedaiah bless with the Humble-Bee, who loves himself in solitude and makes his honey alone. Let Maaseiah bless with the Drone, who with the appearance of a Bee is neither a soldier nor an artist, neither a swordsman nor smith. Let Urijah bless with the Scorpion, which is a scourge against the murmurers -the Lord keep it from our coasts. Let Anaiah bless with the Dragon-fly, who sails over the pond by the wood-side and feedeth on the cressies. Let Zorobabel bless with the Wasp, who is the Lord's architect, and buildeth his edifice in armour. Let Jehu bless with the Hornet, who is the soldier of the Lord to extirpate abomination and to prepare the way of peace. Let Mattithiah bless with the Bat, who inhabiteth the desolations of pride and 38 flieth amongst the tombs. Let Elias which is the innocency of the Lord rejoice with the Dove. Let Asaph rejoice with the Nightingale -- The musician of the Lord! and the watchman of the Lord! Let Shema rejoice with the Glowworm, who is the lamp of the traveller and mead of the musician. Let Jeduthun rejoice with the Woodlark, who is sweet and various. Let Chenaniah rejoice with Chloris, in the vivacity of his powers and the beauty of his person. Let Gideoni rejoice with the Goldfinch, who is shrill and loud, and full withal. Let Giddalti rejoice with the Mocking-bird, who takes off the notes of the Aviary and reserves his own. Let Jogli rejoice with the Linnet, who is distinct and of mild delight. Let Benjamin bless and rejoice with the Redbird, who is soft and soothing. Let Dan rejoice with the Blackbird, who praises God with all his heart, and biddeth to be of good cheer. ~ Christopher Smart,

1104:Senlin: His Dark Origins Senlin sits before us, and we see him. He smokes his pipe before us, and we hear him. Is he small, with reddish hair, Does he light his pipe with meditative stare, And a pointed flame reflected in both eyes? Is he sad and happy and foolish and wise? Did no one see him enter the doors of the city, Looking above him at the roofs and trees and skies? 'I stepped from a cloud', he says, 'as evening fell; I walked on the sound of a bell; I ran with winged heels along a gust; Or is it true that I laughed and sprang from dust? . . . Has no one, in a great autumnal forest, When the wind bares the trees, Heard the sad horn of Senlin slowly blown? Has no one, on a mountain in the spring, Heard Senlin sing? Perhaps I came alone on a snow-white horse,-Riding alone from the deep-starred night. Perhaps I came on a ship whose sails were music,-Sailing from moon or sun on a river of light.' He lights his pipe with a pointed flame. 'Yet, there were many autumns before I came, And many springs. And more will come, long after There is no horn for me, or song, or laughter. The city dissolves about us, and its walls Become an ancient forest. There is no sound Except where an old twig tires and falls; Or a lizard among the dead leaves crawls; Or a flutter is heard in darkness along the ground. Has Senlin become a forest? Do we walk in Senlin? Is Senlin the wood we walk in, --ourselves,--the world? Senlin! we cry . . . Senlin! again . . . No answer, Only soft broken echoes backward whirled . . . 118 Yet we would say: this is no wood at all, But a small white room with a lamp upon the wall; And Senlin, before us, pale, with reddish hair, Lights his pipe with a meditative stare. Senlin, walking beside us, swings his arms And turns his head to look at walls and trees. The wind comes whistling from shrill stars of winter, The lights are jewels, black roots freeze. 'Did I, then, stretch from the bitter earth like these, Reaching upward with slow and rigid pain To seek, in another air, myself again?' (Immense and solitary in a desert of rocks Behold a bewildered oak With white clouds screaming through its leafy brain.) 'Or was I the single ant, or tinier thing, That crept from the rocks of buried time And dedicated its holy life to climb From atom to beetling atom, jagged grain to grain, Patiently out of the darkness we call sleep Into a hollow gigantic world of light Thinking the sky to be its destined shell, Hoping to fit it well!--' The city dissolves about us, and its walls Are mountains of rock cruelly carved by wind. Sand streams down their wasting sides, sand Mounts upward slowly about them: foot and hand We crawl and bleed among them! Is this Senlin? In the desert of Senlin must we live and die? We hear the decay of rocks, the crash of boulders, Snarling of sand on sand. 'Senlin!' we cry. 'Senlin!' again . . . Our shadows revolve in silence Under the soulless brilliance of blue sky. Yet we would say: there are no rocks at all, Nor desert of sand . . . here by a city wall 119 White lights jewell the evening, black roots freeze, And Senlin turns his head to look at trees. It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening, By a silent shore, by a far distant sea, White unicorns come gravely down to the water. In the lilac dusk they come, they are white and stately, Stars hang over the purple waveless sea; A sea on which no sail was ever lifted, Where a human voice was never heard. The shadows of vague hills are dark on the water, The silent stars seem silently to sing. And gravely come white unicorns down to the water, One by one they come and drink their fill; And daisies burn like stars on the darkened hill. It is evening Senlin says, and in the evening The leaves on the trees, abandoned by the light, Look to the earth, and whisper, and are still. The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the darkness, Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground. The starry dewdrop gathers upon the oakleaf, Clings to the edge, and falls without a sound. Do maidens spread their white palms to the starlight And walk three steps to the east and clearly sing? Do dewdrops fall like a shower of stars from willows? Has the small moon a ghostly ring? . . . White skeletons dance on the moonlit grass, Singing maidens are buried in deep graves, The stars hang over a sea like polished glass . . . And solemnly one by one in the darkness there Neighing far off on the haunted air White unicorns come gravely down to the water. No silver bells are heard. The westering moon Lights the pale floors of caverns by the sea. Wet weed hangs on the rock. In shimmering pools Left on the rocks by the receding sea Starfish slowly turn their white and brown Or writhe on the naked rocks and drown. 120 Do sea-girls haunt these caves--do we hear faint singing? Do we hear from under the sea a faint bell ringing? Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles And fallen softly back? No, these shores and caverns are all silent, Dead in the moonlight; only, far above, On the smooth contours of these headlands, White amid the eternal black, One by one in the moonlight there Neighing far off on the haunted air The unicorns come down to the sea. Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight, Bending his small legs in a peculiar way, Goes to his work with thoughts of the universe. His hands are in his pockets, he smokes his pipe, He is happily conscious of roofs and skies; And, without turning his head, he turns his eyes To regard white horses drawing a small white hearse. The sky is brilliant between the roofs, The windows flash in the yellow sun, On the hard pavement ring the hoofs, The light wheels softly run. Bright particles of sunlight fall, Quiver and flash, gyrate and burn, Honey-like heat flows down the wall, The white spokes dazzle and turn. Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight, Regards the hearse with an introspective eye. 'Is it my childhood there,' he asks, 'Sealed in a hearse and hurrying by?' He taps his trowel against a stone; The trowel sings with a silver tone. 'Nevertheless I know this well. Bury it deep and toll a bell, Bury it under land or sea, You cannot bury it save in me.' 121 It is as if his soul had become a city, With noisily peopled streets, and through these streets Senlin himself comes driving a small white hearse . . . 'Senlin!' we cry. He does not turn his head. But is that Senlin?--Or is this city Senlin,-Quietly watching the burial of the dead? Dumbly observing the cortège of its dead? Yet we would say that all this is but madness: Around a distant corner trots the hearse. And Senlin walks before us in the sunlight Happily conscious of his universe. In the hot noon, in an old and savage garden, The peach-tree grows. Its cruel and ugly roots Rend and rifle the silent earth for moisture. Above, in the blue, hang warm and golden fruits. Look, how the cancerous roots crack mould and stone! Earth, if she had a voice, would wail her pain. Is she the victim, or is the tree the victim? Delicate blossoms opened in the rain, Black bees flew among them in the sunlight, And sacked them ruthlessly; and no a bird Hangs, sharp-eyed, in the leaves, and pecks the fruit; And the peach-tree dreams, and does not say a word. . . . Senlin, tapping his trowel against a stone, Observes this tree he planted: it is his own. 'You will think it strange,' says Senlin, 'but this tree Utters profound things in this garden; And in its silence speaks to me. I have sensations, when I stand beneath it, As if its leaves looked at me, and could see; And those thin leaves, even in windless air, Seem to be whispering me a choral music, Insubstantial but debonair. "Regard," they seem to say, "Our idiot root, which going its brutal way Has cracked your garden wall! Ugly, is it not? 122 A desecration of this place . . . And yet, without it, could we exist at all?" Thus, rustling with importance, they seem to me To make their apology; Yet, while they apologize, Ask me a wary question with their eyes. Yes, it is true their origin is low-Brutish and dull and cruel . . . and it is true Their roots have cracked the wall. But do we know The leaves less cruel--the root less beautiful? Sometimes it seems as if there grew In the dull garden of my mind A tree like this, which, singing with delicate leaves, Yet cracks the wall with cruel roots and blind. Sometimes, indeed, it appears to me That I myself am such a tree . . .' . . . And as we hear from Senlin these strange words So, slowly, in the sunlight, he becomes this tree: And among the pleasant leaves hang sharp-eyed birds While cruel roots dig downward secretly. Rustling among his odds and ends of knowledge Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds How Cleopatra and Senebtisi Were dug by many hands from ancient tombs. Cloth after scented cloth the sage unwinds: Delicious to see our futile modern sunlight Dance like a harlot among these Dogs and Dooms! First, the huge pyramid, with rock on rock Bloodily piled to heaven; and under this A gilded cavern, bat festooned; And here in rows on rows, with gods about them, Cloudily lustrous, dim, the sacred coffins, Silver starred and crimson mooned. What holy secret shall we now uncover? Inside the outer coffin is a second; Inside the second, smaller, lies a third. 123 This one is carved, and like a human body; And painted over with fish and bull and bird. Here are men walking stiffly in procession, Blowing horns or lifting spears. Where do they march to? Where do they come from? Soft whine of horns is in our ears. Inside, the third, a fourth . . . and this the artist,-A priest, perhaps--did most to make resemble The flesh of her who lies within. The brown eyes widely stare at the bat-hung ceiling. The hair is black, The mouth is thin. Princess! Secret of life! We come to praise you! The torch is lowered, this coffin too we open, And the dark air is drunk with musk and myrrh. Here are the thousand white and scented wrappings, The gilded mask, and jeweled eyes, of her. And now the body itself, brown, gaunt, and ugly, And the hollow scull, in which the brains are withered, Lie bare before us. Princess, is this all? Something there was we asked that is not answered. Soft bats, in rows, hang on the lustered wall. And all we hear is a whisper sound of music, Of brass horns dustily raised and briefly blown, And a cry of grief; and men in a stiff procession Marching away and softly gone. 'And am I then a pyramid?' says Senlin, 'In which are caves and coffins, where lies hidden Some old and mocking hieroglyph of flesh? Or am I rather the moonlight, spreading subtly Above those stones and times? Or the green blade of grass that bravely grows Between to massive boulders of black basalt Year after year, and fades and blows? Senlin, sitting before us in the lamplight, Laughs, and lights his pipe. The yellow flame 124 Minutely flares in his eyes, minutely dwindles. Does a blade of grass have Senlin for a name? Yet we would say that we have seen him somewhere, A tiny spear of green beneath the blue, Playing his destiny in a sun-warmed crevice With the gigantic fates of frost and dew. Does a spider come and spin his gossamer ladder Rung by silver rung, Chaining it fast to Senlin? Its faint shadow Flung, waveringly, where his is flung? Does a raindrop dazzle starlike down his length Trying his futile strength? A snowflake startle him? The stars defeat him? Through aeons of dusk have birds above him sung? Time is a wind, says Senlin; time, like music, Blows over us its mournful beauty, passes, And leaves behind a shadowy reflection,-A helpless gesture of mist above the grasses. In cold blue lucid dusk before the sunrise, One yellow star sings over a peak of snow, And melts and vanishes in a light like roses. Through slanting mist, black rocks appear and glow. The clouds flow downward, slowly as grey glaciers, Or up to a pale rose-azure pass. Blue streams tinkle down from snow to boulders, From boulders to white grass. Icicles on the pine tree melt And softly flash in the sun: In long straight lines the star-drops fall One by one. Is a voice heard while the shadows still are long, Borne slowly down on the sparkling air? Is a thin bell heard from the peak of silence? Is someone among the high snows there? 125 Where the blue stream flows coldly among the meadows And mist still clings to rock and tree Senlin walks alone; and from that twilight Looks darkly up, to see The calm unmoving peak of snow-white silence, The rocks aflame with ice, the rose-blue sky . . . Ghost-like, a cloud descends from twinkling ledges, To nod before the dwindling sun and die. 'Something there is,' says Senlin, 'in that mountain, Something forgotten now, that once I knew . . .' We walk before a sun-tipped peak in silence, Our shadows descend before us, long and blue. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

1105:A JOURNAL. DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW-TRAVELLERS IN AUGUST, 1858. Wise and polite,--and if I drew Their several portraits, you would own Chaucer had no such worthy crew, Nor Boccace in Decameron. We crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our friends, Thence, in strong country carts, rode up the forks Of the Ausable stream, intent to reach The Adirondac lakes. At Martin's Beach We chose our boats; each man a boat and guide,-- Ten men, ten guides, our company all told. Next morn, we swept with oars the Saranac, With skies of benediction, to Round Lake, Where all the sacred mountains drew around us, Tahawus, Seaward, MacIntyre, Baldhead, And other Titans without muse or name. Pleased with these grand companions, we glide on, Instead of flowers, crowned with a wreath of hills, And made our distance wider, boat from boat, As each would hear the oracle alone. By the bright morn the gay flotilla slid Through files of flags that gleamed like bayonets, Through gold-moth-haunted beds of pickerel-flower, Through scented banks of lilies white and gold, Where the deer feeds at night, the teal by day, On through the Upper Saranac, and up Pere Raquette stream, to a small tortuous pass Winding through grassy shallows in and out, Two creeping miles of rushes, pads, and sponge, To Follansbee Water, and the Lake of Loons. Northward the length of Follansbee we rowed, Under low mountains, whose unbroken ridge Ponderous with beechen forest sloped the shore. A pause and council: then, where near the head On the east a bay makes inward to the land Between two rocky arms, we climb the bank, And in the twilight of the forest noon Wield the first axe these echoes ever heard. We cut young trees to make our poles and thwarts, Barked the white spruce to weatherfend the roof, Then struck a light, and kindled the camp-fire. The wood was sovran with centennial trees,-- Oak, cedar, maple, poplar, beech and fir, Linden and spruce. In strict society Three conifers, white, pitch, and Norway pine, Five-leaved, three-leaved, and two-leaved, grew thereby. Our patron pine was fifteen feet in girth, The maple eight, beneath its shapely tower. 'Welcome!' the wood god murmured through the leaves,-- 'Welcome, though late, unknowing, yet known to me.' Evening drew on; stars peeped through maple-boughs, Which o'erhung, like a cloud, our camping fire. Decayed millennial trunks, like moonlight flecks, Lit with phosphoric crumbs the forest floor. Ten scholars, wonted to lie warm and soft In well-hung chambers daintily bestowed, Lie here on hemlock-boughs, like Sacs and Sioux, And greet unanimous the joyful change. So fast will Nature acclimate her sons, Though late returning to her pristine ways. Off soundings, seamen do not suffer cold; And, in the forest, delicate clerks, unbrowned, Sleep on the fragrant brush, as on down-beds. Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air That circled freshly in their forest dress Made them to boys again. Happier that they Slipped off their pack of duties, leagues behind, At the first mounting of the giant stairs. No placard on these rocks warned to the polls, No door-bell heralded a visitor, No courier waits, no letter came or went, Nothing was ploughed, or reaped, or bought, or sold; The frost might glitter, it would blight no crop, The falling rain will spoil no holiday. We were made freemen of the forest laws, All dressed, like Nature, fit for her own ends, Essaying nothing she cannot perform. In Adirondac lakes, At morn or noon, the guide rows bareheaded: Shoes, flannel shirt, and kersey trousers make His brief toilette: at night, or in the rain, He dons a surcoat which he doffs at morn: A paddle in the right hand, or an oar, And in the left, a gun, his needful arms. By turns we praised the stature of our guides, Their rival strength and suppleness, their skill To row, to swim, to shoot, to build a camp, To climb a lofty stem, clean without boughs Full fifty feet, and bring the eaglet down: Temper to face wolf, bear, or catamount, And wit to track or take him in his lair. Sound, ruddy men, frolic and innocent, In winter, lumberers; in summer, guides; Their sinewy arms pull at the oar untired Three times ten thousand strokes, from morn to eve. Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen! No city airs or arts pass current here. Your rank is all reversed: let men of cloth Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls: They are the doctors of the wilderness, And we the low-prized laymen. In sooth, red flannel is a saucy test Which few can put on with impunity. What make you, master, fumbling at the oar? Will you catch crabs? Truth tries pretension here. The sallow knows the basket-maker's thumb; The oar, the guide's. Dare you accept the tasks He shall impose, to find a spring, trap foxes, Tell the sun's time, determine the true north, Or stumbling on through vast self-similar woods To thread by night the nearest way to camp? Ask you, how went the hours? All day we swept the lake, searched every cove, North from Camp Maple, south to Osprey Bay, Watching when the loud dogs should drive in deer, Or whipping its rough surface for a trout; Or bathers, diving from the rock at noon; Challenging Echo by our guns and cries; Or listening to the laughter of the loon; Or, in the evening twilight's latest red, Beholding the procession of the pines; Or, later yet, beneath a lighted jack, In the boat's bows, a silent night-hunter Stealing with paddle to the feeding-grounds Of the red deer, to aim at a square mist. Hark to that muffled roar! a tree in the woods Is fallen: but hush! it has not scared the buck Who stands astonished at the meteor light, Then turns to bound away,--is it too late? Sometimes we tried our rifles at a mark, Six rods, sixteen, twenty, or forty-five; Sometimes our wits at sally and retort, With laughter sudden as the crack of rifle; Or parties scaled the near acclivities Competing seekers of a rumoured lake, Whose unauthenticated waves we named Lake Probability,--our carbuncle, Long sought, not found. Two Doctors in the camp Dissected the slain deer, weighed the trout's brain, Captured the lizard, salamander, shrew, Crab, mice, snail, dragon-fly, minnow, and moth; Insatiate skill in water or in air Waved the scoop-net, and nothing came amiss; The while, one leaden pot of alcohol Gave an impartial tomb to all the kinds. Not less the ambitious botanist sought plants, Orchis and gentian, fern, and long whip-scirpus, Rosy polygonum, lake-margin's pride, Hypnum and hydnum, mushroom, sponge, and moss, Or harebell nodding in the gorge of falls. Above, the eagle flew, the osprey screamed, The raven croaked, owls hooted, the woodpecker Loud hammered, and the heron rose in the swamp. As water poured through the hollows of the hills To feed this wealth of lakes and rivulets, So Nature shed all beauty lavishly From her redundant horn. Lords of this realm, Bounded by dawn and sunset, and the day Rounded by hours where each outdid the last In miracles of pomp, we must be proud, As if associates of the sylvan gods. We seemed the dwellers of the zodiac, So pure the Alpine element we breathed, So light, so lofty pictures came and went. We trode on air, contemned the distant town, Its timorous ways, big trifles, and we planned That we should build, hard-by, a spacious lodge, And how we should come hither with our sons, Hereafter,--willing they, and more adroit. Hard fare, hard bed, and comic misery,-- The midge, the blue-fly, and the mosquito Painted our necks, hands, ankles, with red bands: But, on the second day, we heed them not, Nay, we saluted them Auxiliaries, Whom earlier we had chid with spiteful names. For who defends our leafy tabernacle From bold intrusion of the travelling crowd,-- Who but the midge, mosquito, and the fly, Which past endurance sting the tender cit, But which we learn to scatter with a smudge, Or baffle by a veil, or slight by scorn? Our foaming ale we drunk from hunters' pans, Ale, and a sup of wine. Our steward gave Venison and trout, potatoes, beans, wheat-bread; All ate like abbots, and, if any missed Their wonted convenance, cheerly hid the loss With hunters' appetite and peals of mirth. And Stillman, our guides' guide, and Commodore, Crusoe, Crusader, Pius AEneas, said aloud, "Chronic dyspepsia never came from eating Food indigestible":--then murmured some, Others applauded him who spoke the truth. Nor doubt but visitings of graver thought Checked in these souls the turbulent heyday 'Mid all the hints and glories of the home. For who can tell what sudden privacies Were sought and found, amid the hue and cry Of scholars furloughed from their tasks, and let Into this Oreads' fended Paradise, As chapels in the city's thoroughfares, Whither gaunt Labour slips to wipe his brow, And meditate a moment on Heaven's rest. Judge with what sweet surprises Nature spoke To each apart, lifting her lovely shows To spiritual lessons pointed home. And as through dreams in watches of the night, So through all creatures in their form and ways Some mystic hint accosts the vigilant, Not clearly voiced, but waking a new sense Inviting to new knowledge, one with old. Hark to that petulant chirp! what ails the warbler? Mark his capricious ways to draw the eye. Now soar again. What wilt thou, restless bird, Seeking in that chaste blue a bluer light, Thirsting in that pure for a purer sky? And presently the sky is changed; O world! What pictures and what harmonies are thine! The clouds are rich and dark, the air serene, So like the soul of me, what if't were me? A melancholy better than all mirth. Comes the sweet sadness at the retrospect, Or at the foresight of obscurer years? Like yon slow-sailing cloudy promontory, Whereon the purple iris dwells in beauty Superior to all its gaudy skirts. And, that no day of life may lack romance, The spiritual stars rise nightly, shedding down A private beam into each several heart. Daily the bending skies solicit man, The seasons chariot him from this exile, The rainbow hours bedeck his glowing chair, The storm-winds urge the heavy weeks along, Suns haste to set, that so remoter lights Beckon the wanderer to his vaster home. With a vermilion pencil mark the day When of our little fleet three cruising skiffs Entering Big Tupper, bound for the foaming Falls Of loud Bog River, suddenly confront Two of our mates returning with swift oars. One held a printed journal waving high Caught from a late-arriving traveller, Big with great news, and shouted the report For which the world had waited, now firm fact, Of the wire-cable laid beneath the sea, And landed on our coast, and pulsating With ductile fire. Loud, exulting cries From boat to boat, and to the echoes round, Greet the glad miracle. Thought's new-found path Shall supplement henceforth all trodden ways, Match God's equator with a zone of art, And lift man's public action to a height Worthy the enormous clouds of witnesses, When linked hemispheres attest his deed. We have few moments in the longest life Of such delight and wonder as there grew,-- Nor yet unsuited to that solitude: A burst of joy, as if we told the fact To ears intelligent; as if gray rock And cedar grove and cliff and lake should know This feat of wit, this triumph of mankind; As if we men were talking in a vein Of sympathy so large, that ours was theirs, And a prime end of the most subtle element Were fairly reached at last. Wake, echoing caves! Bend nearer, faint day-moon! Yon thundertops, Let them hear well! 't is theirs as much as ours. A spasm throbbing through the pedestals Of Alp and Andes, isle and continent, Urging astonished Chaos with a thrill To be a brain, or serve the brain of man. The lightning has run masterless too long; He must to school, and learn his verb and noun, And teach his nimbleness to earn his wage, Spelling with guided tongue man's messages Shot through the weltering pit of the salt sea. And yet I marked, even in the manly joy Of our great-hearted Doctor in his boat, (Perchance I erred,) a shade of discontent; Or was it for mankind a generous shame, As of a luck not quite legitimate, Since fortune snatched from wit the lion's part? Was it a college pique of town and gown, As one within whose memory it burned That not academicians, but some lout, Found ten years since the Californian gold? And now, again, a hungry company Of traders, led by corporate sons of trade, Perversely borrowing from the shop the tools Of science, not from the philosophers, Had won the brightest laurel of all time. 'Twas always thus, and will be; hand and head Are ever rivals: but, though this be swift, The other slow,--this the Prometheus, And that the Jove,--yet, howsoever hid, It was from Jove the other stole his fire, And, without Jove, the good had never been. It is not Iroquois or cannibals, But ever the free race with front sublime, And these instructed by their wisest too, Who do the feat, and lift humanity. Let not him mourn who best entitled was, Nay, mourn not one: let him exult, Yea, plant the tree that bears best apples, plant, And water it with wine, nor watch askance Whether thy sons or strangers eat the fruit: Enough that mankind eat, and are refreshed. We flee away from cities, but we bring The best of cities with us, these learned classifiers, Men knowing what they seek, armed eyes of experts. We praise the guide, we praise the forest life; But will we sacrifice our dear-bought lore Of books and arts and trained experiment, Or count the Sioux a match for Agassiz? O no, not we! Witness the shout that shook Wild Tupper Lake; witness the mute all-hail The joyful traveller gives, when on the verge Of craggy Indian wilderness he hears From a log-cabin stream Beethoven's notes On the piano, played with master's hand. 'Well done!' he cries; 'the bear is kept at bay, The lynx, the rattlesnake, the flood, the fire; All the fierce enemies, ague, hunger, cold, This thin spruce roof, this clayed log-wall, This wild plantation will suffice to chase. Now speed the gay celerities of art, What in the desert was impossible Within four walls is possible again,-- Culture and libraries, mysteries of skill, Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife Of keen competing youths, joined or alone To outdo each other, and extort applause. Mind wakes a new-born giant from her sleep. Twirl the old wheels? Time takes fresh start again On for a thousand years of genius more.' The holidays were fruitful, but must end; One August evening had a cooler breath; Into each mind intruding duties crept; Under the cinders burned the fires of home; Nay, letters found us in our paradise; So in the gladness of the new event We struck our camp, and left the happy hills. The fortunate star that rose on us sank not; The prodigal sunshine rested on the land, The rivers gambolled onward to the sea, And Nature, the inscrutable and mute, Permitted on her infinite repose Almost a smile to steal to cheer her sons, As if one riddle of the Sphinx were guessed. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Adirondacs ,

1106:"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself."    (David, Psalms 50.21) ['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, And feels about his spine small eft-things course, Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: And while above his head a pompion-plant, Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, And now a flower drops with a bee inside, And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch, He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross And recross till they weave a spider-web (Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times) And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, Touching that other, whom his dam called God. Because to talk about Him, vexesha, Could He but know! and time to vex is now, When talk is safer than in winter-time. Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep In confidence he drudges at their task, And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! 'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. 'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, But not the stars; the stars came otherwise; Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: He hated that He cannot change His cold, Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; Only, she ever sickened, found repulse At the other kind of water, not her life, (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, And in her old bounds buried her despair, Hating and loving warmth alike: so He. 'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue That pricks deep into oak warts for a worm, And says a plain word when she finds her prize, But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks About their holeHe made all these and more, Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? He could not, Himself, make a second self To be His mate; as well have made Himself: He would not make what He mislikes or slights, An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains: But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, Things He admires and mocks too,that is it. Because, so brave, so better though they be, It nothing skills if He begin to plague. Look, now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash, Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived, Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss, Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. Put case, unable to be what I wish, I yet could make a live bird out of clay: Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban Able to fly?for, there, see, he hath wings, And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, And there, a sting to do his foes offence, There, and I will that he begin to live, Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns Of grigs high up that make the merry din, Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, And he lay stupid-like,why, I should laugh; And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again, Well, as the chance were, this might take or else Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, And give the mankin three sound legs for one, Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, Drinking the mash, with brain become alive, Making and marring clay at will? So He. 'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. 'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs That march now from the mountain to the sea; 'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first, Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm, And two worms he whose nippers end in red; As it likes me each time, I do: so He. Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, And envieth that, so helped, such things do more Than He who made them! What consoles but this? That they, unless through Him, do nought at all, And must submit: what other use in things? 'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth "I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, I make the cry my maker cannot make With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!' Would not I smash it with my foot? So He. But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, What knows,the something over Setebos That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. There may be something quiet o'er His head, Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, Since both derive from weakness in some way. I joy because the quails come; would not joy Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, But never spends much thought nor care that way. It may look up, work up,the worse for those It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, Who, making Himself feared through what He does, Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar To what is quiet and hath happy life; Next looks down here, and out of very spite Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, These good things to match those as hips do grapes. 'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, And saith she is Miranda and my wife: 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban; A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He. His dam held that the Quiet made all things Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex. Had He meant other, while His hand was in, Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint Like an orc's armour? Ay,so spoil His sport! He is the One now: only He doth all. 'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes. Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, By no means for the love of what is worked. 'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world When all goes right, in this safe summer-time, And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, Than trying what to do with wit and strength. 'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 'Shall some day knock it down again: so He. 'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. He hath a spite against me, that I know, Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why? So it is, all the same, as well I find. 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite. 'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: Often they scatter sparkles: there is force! 'Dug up a newt He may have envied once And turned to stone, shut up Inside a stone. Please Him and hinder this?What Prosper does? Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He! There is the sport: discover how or die! All need not die, for of the things o' the isle Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; Those at His mercy,why, they please Him most When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice! Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth. You must not know His ways, and play Him off, Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, Curls up into a ball, pretending death For fright at my approach: the two ways please. But what would move my choler more than this, That either creature counted on its life To-morrow and next day and all days to come, Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, "Because he did so yesterday with me, And otherwise with such another brute, So must he do henceforth and always."Ay? Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means! 'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He. 'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, And we shall have to live in fear of Him So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change, If He have done His best, make no new world To please Him more, so leave off watching this, If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day,or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we, And there is He, and nowhere help at all. 'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. His dam held different, that after death He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: Idly! He doth His worst in this our life, Giving just respite lest we die through pain, Saving last pain for worst,with which, an end. Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. 'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball On head and tail as if to save their lives: Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, And always, above all else, envies Him; Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, And never speaks his mind save housed as now: Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?" 'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: While myself lit a fire, and made a song And sung it, "What I hate, be consecrate To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?" Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch And conquer Setebos, or likelier He Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. NOTES Form: unrhyming 1. The motto is from Psalms 1: 21. For the title character, see The Tempest, I, ii. The subtitle and the motto indicate much of Browning's intention in the poem. "Natural theology" is distinguished from (and here opposed to) "revealed theology"\; natural theology being that system of thought about God which man arrives at through the unaided use of his natural reason. To the Victorian secularists, all theology was "natural theology"--that is, man-made. Their favourite theory was that all religion was a projection by man of his own qualities. This is the theory which the text chosen as motto condemns, and which Caliban's musings illustrate. Throughout he looks at his own characteristics, and then ascribes them to his god, Setebos: "So he." What is conspicuous in the poem is that there is no glimpse of what to Browning is true theology: the theology of a God of Love. This comes to man (as to David in Saul) by revelation. The highest conception Caliban can achieve by natural reason is of the Quiet--an indifferent, absentee, Epicurean God. His Setebos is merely a God of arbitrary and jealous power. It is also noteworthy that Browning includes in Caliban's theology not merely most of the doctrines of primitive religions, but also some elements associated with branches of Christianity, particularly the narrower kind of Calvinist sect. He is by implication rejecting these elements as part of his own definition of true Christianity in terms of a God of Love. The passages in brackets at the beginning and end of the poem represent Caliban's silent thoughts. The main part of the poem is spoken aloud, and presents his attempt at a system. He is very much the "natural" man, but Browning gives him not only a quick and vivid imagination, but a mind that follows the general systematic pattern of thought used by writers on natural religion. He starts with the relation of his god to the universe, and the problem of cosmology, and then moves systematically to consider his god's attributes, and to try to evolve rules for worship and service. Caliban throughout speaks of himself in the third person, usually without the pronoun. Browning indicates the omission of the pronoun by an apostrophe. ~ Robert Browning, Caliban upon Setebos or, Natural Theology in the Island ,

1107:The Kalevala - Rune Xlix RESTORATION OF THE SUN AND MOON. Thus has Fire returned to Northland But the gold Moon is not shining, Neither gleams the silver sunlight In the chambers of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala. On the crops the white-frost settled, And the cattle died of hunger, Even birds grew sick and perished. Men and maidens, faint and famished, Perished in the cold and darkness, From the absence of the sunshine, From the absence of the moonlight. Knew the pike his holes and hollows, And the eagle knew his highway, Knew the winds the times for sailing; But the wise men of the Northland Could not know the dawn of morning, On the fog-point in the ocean, On the islands forest-covered. Young and aged talked and wondered, Well reflected, long debated, How to live without the moonlight, Live without the silver sunshine, In the cold and cheerless Northland, In the homes of Kalevala. Long conjectured all the maidens, Orphans asked the wise for counsel. Spake a maid to Ilmarinen, Running to the blacksmith's furnace: 'Rise, O artist, from thy slumbers, Hasten from thy couch unworthy; Forge from gold the Moon for Northland, Forge anew the Sun from silver Cannot live without the moonlight, Nor without the silver sunshine!' From his couch arose the artist, 223 From his couch of stone, the blacksmith, And began his work of forging, Forging Sun and Moon for Northland. Came the ancient Wainamoinen, In the doorway sat and lingered, Spake, these Words to Ilmarinen: 'Blacksmith, my beloved brother, Thou the only metal-worker, Tell me why thy magic hammer Falls so heavy on thine anvil?' Spake the youthful Ilmarinen: 'Moon of gold and Sun of silver, I am forging for Wainola; I shall swing them into ether, Plant them in the starry heavens.' Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: 'Senseless blacksmith of the ages, Vainly dost thou swing thy hammer, Vainly rings thy mighty anvil; Silver will not gleam as sunshine, Not of gold is born the moonlight!' Ilmarinen, little heeding, Ceases not to ply his hammer, Sun and Moon the artist forges, Wings the Moon of Magic upward, Hurls it to the pine-tree branches; Does not shine without her master. Then the silver Sun he stations In an elm-tree on the mountain. From his forehead drip the sweat-drops, Perspiration from his fingers, Through his labors at the anvil While the Sun and Moon were forging; But the Sun shone not at morning From his station in the elm-tree; And the Moon shone not at evening From the pine-tree's topmost branches. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Let the Fates be now consulted, And the oracles examined; Only thus may we discover Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden.' 224 Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Only wise and true magician, Cut three chips from trunks of alder, Laid the chips in magic order, Touched and turned them with his fingers, Spake these words of master-magic: 'Of my Maker seek I knowledge, Ask in hope and faith the answer From the great magician, Ukko: Tongue of alder, tell me truly, Symbol of the great Creator, Where the Sun and Moon are sleeping; For the Moon shines not in season, Nor appears the Sun at midday, From their stations in the sky-vault. Speak the truth, O magic alder, Speak not words of man, nor hero, Hither bring but truthful measures. Let us form a sacred compact: If thou speakest me a falsehood, I will hurl thee to Manala, Let the nether fires consume thee, That thine evil signs may perish.' Thereupon the alder answered, Spake these words of truthful import: 'Verily the Sun lies hidden And the golden Moon is sleeping In the stone-berg of Pohyola, In the copper-bearing mountain.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'I shall go at once to Northland, To the cold and dark Pohyola, Bring the Sun and Moon to gladden All Wainola's fields and forests.' Forth he hastens on his journey, To the dismal Sariola, To the Northland cold and dreary; Travels one day, then a second, So the third from morn till evening, When appear the gates of Pohya, With her snow-clad hills and mountains. Wainamoinen, the magician, 225 At the river of Pohyola, Loudly calls the ferry-maiden: Bring a boat, O Pohya-daughter, Bring a strong and trusty vessel, Row me o'er these chilling waters, O'er this rough and rapid river! ' But the Ferry-maiden heard not, Did not listen to his calling. Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Laid a pile of well-dried brush-wood, Knots and needles of the fir-tree, Made a fire beside the river, Sent the black smoke into heaven Curling to the home of Ukko. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Hastened to her chamber window, Looked upon the bay and river, Spake these words to her attendants: 'Why the fire across the river Where the current meets the deep-sea, Smaller than the fires of foemen, Larger than the flames of hunters?' Thereupon a Pohyalander Hastened from the court of Louhi That the cause he might discover,' Bring the sought-for information To the hostess of Pohyola; Saw upon the river-border Some great hero from Wainola. Wainamoinen saw the stranger, Called again in tones of thunder: 'Bring a skiff; thou son of Northland, For the minstrel, Wainamoinen! Thus the Pohyalander answered: 'Here no skiffs are lying idle, Row thyself across the waters, Use thine arms, and feet, and fingers, To propel thee o'er the river, O'er the sacred stream of Pohya.' Wainamoinen, long reflecting, Bravely thus soliloquizes: 'I will change my form and features, 226 Will assume a second body, Neither man, nor ancient minstrel, Master of the Northland waters!' Then the singer, Wainamoinen, Leaped, a pike, upon the waters, Quickly swam the rapid river, Gained the frigid Pohya-border. There his native form resuming, Walked he as a mighty hero, On the dismal isle of Louhi, Spake the wicked sons of Northland: Come thou to Pohyola's court-room.' To Pohyola's, court he hastened. Spake again the sons of evil: Come thou to the halls of Louhi!' To Pohyola's halls he hastened. On the latch he laid his fingers, Set his foot within the fore-hall, Hastened to the inner chamber, Underneath the painted rafters, Where the Northland-heroes gather. There he found the Pohya-masters Girded with their swords of battle, With their spears and battle-axes, With their fatal bows and arrows, For the death of Wainamoinen, Ancient bard, Suwantolainen. Thus they asked the hero-stranger. 'Magic swimmer of the Northland, Son of evil, what the message That thou bringest from thy people, What thy mission to Pohyola?' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Thus addressed the hosts of Louhi: 'For the Sun I come to Northland, Come to seek the Moon in Pohya; Tell me where the Sun lies hidden, Where the golden Moon is sleeping.' Spake the evil sons of Pohya: 'Both the Sun and Moon are hidden In the rock of many colors, In the copper-bearing mountain, 227 In a cavern iron-banded, In the stone-berg of Pohyola, Nevermore to gain their freedom, Nevermore to shine in Northland!' Spake the hero, Wainamoinen: 'If the Sun be not uncovered, If the Moon leave not her dungeon, I will challenge all Pohyola To the test of spear or broadsword, Let us now our weapons measure!' Quick the hero of Wainola Drew his mighty sword of magic; On its border shone the moonlight, On its hilt the Sun was shining, On its back, a neighing stallion, On its face a cat was mewing, Beautiful his magic weapon. Quick the hero-swords are tested, And the blades are rightly measured Wainamoinen's sword is longest By a single grain of barley, By a blade of straw, the widest. To the court-yard rushed the heroes, Hastened to the deadly combat, On the plains of Sariola. Wainamoinen, the magician, Strikes one blow, and then a second, Strikes a third time, cuts and conquers. As the house-maids slice the turnips, As they lop the heads of cabbage, As the stalks of flax are broken, So the heads of Louhi's heroes Fall before the magic broadsword Of the ancient Wainamoinen. Then victor from Wainola, Ancient bard and great magician, Went to find the Sun in slumber, And the golden Moon discover, In, the copper-bearing Mountains, In the cavern iron-banded, In the stone-berg of Pohyola. He had gone but little distance, 228 When he found a sea-green island; On the island stood a birch-tree, Near the birch-tree stood a pillar Carved in stone of many colors; In the pillar, nine large portals Bolted in a hundred places; In the rock he found a crevice Sending forth a gleam of sunlight. Quick he drew his mighty broadsword, From the pillar struck three colors, From the magic of his weapon; And the pillar fell asunder, Three the number of the fragments. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Through the crevice looked and wondered. In the center of the pillar, From a scarlet-colored basin, Noxious serpents beer were drinking, And the adders eating spices. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Therefore has Pohyola's hostess Little drink to give to strangers, Since her beer is drank by serpents, And her spices given to adders.' Quick he draws his magic fire-blade, Cuts the vipers green in pieces, Lops the heads off all the adders, Speaks these words of master-magic: Thus, hereafter, let the serpent Drink the famous beer of barley, Feed upon the Northland-spices!' Wainamoinen, the magician, The eternal wizard-singer, Sought to open wide the portals With the hands and words of magic; But his hands had lost their cunning, And his magic gone to others. Thereupon the ancient minstrel Quick returning, heavy-hearted, To his native halls and hamlets, Thus addressed his brother-heroes: 'Woman, he without his weapons, 229 With no implements, a weakling! Sun and Moon have I discovered, But I could not force the Portals Leading to their rocky cavern In the copper bearing mountain. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Why was I not taken with thee To become, thy war-companion? Would have been of goodly service, Would have drawn the bolts or broken, All the portals to the cavern, Where the Sun and Moon lie hidden In the copper-bearing mountain!' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Thus replied to Lemminkainen: 'Empty Words will break no portals, Draw no bolts of any moment; Locks and bolts are never broken. With the words of little wisdom! Greater means than thou commandest Must be used to free the sunshine, Free the moonlight from her dungeon.' Wainamoinen, not discouraged, Hastened to the, forge and smithy, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou famous metal-artist, Forge for me a magic trident, Forge from steel a dozen stout-rings, Master-keys, a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, That the Sun we may uncover In the copper-bearing mountain, In the stone-berg of Pohyola.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal metal-worker, Forged the needs of Wainamoinen, Forged for him the magic trident, Forged from steel a dozen stout-rings, Master-keys a goodly number, Iron bars and heavy hammers, Not the largest, nor the smallest, 230 Forged them of the right dimensions. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Northland's old and toothless wizard, Fastened wings upon her shoulders, As an eagle, sailed the heavens, Over field, and fen, and forest, Over Pohya's many, waters, To the hamlets of Wainola, To the forge of Ilmarinen. Quick the famous metal-worker Went to see if winds were blowing; Found the winds at peace and silent, Found an eagle, sable-colored, Perched upon his window-casement. Spake the artist, Ilmarinen: 'Magic bird, whom art thou seeking, Why art sitting at my window?' This the answer of the eagle: 'Art thou blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal iron-forger, Master of the magic metals, Northland's wonder-working artist?' Ilmarinen gave this answer: 'There is nothing here of wonder, Since I forged the dome of heaven, Forged the earth a concave cover!' Spake again the magic eagle: Why this ringing of thine anvil, Why this knocking of thy hammer, Tell me what thy hands are forging?' This the answer of the blacksmith: ''Tis a collar I am forging For the neck of wicked Louhi, Toothless witch of Sariola, Stealer of the silver sunshine, Stealer of the golden moonlight; With this collar I shall bind her To the iron-rock of Ehstland!' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Saw misfortune fast approaching, Saw destruction flying over, Saw the signs of bad-luck lower; 231 Quickly winged her way through ether To her native halls and chambers, To the darksome Sariola, There unlocked the massive portals Where the Sun and Moon were hidden, In the rock of many colors, In the cavern iron-banded, In the copper-bearing mountain. Then again the wicked Louhi Changed her withered form and features, And became a dove of good-luck; Straightway winged the starry heavens, Over field, and fen, and forest, To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala, To the forge of Ilmarinen. This the question of the blacksmith 'Wherefore comest, dove of good-luck, What the tidings that thou bringest?' Thus the magic bird made answer: 'Wherefore come I to thy smithy? Come to bring the joyful tidings That the Sun has left his cavern, Left the rock of many colors, Left the stone-berg of Pohyola; That the Moon no more is hidden In the copper-bearing mountains, In the caverns iron-banded.' Straightway hastened Ilmarinen To the threshold of his smithy, Quickly scanned the far horizon, Saw again the silver sunshine, Saw once more the golden moonlight, Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty, To the homes of Kalevala. Thereupon the blacksmith hastened To his brother, Wainamoinen, Spake these words to the magician: 'O thou ancient bard and minstrel, The eternal wizard-singer See, the Sun again is shining, And the golden Moon is beaming 232 From their long-neglected places, From their stations in the sky-vault!' Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Straightway hastened to the court-yard, Looked upon the far horizon, Saw once more the silver sunshine, Saw again the golden moonlight, Bringing peace, and joy, and plenty, To the people of the Northland, And the minstrel spake these measures: 'Greetings to thee, Sun of fortune, Greetings to thee, Moon of good-luck, Welcome sunshine, welcome moonlight, Golden is the dawn of morning! Free art thou, O Sun of silver, Free again, O Moon beloved, As the sacred cuckoo's singing, As the ring-dove's liquid cooings. 'Rise, thou silver Sun, each Morning, Source of light and life hereafter, Bring us, daily, joyful greetings, Fill our homes with peace and plenty, That our sowing, fishing, hunting, May be prospered by thy coming. Travel on thy daily journey, Let the Moon be ever with thee; Glide along thy way rejoicing, End thy journeyings in slumber; Rest at evening in the ocean, When the daily cares have ended, To the good of all thy people, To the pleasure Of Wainoloa, To the joy of Kalevala!' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1108:I WHEN the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones, Who speeds to the woodland walks? To birds and trees who talks? Csar of his leafy Rome, There the poet is at home. He goes to the river-side, Not hook nor line hath he; He stands in the meadows wide, Nor gun nor scythe to see. Sure some god his eye enchants: What he knows nobody wants. In the wood he travels glad, Without better fortune had, Melancholy without bad. Knowledge this man prizes best Seems fantastic to the rest: Pondering shadows, colors, clouds, Grass-buds and caterpillar-shrouds, Boughs on which the wild bees settle, Tints that spot the violet's petal, Why Nature loves the number five, And why the star-form she repeats: Lover of all things alive, Wonderer at all he meets, Wonderer chiefly at himself, Who can tell him what he is? Or how meet in human elf Coming and past eternities? 2 And such I knew, a forest seer, A minstrel of the natural year, Foreteller of the vernal ides, Wise harbinger of spheres and tides, A lover true, who knew by heart Each joy the mountain dales impart; It seemed that Nature could not raise A plant in any secret place, In quaking bog, on snowy hill, Beneath the grass that shades the rill, Under the snow, between the rocks, In damp fields known to bird and fox. But he would come in the very hour It opened in its virgin bower, As if a sunbeam showed the place, And tell its long-descended race. It seemed as if the breezes brought him, It seemed as if the sparrows taught him; As if by secret sight he knew Where, in far fields, the orchis grew. Many haps fall in the field Seldom seen by wishful eyes, But all her shows did Nature yield, To please and win this pilgrim wise. He saw the partridge drum in the woods; He heard the woodcock's evening hymn; He found the tawny thrushes' broods; And the shy hawk did wait for him; What others did at distance hear, And guessed within the thicket's gloom, Was shown to this philosopher, And at his bidding seemed to come. 3 In unploughed Maine he sought the lumberers' gang Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang; He trod the unplanted forest floor, whereon The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone; Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear, And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker. He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds, The slight Linna hang its twin-born heads, And blessed the monument of the man of flowers, Which breathes his sweet fame'through the northern bowers. He heard, when in the grove, at intervals, With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls, One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree, Declares the close of its green century. Low lies the plant to whose creation went Sweet influence from every element; Whose living towers the years conspired to build, Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild. Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed, He roamed, content alike with man and beast. Where darkness found him he lay glad at night; There the red morning touched him with its light. Three moons his great heart him a hermit made, So long he roved at will the boundless shade. The timid it concerns to ask their way, And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray, To make no step until the event is known, And ills to come as evils past bemoan. Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps To spy what danger on his pathway creeps; Go where he will, the wise man is at home, His hearth the earth,his hall the azure dome; Where his clear spirit leads him, there's his road By God's own light illumined and foreshowed. 4 'T was one of the charmd days When the genius of God doth flow; The wind may alter twenty ways, A tempest cannot blow; It may blow north, it still is warm; Or south, it still is clear; Or east, it smells like a clover-farm; Or west, no thunder fear. The musing peasant, lowly great, Beside the forest water sate; The rope-like pine-roots crosswise grown Composed the network of his throne; The wide lake, edged with sand and grass, Was burnished to a floor of glass, Painted with shadows green and proud Of the tree and of the cloud. He was the heart of all the scene; On him the sun looked more serene; To hill and cloud his face was known, It seemed the likeness of their own; They knew by secret sympathy The public child of earth and sky. 'You ask,' he said,'what guide Me through trackless thickets led, Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide. I found the water's bed. The watercourses were my guide; I travelled grateful by their side, Or through their channel dry; They led me through the thicket damp, Through brake and fern, the beavers' camp, Through beds of granite cut my road, And their resistless friendship showed. The falling waters led me, The foodful waters fed me, And brought me to the lowest land Unerring to the ocean sand. The moss upon the forest bark Was pole-star when the night was dark; The purple berries in the wood Supplied me necessary food; For Nature ever faithful is To such as trust her faithfulness. When the forest shall mislead me, When the night and morning lie, When sea and land refuse to feed me, 'T will be time enough to die; Then will yet my mother yield A pillow in her greenest field, Nor the June flowers scorn to cover The clay of their departed lover.' II As sunbeams stream through liberal space And nothing jostle or displace, So waved the pine-tree through my thought And fanned the dreams it never brought. 'Whether is better, the gift or the donor? Come to me,' Quoth the pine-tree, 'I am the giver of honor. My garden is the cloven rock, And my manure the snow; And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock, In summer's scorching glow. He is great who can live by me: The rough and bearded forester Is better than the lord; God fills the scrip and canister, Sin piles the loaded board. The lord is the peasant that was, The peasant the lord that shall be; The lord is hay, the peasant grass, One dry, and one the living tree. Who liveth by the ragged pine Foundeth a heroic line; Who liveth in the palace hall Waneth fast and spendeth all. He goes to my savage haunts, With his chariot and his care; My twilight realm he disenchants, And finds his prison there. 'What prizes the town and the tower? Only what the pine-tree yields; Sinew that subdued the fields; The wild-eyed boy, who in the woods Chants his hymn to hills and floods, Whom the city's poisoning spleen Made not pale, or fat, or lean; Whom the rain and the wind purgeth, Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth, In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth, In whose feet the lion rusheth, Iron arms, and iron mould, That know not fear, fatigue, or cold. I give my rafters to his boat, My billets to his boiler's throat, And I will swim the ancient sea To float my child to victory, And grant to dwellers with the pine Dominion o'er the palm and vine. Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend, Unnerves his strength, invites his end. Cut a bough from my parent stem, And dip it in thy porcelain vase; A little while each russet gem Will swell and rise with wonted grace; But when it seeks enlarged supplies, The orphan of the forest dies. Whoso walks in solitude And inhabiteth the wood, Choosing light, wave, rock and bird, Before the money-loving herd, Into that forester shall pass, From these companions, power and grace. Clean shall he be, without, within, From the old adhering sin, All ill dissolving in the light Of his triumphant piercing sight: Not vain, sour, nor frivolous; Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous; Grave, chaste, contented, though retired, And of all other men desired. On him the light of star and moon Shall fall with purer radiance down; All constellations of the sky Shed their virtue through his eye. Him Nature giveth for defence His formidable innocence; The mounting sap, the shells, the sea, All spheres, all stones, his helpers be; He shall meet the speeding year, Without wailing, without fear; He shall be happy in his love, Like to like shall joyful prove; He shall be happy whilst he wooes, Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse. But if with gold she bind her hair, And deck her breast with diamond, Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear, Though thou lie alone on the ground. ' Heed the old oracles, Ponder my spells; Song wakes in my pinnacles When the wind swells. Soundeth the prophetic wind, The shadows shake on the rock behind, And the countless leaves of the pine are strings Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings. Hearken! Hearken! If thou wouldst know the mystic song Chanted when the sphere was young. Aloft, abroad, the pan swells; O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells? O wise man! hear'st thou the least part? 'T is the chronicle of art. To the open ear it sings Sweet the genesis of things, Of tendency through endless ages, Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages, Of rounded worlds, of space and time, Of the old flood's subsiding slime, Of chemic matter, force and form, Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm: The rushing metamorphosis Dissolving all that fixture is, Melts things that be to things that seem, And solid nature to a dream. O, listen to the undersong, The ever old, the ever young; And, far within those cadent pauses, The chorus of the ancient Causes! Delights the dreadful Destiny To fling his voice into the tree, And shock thy weak ear with a note Breathed from the everlasting throat. In music he repeats the pang Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang. O mortal! thy ears are stones; These echoes are laden with tones Which only the pure can hear; Thou canst not catch what they recite Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right, Of man to come, of human life, Of Death and Fortune, Growth and Strife.' Once again the pine-tree sung: ' Speak not thy speech my boughs among: Put off thy years, wash in the breeze; My hours are peaceful centuries. Talk no more with feeble tongue; No more the fool of space and time, Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme. Only thy Americans Can read thy line, can meet thy glance, But the runes that I rehearse Understands the universe; The least breath my boughs which tossed Brings again the Pentecost; To every soul resounding clear In a voice of solemn cheer, "Am I not thine? Are not these thine?" And they reply, "Forever mine!" My branches speak Italian, English, German, Basque, Castilian, Mountain speech to Highlanders, Ocean tongues to islanders, To Fin and Lap and swart Malay, To each his bosom-secret say. 'Come learn with me the fatal song Which knits the world in music strong, Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes, Of things with things, of times with times, Primal chimes of sun and shade, Of sound and echo, man and maid, The land reflected in the flood, Body with shadow still pursued. For Nature beats in perfect tune, And rounds with rhyme her every rune, Whether she work in land or sea, Or hide underground her alchemy. Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, Or dip thy paddle in the lake, But it carves the bow of beauty there, And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. The wood is wiser far than thou; The wood and wave each other know Not unrelated, unaffied, But to each thought and thing allied, Is perfect Nature's every part, Rooted in the mighty Heart. But thou, poor child! unbound, unrhymed, Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed, Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded? Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded? Who thee divorced, deceived and left? Thee of thy faith who hath bereft, And torn the ensigns from thy brow, And sunk the immortal eye so low? Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender, Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender For royal man;they thee confess An exile from the wilderness, The hills where health with health agrees, And the wise soul expels disease. Hark! in thy ear I will tell the sign By which thy hurt thou may'st divine. 'When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff, Or see the wide shore from thy skiff, To thee the horizon shall express But emptiness on emptiness; There lives no man of Nature's worth In the circle of the earth; And to thine eye the vast skies fall, Dire and satirical, On clucking hens and prating fools, On thieves, on drudges and on dolls. And thou shalt say to the Most High, "Godhead! all this astronomy, And fate and practice and invention, Strong art and beautiful pretension, This radiant pomp of sun and star, Throes that were, and worlds that are, Behold! were in vain and in vain; It cannot be,I will look again. Surely now will the curtain rise, And earth's fit tenant me surprise; But the curtain doth not rise, And Nature has miscarried wholly Into failure, into folly." 'Alas! thine is the bankruptcy, Blessed Nature so to see. Come, lay thee in my soothing shade, And heal the hurts which sin has made. I see thee in the crowd alone; I will be thy companion. Quit thy friends as the dead in doom, And build to them a final tomb; Let the starred shade that nightly falls Still celebrate their funerals, And the bell of beetle and of bee Knell their melodious memory. Behind thee leave thy merchandise, Thy churches and thy charities; And leave thy peacock wit behind; Enough for thee the primal mind That flows in streams, that breathes in wind: Leave all thy pedant lore apart; God hid the whole world in thy heart. Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns, Gives all to them who all renounce. The rain comes when the wind calls; The river knows the way to the sea; Without a pilot it runs and falls, Blessing all lands with its charity; The sea tosses and foams to find Its way up to the cloud and wind; The shadow sits close to the flying ball; The date fails not on the palm-tree tall; And thou,go burn thy wormy pages, Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages. Oft didst thou thread the woods in vain To find what bird had piped the strain: Seek not, and the little eremite Flies gayly forth and sings in sight. 'Hearken once more! I will tell thee the mundane lore. Older am I than thy numbers wot, Change I may, but I pass not. Hitherto all things fast abide, And anchored in the tempest ride. Trenchant time behoves to hurry All to yean and all to bury: All the forms are fugitive, But the substances survive. Ever fresh the broad creation, A divine improvisation, From the heart of God proceeds, A single will, a million deeds. Once slept the world an egg of stone, And pulse, and sound, and light was none; And God said, "Throb!" and there was motion And the vast mass became vast ocean. Onward and on, the eternal Pan, Who layeth the world's incessant plan, Halteth never in one shape, But forever doth escape, Like wave or flame, into new forms Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms. I, that to-day am a pine, Yesterday was a bundle of grass. He is free and libertine, Pouring of his power the wine To every age, to every race;. Unto every race and age He emptieth the beverage; Unto each, and unto all, Maker and original. The world is the ring of his spells, And the play of his miracles. As he giveth to all to drink, Thus or thus they are and think. With one drop sheds form and feature; With the next a special nature; The third adds heat's indulgent spark; The fourth gives light which eats the dark; Into the fifth himself he flings, And conscious Law is King of kings. As the bee through the garden ranges, From world to world the godhead changes; As the sheep go feeding in the waste, From form to form He maketh haste; This vault which glows immense with light Is the inn where he lodges for a night. What reeks such Traveller if the bowers Which bloom and fade like meadow flowers A bunch of fragrant lilies be, Or the stars of eternity? Alike to him the better, the worse, The glowing angel, the outcast corse. Thou metest him by centuries, And lo! he passes like the breeze; Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy, He hides in pure transparency; Thou askest in fountains and in fires, He is the essence that inquires. He is the axis of the star; He is the sparkle of the spar; He is the heart of every creature; He is the meaning of each feature; And his mind is the sky. Than all it holds more deep, more high.' by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Woodnotes ,

1109:"As certain also of your own poets have said"    (Acts 17.28)   Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece") To Protus in his Tyranny: much health! They give thy letter to me, even now: I read and seem as if I heard thee speak. The master of thy galley still unlades Gift after gift; they block my court at last And pile themselves along its portico Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee: And one white she-slave from the group dispersed Of black and white slaves (like the chequer-work Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, Now covered with this settle-down of doves), One lyric woman, in her crocus vest Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands Commends to me the strainer and the cup Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence! For so shall men remark, in such an act Of love for him whose song gives life its joy, Thy recognition of the use of life; Nor call thy spirit barely adequate To help on life in straight ways, broad enough For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. Thou, in the daily building of thy tower, Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, Or when the general work 'mid good acclaim Climbed with the eye to cheer the architect, Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope Of some eventual rest a-top of it, Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed, Thou first of men might'st look out to the East: The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. For this, I promise on thy festival To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak Thy great words, and describe thy royal face Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most, Within the eventual element of calm. Thy letter's first requirement meets me here. It is as thou hast heard: in one short life I, Cleon, have effected all those things Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. That epos on thy hundred plates of gold Is mine,and also mine the little chant, So sure to rise from every fishing-bark When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. The image of the sun-god on the phare, Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; The Po'er-storied its whole length, As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. I know the true proportions of a man And woman also, not observed before; And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again. For music,why, I have combined the moods, Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine; Thus much the people know and recognize, Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not. We of these latter days, with greater mind Than our forerunners, since more composite, Look not so great, beside their simple way, To a judge who only sees one way at once, One mind-point and no other at a time, Compares the small part of a man of us With some whole man of the heroic age, Great in his waynot ours, nor meant for ours. And ours is greater, had we skill to know: For, what we call this life of men on earth, This sequence of the soul's achievements here Being, as I find much reason to conceive, Intended to be viewed eventually As a great whole, not analyzed to parts, But each part having reference to all, How shall a certain part, pronounced complete, Endure effacement by another part? Was the thing done?then, what's to do again? See, in the chequered pavement opposite, Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid He did not overlay them, superimpose The new upon the old and blot it out, But laid them on a level in his work, Making at last a picture; there it lies. So, first the perfect separate forms were made, The portions of mankind; and after, so, Occurred the combination of the same. For where had been a progress, otherwise? Mankind, made up of all the single men, In such a synthesis the labour ends. Now mark me! those divine men of old time Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point The outside verge that rounds our faculty; And where they reached, who can do more than reach? It takes but little water just to touch At some one point the inside of a sphere, And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest In due succession: but the finer air       Which not so palpably nor obviously,   Though no less universally, can touch The whole circumference of that emptied sphere, Fills it more fully than the water did; Holds thrice the weight of water in itself Resolved into a subtler element. And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full Up to the visible heightand after, void; Not knowing air's more hidden properties. And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus To vindicate his purpose in our life: Why stay we on the earth unless to grow? Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out, That he or other god descended here And, once for all, showed simultaneously What, in its nature, never can be shown, Piecemeal or in succession;showed, I say, The worth both absolute and relative Of all his children from the birth of time, His instruments for all appointed work. I now go on to image,might we hear The judgment which should give the due to each, Show where the labour lay and where the ease, And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere! This is a dream:but no dream, let us hope, That years and days, the summers and the springs, Follow each other with unwaning powers. The grapes which dye thy wine are richer far, Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers; That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave, Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds, Refines upon the women of my youth. What, and the soul alone deteriorates? I have not chanted verse like Homer, no Nor swept string like Terpander, nonor carved And painted men like Phidias and his friend: I am not great as they are, point by point. But I have entered into sympathy With these four, running these into one soul, Who, separate, ignored each other's art. Say, is it nothing that I know them all? The wild flower was the larger; I have dashed Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, And show a better flower if not so large: I stand myself. Refer this to the gods Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare (All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext That such a gift by chance lay in my hand, Discourse of lightly or depreciate? It might have fallen to another's hand: what then? I pass too surely: let at least truth stay! And next, of what thou followest on to ask. This being with me as I declare, O king, My works, in all these varicoloured kinds, So done by me, accepted so by men Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) I must not be accounted to attain The very crown and proper end of life? Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, I face death with success in my right hand: Whether I fear death less than dost thyself The fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou) "Thou leavest much behind, while I leave nought. Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, The pictures men shall study; while my life, Complete and whole now in its power and joy, Dies altogether with my brain and arm, Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself? The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave, Set on the promontory which I named. And thatsome supple courtier of my heir Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps, To fix the rope to, which best drags it down. I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!" Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief, That admiration grows as knowledge grows? That imperfection means perfection hid, Reserved in part, to grace the after-time? If, in the morning of philosophy, Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced The perfectness of others yet unseen. Conceding which,had Zeus then questioned thee, "Shall I go on a step, improve on this, Do more for visible creatures than is done?" Thou wouldst have answered, "Ay, by making each Grow conscious in himselfby that alone. All's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock, The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight, Till life's mechanics can no further go And all this joy in natural life is put Like fire from off thy finger into each, So exquisitely perfect is the same. But 'tis pure fire, and they mere matter are; It has them, not they it: and so I choose For man, thy last premeditated work (If I might add a glory to the scheme), That a third thing should stand apart from both, A quality arise within his soul, Which, intro-active, made to supervise And feel the force it has, may view itself, And so be happy." Man might live at first The animal life: but is there nothing more? In due time, let him critically learn How he lives; and, the more he gets to know Of his own life's adaptabilities, The more joy-giving will his life become. Thus man, who hath this quality, is best. But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: Let progress end at once,man make no step Beyond the natural man, the better beast, Using his senses, not the sense of sense." In man there's failure, only since he left The lower and inconscious forms of life. We called it an advance, the rendering plain Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, And, by new lore so added to the old, Take each step higher over the brute's head. This grew the only life, the pleasure-house, Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul, Which whole surrounding flats of natural life Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to; A tower that crowns a country. But alas, The soul now climbs it just to perish there! For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream We know this, which we had not else perceived) That there's a world of capability For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, Inviting us; and still the soul craves all, And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad! Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge Our bounded physical recipiency, Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, Repair the waste of age and sickness: no, It skills not! life's inadequate to joy, As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. They praise a fountain in my garden here Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise. What if I told her, it is just a thread From that great river which the hills shut up, And mock her with my leave to take the same? The artificer has given her one small tube Past power to widen or exchangewhat boots To know she might spout oceans if she could? She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread: And so a man can use but a man's joy While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast, "See, man, how happy I live, and despair That I may be still happierfor thy use!" If this were so, we could not thank our lord, As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so Malice it is not. Is it carelessness? Still, no. If carewhere is the sign? I ask, And get no answer, and agree in sum, O king, with thy profound discouragement, Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well. The last point now:thou dost except a case Holding joy not impossible to one With artist-giftsto such a man as I Who leave behind me living works indeed; For, such a poem, such a painting lives.     What? dost thou verily trip upon a word,       Confound the accurate view of what joy is (Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine)   With feeling joy? confound the knowing how And showing how to live (my faculty) With actually living?Otherwise Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? Because in my great epos I display How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act Is this as though I acted? if I paint, Carve the young Ph{oe}bus, am I therefore young? Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself The many years of pain that taught me art! Indeed, to know is something, and to prove How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more: But, knowing nought, to enjoy is something too. Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there, Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode. I get to sing of love, when grown too grey For being beloved: she turns to that young man, The muscles all a-ripple on his back. I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king! "But," sayest thou(and I marvel, I repeat, To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, And Aeschylus, because we read his plays!" Why, if they live still, let them come and take Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive? Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, In this, that every day my sense of joy Grows more acute, my soul (intensified By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; While every day my hairs fall more and more, My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase The horror quickening still from year to year, The consummation coming past escape, When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy When all my works wherein I prove my worth, Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, Alive still, in the praise of such as thou, I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, The man who loved his life so over-much, Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible, I dare at times imagine to my need Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, Unlimited in capability For joy, as this is in desire for joy, To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait On purpose to make prized the life at large Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death, We burst there as the worm into the fly, Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no! Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, He must have done so, were it possible! Live long and happy, and in that thought die: Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest, I cannot tell thy messenger aright Where to deliver what he bears of thine To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame Indeed, if Christus be not one with him I know not, nor am troubled much to know. Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew, As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised, Hath access to a secret shut from us? Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king, In stooping to inquire of such an one, As if his answer could impose at all! He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write. Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; And (as I gathered from a bystander) Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. NOTES Form: unrhyming 1. The motto is from St. Paul's speech to the philosophers of Athens, Acts. 17: 28. Cleon and King Protus are both imaginary characters. sprinkled isles: the Sporades, near Crete. 4. tyranny: kingdom. In the Greek sense, tyrant simply means absolute ruler, and implies no misgovernment or oppressions. 53. P\;cile: the Portico in Athens. 140. Terpander: founder of the first Greek School of music (late seventh century B.C.). 141. Phidias: famous Greek sculptor who supervised the construction of the Parthenon, and made the great statue of Pallas Athene for it. Died 432 B.C. "His friend" was Pericles, ruler of Athens from 460-429 B.C. 305. Aeschylus: the earliest of the great writers of Greek tragedy (525-456 B.C.). ~ Robert Browning, Cleon ,

1110:The Emigrants: Book I Scene, on the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of Brighthelmstone in Sussex. Time, a Morning in November, 1792. Slow in the Wintry Morn, the struggling light Throws a faint gleam upon the troubled waves; Their foaming tops, as they approach the shore And the broad surf that never ceasing breaks On the innumerous pebbles, catch the beams Of the pale Sun, that with reluctance gives To this cold northern Isle, its shorten'd day. Alas! how few the morning wakes to joy! How many murmur at oblivious night For leaving them so soon; for bearing thus Their fancied bliss (the only bliss they taste!) , On her black wings away! - Changing the dreams That sooth'd their sorrows, for calamities (And every day brings its own sad proportion) For doubts, diseases, abject dread of Death, And faithless friends, and fame and fortune lost; Fancied or real wants; and wounded pride, That views the day star, but to curse his beams. Yet He, whose Spirit into being call'd This wond'rous World of Waters; He who bids The wild wind lift them till they dash the clouds, And speaks to them in thunder; or whose breath, Low murmuring, o'er the gently heaving tides, When the fair Moon, in summer night serene, Irradiates with long trembling lines of light Their undulating surface; that great Power, Who, governing the Planets, also knows If but a Sea-Mew falls, whose nest is hid In these incumbent cliffs; He surely means To us, his reasoning Creatures, whom He bids Acknowledge and revere his awful hand, Nothing but good: Yet Man, misguided Man, Mars the fair work that he was bid enjoy, And makes himself the evil he deplores. How often, when my weary soul recoils 154 From proud oppression, and from legal crimes (For such are in this Land, where the vain boast Of equal Law is mockery, while the cost Of seeking for redress is sure to plunge Th' already injur'd to more certain ruin And the wretch starves, before his Counsel pleads) How often do I half abjure Society, And sigh for some lone Cottage, deep embower'd In the green woods, that these steep chalky Hills Guard from the strong South West; where round their base The Beach wide flourishes, and the light Ash With slender leaf half hides the thymy turf! There do I wish to hide me; well content If on the short grass, strewn with fairy flowers, I might repose thus shelter'd; or when Eve In Orient crimson lingers in the west, Gain the high mound, and mark these waves remote (Lucid tho' distant) , blushing with the rays Of the far-flaming Orb, that sinks beneath them; For I have thought, that I should then behold The beauteous works of God, unspoil'd by Man And less affected then, by human woes I witness'd not; might better learn to bear Those that injustice, and duplicity And faithlessness and folly, fix on me: For never yet could I derive relief, When my swol'n heart was bursting with its sorrows, From the sad thought, that others like myself Live but to swell affliction's countless tribes! - Tranquil seclusion I have vainly sought; Peace, who delights solitary shade, No more will spread for me her downy wings, But, like the fabled Danaïds- or the wretch, Who ceaseless, up the steep acclivity, Was doom'd to heave the still rebounding rock, Onward I labour; as the baffled wave, Which yon rough beach repulses, that returns With the next breath of wind, to fail again.Ah! Mourner- cease these wailings: cease and learn, That not the Cot sequester'd, where the briar And wood-bine wild, embrace the mossy thatch, (Scarce seen amid the forest gloom obscure!) 155 Or more substantial farm, well fenced and warm, Where the full barn, and cattle fodder'd round Speak rustic plenty; nor the statelier dome By dark firs shaded, or the aspiring pine, Close by the village Church (with care conceal'd By verdant foliage, lest the poor man's grave Should mar the smiling prospect of his Lord) , Where offices well rang'd, or dove-cote stock'd, Declare manorial residence; not these Or any of the buildings, new and trim With windows circling towards the restless Sea, Which ranged in rows, now terminate my walk, Can shut out for an hour the spectre Care, That from the dawn of reason, follows still Unhappy Mortals, 'till the friendly grave (Our sole secure asylum) 'ends the chace 1.' Behold, in witness of this mournful truth, A group approach me, whose dejected looks, Sad Heralds of distress! proclaim them Men Banish'd for ever and for conscience sake From their distracted Country, whence the name Of Freedom misapplied, and much abus'd By lawless Anarchy, has driven them far To wander; with the prejudice they learn'd From Bigotry (the Tut'ress of the blind) , Thro' the wide World unshelter'd; their sole hope, That German spoilers, thro' that pleasant land May carry wide the desolating scourge Of War and Vengeance; yet unhappy Men, Whate'er your errors, I lament your fate: And, as disconsolate and sad ye hang Upon the barrier of the rock, and seem To murmur your despondence, waiting long Some fortunate reverse that never comes; Methinks in each expressive face, I see Discriminated anguish; there droops one, Who in a moping cloister long consum'd This life inactive, to obtain a better, And thought that meagre abstinence, to wake From his hard pallet with the midnight bell, To live on eleemosynary bread, And to renounce God's works, would please that God. 156 And now the poor pale wretch receives, amaz'd, The pity, strangers give to his distress, Because these Strangers are, by his dark creed, Condemn'd as Heretics- and with sick heart Regrets 2 his pious prison, and his beads.Another, of more haughty port, declines The aid he needs not; while in mute despair His high indignant thoughts go back to France, Dwelling on all he lost- the Gothic dome, That vied with splendid palaces 3; the beds Of silk and down, the silver chalices, Vestments with gold enwrought for blazing altars; Where, amid clouds of incense, he held forth To kneeling crowds the imaginary bones Of Saints suppos'd, in pearl and gold enchas'd, And still with more than living Monarchs' pomp Surrounded; was believ'd by mumbling bigots To hold the keys of Heaven, and to admit Whom he thought good to share it- Now alas! He, to whose daring soul and high ambition The World seem'd circumscrib'd; who, wont to dream, Of Fleuri, Richelieu, Alberoni, men Who trod on Empire, and whose politics Were not beyond the grasp of his vast mind, Is, in a Land once hostile, still prophan'd By disbelief, and rites un-orthodox, The object of compassion- At his side, Lighter of heart than these, but heavier far Than he was wont, another victim comes, An Abbé- who with less contracted brow Still smiles and flatters, and still talks of Hope; Which, sanguine as he is, he does not feel, And so he cheats the sad and weighty pressure Of evils present; - - Still, as Men misled By early prejudice (so hard to break) , I mourn your sorrows; for I too have known Involuntary exile; and while yet England had charms for me, have felt how sad It is to look across the dim cold sea, That melancholy rolls its refluent tides Between us and the dear regretted land We call our own- as now ye pensive wait 157 On this bleak morning, gazing on the waves That seem to leave your shore; from whence the wind Is loaded to your ears, with the deep groans Of martyr'd Saints and suffering Royalty, While to your eyes the avenging power of Heaven Appears in aweful anger to prepare The storm of vengeance, fraught with plagues and death. Even he of milder heart, who was indeed The simple shepherd in a rustic scene, And, 'mid the vine-clad hills of Languedoc, Taught to the bare-foot peasant, whose hard hands Produc'd 4 the nectar he could seldom taste, Submission to the Lord for whom he toil'd; He, or his brethren, who to Neustria's sons Enforc'd religious patience, when, at times, On their indignant hearts Power's iron hand Too strongly struck; eliciting some sparks Of the bold spirit of their native North; Even these Parochial Priests, these humbled men; Whose lowly undistinguish'd cottages Witness'd a life of purest piety, While the meek tenants were, perhaps, unknown Each to the haughty Lord of his domain, Who mark'd them not; the Noble scorning still The poor and pious Priest, as with slow pace He glided thro' the dim arch'd avenue Which to the Castle led; hoping to cheer The last sad hour of some laborious life That hasten'd to its close- even such a Man Becomes an exile; staying not to try By temperate zeal to check his madd'ning flock, Who, at the novel sound of Liberty (Ah! most intoxicating sound to slaves!) , Start into licence- Lo! dejected now, The wandering Pastor mourns, with bleeding heart, His erring people, weeps and prays for them, And trembles for the account that he must give To Heaven for souls entrusted to his care.Where the cliff, hollow'd by the wintry storm, Affords a seat with matted sea-weed strewn, A softer form reclines; around her run, On the rough shingles, or the chalky bourn, 158 Her gay unconscious children, soon amus'd; Who pick the fretted stone, or glossy shell, Or crimson plant marine: or they contrive The fairy vessel, with its ribband sail And gilded paper pennant: in the pool, Left by the salt wave on the yielding sands, They launch the mimic navy- Happy age! Unmindful of the miseries of Man! Alas! too long a victim to distress, Their Mother, lost in melancholy thought, Lull'd for a moment by the murmurs low Of sullen billows, wearied by the task Of having here, with swol'n and aching eyes Fix'd on the grey horizon, since the dawn Solicitously watch'd the weekly sail From her dear native land, now yields awhile To kind forgetfulness, while Fancy brings, In waking dreams, that native land again! Versailles appears- its painted galleries, And rooms of regal splendour, rich with gold, Where, by long mirrors multiply'd, the crowd Paid willing homage- and, united there, Beauty gave charms to empire- Ah! too soon From the gay visionary pageant rous'd, See the sad mourner start! - and, drooping, look With tearful eyes and heaving bosom round On drear reality- where dark'ning waves, Urg'd by the rising wind, unheeded foam Near her cold rugged seat:- To call her thence A fellow-sufferer comes: dejection deep Checks, but conceals not quite, the martial air, And that high consciousness of noble blood, Which he has learn'd from infancy to think Exalts him o'er the race of common men: Nurs'd in the velvet lap of luxury, And fed by adulation- could he learn, That worth alone is true Nobility? And that the peasant who, 'amid 5 the sons 'Of Reason, Valour, Liberty, and Virtue, 'Displays distinguish'd merit, is a Noble 'Of Nature's own creation! '- If even here, If in this land of highly vaunted Freedom, 159 Even Britons controvert the unwelcome truth, Can it be relish'd by the sons of France? Men, who derive their boasted ancestry From the fierce leaders of religious wars, The first in Chivalry's emblazon'd page; Who reckon Gueslin, Bayard, or De Foix, Among their brave Progenitors? Their eyes, Accustom'd to regard the splendid trophies Of Heraldry (that with fantastic hand Mingles, like images in feverish dreams, 'Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire,' With painted puns, and visionary shapes ;) , See not the simple dignity of Virtue, But hold all base, whom honours such as these Exalt not from the crowd 6 - As one, who long Has dwelt amid the artificial scenes Of populous City, deems that splendid shows, The Theatre, and pageant pomp of Courts, Are only worth regard; forgets all taste For Nature's genuine beauty; in the lapse Of gushing waters hears no soothing sound, Nor listens with delight to sighing winds, That, on their fragrant pinions, waft the notes Of birds rejoicing in the trangled copse; Nor gazes pleas'd on Ocean's silver breast, While lightly o'er it sails the summer clouds Reflected in the wave, that, hardly heard, Flows on the yellow sands: so to his mind, That long has liv'd where Despotism hides His features harsh, beneath the diadem Of worldly grandeur, abject Slavery seems, If by that power impos'd, slavery no more: For luxury wreathes with silk the iron bonds, And hides the ugly rivets with her flowers, Till the degenerate triflers, while they love The glitter of the chains, forget their weight. But more the Men, whose ill acquir'd wealth Was wrung from plunder'd myriads, by the means Too often legaliz'd by power abus'd, Feel all the horrors of the fatal change, When their ephemeral greatness, marr'd at once (As a vain toy that Fortune's childish hand 160 Equally joy'd to fashion or to crush) , Leaves them expos'd to universal scorn For having nothing else; not even the claim To honour, which respect for Heroes past Allows to ancient titles; Men, like these, Sink even beneath the level, whence base arts Alone had rais'd them; - unlamented sink, And know that they deserve the woes they feel. Poor wand'ring wretches! whosoe'er ye are, That hopeless, houseless, friendless, travel wide O'er these bleak russet downs; where, dimly seen, The solitary Shepherd shiv'ring tends His dun discolour'd flock (Shepherd, unlike Him, whom in song the Poet's fancy crowns With garlands, and his crook with vi'lets binds): Poor vagrant wretches! outcasts of the world! Whom no abode receives, no parish owns; Roving, like Nature's commoners, the land That boasts such general plenty: if the sight Of wide-extended misery softens yours Awhile, suspend your murmurs! - here behold The strange vicissitudes of fate- while thus The exil'd Nobles, from their country driven, Whose richest luxuries were their's, must feel More poignant anguish, than the lowest poor, Who, born to indigence, have learn'd to brave Rigid Adversity's depressing breath! Ah! rather Fortune's worthless favourites! Who feed on England's vitals- Pensioners Of base corruption, who, in quick ascent To opulence unmerited, become Giddy with pride, and as ye rise, forgetting The dust ye lately left, with scorn look down On those beneath ye (tho' your equals once In fortune, and in worth superior still, They view the eminence, on which ye stand, With wonder, not with envy; for they know The means, by which ye reach'd it, have been such As, in all honest eyes, degrade ye far Beneath the poor dependent, whose sad heart Reluctant pleads for what your pride denies): Ye venal, worthless hirelings of a Court! 161 Ye pamper'd Parasites! whom Britons pay For forging fetters for them; rather here Study a lesson that concerns ye much; And, trembling, learn, that if oppress'd too long, The raging multitude, to madness stung, Will turn on their oppressors; and, no more By sounding titles and parading forms Bound like tame victims, will redress themselves! Then swept away by the resistless torrent, Not only all your pomp may disappear, But, in the tempest lost, fair Order sink Her decent head, and lawless Anarchy O'erturn celestial Freedom's radiant throne; As now in Gallia; where Confusion, born Of party rage and selfish love of rule, Sully the noblest cause that ever warm'd The heart of Patriot Virtue 8 - There arise The infernal passions; Vengeance, seeking blood, And Avarice; and Envy's harpy fangs Pollute the immortal shrine of Liberty, Dismay her votaries, and disgrace her name. Respect is due to principle; and they, Who suffer for their conscience, have a claim, Whate'er that principle may be, to praise. These ill-starr'd Exiles then, who, bound by ties, To them the bonds of honour; who resign'd Their country to preserve them, and now seek In England an asylum- well deserve To find that (every prejudice forgot, Which pride and ignorance teaches) , we for them Feel as our brethren; and that English hearts, Of just compassion ever own the sway, As truly as our element, the deep, Obeys the mild dominion of the MoonThis they have found; and may they find it still! Thus may'st thou, Britain, triumph! - May thy foes, By Reason's gen'rous potency subdued, Learn, that the God thou worshippest, delights In acts of pure humanity! - May thine Be still such bloodless laurels! nobler far Than those acquir'd at Cressy or Poictiers, Or of more recent growth, those well bestow'd 162 On him who stood on Calpe's blazing height Amid the thunder of a warring world, Illustrious rather from the crowds he sav'd From flood and fire, than from the ranks who fell Beneath his valour! - Actions such as these, Like incense rising to the Throne of Heaven, Far better justify the pride, that swells In British bosoms, than the deafening roar Of Victory from a thousand brazen throats, That tell with what success wide-wasting War Has by our brave Compatriots thinned the world. ~ Charlotte Smith,

1111: XXI - WALPURGIS-NIGHT THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. District of Schierke and Elend. FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES MEPHISTOPHELES DOST thou not wish a broomstick-steed's assistance? The sturdiest he-goat I would gladly see: The way we take, our goal is yet some distance. FAUST So long as in my legs I feel the fresh existence. This knotted staff suffices me. What need to shorten so the way? Along this labyrinth of vales to wander, Then climb the rocky ramparts yonder, Wherefrom the fountain flings eternal spray, Is such delight, my steps would fain delay. The spring-time stirs within the fragrant birches, And even the fir-tree feels it now: Should then our limbs escape its gentle searches? MEPHISTOPHELES I notice no such thing, I vow! 'Tis winter still within my body: Upon my path I wish for frost and snow. How sadly rises, incomplete and ruddy, The moon's lone disk, with its belated glow, And lights so dimly, that, as one advances, At every step one strikes a rock or tree! Let us, then, use a Jack-o'-lantern's glances: I see one yonder, burning merrily. Ho, there! my friend! I'll levy thine attendance: Why waste so vainly thy resplendence? Be kind enough to light us up the steep! WILL-O'-THE-WISP My reverence, I hope, will me enable To curb my temperament unstable; For zigzag courses we are wont to keep. MEPHISTOPHELES Indeed? he'd like mankind to imitate! Now, in the Devil's name, go straight, Or I'll blow out his being's flickering spark! WILL-O'-THE-WISP You are the master of the house, I mark, And I shall try to serve you nicely. But then, reflect: the mountain's magic-mad to-day, And if a will-o'-the-wisp must guide you on the way, You mustn't take things too precisely. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, WILL-O'-THE-WISP (in alternating song) We, it seems, have entered newly In the sphere of dreams enchanted. Do thy bidding, guide us truly, That our feet be forwards planted In the vast, the desert spaces! See them swiftly changing places, Trees on trees beside us trooping, And the crags above us stooping, And the rocky snouts, outgrowing, Hear them snoring, hear them blowing! O'er the stones, the grasses, flowing Stream and streamlet seek the hollow. Hear I noises? songs that follow? Hear I tender love-petitions? Voices of those heavenly visions? Sounds of hope, of love undying! And the echoes, like traditions Of old days, come faint and hollow. Hoo-hoo! Shoo-hoo! Nearer hover Jay and screech-owl, and the plover, Are they all awake and crying? Is't the salamander pushes, Bloated-bellied, through the bushes? And the roots, like serpents twisted, Through the sand and boulders toiling, Fright us, weirdest links uncoiling To entrap us, unresisted: Living knots and gnarls uncanny Feel with polypus-antennae For the wanderer. Mice are flying, Thousand-colored, herd-wise hieing Through the moss and through the heather! And the fire-flies wink and darkle, Crowded swarms that soar and sparkle, And in wildering escort gather! Tell me, if we still are standing, Or if further we're ascending? All is turning, whirling, blending, Trees and rocks with grinning faces, Wandering lights that spin in mazes, Still increasing and expanding! MEPHISTOPHELES Grasp my skirt with heart undaunted! Here a middle-peak is planted, Whence one seeth, with amaze, Mammon in the mountain blaze. FAUST How strangely glimmers through the hollows A dreary light, like that of dawn! Its exhalation tracks and follows The deepest gorges, faint and wan. Here steam, there rolling vapor sweepeth; Here burns the glow through film and haze: Now like a tender thread it creepeth, Now like a fountain leaps and plays. Here winds away, and in a hundred Divided veins the valley braids: There, in a corner pressed and sundered, Itself detaches, spreads and fades. Here gush the sparkles incandescent Like scattered showers of golden sand; But, see! in all their height, at present, The rocky ramparts blazing stand. Under the old ribs of the rock retreating Under the old ribs of the rock retreating MEPHISTOPHELES Has not Sir Mammon grandly lighted His palace for this festal night? 'Tis lucky thou hast seen the sight; The boisterous guests approach that were invited. FAUST How raves the tempest through the air! With what fierce blows upon my neck 'tis beating! MEPHISTOPHELES Under the old ribs of the rock retreating, Hold fast, lest thou be hurled down the abysses there! The night with the mist is black; Hark! how the forests grind and crack! Frightened, the owlets are scattered: Hearken! the pillars are shattered. The evergreen palaces shaking! Boughs are groaning and breaking, The tree-trunks terribly thunder, The roots are twisting asunder! In frightfully intricate crashing Each on the other is dashing, And over the wreck-strewn gorges The tempest whistles and surges! Hear'st thou voices higher ringing? Far away, or nearer singing? Yes, the mountain's side along, Sweeps an infuriate glamouring song! WITCHES (in chorus) The witches ride to the Brocken's top, The stubble is yellow, and green the crop. There gathers the crowd for carnival: Sir Urian sits over all. And so they go over stone and stock; The witch she-s, and-s the buck. A VOICE Alone, old Baubo's coming now; She rides upon a farrow-sow. CHORUS Then honor to whom the honor is due! Dame Baubo first, to lead the crew! A tough old sow and the mother thereon, Then follow the witches, every one. A VOICE Which way com'st thou hither? VOICE O'er the Ilsen-stone. I peeped at the owl in her nest alone: How she stared and glared! VOICE Betake thee to Hell! Why so fast and so fell? VOICE She has scored and has flayed me: See the wounds she has made me! WITCHES (chorus) The way is wide, the way is long: See, what a wild and crazy throng! The broom it scratches, the fork it thrusts, The child is stifled, the mother bursts. WIZARDS (semichorus) As doth the snail in shell, we crawl: Before us go the women all. When towards the Devil's House we tread, Woman's a thousand steps ahead. OTHER SEMICHORUS We do not measure with such care: Woman in thousand steps is theft. But howsoe'er she hasten may, Man in one leap has cleared the way. VOICE (from above) Come on, come on, from Rocky Lake! VOICE (from below) Aloft we'd fain ourselves betake. We've washed, and are bright as ever you will, Yet we're eternally sterile still. BOTH CHORUSES The wind is hushed, the star shoots by. The dreary moon forsakes the sky; The magic notes, like spark on spark, Drizzle, whistling through the dark. VOICE (from below) Halt, there! Ho, there! VOICE (from above) Who calls from the rocky cleft below there? VOICE (below) Take me, too! take me, too! I'm climbing now three hundred years, And yet the summit cannot see: Among my equals I would be. BOTH CHORUSES Bears the broom and bears the stock, Bears the fork and bears the buck: Who cannot raise himself to-night Is evermore a ruined wight. HALF-WITCH (below) So long I stumble, ill bestead, And the others are now so far ahead! At home I've neither rest nor cheer, And yet I cannot gain them here. CHORUS OF WITCHES To cheer the witch will salve avail; A rag will answer for a sail; Each trough a goodly ship supplies; He ne'er will fly, who now not flies. BOTH CHORUSES When round the summit whirls our flight, Then lower, and on the ground alight; And far and wide the heather press With witchhood's swarms of wantonness! (They settle down.) MEPHISTOPHELES They crowd and push, they roar and clatter! They whirl and whistle, pull and chatter! They shine, and spirt, and stink, and burn! The true witch-element we learn. Keep close! or we are parted, in our turn, Where art thou? FAUST (in the distance) Here! MEPHISTOPHELES What! whirled so far astray? Then house-right I must use, and clear the way. Make room! Squire Voland comes! Room, gentle rabble, room! Here, Doctor, hold to me: in one jump we'll resume An easier space, and from the crowd be free: It's too much, even for the like of me. Yonder, with special light, there's something shining clearer Within those bushes; I've a mind to see. Come on! we'll slip a little nearer. FAUST Spirit of Contradiction! On! I'll follow straight. 'Tis planned most wisely, if I judge aright: We climb the Brocken's top in the Walpurgis-Night, That arbitrarily, here, ourselves we isolate. MEPHISTOPHELES But see, what motley flames among the heather! There is a lively club together: In smaller circles one is not alone. FAUST Better the summit, I must own: There fire and whirling smoke I see. They seek the Evil One in wild confusion: Many enigmas there might find solution. MEPHISTOPHELES But there enigmas also knotted be. Leave to the multitude their riot! Here will we house ourselves in quiet. It is an old, transmitted trade, That in the greater world the little worlds are made. I see stark-nude young witches congregate, And old ones, veiled and hidden shrewdly: On my account be kind, nor treat them rudely! The trouble's small, the fun is great. I hear the noise of instruments attuning, Vile din! yet one must learn to bear the crooning. Come, come along! It must be, I declare! I'll go ahead and introduce thee there, Thine obligation newly earning. That is no little space: what say'st thou, friend? Look yonder! thou canst scarcely see the end: A hundred fires along the ranks are burning. They dance, they chat, they cook, they drink, they court: Now where, just tell me, is there better sport? FAUST Wilt thou, to introduce us to the revel, Assume the part of wizard or of devil? MEPHISTOPHELES I'm mostly used, 'tis true, to go incognito, But on a gala-day one may his orders show. The Garter does not deck my suit, But honored and at home is here the cloven foot. Perceiv'st thou yonder snail? It cometh, slow and steady; So delicately its feelers pry, That it hath scented me already: I cannot here disguise me, if I try. But come! we'll go from this fire to a newer: I am the go-between, and thou the wooer. (To some, who are sitting around dying embers:) Old gentlemen, why at the outskirts? Enter! I'd praise you if I found you snugly in the centre, With youth and revel round you like a zone: You each, at home, are quite enough alone. GENERAL Say, who would put his trust in nations, Howe'er for them one may have worked and planned? For with the people, as with women, Youth always has the upper hand. MINISTER They're now too far from what is just and sage. I praise the old ones, not unduly: When we were all-in-all, then, truly, Then was the real golden age. PARVENU We also were not stupid, either, And what we should not, often did; But now all things have from their bases slid, Just as we meant to hold them fast together. AUTHOR Who, now, a work of moderate sense will read? Such works are held as antiquate and mossy; And as regards the younger folk, indeed, They never yet have been so pert and saucy. MEPHISTOPHELES (who all at once appears very old) I feel that men are ripe for Judgment-Day, Now for the last time I've the witches'-hill ascended: Since to the lees my cask is drained away, The world's, as well, must soon be ended. HUCKSTER-WITCH Ye gentlemen, don't pass me thus! Let not the chance neglected be! Behold my wares attentively: The stock is rare and various. And yet, there's nothing I've collected No shop, on earth, like this you'll find! Which has not, once, sore hurt inflicted Upon the world, and on mankind. No dagger's here, that set not blood to flowing; No cup, that hath not once, within a healthy frame Poured speedy death, in poison glowing: No gems, that have not brought a maid to shame; No sword, but severed ties for the unwary, Or from behind struck down the adversary. MEPHISTOPHELES Gossip! the times thou badly comprehendest: What's done has happedwhat haps, is done! 'Twere better if for novelties thou sendest: By such alone can we be won. FAUST Let me not lose myself in all this pother! This is a fair, as never was another! MEPHISTOPHELES The whirlpool swirls to get above: Thou'rt shoved thyself, imagining to shove. FAUST But who is that? MEPHISTOPHELES Note her especially, Tis Lilith. FAUST Who? MEPHISTOPHELES Adam's first wife is she. Beware the lure within her lovely tresses, The splendid sole adornment of her hair! When she succeeds therewith a youth to snare, Not soon again she frees him from her jesses. FAUST Those two, the old one with the young one sitting, They've danced already more than fitting. MEPHISTOPHELES No rest to-night for young or old! They start another dance: come now, let us take hold! FAUST (dancing with the young witch) A lovely dream once came to me; I then beheld an apple-tree, And there two fairest apples shone: They lured me so, I climbed thereon. THE FAIR ONE Apples have been desired by you, Since first in Paradise they grew; And I am moved with joy, to know That such within my garden grow. MEPHISTOPHELES (dancing with the old one) A dissolute dream once came to me: Therein I saw a cloven tree, Which had a; Yet,as 'twas, I fancied it. THE OLD ONE I offer here my best salute Unto the knight with cloven foot! Let him aprepare, If himdoes not scare. PROKTOPHANTASMIST Accursd folk! How dare you venture thus? Had you not, long since, demonstration That ghosts can't stand on ordinary foundation? And now you even dance, like one of us! THE FAIR ONE (dancing) Why does he come, then, to our ball? FAUST (dancing) O, everywhere on him you fall! When others dance, he weighs the matter: If he can't every step bechatter, Then 'tis the same as were the step not made; But if you forwards go, his ire is most displayed. If you would whirl in regular gyration As he does in his dull old mill, He'd show, at any rate, good-will, Especially if you heard and heeded his hortation. PROKTOPHANTASMIST You still are here? Nay, 'tis a thing unheard! Vanish, at once! We've said the enlightening word. The pack of devils by no rules is daunted: We are so wise, and yet is Tegel haunted. To clear the folly out, how have I swept and stirred! Twill ne'er be clean: why, 'tis a thing unheard! THE FAIR ONE Then cease to bore us at our ball! PROKTOPHANTASMIST I tell you, spirits, to your face, I give to spirit-despotism no place; My spirit cannot practise it at all. (The dance continues) Naught will succeed, I see, amid such revels; Yet something from a tour I always save, And hope, before my last step to the grave, To overcome the poets and the devils. MEPHISTOPHELES He now will seat him in the nearest puddle; The solace this, whereof he's most assured: And when upon his rump the leeches hang and fuddle, He'll be of spirits and of Spirit cured. (To FAUST, who has left the dance:) Wherefore forsakest thou the lovely maiden, That in the dance so sweetly sang? FAUST Ah! in the midst of it there sprang A red mouse from her mouthsufficient reason. MEPHISTOPHELES That's nothing! One must not so squeamish be; So the mouse was not gray, enough for thee. Who'd think of that in love's selected season? FAUST Then saw I. MEPHISTOPHELES What? FAUST Mephisto, seest thou there, Alone and far, a girl most pale and fair? She falters on, her way scarce knowing, As if with fettered feet that stay her going. I must confess, it seems to me As if my kindly Margaret were she. MEPHISTOPHELES Let the thing be! All thence have evil drawn: It is a magic shape, a lifeless eidolon. Such to encounter is not good: Their blank, set stare benumbs the human blood, And one is almost turned to stone. Medusa's tale to thee is known. FAUST Forsooth, the eyes they are of one whom, dying, No hand with loving pressure closed; That is the breast whereon I once was lying, The body sweet, beside which I reposed! MEPHISTOPHELES Tis magic all, thou fool, seduced so easily! Unto each man his love she seems to be. FAUST The woe, the rapture, so ensnare me, That from her gaze I cannot tear me! And, strange! around her fairest throat A single scarlet band is gleaming, No broader than a knife-blade seeming! MEPHISTOPHELES Quite right! The mark I also note. Her head beneath her arm she'll sometimes carry; Twas Perseus lopped it, her old adversary. Thou crav'st the same illusion still! Come, let us mount this little hill; The Prater shows no livelier stir, And, if they've not bewitched my sense, I verily see a theatre. What's going on? SERVIBILIS 'Twill shortly recommence: A new performance'tis the last of seven. To give that number is the custom here: 'Twas by a Dilettante written, And Dilettanti in the parts appear. That now I vanish, pardon, I entreat you! As Dilettante I the curtain raise. MEPHISTOPHELES When I upon the Blocksberg meet you, I find it good: for that's your proper place. Faust ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, WALPURGIS-NIGHT ,

1112:The Author Accursed the man, whom Fate ordains, in spite, And cruel parents teach, to read and write! What need of letters? wherefore should we spell? Why write our names? A mark will do as well. Much are the precious hours of youth misspent, In climbing Learning's rugged, steep ascent; When to the top the bold adventurer's got, He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren spot; Whilst in the vale of Ignorance below, Folly and Vice to rank luxuriance grow; Honours and wealth pour in on every side, And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide. O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste, To cramp wild genius in the chains of taste, To bear the slavish drudgery of schools, And tamely stoop to every pedant's rules; For seven long years debarr'd of liberal ease, To plod in college trammels to degrees; Beneath the weight of solemn toys to groan, Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown; To praise each senior blockhead's threadbare tale, And laugh till reason blush, and spirits fail; Manhood with vile submission to disgrace, And cap the fool, whose merit is his place, Vice-Chancellors, whose knowledge is but small, And Chancellors, who nothing know at all: Ill-brook'd the generous spirit in those days When learning was the certain road to praise, When nobles, with a love of science bless'd, Approved in others what themselves possess'd. But now, when Dulness rears aloft her throne, When lordly vassals her wide empire own; When Wit, seduced by Envy, starts aside, And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride; What, now, should tempt us, by false hopes misled, Learning's unfashionable paths to tread; To bear those labours which our fathers bore, That crown withheld, which they in triumph wore? When with much pains this boasted learning's got, 98 'Tis an affront to those who have it not: In some it causes hate, in others fear, Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to sneer. With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool Forgets the little which he learn'd at school: The elder brother, to vast fortunes born, Looks on all science with an eye of scorn; Dependent brethren the same features wear, And younger sons are stupid as the heir. In senates, at the bar, in church and state, Genius is vile, and learning out of date. Is this--oh, death to think!--is this the land Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand? Where heroes, parent-like, the poet view'd, By whom they saw their glorious deeds renew'd? Where poets, true to honour, tuned their lays, And by their patrons sanctified their praise? Is this the land, where, on our Spenser's tongue, Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung? Where Jonson rigid Gravity beguiled, Whilst Reason through her critic fences smiled? Where Nature listening stood whilst Shakspeare play'd, And wonder'd at the work herself had made? Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large? Where, finding in our laws a sure defence, She mock'd at all restraints, but those of sense? Where, Health and Honour trooping by her side, She spread her sacred empire far and wide; Pointed the way, Affliction to beguile, And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile; Bade those, who dare obey the generous call, Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for all? Is this the land, where, in some tyrant's reign, When a weak, wicked, ministerial train, The tools of power, the slaves of interest, plann'd Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd Those wretches, who, ordain'd in Freedom's cause, Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws; When Power was taught by Meanness where to go, Nor dared to love the virtue of a foe; When, like a leprous plague, from the foul head 99 To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread; Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd; And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain, Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain? Is this the land, where, in those worst of times, The hardy poet raised his honest rhymes To dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speak In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek; Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe, And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not law? How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls, Whom Folly guides, and Prejudice controls; Who, one dull drowsy track of business trod, Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God; Who, breathing by one musty set of rules, Dote from their birth, and are by system fools; Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth, Lies of the day prefer to gospel truth; Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews, And lay out all their stock of faith in news; How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like these, Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please, Rail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime, And hold not truth, as truth, if told in rhyme! How do I laugh, when Publius, hoary grown In zeal for Scotland's welfare, and his own, By slow degrees, and course of office, drawn In mood and figure at the helm to yawn, Too mean (the worst of curses Heaven can send) To have a foe, too proud to have a friend; Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold, Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old, Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse Subjects more equal to her weakness choose; Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains, Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains; Bids her, indulging the poetic whim In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, Along the church-way path complain with Gray, Or dance with Mason on the first of May! 'All sacred is the name and power of kings; 100 All states and statesmen are those mighty things Which, howsoe'er they out of course may roll, Were never made for poets to control.' Peace, peace, thou dotard! nor thus vilely deem Of sacred numbers, and their power blaspheme. I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round, In earth, in heaven, no subject can be found: (Our God alone except) above whose height The poet cannot rise, and hold his state. The blessed saints above in numbers speak The praise of God, though there all praise is weak; In numbers here below the bard shall teach Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach; Shall tear his labouring lungs, strain his hoarse throat, And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note, Should an afflicted country, awed by men Of slavish principles, demand his pen. This is a great, a glorious point of view, Fit for an English poet to pursue; Undaunted to pursue, though, in return, His writings by the common hangman burn How do I laugh, when men, by fortune placed Above their betters, and by rank disgraced, Who found their pride on titles which they stain, And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain; Who would a bill of privilege prefer, And treat a poet like a creditor; The generous ardour of the Muse condemn, And curse the storm they know must break on them! 'What! shall a reptile bard, a wretch unknown, Without one badge of merit but his own, Great nobles lash, and lords, like common men, Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?' What's in this name of lord, that I should fear To bring their vices to the public ear? Flows not the honest blood of humble swains Quick as the tide which swells a monarch's veins? Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow, Cannot make virtues in succession flow. Wouldst thou, proud man! be safely placed above The censure of the Muse? Deserve her love: Act as thy birth demands, as nobles ought; 101 Look back, and, by thy worthy father taught, Who earn'd those honours thou wert born to wear, Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir. But if, regardless of the road to fame, You start aside, and tread the paths of shame; If such thy life, that should thy sire arise, The sight of such a son would blast his eyes, Would make him curse the hour which gave thee birth, Would drive him shuddering from the face of earth, Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead In endless night to hide his reverend head; If such thy life, though kings had made thee more Than ever king a scoundrel made before; Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring, Though God in vengeance had made thee a king, Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight, The Muse should drag thee, trembling, to the light, Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare To the keen question of the searching air. Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave, Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave, Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art Striving to hide the feelings of his heart! How do I laugh, when, with affected air, (Scarce able through despite to keep his chair, Whilst on his trembling lip pale Anger speaks, And the chafed blood flies mounting to his cheeks) He talks of Conscience, which good men secures From all those evil moments Guilt endures, And seems to laugh at those who pay regard To the wild ravings of a frantic bard. 'Satire, whilst envy and ill-humour sway The mind of man, must always make her way; Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught, Is all her malice worth a single thought. The wise have not the will, nor fools the power, To stop her headstrong course; within the hour, Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life. All things her prey, and every man her aim, I can no patent for exemption claim, Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart 102 Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart; Though pointed at myself, be Satire free; To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me.' Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school, And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There, unrebuked, these wild, vain doctrines preach. Lives there a man whom Satire cannot reach? Lives there a man who calmly can stand by, And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye? When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to Truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives. When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot, And e'en by friends thy memory be forgot, Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes, Live in her page, and stink to after-times. Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off pride, And own those passions which thou shalt not hide. Sandwich, who, from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on earth, Who never dared, nor wish'd, behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit, Those actions which he blush'd not to commit. Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame. But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course; Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd With courage, graced the science they profess'd; When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood, The bad to punish, and reward the good; When, to a flame by public virtue wrought, The foes of freedom they to justice brought, And dared expose those slaves who dared support A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Court? Ah! what are poets now? As slavish those Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose. Is there an Author, search the kingdom round, In whom true worth and real spirit's found? The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by Fate 103 To baser chains) vile pensioners of state; Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles proud Which Honour scorns, for slavery roar aloud; Others, half-palsied only, mutes become, And what makes Smollett write, makes Johnson dumb. Why turns yon villain pale? Why bends his eye Inward, abash'd, when Murphy passes by? Dost thou sage Murphy for a blockhead take, Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's sake? No, no, like other worldlings, you will find He shifts his sails and catches every wind. His soul the shock of Interest can't endure: Give him a pension then, and sin secure. With laurell'd wreaths the flatterer's brows adorn: Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn; Bid cowards thrive, put Honesty to flight, Murphy shall prove, or try to prove it right. Try, thou state-juggler, every paltry art; Ransack the inmost closet of my heart; Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make way Into my breast, and flatter to betray. Or, if those tricks are vain; if wholesome doubt Detects the fraud, and points the villain out; Bribe those who daily at my board are fed, And make them take my life who eat my bread. On Authors for defence, for praise depend; Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend: He, he shall ready stand with venal rhymes, To varnish guilt, and consecrate thy crimes; To make Corruption in false colours shine, And damn his own good name, to rescue thine. But, if thy niggard hands their gifts withhold, And Vice no longer rains down showers of gold, Expect no mercy; facts, well-grounded, teach, Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach. What though each man of nice and juster thought, Shunning his steps, decrees, by Honour taught, He ne'er can be a friend, who stoops so low To be the base betrayer of a foe? What though, with thine together link'd, his name Must be with thine transmitted down to shame? To every manly feeling callous grown, 104 Rather than not blast thine, he 'll blast his own. To ope the fountain whence sedition springs, To slander government, and libel kings; With Freedom's name to serve a present hour, Though born and bred to arbitrary power; To talk of William with insidious art, Whilst a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart; And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathsome head, Flattering the living, to abuse the dead, Where is Shebbeare? Oh, let not foul reproach, Travelling thither in a city-coach, The pillory dare to name: the whole intent Of that parade was fame, not punishment; And that old staunch Whig, Beardmore, standing by, Can in full court give that report the lie. With rude unnatural jargon to support, Half-Scotch, half-English, a declining court; To make most glaring contraries unite, And prove beyond dispute that black is white; To make firm Honour tamely league with Shame, Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name; To prove that chains and freedom are but one, That to be saved must mean to be undone, Is there not Guthrie? Who, like him, can call All opposites to proof, and conquer all? He calls forth living waters from the rock; He calls forth children from the barren stock; He, far beyond the springs of Nature led, Makes women bring forth after they are dead; He, on a curious, new, and happy plan, In wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man; And to complete the whole, most strange, but true, By some rare magic, makes them fruitful too; Whilst from their loins, in the due course of years, Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's 'English Peers.' Dost thou contrive some blacker deed of shame, Something which Nature shudders but to name, Something which makes the soul of man retreat, And the life-blood run backward to her seat? Dost thou contrive, for some base private end, Some selfish view, to hang a trusting friend; To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath, 105 And promise life, to work him surer death? Grown old in villany, and dead to grace, Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face, Behold, a parson at thy elbow stands, Lowering damnation, and with open hands, Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward, The Atheist chaplain of an Atheist lord! Bred to the church, and for the gown decreed, Ere it was known that I should learn to read; Though that was nothing, for my friends, who knew What mighty Dulness of itself could do, Never design'd me for a working priest, But hoped I should have been a Dean at least: Condemn'd, (like many more, and worthier men, To whom I pledge the service of my pen) Condemn'd (whilst proud and pamper'd sons of lawn, Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn) In pomp of reverend beggary to appear, To pray, and starve on forty pounds a-year: My friends, who never felt the galling load, Lament that I forsook the packhorse road, Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears, In throwing off that gown which Francis wears. What creature's that, so very pert and prim, So very full of foppery, and whim, So gentle, yet so brisk; so wondrous sweet, So fit to prattle at a lady's feet; Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod, And by his garb appears a man of God? Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show; The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd beau; That's an informer; what avails the name? Suffice it that the wretch from Sodom came. His tongue is deadly--from his presence run, Unless thy rage would wish to be undone. No ties can hold him, no affection bind, And fear alone restrains his coward mind; Free him from that, no monster is so fell, Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in Hell. His silken smiles, his hypocritic air, His meek demeanour, plausible and fair, Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way, 106 And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey. Attend his church--his plan of doctrine view-The preacher is a Christian, dull, but true; But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er, That plan of doctrine's never thought of more; Christ is laid by neglected on the shelf, And the vile priest is gospel to himself. By Cleland tutor'd, and with Blacow bred, (Blacow, whom, by a brave resentment led, Oxford, if Oxford had not sunk in fame, Ere this, had damn'd to everlasting shame) Their steps he follows, and their crimes partakes; To virtue lost, to vice alone he wakes, Most lusciously declaims 'gainst luscious themes, And whilst he rails at blasphemy, blasphemes. Are these the arts which policy supplies? Are these the steps by which grave churchmen rise? Forbid it, Heaven; or, should it turn out so, Let me and mine continue mean and low. Such be their arts whom interest controls; Kidgell and I have free and modest souls: We scorn preferment which is gain'd by sin, And will, though poor without, have peace within. ~ Charles Churchill,

1113:Goblin Market MORNING and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: "Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy: Apples and quinces, Lemons and oranges, Plump unpecked cherriesMelons and raspberries, Bloom-down-cheeked peaches, Swart-headed mulberries, Wild free-born cranberries, Crab-apples, dewberries, Pine-apples, blackberries, Apricots, strawberries-All ripe together In summer weather-Morns that pass by, Fair eves that fly; Come buy, come buy; Our grapes fresh from the vine, Pomegranates full and fine, Dates and sharp bullaces, Rare pears and greengages, Damsons and bilberries, Taste them and try: Currants and gooseberries, Bright-fire-like barberries, Figs to fill your mouth, Citrons from the South, Sweet to tongue and sound to eye, Come buy, come buy." Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bowed her head to hear, Lizzie veiled her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, 168 With tingling cheeks and finger-tips. "Lie close," Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?" "Come buy," call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. "O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men." Lizzie covered up her eyes Covered close lest they should look; Laura reared her glossy head, And whispered like the restless brook: "Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds' weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes." "No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Their evil gifts would harm us." She thrust a dimpled finger In each ear, shut eyes and ran: Curious Laura chose to linger Wondering at each merchant man. One had a cat's face, One whisked a tail, One tramped at a rat's pace, One crawled like a snail, One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry, One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry. Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves Cooing all together: They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather. 169 Laura stretched her gleaming neck Like a rush-imbedded swan, Like a lily from the beck, Like a moonlit poplar branch, Like a vessel at the launch When its last restraint is gone. Backwards up the mossy glen Turned and trooped the goblin men, With their shrill repeated cry, "Come buy, come buy." When they reached where Laura was They stood stock still upon the moss, Leering at each other, Brother with queer brother; Signalling each other, Brother with sly brother. One set his basket down, One reared his plate; One began to weave a crown Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown (Men sell not such in any town); One heaved the golden weight Of dish and fruit to offer her: "Come buy, come buy," was still their cry. Laura stared but did not stir, Longed but had no money: The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste In tones as smooth as honey, The cat-faced purr'd, The rat-paced spoke a word Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard; One parrot-voiced and jolly Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly"; One whistled like a bird. But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste: "Good folk, I have no coin; To take were to purloin: I have no copper in my purse, I have no silver either, 170 And all my gold is on the furze That shakes in windy weather Above the rusty heather." "You have much gold upon your head," They answered altogether: "Buy from us with a golden curl." She clipped a precious golden lock, She dropped a tear more rare than pearl, Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flowed that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She sucked and sucked and sucked the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore, She sucked until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away, But gathered up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turned home alone. Lizzie met her at the gate Full of wise upbraidings: "Dear, you should not stay so late, Twilight is not good for maidens; Should not loiter in the glen In the haunts of goblin men. Do you not remember Jeanie, How she met them in the moonlight, Took their gifts both choice and many, Ate their fruits and wore their flowers Plucked from bowers Where summer ripens at all hours? But ever in the moonlight She pined and pined away; Sought them by night and day, Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray; Then fell with the first snow, While to this day no grass will grow Where she lies low: I planted daisies there a year ago 171 That never blow. You should not loiter so." "Nay hush," said Laura. "Nay hush, my sister: I ate and ate my fill, Yet my mouth waters still; To-morrow night I will Buy more," and kissed her. "Have done with sorrow; I'll bring you plums to-morrow Fresh on their mother twigs, Cherries worth getting; You cannot think what figs My teeth have met in, What melons, icy-cold Piled on a dish of gold Too huge for me to hold, What peaches with a velvet nap, Pellucid grapes without one seed: Odorous indeed must be the mead Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink, With lilies at the brink, And sugar-sweet their sap." Golden head by golden head, Like two pigeons in one nest Folded in each other's wings, They lay down, in their curtained bed: Like two blossoms on one stem, Like two flakes of new-fallen snow, Like two wands of ivory Tipped with gold for awful kings. Moon and stars beamed in at them, Wind sang to them lullaby, Lumbering owls forbore to fly, Not a bat flapped to and fro Round their rest: Cheek to cheek and breast to breast Locked together in one nest. Early in the morning When the first cock crowed his warning, 172 Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, Laura rose with Lizzie: Fetched in honey, milked the cows, Aired and set to rights the house, Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat, Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, Next churned butter, whipped up cream, Fed their poultry, sat and sewed; Talked as modest maidens should Lizzie with an open heart, Laura in an absent dream, One content, one sick in part; One warbling for the mere bright day's delight, One longing for the night. At length slow evening came-They went with pitchers to the reedy brook; Lizzie most placid in her look, Laura most like a leaping flame. They drew the gurgling water from its deep Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags, Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes Those furthest loftiest crags; Come, Laura, not another maiden lags, No wilful squirrel wags, The beasts and birds are fast asleep." But Laura loitered still among the rushes And said the bank was steep. And said the hour was early still, The dew not fallen, the wind not chill: Listening ever, but not catching The customary cry, "Come buy, come buy," With its iterated jingle Of sugar-baited words: Not for all her watching Once discerning even one goblin Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling; Let alone the herds That used to tramp along the glen, In groups or single, 173 Of brisk fruit-merchant men. Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come, I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look: You should not loiter longer at this brook: Come with me home. The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, Each glow-worm winks her spark, Let us get home before the night grows dark; For clouds may gather even Though this is summer weather, Put out the lights and drench us through; Then if we lost our way what should we do?" Laura turned cold as stone To find her sister heard that cry alone, That goblin cry, "Come buy our fruits, come buy." Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit? Must she no more such succous pasture find, Gone deaf and blind? Her tree of life drooped from the root: She said not one word in her heart's sore ache; But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning, Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way; So crept to bed, and lay Silent 'til Lizzie slept; Then sat up in a passionate yearning, And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept As if her heart would break. Day after day, night after night, Laura kept watch in vain, In sullen silence of exceeding pain. She never caught again the goblin cry: "Come buy, come buy," She never spied the goblin men Hawking their fruits along the glen: But when the noon waxed bright Her hair grew thin and gray; She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn To swift decay, and burn 174 Her fire away. One day remembering her kernel-stone She set it by a wall that faced the south; Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root, Watched for a waxing shoot, But there came none; It never saw the sun, It never felt the trickling moisture run: While with sunk eyes and faded mouth She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees False waves in desert drouth With shade of leaf-crowned trees, And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. She no more swept the house, Tended the fowls or cows, Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, Brought water from the brook: But sat down listless in the chimney-nook And would not eat. Tender Lizzie could not bear To watch her sister's cankerous care, Yet not to share. She night and morning Caught the goblins' cry: "Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy." Beside the brook, along the glen She heard the tramp of goblin men, The voice and stir Poor Laura could not hear; Longed to buy fruit to comfort her, But feared to pay too dear. She thought of Jeanie in her grave, Who should have been a bride; But who for joys brides hope to have Fell sick and died In her gay prime, In earliest winter-time, 175 With the first glazing rime, With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time. Till Laura, dwindling, Seemed knocking at Death's door: Then Lizzie weighed no more Better and worse, But put a silver penny in her purse, Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze At twilight, halted by the brook, And for the first time in her life Began to listen and look. Laughed every goblin When they spied her peeping: Came towards her hobbling, Flying, running, leaping, Puffing and blowing, Chuckling, clapping, crowing, Clucking and gobbling, Mopping and mowing, Full of airs and graces, Pulling wry faces, Demure grimaces, Cat-like and rat-like, Ratel and wombat-like, Snail-paced in a hurry, Parrot-voiced and whistler, Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry, Chattering like magpies, Fluttering like pigeons, Gliding like fishes, -Hugged her and kissed her; Squeezed and caressed her; Stretched up their dishes, Panniers and plates: "Look at our apples Russet and dun, Bob at our cherries Bite at our peaches, Citrons and dates, Grapes for the asking, 176 Pears red with basking Out in the sun, Plums on their twigs; Pluck them and suck them, Pomegranates, figs." "Good folk," said Lizzie, Mindful of Jeanie, "Give me much and many"; -Held out her apron, Tossed them her penny. "Nay, take a seat with us, Honor and eat with us," They answered grinning; "Our feast is but beginning. Night yet is early, Warm and dew-pearly, Wakeful and starry: Such fruits as these No man can carry; Half their bloom would fly, Half their dew would dry, Half their flavor would pass by. Sit down and feast with us, Be welcome guest with us, Cheer you and rest with us." "Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits At home alone for me: So, without further parleying, If you will not sell me any Of your fruits though much and many, Give me back my silver penny I tossed you for a fee." They began to scratch their pates, No longer wagging, purring, But visibly demurring, Grunting and snarling. One called her proud, Cross-grained, uncivil; Their tones waxed loud, Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails 177 They trod and hustled her, Elbowed and jostled her, Clawed with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soiled her stocking, Twitched her hair out by the roots, Stamped upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeezed their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat. White and golden Lizzie stood, Like a lily in a flood, Like a rock of blue-veined stone Lashed by tides obstreperously, -Like a beacon left alone In a hoary roaring sea, Sending up a golden fire, -Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree White with blossoms honey-sweet Sore beset by wasp and bee, -Like a royal virgin town Topped with gilded dome and spire Close beleaguered by a fleet Mad to tear her standard down. One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuffed and caught her, Coaxed and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratched her, pinched her black as ink, Kicked and knocked her, Mauled and mocked her, Lizzie uttered not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in; But laughed in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syruped all her face, And lodged in dimples of her chin, And streaked her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, 178 Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot. Some writhed into the ground, Some dived into the brook With ring and ripple. Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanished in the distance. In a smart, ache, tingle, Lizzie went her way; Knew not was it night or day; Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze, Threaded copse and dingle, And heard her penny jingle Bouncing in her purse, -Its bounce was music to her ear. She ran and ran As if she feared some goblin man Dogged her with gibe or curse Or something worse: But not one goblin skurried after, Nor was she pricked by fear; The kind heart made her windy-paced That urged her home quite out of breath with haste And inward laughter. She cried "Laura," up the garden, "Did you miss me ? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeezed from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me: For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men." Laura started from her chair, Flung her arms up in the air, Clutched her hair: 179 "Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted For my sake the fruit forbidden? Must your light like mine be hidden, Your young life like mine be wasted, Undone in mine undoing, And ruined in my ruin; Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?" She clung about her sister, Kissed and kissed and kissed her: Tears once again Refreshed her shrunken eyes, Dropping like rain After long sultry drouth; Shaking with aguish fear, and pain, She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth. Her lips began to scorch, That juice was wormwood to her tongue, She loathed the feast: Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung, Rent all her robe, and wrung Her hands in lamentable haste, And beat her breast. Her locks streamed like the torch Borne by a racer at full speed, Or like the mane of horses in their flight, Or like an eagle when she stems the light Straight toward the sun, Or like a caged thing freed, Or like a flying flag when armies run. Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame, She gorged on bitterness without a name: Ah! fool, to choose such part Of soul-consuming care! Sense failed in the mortal strife: Like the watch-tower of a town Which an earthquake shatters down, Like a lightning-stricken mast, Like a wind-uprooted tree 180 Spun about, Like a foam-topped water-spout Cast down headlong in the sea, She fell at last; Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life ? Life out of death. That night long Lizzie watched by her, Counted her pulse's flagging stir, Felt for her breath, Held water to her lips, and cooled her face With tears and fanning leaves: But when the first birds chirped about their eaves, And early reapers plodded to the place Of golden sheaves, And dew-wet grass Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass, And new buds with new day Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream, Laura awoke as from a dream, Laughed in the innocent old way, Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice; Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray, Her breath was sweet as May, And light danced in her eyes. Days, weeks, months,years Afterwards, when both were wives With children of their own; Their mother-hearts beset with fears, Their lives bound up in tender lives; Laura would call the little ones And tell them of her early prime, Those pleasant days long gone Of not-returning time: Would talk about the haunted glen, The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, Their fruits like honey to the throat, But poison in the blood; (Men sell not such in any town;) Would tell them how her sister stood 181 In deadly peril to do her good, And win the fiery antidote: Then joining hands to little hands Would bid them cling together, "For there is no friend like a sister, In calm or stormy weather, To cheer one on the tedious way, To fetch one if one goes astray, To lift one if one totters down, To strengthen whilst one stands." ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

1114:The Tower Of The Dream Part I HOW wonderful are dreams! If they but be As some have said, the thin disjoining shades Of thoughts or feelings, long foregone or late, All interweaving, set in ghostly act And strange procession, fair, grotesque, or grim, By mimic fancy; wonderful no less Are they though this be true and wondrous more Is she, who in the dark, and stript of sense, Can wield such sovereignty—the Queen of Art! For what a cunning painter is she then, Who hurriedly embodying, from the waste Of things memorial littering life’s dim floor, The forms and features, manifold and quaint, That crowd the timeless vistas of a dream, Fails in no stroke, but breathes Pygmalion-like A soul of motion into all her work; And doth full oft in magic mood inspire Her phantom creatures with more eloquent tones Than ever broke upon a waking ear. But are they more? True glimpses oft, though vague, Over that far unnavigable sea Of mystic being, where the impatient soul Is sometimes wont to stray and roam at large? No answer comes. Yet are they wonderful However we may rank them in our lore, And worthy some fond record are these dreams That with so capable a wand can bring Back to the faded heart the rosy flush And sweetness of a long-fled love, or touch The eyes of an old enmity with tears Of a yet older friendship; or restore A world-lost mate, or reunite in joy The living and the dead!—can, when so wills Their wand’s weird wielder, whatsoe’er it be, Lift up the fallen—fallen however low! Give youth unto the worn, enrich the poor; Build in the future higher than the hope 200 Of power, when boldest, ever dared to soar; Annul the bars of space, the dens of time, Giving the rigid and cold-clanking chain Which force, that grey iniquity, hath clenched About its captive, to relent,—yea, stretch Forth into fairy-land, or melt like wax In that fierce life whose spirit lightens wide Round freedom, seated on her mountain throne. But not thus always are our dreams benign; Oft are they miscreations—gloomier worlds, Crowded tempestuously with wrongs and fears, More ghastly than the actual ever knew, And rent with racking noises, such as should Go thundering only through the wastes of hell. Yes, wonderful are dreams: and I have known Many most wild and strange. And once, long since, As in the death-like mystery of sleep My body lay impalled, my soul arose And journeyed outward in a wondrous dream. In the mid-hour of a dark night, methought I roamed the margin of a waveless lake, That in the knotted forehead of the land Deep sunken, like a huge Cyclopean eye, Lidless and void of speculation, stared Glassily up—for ever sleepless—up At the wide vault of heaven; and vaguely came Into my mind a mystic consciousness That over against me, on the farther shore Which yet I might not see, there stood a tower. The darkness darkened, until overhead Solidly black the starless heaven domed, And earth was one wide blot;—when, as I looked, A light swung blazing from the tower (as yet Prophesied only in my inner thought), And brought at once its rounded structure forth Massive and tall out of the mighty gloom. On the broad lake that streaming radiance fell, Through the lit fluid like a shaft of fire, Burning its sullen depths with one red blaze. 201 Long at that wild light was I gazing held In speechless wonder, till I thence could feel A strange and thrillingly attractive power; My bodily weight seemed witched away, aloft I mounted, poised within the passive air, Then felt I through my veins a branching warmth, The herald of some yet unseen content, The nearness of some yet inaudible joy, As if some spell of golden destiny Lifted me onwards to the fateful tower. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part II High up the tower, a circling balcony Emporched a brazen door. The silver roof Rested on shafts of jet, and ivory work Made a light fence against the deep abyss. Before that portal huge a lady stood In radiant loveliness, serene and bright, Yet as it seemed expectant; for as still She witched me towards her, soft she beckon’d me With tiny hand more splendid than a star; And then she smiled, not as a mortal smiles With visible throes, to the mere face confined, But with her whole bright influence all at once In gracious act, as the Immortals might, God-happy, or as smiles the morning, when Its subtle lips in rosy beauty part Under a pearly cloud, and breathe the while A golden prevalence of power abroad, That taketh all the orient heaven and earth Into the glory of its own delight. Then in a voice, keen, sweet, and silvery clear, And intimately tender as the first Fine feeling of a love-born bliss, she spoke, “Where hast thou stayed so long? Oh, tell me where?” 202 With thrilling ears and heart I heard, but felt Pass from me forth a cry of sudden fear, As swooning through the wildness of my joy, Methought I drifted,—whither? All was now One wide cold blank; the lady and the tower, The gleaming lake, with all around it, one Wide dreary blank;—the drearier for that still A dizzy, clinging, ghostly consciousness Kept flickering from mine inmost pulse of life, Like a far meteor in some dismal marsh; How long I knew not, but the thrilling warmth That, like the new birth of a passionate bliss, Erewhile had searched me to the quick, again Shuddered within me, more and more, until Mine eyes had opened under two that made All else like darkness; and upon my cheek A breath that seemed the final spirit of health And floral sweetness, harbingered once more The silver accents of that wondrous voice, Which to have heard was never to forget; And with her tones came, warbled as it seemed, In mystical respondence to her voice, Still music, such as Eolus gives forth, But purer, deeper;—warbled as from some Unsearchable recess of soul supreme, Some depth of the Eternal! echoing thence Through the sweet meanings of its spirit speech. I answered not, but followed in mute love The beamy glances of her eyes; methought Close at her side I lay upon a couch Of purple, blazoned all with stars of gold Tremblingly rayed with spiculated gems; Thus sat we, looking forth; nor seemed it strange That the broad lake, with its green shelving shores, And all the hills and woods and winding vales, Were basking in the beauty of a day So goldenly serene, that never yet The perfect power of life-essential light Had so enrobed, since paradise was lost, The common world inhabited by man. 203 I saw this rare surpassing beauty;—yea, But saw it all through her superior life, Orbing mine own in love; I felt her life, The source of holiest and truth-loving thoughts, Breathing abroad like odours from a flower, Enriched with rosy passion, and pure joy And earnest tenderness. Nor ever might The glassy lake below more quickly give Nimble impressions of the coming wind’s Invisible footsteps, dimpling swift along, Than instant tokens of communion sweet With outward beauty’s subtle spirit, passed Forth from her eyes, and thence in lambent waves Suffused and lightened o’er her visage bright. But as upon the wonder of her face My soul now feasted, even till it seemed Instinct with kindred lustre, lo! her eyes Suddenly saddened; then abstractedly Outfixing them as on some far wild thought That darkened up like a portentous cloud Over the morning of our peace, she flung Her silver voice into a mystic song Of many measures, which, as forth they went, Slid all into a sweet abundant flood Of metric melody! And to her voice As still she sung, invisible singers joined A choral burden that prolonged the strain’s Rich concords, till the echoes of the hills Came forth in tidal flow, and backward then Subsiding like a refluent wave, died down In one rich harmony. It strangely seemed As though the song were ware that I but slept, And that its utterer was but a dream; ’Tis traced upon the tablet of my soul In shining lines that intonate themselves— Not sounding to the ear but to the thought— Out of the vague vast of the wonderful, And might, when hardened into mortal speech, And narrowed from its wide and various sweep Into such flows as make our waking rhymes Most wildly musical, be written thus:— 204 The Song Wide apart, wide apart, In old Time’s dim heart One terrible Fiend doth his stern watch keep Over the mystery Lovely and deep, Locked in thy history, Beautiful Sleep! Could we disarm him, Could we but charm him, The soul of the sleeper might happily leap, Through the dark of the dim waste so deathly and deep That shroudeth the triple divinity, The three of thy mystical Trinity: Gratitude, Liberty, Joy from all trammels free, Beautiful Spirit of Sleep! Beautiful Spirit! Could we confound him Who darkens thy throne, Could we surround him With spells like thine own For the divinity Then of thy Trinity, Oh, what a blesseder reign were begun! For then it were evermore one, With all that soul, freed from the body’s strait scheme, Inherits of seer-light and mystical dream. And to sleep were to die Into life in the Infinite, Holy and high, Spotless and bright, Calmly, peacefully deep Ah then! that dread gulf should be crossed by a mortal, Ah then! to what life were thy bright arch the portal, Beautiful Spirit of Sleep. 205 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------Part III She ceased, and a deep tingling silence fell Instantly round,—silence complete, and yet Instinct as with a breathing sweetness, left By the rare spirit of her voice foregone; Even as the fragrance of a flower were felt Pervading the mute air through which erewhile, It had been borne by the delighted hand Of some sweet-thoughted maiden. Turning then Her bright face towards me, as I stood entranced, Yet with keen wonder stung, she said, “I love thee As first love loveth—utterly! But ah This love itself—this purple-wingéd love— This life-enriching spirit of delight Is but a honey-bee of paradise, That only in the morning glory dares To range abroad, only in vagrant mood, Adventures out into the common world Of man and woman, thither lured by sight Of some sweet human soul that blooms apart, Untainted by a rank soil’s weedy growths Lured thither thus, yet being even then A wilful wanderer from its birthplace pure, Whereto it sadly must return again, Or forfeit else its natal passport, ere The dread night cometh. Yet of how great worth Is love within the world! By the fair spring Of even the lowliest love, how many rich And gracious things that could not else have been, Grow up like flowers, and breathe a perfume forth That never leaves again the quickened sense It once hath hit, as with a fairy’s wand!” She spoke in mournful accents wild and sweet, And lustrous tears brimmed over from the eyes That met my own now melancholy gaze. 206 But not all comfortless is grief that sees Itself reflected in another’s eyes, And love again grew glad: alas, not long For with a short low gasp of sudden fear She started back, and hark! within the tower A sound of strenuous steps approaching fast Rang upwards, as it seemed, from the hard slabs Of a steep winding stair; and soon the huge And brazen portal, that behind us shut, Burst open with a clang of loosened bolts— A clang like thunder, that went rattling out Against the echoes of the distant hills. With deafened ears and looks aghast I turned Towards the harsh noise, there to behold, between The mighty jambs in the strong wall from which The door swung inward, a tremendous form! A horrid gloomy form that shapeless seemed, And yet, in all its monstrous bulk, to man A hideous likeness bare! Still more and more Deformed it grew, as forth it swelled, and then Its outlines melted in a grizzly haze, That hung about them, even as grey clouds Beskirt a coming tempest’s denser mass, That thickens still internally, and shows The murkiest in the midst—yea, murkiest there, Where big with fate, and hid in solid gloom, The yet still spirit of the thunder broods, And menaces the world. Beholding that dread form, the lady of light Had rushed to my extended arms, and hid Her beamy face, fright-harrowed, in my breast! And thus we stood, made one in fear; while still That terrible vision out upon us glared With horny eyeballs—horrible the more For that no evidence of conscious will, No touch of passion, vitalized their fixed Eumenidèan, stone-cold stare, as towards Some surely destined task they seemed to guide Its shapeless bulk and awful ruthless strength. 207 Then with a motion as of one dark stride Shadowing forward, and outstretching straight One vague-seen arm, from my reluctant grasp It tore the radiant lady, saying “This Is love forbidden!” in a voice whose tones Were like low guttural thunders heard afar, Outgrowling from the clouded gorges wild Of steep-cragged mountains, when a sultry storm Is pondering in its dark pavilions there. Me then he seized, and threw me strongly back Within the brazen door; its massive beam Dropped with a wall-quake, and the bolts were shot Into their sockets with a shattering jar. I may not paint the horrible despair That froze me now; more horrible than aught In actual destiny, in waking life, Could give the self -possession of my soul. Within, without,—all silent, stirless, cold Whither was she, my lady of delight Reft terribly away? Time—every drip of which Was as an age—kept trickling on and on, Brought no release, no hope; brought not a breath That spake of fellowship, or even of life Out of myself. Utterly blank I stood In marble-cold astonishment of heart! And when at length I cast despairing eyes— Eyes so despairing that the common gift Of vision stung me like a deadly curse— The dungeon round, pure pity of myself So warmed and loosened from my brain, the pent And icy anguish, that its load at once Came like an Alp-thaw streaming through my eyes; Till resignation, that balm-fragrant flower Of meek pale grief that hath its root in tears, Grew out of mine, and dewed my soul with peace. My dungeon was a half-round lofty cell, Massively set within the crossing wall That seemed to cut the tower’s whole round in twain; A door with iron studs and brazen clamps Shut off the inner stairway of the tower; And by this door a strange and mystic thing, 208 A bat-winged steed on scaly dragon claws, Stood mute and rigid in the darkening cell. The night came on; I saw the bat-winged steed Fade, melt and die into the gathering gloom, Then in the blackness hour by hour I paced, And heard my step—the only sound to me In all the wide world—throb with a dull blow Down through the hollow tower that seemed to yawn. A monstrous well beneath, with wide waste mouth Bridged only by the quaking strip of floor On which I darkling strode. Then hour on hour Paused as if clotting at the heart of time, And yet no other sound had being there And still that strange, mute, mystic, bat-winged steed Stood waiting near me by the inner door. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part IV At last, all suddenly, in the air aloft Over the tower a wild wailful song Woke, flying many-voiced, then sweeping off Far o’er the echoing hills, so passed away In dying murmurs through the hollow dark. Song In vain was the charm sought In vain was our spell wrought Which that dread watcher’s eyes drowsy might keep; In vain was the dragon-steed There at the hour of need Out with his double freight blissward to sweep. Lost—lost—lost—lost! In vain were our spells of an infinite cost Lost—lost—lost—lost! Yon gulf by a mortal may never be crossed 209 Never, ah never! The doom holds for ever For ever! for ever! Away, come away! For see, wide uprolling, the white front of day! Away to the mystic mid-regions of sleep, Of the beautiful Spirit of sleep. Lost—lost—lost—lost! The gulf we are crossing may never be crossed By a mortal, ah, never! The doom holds for ever! For ever! for ever! So passed that song (of which the drift alone Is here reached after in such leaden speech As uncharmed mortals use). And when its tones Out towards the mountains in the dark afar Had wasted, light began to pierce the gloom, Marbling the dusk with grey; and then the steed, With his strange dragon-claws and half-spread wings, Grew slowly back into the day again. The sunrise! Oh, it was a desolate pass Immured in that relentless keep, to feel How o’er the purple hills came the bright sun, Rejoicing in his strength; and then to know That he was wheeling up the heaven, and o’er My prison roof, tracking his midway course With step of fire, loud rolling through the world The thunder of its universal life! Thus seven times wore weary day and night Wearily on, and still I could not sleep. And still through this drear time the wintry tooth Of hunger never gnawed my corporal frame; No thirst inflamed me; while by the grim door That strange, unmoving, dragon-footed steed Stood as at first. Mere wonder at my doom Relieved the else-fixed darkness of despair! But on the seventh night at midnight—hark! 210 What might I hear? A step?—a small light step, That by the stair ascending, swiftly came Straight to the inner door—then stopped. Alas! The black leaf opened not; and yet, the while, A rainbow radiance through its solid breadth Came flushing bright, in subtle wave on wave, As sunset glow in swift rich curves wells forth Through some dense cloud upon the verge of heaven: So came it, filling all the cell at length With rosy lights; and then the mystic steed Moved, and spread wide his glimmering bat-like wings. When hark! deep down in the mysterious tower Another step! Yea, the same strenuous tramp That once before I heard, big beating up— A cry, a struggle, and retreating steps! And that fair light had faded from the air. Again the hateful tramp came booming up; The great door opened, and the monster-fiend Filled all the space between the mighty jambs. My heart glowed hot with rage and hate at once; Fiercely I charged him, but his horrible glooms Enwrapped me closer, in yet denser coils Every dread moment! But my anguish now, My pain, and hate, and loathing, all had grown Into so vast a horror that methought I burst with irresistible strength away— Rushed through the door and down the stairway—down An endless depth—till a portcullis, hinged In the tower’s basement, opened to my flight It fell behind me, and my passage lay By the long ripples of the rock-edged lake. Then, breathless, pausing in my giddy flight, I saw the lustrous lady upward pass Through the lit air, with steadfast downward look Of parting recognition—full of love, But painless, passionless. Above the tower And o’er the clouds her radiance passed away, And melted into heaven’s marble dome! Then fell there on my soul a sense of loss So bleak, so desolate, that with a wild 211 Sleep-startling outcry, sudden I awoke Awoke to find it but a wondrous dream; Yet ever since to feel as if some pure And guardian soul, out of the day and night, Had passed for ever from the reach of love! ~ Charles Harpur,

1115:The Kalevala - Rune Iv THE FATE OF AINO. When the night had passed, the maiden, Sister fair of Youkahainen, Hastened early to the forest, Birchen shoots for brooms to gather, Went to gather birchen tassels; Bound a bundle for her father, Bound a birch-broom for her mother, Silken tassels for her sister. Straightway then she hastened homeward, By a foot-path left the forest; As she neared the woodland border, Lo! the ancient Wainamoinen, Quickly spying out the maiden, As she left the birchen woodland, Trimly dressed in costly raiment, And the minstrel thus addressed her: 'Aino, beauty of the Northland, Wear not, lovely maid, for others, Only wear for me, sweet maiden, Golden cross upon thy bosom, Shining pearls upon thy shoulders; Bind for me thine auburn tresses, Wear for me thy golden braidlets.' Thus the maiden quickly answered: 'Not for thee and not for others, Hang I from my neck the crosslet, Deck my hair with silken ribbons; Need no more the many trinkets Brought to me by ship or shallop; Sooner wear the simplest raiment, Feed upon the barley bread-crust, Dwell forever with my mother In the cabin with my father.' Then she threw the gold cross from her, Tore the jewels from her fingers, Quickly loosed her shining necklace, 39 Quick untied her silken ribbons, Cast them all away indignant Into forest ferns and flowers. Thereupon the maiden, Aino, Hastened to her mother's cottage. At the window sat her father Whittling on an oaken ax-helve: 'Wherefore weepest, beauteous Aino, Aino, my beloved daughter? 'Cause enough for weeping, father, Good the reasons for my mourning, This, the reason for my weeping, This, the cause of all my sorrow: From my breast I tore the crosslet, From my belt, the clasp of copper, From my waist, the belt of silver, Golden was my pretty crosslet.' Near the door-way sat her brother, Carving out a birchen ox-bow: 'Why art weeping, lovely Aino, Aino, my devoted sister?' 'Cause enough for weeping, brother, Good the reasons for my mourning Therefore come I as thou seest, Rings no longer on my fingers, On my neck no pretty necklace; Golden were the rings thou gavest, And the necklace, pearls and silver!' On the threshold sat her sister, Weaving her a golden girdle: 'Why art weeping, beauteous Aino, Aino, my beloved sister?' 'Cause enough for weeping, sister, Good the reasons for my sorrow: Therefore come I as thou seest, On my head no scarlet fillet, In my hair no braids of silver, On mine arms no purple ribbons, Round my neck no shining necklace, On my breast no golden crosslet, In mine ears no golden ear-rings.' Near the door-way of the dairy, 40 Skimming cream, sat Aino's mother. 'Why art weeping, lovely Aino, Aino, my devoted daughter?' Thus the sobbing maiden answered; 'Loving mother, all-forgiving, Cause enough for this my weeping, Good the reasons for my sorrow, Therefore do I weep, dear mother: I have been within the forest, Brooms to bind and shoots to gather, There to pluck some birchen tassels; Bound a bundle for my father, Bound a second for my mother, Bound a third one for my brother, For my sister silken tassels. Straightway then I hastened homeward, By a foot-path left the forest; As I reached the woodland border Spake Osmoinen from the cornfield, Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Wear not, beauteous maid, for others, Only wear for me, sweet maiden, On thy breast a golden crosslet, Shining pearls upon thy shoulders, Bind for me thine auburn tresses, Weave for me thy silver braidlets.' Then I threw the gold-cross from me, Tore the jewels from my fingers, Quickly loosed my shining necklace, Quick untied my silken ribbons, Cast them all away indignant, Into forest ferns and flowers. Then I thus addressed the singer: 'Not for thee and not for others, Hang I from my neck the crosslet, Deck my hair with silken ribbons; Need no more the many trinkets, Brought to me by ship and shallop; Sooner wear the simplest raiment, Feed upon the barley bread-crust, Dwell forever with my mother In the cabin with my father.'' 41 Thus the gray-haired mother answered Aino, her beloved daughter: 'Weep no more, my lovely maiden, Waste no more of thy sweet young-life; One year eat thou my sweet butter, It will make thee strong and ruddy; Eat another year fresh bacon, It will make thee tall and queenly; Eat a third year only dainties, It will make thee fair and lovely. Now make haste to yonder hill-top, To the store-house on the mountain, Open there the large compartment, Thou will find it filled with boxes, Chests and cases, trunks and boxes; Open thou the box, the largest, Lift away the gaudy cover, Thou will find six golden girdles, Seven rainbow-tinted dresses, Woven by the Moon's fair daughters, Fashioned by the Sun's sweet virgins. In my young years once I wandered, As a maiden on the mountains, In the happy days of childhood, Hunting berries in the coppice; There by chance I heard the daughters Of the Moon as they were weaving; There I also heard the daughters Of the Sun as they were spinning On the red rims of the cloudlets, O'er the blue edge of the forest, On the border of the pine-wood, On a high and distant mountain. I approached them, drawing nearer, Stole myself within their hearing, Then began I to entreat them, Thus besought them, gently pleading: 'Give thy silver, Moon's fair daughters, To a poor, but worthy maiden; Give thy gold, O Sun's sweet virgins, To this maiden, young and needy.' Thereupon the Moon's fair daughters 42 Gave me silver from their coffers; And the Sun's sweet shining virgins Gave me gold from their abundance, Gold to deck my throbbing temples, For my hair the shining silver. Then I hastened joyful homeward, Richly laden with my treasures, Happy to my mother's cottage; Wore them one day, than a second, Then a third day also wore them, Took the gold then from my temples, From my hair I took the silver, Careful laid them in their boxes, Many seasons have they lain there, Have not seen them since my childhood. Deck thy brow with silken ribbon, Trim with gold thy throbbing temples, And thy neck with pearly necklace, Hang the gold-cross on thy bosom, Robe thyself in pure, white linen Spun from flax of finest fiber; Wear withal the richest short-frock, Fasten it with golden girdle; On thy feet, put silken stockings, With the shoes of finest leather; Deck thy hair with golden braidlets, Bind it well with threads of silver; Trim with rings thy fairy fingers, And thy hands with dainty ruffles; Come bedecked then to thy chamber, Thus return to this thy household, To the greeting of thy kindred, To the joy of all that know thee, Flushed thy cheeks as ruddy berries, Coming as thy father's sunbeam, Walking beautiful and queenly, Far more beautiful than moonlight.' Thus she spake to weeping Aino, Thus the mother to her daughter; But the maiden, little bearing, Does not heed her mother's wishes; Straightway hastens to the court-yard, 43 There to weep in bitter sorrow, All alone to weep in anguish. Waiting long the wailing Aino Thus at last soliloquizes: 'Unto what can I now liken Happy homes and joys of fortune? Like the waters in the river, Like the waves in yonder lakelet, Like the crystal waters flowing. Unto what, the biting sorrow Of the child of cold misfortune? Like the spirit of the sea-duck, Like the icicle in winter, Water in the well imprisoned. Often roamed my mind in childhood, When a maiden free and merry, Happily through fen and fallow, Gamboled on the meads with lambkins, Lingered with the ferns and flowers, Knowing neither pain nor trouble; Now my mind is filled with sorrow, Wanders though the bog and stubble, Wanders weary through the brambles, Roams throughout the dismal forest, Till my life is filled with darkness, And my spirit white with anguish. Better had it been for Aino Had she never seen the sunlight, Or if born had died an infant, Had not lived to be a maiden In these days of sin and sorrow, Underneath a star so luckless. Better had it been for Aino, Had she died upon the eighth day After seven nights had vanished; Needed then but little linen, Needed but a little coffin, And a grave of smallest measure; Mother would have mourned a little, Father too perhaps a trifle, Sister would have wept the day through, Brother might have shed a tear-drop, 44 Thus had ended all the mourning.' Thus poor Aino wept and murmured, Wept one day, and then a second, Wept a third from morn till even, When again her mother asked her: 'Why this weeping, fairest daughter, Darling daughter, why this grieving? Thus the tearful maiden answered: Therefore do I weep and sorrow, Wretched maiden all my life long, Since poor Aino, thou hast given, Since thy daughter thou hast promised To the aged Wainamoinen, Comfort to his years declining Prop to stay him when he totters, In the storm a roof above him, In his home a cloak around him; Better far if thou hadst sent me Far below the salt-sea surges, To become the whiting's sister, And the friend of perch and salmon; Better far to ride the billows, Swim the sea-foam as a mermaid, And the friend of nimble fishes, Than to be an old man's solace, Prop to stay him when be totters, Hand to aid him when he trembles, Arm to guide him when he falters, Strength to give him when he weakens; Better be the whiting's sister And the friend of perch and salmon, Than an old man's slave and darling.' Ending thus she left her mother, Straightway hastened to the mountain? To the store-house on the summit, Opened there the box the largest, From the box six lids she lifted, Found therein six golden girdles, Silken dresses seven in number. Choosing such as pleased her fancy, She adorned herself as bidden, Robed herself to look her fairest, 45 Gold upon her throbbing temples, In her hair the shining silver, On her shoulders purple ribbons, Band of blue around her forehead, Golden cross, and rings, and jewels, Fitting ornaments to beauty. Now she leaves her many treasures, Leaves the store-house on the mountain, Filled with gold and silver trinkets, Wanders over field and meadow, Over stone-fields waste and barren, Wanders on through fen and forest, Through the forest vast and cheerless, Wanders hither, wanders thither, Singing careless as she wanders, This her mournful song and echo: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Woe to Aino, broken-hearted! Torture racks my heart and temples, Yet the sting would not be deeper, Nor the pain and anguish greater, If beneath this weight of sorrow, In my saddened heart's dejection, I should yield my life forever, Now unhappy, I should perish! Lo! the time has come for Aino From this cruel world to hasten, To the kingdom of Tuoni, To the realm of the departed, To the isle of the hereafter. Weep no more for me, O Father, Mother dear, withhold thy censure, Lovely sister, dry thine eyelids, Do not mourn me, dearest brother, When I sink beneath the sea-foam, Make my home in salmon-grottoes, Make my bed in crystal waters, Water-ferns my couch and pillow.' All day long poor Aino wandered, All the next day, sad and weary, So the third from morn till evening, Till the cruel night enwrapped her, 46 As she reached the sandy margin, Reached the cold and dismal sea-shore, Sat upon the rock of sorrow, Sat alone in cold and darkness, Listened only to the music Of the winds and rolling billows, Singing all the dirge of Aino. All that night the weary maiden Wept and wandered on the border Through the sand and sea-washed pebbles. As the day dawns, looking round her, She beholds three water-maidens, On a headland jutting seaward, Water-maidens four in number, Sitting on the wave-lashed ledges, Swimming now upon the billows, Now upon the rocks reposing. Quick the weeping maiden, Aino, Hastens there to join the mermaids, Fairy maidens of the waters. Weeping Aino, now disrobing, Lays aside with care her garments, Hangs her silk robes on the alders, Drops her gold-cross on the sea-shore, On the aspen hangs her ribbons, On the rocks her silken stockings, On the grass her shoes of deer-skin, In the sand her shining necklace, With her rings and other jewels. Out at sea a goodly distance, Stood a rock of rainbow colors, Glittering in silver sunlight. Toward it springs the hapless maiden, Thither swims the lovely Aino, Up the standing-stone has clambered, Wishing there to rest a moment, Rest upon the rock of beauty; When upon a sudden swaying To and fro among the billows, With a crash and roar of waters Falls the stone of many colors, Falls upon the very bottom 47 Of the deep and boundless blue-sea. With the stone of rainbow colors, Falls the weeping maiden, Aino, Clinging to its craggy edges, Sinking far below the surface, To the bottom of the blue-sea. Thus the weeping maiden vanished. Thus poor Aino sank and perished, Singing as the stone descended, Chanting thus as she departed: Once to swim I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone or many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty son-bird. perished. Never come a-fishing, father, To the borders of these waters, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest daughter Aino. 'Mother dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors, Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never mix thy bread, dear mother, With the blue-sea's foam and waters, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest daughter Aino. Brother dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never bring thy prancing war-horse, Never bring thy royal racer, Never bring thy steeds to water, To the borders of the blue-sea, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest sister Aino. 48 'Sister dear, I sought the sea-side, There to sport among the billows; With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, Like a pretty song-bird perished. Never come to lave thine eyelids In this rolling wave and sea-foam, Never during all thy life-time, As thou lovest sister Aino. All the waters in the blue-sea Shall be blood of Aino's body; All the fish that swim these waters Shall be Aino's flesh forever; All the willows on the sea-side Shall be Aino's ribs hereafter; All the sea-grass on the margin Will have grown from Aino's tresses.' Thus at last the maiden vanished, Thus the lovely Aino perished. Who will tell the cruel story, Who will bear the evil tidings To the cottage of her mother, Once the home of lovely Aino? Will the bear repeat the story, Tell the tidings to her mother? Nay, the bear must not be herald, He would slay the herds of cattle. Who then tell the cruel story, Who will bear the evil tidings To the cottage of her father, Once the home of lovely Aino? Shall the wolf repeat the story, Tell the sad news to her father? Nay, the wolf must not be herald, He would eat the gentle lambkins. Who then tell the cruel story, Who will bear the evil tidings. To the cottage of her sister? 'Will the fox repeat the story Tell the tidings to her sister? Nay, the fox must not be herald, 49 He would eat the ducks and chickens. Who then tell the cruel story, Who will bear the evil tidings To the cottage of her brother, Once the home of lovely Aino? Shall the hare repeat the story, Bear the sad news to her brother? Yea, the hare shall be the herald, Tell to all the cruel story. Thus the harmless hare makes answer: 'I will bear the evil tidings To the former home of Aino, Tell the story to her kindred.' Swiftly flew the long-eared herald, Like the winds be hastened onward, Galloped swift as flight of eagles; Neck awry he bounded forward Till he gained the wished-for cottage, Once the home of lovely Aino. Silent was the home, and vacant; So he hastened to the bath-house, Found therein a group of maidens, Working each upon a birch-broom. Sat the hare upon the threshold, And the maidens thus addressed him: 'Hie e there, Long-legs, or we'll roast thee, Hie there, Big-eye, or we'll stew thee, Roast thee for our lady's breakfast, Stew thee for our master's dinner, Make of thee a meal for Aino, And her brother, Youkahainen! Better therefore thou shouldst gallop To thy burrow in the mountains, Than be roasted for our dinners.' Then the haughty hare made answer, Chanting thus the fate of Aino: 'Think ye not I journey hither, To be roasted in the skillet, To be stewed in yonder kettle Let fell Lempo fill thy tables! I have come with evil tidings, Come to tell the cruel story 50 Of the flight and death of Aino, Sister dear of Youkahainen. With the stone of many colors Sank poor Aino to the bottom Of the deep and boundless waters, Like a pretty song-bird perished; Hung her ribbons on the aspen, Left her gold-cross on the sea-shore, Silken robes upon the alders, On the rocks her silken stockings, On the grass her shoes of deer-skin, In the sand her shining necklace, In the sand her rings and jewels; In the waves, the lovely Aino, Sleeping on the very bottom Of the deep and boundless blue-sea, In the caverns of the salmon, There to be the whiting's sister And the friend of nimble fishes.' Sadly weeps the ancient mother From her blue-eyes bitter tear-drops, As in sad and wailing measures, Broken-hearted thus she answers: 'Listen, all ye mothers, listen, Learn from me a tale of wisdom: Never urge unwilling daughters From the dwellings of their fathers, To the bridegrooms that they love not, Not as I, inhuman mother, Drove away my lovely Aino, Fairest daughter of the Northland.' Sadly weeps the gray-haired mother, And the tears that fall are bitter, Flowing down her wrinkled visage, Till they trickle on her bosom; Then across her heaving bosom, Till they reach her garment's border; Then adown her silken stockings, Till they touch her shoes of deer-skin; Then beneath her shoes of deer-skin, Flowing on and flowing ever, Part to earth as its possession, 51 Part to water as its portion. As the tear-drops fall and mingle, Form they streamlets three in number, And their source, the mother's eyelids, Streamlets formed from pearly tear-drops, Flowing on like little rivers, And each streamlet larger growing, Soon becomes a rushing torrent In each rushing, roaring torrent There a cataract is foaming, Foaming in the silver sunlight; From the cataract's commotion Rise three pillared rocks in grandeur; From each rock, upon the summit, Grow three hillocks clothed in verdure; From each hillock, speckled birches, Three in number, struggle skyward; On the summit of each birch-tree Sits a golden cuckoo calling, And the three sing, all in concord: 'Love! O Love! the first one calleth; Sings the second, Suitor! Suitor! And the third one calls and echoes, 'Consolation! Consolation!' He that 'Love! O Love!' is calling, Calls three moons and calls unceasing, For the love-rejecting maiden Sleeping in the deep sea-castles. He that 'Suitor! Suitor!' singeth, Sings six moons and sings unceasing For the suitor that forever Sings and sues without a hearing. He that sadly sings and echoes, 'Consolation! Consolation!' Sings unceasing all his life long For the broken-hearted mother That must mourn and weep forever. When the lone and wretched mother Heard the sacred cuckoo singing, Spake she thus, and sorely weeping: 'When I hear the cuckoo calling, Then my heart is filled with sorrow; 52 Tears unlock my heavy eyelids, Flow adown my, furrowed visage, Tears as large as silver sea pearls; Older grow my wearied elbows, Weaker ply my aged fingers, Wearily, in all its members, Does my body shake in palsy, When I hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1116:The Princess (Part 2) At break of day the College Portress came: She brought us Academic silks, in hue The lilac, with a silken hood to each, And zoned with gold; and now when these were on, And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know The Princess Ida waited: out we paced, I first, and following through the porch that sang All round with laurel, issued in a court Compact of lucid marbles, bossed with lengths Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers. The Muses and the Graces, grouped in threes, Enringed a billowing fountain in the midst; And here and there on lattice edges lay Or book or lute; but hastily we past, And up a flight of stairs into the hall. There at a board by tome and paper sat, With two tame leopards couched beside her throne, All beauty compassed in a female form, The Princess; liker to the inhabitant Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, Than our man's earth; such eyes were in her head, And so much grace and power, breathing down From over her arched brows, with every turn Lived through her to the tips of her long hands, And to her feet. She rose her height, and said: 'We give you welcome: not without redound Of use and glory to yourselves ye come, The first-fruits of the stranger: aftertime, And that full voice which circles round the grave, Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. What! are the ladies of your land so tall?' 'We of the court' said Cyril. 'From the court' She answered, 'then ye know the Prince?' and he: 'The climax of his age! as though there were One rose in all the world, your Highness that, 726 He worships your ideal:' she replied: 'We scarcely thought in our own hall to hear This barren verbiage, current among men, Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. Your flight from out your bookless wilds would seem As arguing love of knowledge and of power; Your language proves you still the child. Indeed, We dream not of him: when we set our hand To this great work, we purposed with ourself Never to wed. You likewise will do well, Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so, Some future time, if so indeed you will, You may with those self-styled our lords ally Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale.' At those high words, we conscious of ourselves, Perused the matting: then an officer Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these: Not for three years to correspond with home; Not for three years to cross the liberties; Not for three years to speak with any men; And many more, which hastily subscribed, We entered on the boards: and 'Now,' she cried, 'Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Look, our hall! Our statues!--not of those that men desire, Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, Nor stunted squaws of West or East; but she That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she The foundress of the Babylonian wall, The Carian Artemisia strong in war, The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose Convention, since to look on noble forms Makes noble through the sensuous organism That which is higher. O lift your natures up: Embrace our aims: work out your freedom. Girls, Knowledge is now no more a fountain sealed: Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 727 And slander, die. Better not be at all Than not be noble. Leave us: you may go: Today the Lady Psyche will harangue The fresh arrivals of the week before; For they press in from all the provinces, And fill the hive.' She spoke, and bowing waved Dismissal: back again we crost the court To Lady Psyche's: as we entered in, There sat along the forms, like morning doves That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch, A patient range of pupils; she herself Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed, And on the hither side, or so she looked, Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, In shining draperies, headed like a star, Her maiden babe, a double April old, Aglaïa slept. We sat: the Lady glanced: Then Florian, but not livelier than the dame That whispered 'Asses' ears', among the sedge, 'My sister.' 'Comely, too, by all that's fair,' Said Cyril. 'Oh hush, hush!' and she began. 'This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man; Tattooed or woaded, winter-clad in skins, Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mate; As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here Among the lowest.' Thereupon she took A bird's-eye-view of all the ungracious past; Glanced at the legendary Amazon As emblematic of a nobler age; Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo; Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines Of empire, and the woman's state in each, How far from just; till warming with her theme She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 728 And little-footed China, touched on Mahomet With much contempt, and came to chivalry: When some respect, however slight, was paid To woman, superstition all awry: However then commenced the dawn: a beam Had slanted forward, falling in a land Of promise; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed, Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert None lordlier than themselves but that which made Woman and man. She had founded; they must build. Here might they learn whatever men were taught: Let them not fear: some said their heads were less: Some men's were small; not they the least of men; For often fineness compensated size: Besides the brain was like the hand, and grew With using; thence the man's, if more was more; He took advantage of his strength to be First in the field: some ages had been lost; But woman ripened earlier, and her life Was longer; and albeit their glorious names Were fewer, scattered stars, yet since in truth The highest is the measure of the man, And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe, But Homer, Plato, Verulam; even so With woman: and in arts of government Elizabeth and others; arts of war The peasant Joan and others; arts of grace Sappho and others vied with any man: And, last not least, she who had left her place, And bowed her state to them, that they might grow To use and power on this Oasis, lapt In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight Of ancient influence and scorn. At last She rose upon a wind of prophecy Dilating on the future; 'everywhere Who heads in council, two beside the hearth, Two in the tangled business of the world, Two in the liberal offices of life, 729 Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss Of science, and the secrets of the mind: Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more: And everywhere the broad and bounteous Earth Should bear a double growth of those rare souls, Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the world.' She ended here, and beckoned us: the rest Parted; and, glowing full-faced welcome, she Began to address us, and was moving on In gratulation, till as when a boat Tacks, and the slackened sail flaps, all her voice Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she cried 'My brother!' 'Well, my sister.' 'O,' she said, 'What do you here? and in this dress? and these? Why who are these? a wolf within the fold! A pack of wolves! the Lord be gracious to me! A plot, a plot, a plot to ruin all!' 'No plot, no plot,' he answered. 'Wretched boy, How saw you not the inscription on the gate, LET NO MAN ENTER IN ON PAIN OF DEATH?' 'And if I had,' he answered, 'who could think The softer Adams of your Academe, O sister, Sirens though they be, were such As chanted on the blanching bones of men?' 'But you will find it otherwise' she said. 'You jest: ill jesting with edge-tools! my vow Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, The Princess.' 'Well then, Psyche, take my life, And nail me like a weasel on a grange For warning: bury me beside the gate, And cut this epitaph above my bones; ~Here lies a brother by a sister slain, All for the common good of womankind.~' 'Let me die too,' said Cyril, 'having seen And heard the Lady Psyche.' I struck in: 'Albeit so masked, Madam, I love the truth; Receive it; and in me behold the Prince Your countryman, affianced years ago To the Lady Ida: here, for here she was, 730 And thus (what other way was left) I came.' 'O Sir, O Prince, I have no country; none; If any, this; but none. Whate'er I was Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. Affianced, Sir? love-whispers may not breathe Within this vestal limit, and how should I, Who am not mine, say, live: the thunderbolt Hangs silent; but prepare: I speak; it falls.' 'Yet pause,' I said: 'for that inscription there, I think no more of deadly lurks therein, Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, To scare the fowl from fruit: if more there be, If more and acted on, what follows? war; Your own work marred: for this your Academe, Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass With all fair theories only made to gild A stormless summer.' 'Let the Princess judge Of that' she said: 'farewell, Sir--and to you. I shudder at the sequel, but I go.' 'Are you that Lady Psyche,' I rejoined, 'The fifth in line from that old Florian, Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall (The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, And all else fled? we point to it, and we say, The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold, But branches current yet in kindred veins.' 'Are you that Psyche,' Florian added; 'she With whom I sang about the morning hills, Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly, And snared the squirrel of the glen? are you That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow, To smoothe my pillow, mix the foaming draught Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read My sickness down to happy dreams? are you That brother-sister Psyche, both in one? You were that Psyche, but what are you now?' 'You are that Psyche,' said Cyril, 'for whom I would be that for ever which I seem, 731 Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, And glean your scattered sapience.' Then once more, 'Are you that Lady Psyche,' I began, 'That on her bridal morn before she past From all her old companions, when the kind Kissed her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties Would still be dear beyond the southern hills; That were there any of our people there In want or peril, there was one to hear And help them? look! for such are these and I.' 'Are you that Psyche,' Florian asked, 'to whom, In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn Came flying while you sat beside the well? The creature laid his muzzle on your lap, And sobbed, and you sobbed with it, and the blood Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet you wept. O by the bright head of my little niece, You were that Psyche, and what are you now?' 'You are that Psyche,' Cyril said again, 'The mother of the sweetest little maid, That ever crowed for kisses.' 'Out upon it!' She answered, 'peace! and why should I not play The Spartan Mother with emotion, be The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind? Him you call great: he for the common weal, The fading politics of mortal Rome, As I might slay this child, if good need were, Slew both his sons: and I, shall I, on whom The secular emancipation turns Of half this world, be swerved from right to save A prince, a brother? a little will I yield. Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you. O hard, when love and duty clash! I fear My conscience will not count me fleckless; yet-Hear my conditions: promise (otherwise You perish) as you came, to slip away Today, tomorrow, soon: it shall be said, These women were too barbarous, would not learn; They fled, who might have shamed us: promise, all.' 732 What could we else, we promised each; and she, Like some wild creature newly-caged, commenced A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused By Florian; holding out her lily arms Took both his hands, and smiling faintly said: 'I knew you at the first: though you have grown You scarce have altered: I am sad and glad To see you, Florian. ~I~ give thee to death My brother! it was duty spoke, not I. My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. Our mother, is she well?' With that she kissed His forehead, then, a moment after, clung About him, and betwixt them blossomed up From out a common vein of memory Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth, And far allusion, till the gracious dews Began to glisten and to fall: and while They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 'I brought a message here from Lady Blanche.' Back started she, and turning round we saw The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood, Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, That clad her like an April daffodilly (Her mother's colour) with her lips apart, And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes, As bottom agates seen to wave and float In crystal currents of clear morning seas. So stood that same fair creature at the door. Then Lady Psyche, 'Ah--Melissa--you! You heard us?' and Melissa, 'O pardon me I heard, I could not help it, did not wish: But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not, Nor think I bear that heart within my breast, To give three gallant gentlemen to death.' 'I trust you,' said the other, 'for we two Were always friends, none closer, elm and vine: But yet your mother's jealous temperament-Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove 733 The Danaïd of a leaky vase, for fear This whole foundation ruin, and I lose My honour, these their lives.' 'Ah, fear me not' Replied Melissa; 'no--I would not tell, No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness, No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard things That Sheba came to ask of Solomon.' 'Be it so' the other, 'that we still may lead The new light up, and culminate in peace, For Solomon may come to Sheba yet.' Said Cyril, 'Madam, he the wisest man Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls Of Lebanonian cedar: nor should you (Though, Madam, ~you~ should answer, ~we~ would ask) Less welcome find among us, if you came Among us, debtors for our lives to you, Myself for something more.' He said not what, But 'Thanks,' she answered 'Go: we have been too long Together: keep your hoods about the face; They do so that affect abstraction here. Speak little; mix not with the rest; and hold Your promise: all, I trust, may yet be well.' We turned to go, but Cyril took the child, And held her round the knees against his waist, And blew the swollen cheek of a trumpeter, While Psyche watched them, smiling, and the child Pushed her flat hand against his face and laughed; And thus our conference closed. And then we strolled For half the day through stately theatres Benched crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard The grave Professor. On the lecture slate The circle rounded under female hands With flawless demonstration: followed then A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thunderous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long That on the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever: then we dipt in all That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 734 The total chronicles of man, the mind, The morals, something of the frame, the rock, The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, And whatsoever can be taught and known; Till like three horses that have broken fence, And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke: 'Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we.' 'They hunt old trails' said Cyril 'very well; But when did woman ever yet invent?' 'Ungracious!' answered Florian; 'have you learnt No more from Psyche's lecture, you that talked The trash that made me sick, and almost sad?' 'O trash' he said, 'but with a kernel in it. Should I not call her wise, who made me wise? And learnt? I learnt more from her in a flash, Than in my brainpan were an empty hull, And every Muse tumbled a science in. A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, And round these halls a thousand baby loves Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts, Whence follows many a vacant pang; but O With me, Sir, entered in the bigger boy, The Head of all the golden-shafted firm, The long-limbed lad that had a Psyche too; He cleft me through the stomacher; and now What think you of it, Florian? do I chase The substance or the shadow? will it hold? I have no sorcerer's malison on me, No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I Flatter myself that always everywhere I know the substance when I see it. Well, Are castles shadows? Three of them? Is she The sweet proprietress a shadow? If not, Shall those three castles patch my tattered coat? For dear are those three castles to my wants, And dear is sister Psyche to my heart, And two dear things are one of double worth, And much I might have said, but that my zone Unmanned me: then the Doctors! O to hear The Doctors! O to watch the thirsty plants 735 Imbibing! once or twice I thought to roar, To break my chain, to shake my mane: but thou, Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry! Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my throat; Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet Star-sisters answering under crescent brows; Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek, Where they like swallows coming out of time Will wonder why they came: but hark the bell For dinner, let us go!' And in we streamed Among the columns, pacing staid and still By twos and threes, till all from end to end With beauties every shade of brown and fair In colours gayer than the morning mist, The long hall glittered like a bed of flowers. How might a man not wander from his wits Pierced through with eyes, but that I kept mine own Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams, The second-sight of some Astræan age, Sat compassed with professors: they, the while, Discussed a doubt and tost it to and fro: A clamour thickened, mixt with inmost terms Of art and science: Lady Blanche alone Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, With all her autumn tresses falsely brown, Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat In act to spring. At last a solemn grace Concluded, and we sought the gardens: there One walked reciting by herself, and one In this hand held a volume as to read, And smoothed a petted peacock down with that: Some to a low song oared a shallop by, Or under arches of the marble bridge Hung, shadowed from the heat: some hid and sought In the orange thickets: others tost a ball Above the fountain-jets, and back again With laughter: others lay about the lawns, Of the older sort, and murmured that their May Was passing: what was learning unto them? 736 They wished to marry; they could rule a house; Men hated learned women: but we three Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts Of gentle satire, kin to charity, That harmed not: then day droopt; the chapel bells Called us: we left the walks; we mixt with those Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, Before two streams of light from wall to wall, While the great organ almost burst his pipes, Groaning for power, and rolling through the court A long melodious thunder to the sound Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven A blessing on her labours for the world. Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1117:Tamerton Church-Tower, Or, First Love I. We left the Church at Tamerton In gloomy western air; To greet the day we gallop'd on, A merry-minded pair. The hazy East hot noon did bode; Our horses sniff'd the dawn; We made ten Cornish miles of road Before the dew was gone. We clomb the hill where Lanson's Keep Fronts Dartmoor's distant ridge; Thence trotted South; walk'd down the steep That slants to Gresson Bridge; And paused awhile, where Tamar waits, In many a shining coil, And teeming Devon separates From Cornwall's sorry soil. II. Our English skies contain'd, that Spring, A Caribbean sun; The singing birds forgot to sing, The rivulets to run. For three noons past, the skies had frown'd, Obscured with blighting shades That only mock'd the thirsty ground And unrejoicing glades. To-day, before the noon was nigh, Bright-skirted vapours grew, And on the sky hung languidly; The sky was languid too. Our horses dropp'd their necks, and nosed The dusty wayside grass, Whilst we beneath still boughs reposed And watch'd the water pass. We spoke of plighted Bertha: Frank Shot pebbles in the stream; And I lay by him on the bank, 43 But dreamt no lover's dream. She was a blythe and bashful maid, Much blushing in her glee; Yet gracing all she did and said With sweet sufficiency. ‘Is Blanche as fair?’ ask'd I, who yearn'd To feel my life complete; To taste unselfish pleasures earn'd By service strict and sweet. ‘Well, some say fairer: she'll surprise Your heart with crimson lips; Fat underlids, that hold bright eyes In laughing half-eclipse; Alluring locks, done up with taste Behind her dainty ears; And manners full of wayward haste, Tho' facile as the deer's.’ III. ‘You paint a leaflet, here and there; And not the blossom: tell What mysteries of good and fair These blazon'd letters spell.’ IV. ‘Her mouth and teeth, by Cupid's bow! Are letters spelling 'kiss;' And, witchingly withdrawn below Twin worlds of baby-bliss, Her waist, so soft and small, may mean, 'O, when will some one come To make me catch my breath between His finger and his thumb!'’ V. My life, 'twas like a land of dreams, Where nothing noble throve: Dull seem'd it as to maiden seems The verse that's not of love. 44 ‘See where,’ sigh'd I, ‘the water dim Repeats, with leaden hue, The fervid sun, the cloud's hot rim, The gap of dazzling blue!’ Quoth Frank, ‘I do, and hence foresee And all too plainly scan Some sentimental homily On Duty, Death, or Man.’ ‘'Tis this;’ said I, ‘our senses mar, Ev'n so, sweet Nature's face, Unless by love revived they are, Or lit by heavenly grace. Below the hazel talks the rill; My heart speaks not again; The solemn cloud, the stately hill, I look on each in vain. Sure he for whom no Power shall strike This darkness into day—’ ‘Is damn'd,’ said Frank, who morall'd like The Fool in an old Play. ‘That's true!’ cried I, ‘yet, as the worm That sickens ere it change—’ ‘Or as the pup that nears the term At which pups have the mange— Pooh! Come, Man, let us on,’ he said, ‘For now the storm is nigh!’ And whilst we rode quaint sense we read Within the changing sky. Above us bent a prophet wild, Pointing to hidden harm; Beyond, a magic woman smiled, And wove some wondrous charm; Past that, a censer jetted smoke: Black convolutions roll'd Sunwards, and caught the light, and broke In crowns of shining gold. VI. The gaps of blue shrank fast in span; The long-forgotten breeze, 45 By lazy starts and fits, began To stir the higher trees. At noon, we came to Tavistock; And sunshine still was there, But gloomy Dartmoor seem'd to mock Its weak and yellow glare. The swallows, in the wrathful light, Were pitching up and down; A string of rooks made rapid flight, Due southward, o'er the town, Where, baiting at the Tiger-Inn, We talk'd by windows wide, Of Blanche and all my unseen kin, Who did our coming bide. VII. The heavy sign-board swung and shriek'd, In dark air whirl'd the vane, Blinds flapp'd, dust rose, and, straining, creak'd The shaken window-pane; And, just o'erhead, a huge cloud flung, For earnest of its stores, A few calm drops, that struck among The light-leaved sycamores. Hot to be gone, Frank rose and eyed Dark cloud and swinging branch; But less long'd he to greet his Bride Than I to look on Blanche. Her name, pair'd still with praise at home, Would make my pulses start; The hills between us were become A weight upon my heart. ‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the storm comes not; The northern heavens grow fair.’ ‘Look South,’ said Frank, ‘'tis one wide blot Of thunder-threatening air.’ The string of rooks had travell'd on, Against the southern shroud, And, like some snaky skeleton, Lay twisted in the cloud. 46 ‘No storm to-day!’ said I, ‘for, see, Yon black thing travels south.’ We follow'd soon; our spirits free, Our bodies slaked from drouth. I rode in silence; Frank, with tongue Made lax by too much port, Soliloquising, said or sung After this tipsy sort: ‘Yea, nerves they are the Devil's mesh, And pups begin quite blind, And health is ofttimes in the flesh, And measles in the mind! ‘Foolish and fair was Joan without; Foolish and foul within; High as a hunted pig his snout, She carried a foolish chin. ‘The Boy beheld, and brisk rose he At this badly painted fly: That boys less wise than fish will be Makes many a man to sigh.’ VIII. On, on we toil'd, amidst the blaze From Dartmoor's ridges bare; Beneath the hush'd and scorching haze, And through the twinkling air; Along the endless mountain-side, That seem'd with us to move; Past dreary mine-mouths, far and wide; Huge dross-heap, wheel, and groove; Dark towns by disembowell'd hills, Where swarthy tribes abode, Who, in hard rocks with harder wills, Pursued the crooked lode; Up heights, that seem'd against us match'd; Until, from table-land, Before the teasing midge was hatch'd, We hail'd the southern strand. Then pleasantly, on level ground And through the lighter air, 47 We paced along and breathed around, A merry-minded pair. A western night of even cloud Suck'd in the sultry disk; Bright racks look'd on, a fiery crowd, To seamen boding risk; The late crow wing'd his silent way Across the shadowy East; The gnat danced out his little day, His ceaseless singing ceased; Along the dim horizon round Fled faint electric fires; Blue glow-worms lit the fresher ground By moisture-harbouring briers; Far northward twinkled lonely lights, The peopled vales among; In front, between the gaping heights, The mystic ocean hung. IX. Our weary spirits flagg'd beneath The still and loaded air; We left behind the freër heath, A moody-minded pair. With senses slack and sick of mirth, Tho' near the happy goal, I murmur'd, fearing nought on earth Could quite content the soul: ‘Suppose your love prove such a light As yonder glow-worm's lamp, That gleams, at distance, strong and bright, Approach'd, burns weak and damp. Perchance, by much of bliss aroused, Your heart will pant for more; And then the worm of want lies housed Within the sweet fruit's core! Far worse, if, led by fancy blind, But undeceiv'd by use—’ ‘I dream,’ yawn'd Frank, ‘and wake to find My Goddess a green goose!’ 48 ‘Vain, vain,’ said I, ‘is worldly weal: We faint, within the heart, For good which all we see and feel Foreshadows but in part.’ Frank answer'd, ‘What you faint for, win! Faint not, but forward press. Heav'n proffers all: 'twere grievous sin To live content in less. The Sun rolls by us every day; And it and all things speak To the sinking heart of man, and say, 'Tis wicked to be weak. We would not hear the hated sound; But, by the Lord, we must: If not, the heavy world goes round, And grinds us into dust.’ With each a moral in his mouth, We rein'd our sweating nags, Where quiet Ocean, on the South, Kiss'd Edgecumb's ruddy crags. II I. So subtly love within me wrought, So excellent she seem'd, Daily of Blanche was all my thought, Nightly of Blanche I dream'd; And this was all my wish, and all The work now left for life, To make this Wonder mine, to call This laughing Blanche my Wife. II. I courted her till hope grew bold; Then sought her in her place, And all my passion freely told, Before her blushing face. I kiss'd her twice, I kiss'd her thrice, Thro' tresses and thro' tears; I kiss'd her lips, I kiss'd her eyes, 49 And calm'd her joys and fears. So woo'd I Blanche, and so I sped, And so, with small delay, I and the patient Frank were wed Upon the self-same day. And friends all round kiss'd either Bride, I Frank's, Frank mine; and he Laugh'd as for once we thus defied Love's sweet monopoly. And then we drove by garth and grove; And soon forgot the place Where all the world had look'd shy Love So rudely in the face. III I. The noon was hot and close and still, When, steadying Blanche's hand, I led her down the southern hill, And row'd with her from land. Ere summer's prime that year the wasp Lay gorged within the peach; The tide, as though the sea did gasp, Fell lax upon the beach. Quietly dipp'd the dripping scull, And all beside was calm; But o'er the strange and weary lull No angel waved his palm. The sun was rayless, pale the sky, The distance thick with light: We glided past the fort and by The war-ship's sleeping might. Her paddle stirr'd: without a breeze, A mimic tempest boil'd: The sailors on the silent seas With storm-tuned voices toil'd. I could not toil; I seldom pray'd: What was to do or ask? Love's purple glory round me play'd, Unfed by prayer or task. All perfect my contentment was, 50 For Blanche was all my care; And heaven seem'd only heaven because My goddess would be there. No wafted breeze the ships did strike, No wish unwon moved me; The peace within my soul was like The peace upon the sea. At times, when action sleeps, unstirr'd By any motive gale, A mystic wind, with warning heard, Ruffles life's idle sail. The fancy, then, a fear divines, And, borne on gloomy wings, Sees threats and formidable signs In simply natural things. It smote my heart, how, yesternight, The moon rose in eclipse, And how her maim'd and shapeless light O'erhung the senseless ships. The passion pass'd, as, lightning-lit, Red cloud-scenes shew and close; And soon came wonder at the fit, And smiles and full repose. Again I turn'd me, all devote, To my sweet Idol's shrine; Again I gazed where, on the boat, Her shadow mix'd with mine. II. Cried Frank, who, with his Wife, was there, ‘We dream! sing each a song.’ And he sang first an old, brave air, And pull'd the boat along: ‘Sir Pelles woo'd, in scorn's despite; He cherish'd love's sweet smart; Ettarde proved light; then, like a Knight, He turn'd her from his heart. ‘O, the remorse with which we pay For duties done too well! But conscience gay does grief allay; As all true knights can tell.’ 51 III. ‘Alas, poor Knight!’ cried Blanche, ‘Nay, hear,’ Said Frank, ‘the saddest half!’ And drearily he troll'd, while clear Rose Blanche's puzzled laugh. ‘Sir Lob was drunk; the stars were bright. Within an empty ditch, Sir Lob all night lay right and tight As a Saint within his niche. ‘Now, well, quoth he, goes life with me; I've liquor and to spare; I hate the herd that vulgar be; And, O, the stars are fair! ‘The mill-dam burst: Sir Lob lay sunk In that celestial swound: The mill-stream found the knight dead drunk, And the Jury found him drown'd.’ IV. ‘The tunes are good; the words,’ said I, ‘Are hard to understand.’ And soon I prefaced with a sigh This pagan love-song grand: ‘When Love's bright Ichor fills the veins, Love's Amaranth lights the brow, The Past grows dark, the Future wanes, Before the golden Now. ‘Marc Antony the war-flags furl'd, For Egypt's Queen said, 'Stay: He reck'd not of the worthless world, Well lost by that delay. ‘Quoth Antony, Here set I up My everlasting rest: Leave me to drain Joy's magic cup, To dream on Egypt's breast.’ V. Frank smiled, and said my note was wrong; 52 'Twas neither Man's nor Boy's; And Blanche sang next, some modern song, Of ‘Flowers’ and ‘Fairy Joys.’ As bright disparted skies that break To let a cherub through, So seem'd her mouth: my sight did ache, Glitt'ring with fiery dew; And, in the laugh of her brown eye, My heart, contented so, Lay like the honey-thirsty fly Drows'd in the cactus' glow. Nor heeded I what sang my Saint, Such magic had the sound. The myrtle in her breath made faint The air that hearken'd round. VI. ‘Now, Wife,’ said Frank, ‘to shame our lays, Try you in turn your power; And sing your little song in praise Of Love's selectest flower.’ Her hand felt his: thus sang she then, Submitted to his rule, Tho' shyer than the water-hen On Tamar's shadiest pool. ‘The Myrtle sates with scent the air That flows by Grecian hills; Its fervid leaflets glisten fair By warm Italian rills. The North too has its Lover's-Flower, The glad Forget-me-not; Too bold thro' sunshine, wind, and shower, Too blue to be forgot.’ VII. Pointing far East, Frank said, ‘Do you see Yon porpoise-droves at play?’ We gazed, and saw, with failing glee, Bright lines of spotted spray. Once more the boded terror shook 53 My heart, and made me dumb. ‘To land! to land!’ cried Frank, ‘for, look, The storm, at last, is come!’ Above us, heated fields of mist Precipitated cloud; For shore we pull'd; the swift keel hiss'd; Above us grew the shroud. The pale gull flapp'd the stagnant air; The thunder-drop fell straight; The first wind lifted Blanche's hair; Looking to me she sate. Across the boundless mirror crept, In dark'ning blasts, the squall; And round our terror lightly leapt Mad wavelets, many and small. The oars cast by, convuls'd outflew Our perilous hope the sail. None spoke; all watch'd the waves, that grew Under the splashing hail. With urgent hearts and useless hands, We sate and saw them rise, Coursing to shore in gloomy bands, Below the appalling skies. The wrathful thunder scared the deeps, And where, upon our wake, The sea got up in ghastly heaps, White lines of lightning strake. On, on, with fainting hope we fled, Hard-hunted by the grave; Slow seem'd it, though like wind we sped Over the shouldering wave; In front swift rose the crags, where still A storm of sunshine pour'd; At last, beneath the southern hill, The pitiless breakers roar'd. O, bolt foreseen before it burst! O, chastening hard to bear! O, cup of sweetness quite revers'd, And turn'd to void despair! Blanche in fear swooning, I let go The helm; we struck the ground; The sea fell in from stern to prow, 54 And Blanche, my Bride, was drown'd. What guilt was hers? But God is great, And all that may be known To each of any other's fate Is, that it helps his own. IV I. In a swift vortex go the years, Each swifter than the last, And seasons four their set careers Pursued, and somehow pass'd. The spirit of Spring, this year, was quench'd With clouds and wind and rain; All night the gust-blown torrent drench'd The gloomy window-pane; Against the pane the flapping blind Flapp'd ever, dismally; And ever, above the rain and wind, Sounded the dismal sea. The billows, like some guilty crew Devour'd by vain remorse, Dash'd up the beach, sighing withdrew, And mix'd, with murmurs hoarse. The morning was a cheerless sight, Amongst the turbid skies; But sweet was the relief of light Within my restless eyes; For then I rose to prayer and toil, Forgat the ocean's moan, Or faced the dizzy crash and coil That drown'd its mournfuller tone. But never, when the tide drew back, Trod I the weltering strand; For horribly my single track Pursued me in the sand. II. One morn I watch'd the rain subside; And then fared singly forth, 55 Below the clouds, till eve to ride From Edgecumb to the North. Once, only once, I paused upon The sea-transcending height, And turn'd to gaze: far breakers shone, Slow gleams of silent light. Into my horse I struck the spur; Sad was the soul in me; Sore were my lids with tears for her Who slept beneath the sea. But soon I sooth'd my startled horse, And check'd that sudden grief, And look'd abroad on crag and gorse And Dartmoor's cloudy reef. Far forth the air was dark and clear, The crags acute and large, The clouds uneven, black, and near, And ragged at the marge. The spider, in his rainy mesh, Shook not, but, as I rode, The opposing air, sweet, sharp, and fresh, Against my hot lids flow'd. Peat-cutters pass'd me, carrying tools; Hawks glimmer'd on the wing; The ground was glad with grassy pools, And brooklets galloping; And sparrows chirp'd, with feathers spread, And dipp'd and drank their fill, Where, down its sandy channel, fled The lessening road-side rill. III. I cross'd the furze-grown table-land, And near'd the northern vales, That lay perspicuously plann'd In lesser hills and dales. Then rearward, in a slow review, Fell Dartmoor's jagged lines; Around were dross-heaps, red and blue, Old shafts of gutted mines, Impetuous currents copper-stain'd, 56 Wheels stream-urged with a roar, Sluice-guiding grooves, strong works that strain'd With freight of upheaved ore. And then, the train, with shock on shock, Swift rush and birth-scream dire, Grew from the bosom of the rock, And pass'd in noise and fire. With brazen throb, with vital stroke, It went, far heard, far seen, Setting a track of shining smoke Against the pastoral green. Then, bright drops, lodged in budding trees, Were loos'd in sudden showers, Touch'd by the novel western breeze, Friend of the backward flowers. Then rose the Church at Tavistock, The rain still falling there; But sunny Dartmoor seem'd to mock The gloom with cheerful glare. About the West the gilt vane reel'd And pois'd; and, with sweet art, The sudden, jangling changes peal'd Until, around my heart, Conceits of brighter times, of times The brighter for past storms, Clung thick as bees, when brazen chimes Call down the hiveless swarms. IV. I rested at the Tiger Inn, There half-way on my ride, And mused with joy of friends and kin Who did my coming bide. The Vicar, in his sombre wear That shone about the knees, Before me stood, his aspect fair With godly memories. I heard again his kind ‘Good-bye: Christ speed and keep thee still From frantic passions, for they die And leave a frantic will.’ 57 My fond, old Tutor, learn'd and meek! A soul, in strangest truth, As wide as Asia and as weak; Not like his daughter Ruth. A Girl of fullest heart she was; Her spirit's lovely flame Nor dazzled nor surprised, because It always burn'd the same; And in the maiden path she trod Fair was the wife foreshown, A Mary in the house of God, A Martha in her own. Charms for the sight she had; but these Were tranquil, grave, and chaste, And all too beautiful to please A rash, untutor'd taste. V. In love with home, I rose and eyed The rainy North; but there The distant hill-top, in its pride, Adorn'd the brilliant air: And, as I pass'd from Tavistock, The scatter'd dwellings white, The Church, the golden weather-cock, Were whelm'd in happy light; The children 'gan the sun to greet, With song and senseless shout; The lambs to skip, their dams to bleat; In Tavy leapt the trout; Across a fleeting eastern cloud, The splendid rainbow sprang, And larks, invisible and loud, Within its zenith sang. VI. So lay the Earth that saw the skies Grow clear and bright above, As the repentant spirit lies In God's forgiving love. 58 The lark forsook the waning day, And all loud songs did cease; The Robin, from a wither'd spray, Sang like a soul at peace. Far to the South, in sunset glow'd The peaks of Dartmoor ridge, And Tamar, full and tranquil, flow'd Beneath the Gresson Bridge. There, conscious of the numerous noise Of rain-awaken'd rills, And gathering deep and sober joys From the heart-enlarging hills, I sat, until the first white star Appear'd, with dewy rays, And the fair moon began to bar With shadows all the ways. O, well is thee, whate'er thou art, And happy shalt thou be, If thou hast known, within thy heart, The peace that came to me. O, well is thee, if aught shall win Thy spirit to confess, God proffers all, 'twere grievous sin To live content in less! VII. I mounted, now, my patient nag; And scaled the easy steep; And soon beheld the quiet flag On Lanson's solemn Keep. And now, whenas the waking lights Bespake the valley'd Town, A child o'ertook me, on the heights, In cap and russet gown. It was an alms-taught scholar trim, Who, on her happy way, Sang to herself the morrow's hymn; For this was Saturday. ‘Saint Stephen, stoned, nor grieved nor groan'd: 'Twas all for his good gain; 59 For Christ him blest, till he confess'd A sweet content in pain. ‘Then Christ His cross is no way loss, But even a present boon: Of His dear blood fair shines a flood On heaven's eternal noon.’ VIII. My sight, once more, was dim for her Who slept beneath the sea, As on I sped, without the spur, By homestead, heath, and lea. Beside my path the moon kept pace, In meek and brilliant power, And lit, ere long, the eastern face Of Tamerton Church-tower. ~ Coventry Patmore,

1118:He gazed and gazed and gazed and gazed, Amazed, amazed, amazed, amazed. Like (7) 2 Saul I. Said Abner, ``At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, ``Kiss my cheek, wish me well!'' Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek. And he, ``Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent, ``Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent ``Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, ``Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. ``For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, ``Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, ``To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife, ``And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. II. ``Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew ``On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue ``Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild beat ``Were now raging to torture the desert!'' III.                      Then I, as was meet, Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped; I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid But spoke, ``Here is David, thy servant!'' And no voice replied. At the first I saw nought but the blackness but soon I descried A something more black than the blackness-the vast, the upright Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sight Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof, showed Saul. IV. He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side; He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs, Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come With the spring-time,-so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. V. Then I tuned my harp,-took off the lilies we twine round its chords Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon-tide-those sunbeams like swords! And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star Into eve and the blue far above us,-so blue and so far! VI. -Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate Till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight To set the quick jerboa amusing outside his sand house- There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse! God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. VII. Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand And grow one in the sense of this world's life.-And then, the last song When the dead man is praised on his journey-``Bear, bear him along ``With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm-seeds not here ``To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier. ``Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!''-And then, the glad chaunt Of the marriage,-first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.-And then, the great march Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch Nought can break; who shall harm them, our friends?-Then, the chorus intoned As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned. VIII. And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan dart From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start, All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, As I sang,- IX.      ``Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste, ``Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. ``Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, ``The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock ``Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, ``And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. ``And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, ``And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine, ``And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell ``That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. ``How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ ``All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy! ``Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard ``When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? ``Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung ``The low song of the nearly-departed, and bear her faint tongue ``Joining in while it could to the witness, `Let one more attest, `` `I have lived, seen God's hand thro'a lifetime, and all was for best'? ``Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest. ``And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew ``Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true: ``And the friends of thy boyhood-that boyhood of wonder and hope, ``Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,- ``Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine; ``And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine! ``On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe ``That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the gold go) ``High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,-all ``Brought to blaze on the head of one creature-King Saul!'' X. And lo, with that leap of my spirit,-heart, hand, harp and voice, Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice Saul's fame in the light it was made for-as when, dare I say, The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, And up soareth the cherubim-chariot-``Saul!'' cried I, and stopped, And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone A year's snow bound about for a breastplate,-leaves grasp of the sheet? Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold- Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest-all hail, there they are! -Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest For their food in the ardours of summer. One long shudder thrilled All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. What was gone, what remained? All to traverse, 'twixt hope and despair; Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right hand Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand To their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul as before. I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean-a sun's slow decline Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine Base with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm folded arm O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. XI.                      What spell or what charm, (For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge To sustain him where song had restored him?-Song filled to the verge His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, on what fields, Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? He saith, ``It is good;'' still he drinks not: he lets me praise life, Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. XII.                       Then fancies grew rife Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep Fed in silence-above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky: And I laughed-``Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, ``Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, ``Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show ``Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know! ``Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, ``And the prudence that keeps what men strive for.'' And now these old trains Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus- XIII.                         ``Yea, my King,'' I began-``thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring ``From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute: ``In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. ``Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,-how its stem trembled first ``Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler then safely outburst ``The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn ``Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn, ``E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight, ``When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight ``Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and branch ``Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall staunch ``Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. ``Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! ``By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy ``More indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy. ``Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast done ``Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun ``Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface, ``Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace ``The results of his past summer-prime'-so, each ray of thy will, ``Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill ``Thy whole people, the countless, with ardour, till they too give forth ``A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the North ``With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past! ``But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last: ``As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height ``So with man-so his power and his beauty for ever take flight. ``No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years! ``Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's! ``Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb-bid arise ``A grey mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies, ``Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would ye know? ``Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go ``In great characters cut by the scribe,-Such was Saul, so he did; ``With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,- ``For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend, ``In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend ``(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record ``With the gold of the graver, Saul's story,-the statesman's great word ``Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's a-wave ``With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave: ``So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part ``In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!'' XIV. And behold while I sang but O Thou who didst grant me that day, And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay, Carry on and complete an adventure,-my shield and my sword In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,- Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavour And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever On the new stretch of heaven above me-till, mighty to save, Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance-God's throne from man's grave! Let me tell out my tale to its ending-my voice to my heart Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part, As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! For I wake in the grey dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. XV.                    I say then,-my song While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong Made a proffer of good to console him-he slowly resumed His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right-hand replumed His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes Of his turban, and see-the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore, And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. He is Saul, ye remember in glory,-ere error had bent The broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spent Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose, To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pile Of his armour and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile, And sat out my singing,-one arm round the tent-prop, to raise His bent head, and the other hung slack-till I touched on the praise I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots which please To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know If the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slow Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' my hair The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my bead, with kind power- All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine- And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign? I yearned-``Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, ``I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; ``I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, ``As this moment,-had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!'' XVI. Then the truth came upon me. No harp more-no song more! outbroke- XVII. ``I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and I spoke: ``I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain ``And pronounced on the rest of his hand-work-returned him again ``His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw: ``I report, as a man may of God's work-all's love, yet all's law. ``Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked ``To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. ``Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. ``Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care! ``Do I task any faculty highest, to image success? ``I but open my eyes,-and perfection, no more and no less, ``In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God ``In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. ``And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew ``(With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) ``The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete, ``As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet. ``Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, ``I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. ``There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, ``I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think) ``Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst ``E'en the Giver in one gift.-Behold, I could love if I durst! ``But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake ``God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake. ``-What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, ``Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal? ``In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? ``Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, ``That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift? ``Here, the creature surpass the Creator,-the end, what Began? ``Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, ``And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? ``Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, ``To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower ``Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, ``Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole? ``And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) ``These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? ``Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height ``This perfection,-succeed with life's day-spring, death's minute of night? ``Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake, ``Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now,-and bid him awake ``From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set ``Clear and safe in new light and new life,-a new harmony yet ``To be run, and continued, and ended-who knows?-or endure! ``The man taught enough, by life's dream, of the rest to make sure; ``By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, ``And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. XVIII. ``I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive: ``In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. ``All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer ``As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. ``From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth: ``I will?-the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth ``To look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dare ``Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair? ``This;-'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do! ``See the King-I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through. ``Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, ``To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would-knowing which, ``I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now! ``Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou-so wilt thou! ``So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown- ``And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down ``One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath, ``Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death! ``As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved ``Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved! ``He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak. ``'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seek ``In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be ``A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me, ``Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever: a Hand like this hand ``Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!'' XIX. I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware: I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, As a runner beset by the populace famished for news- Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews; And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but I fainted not, For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth- Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth; In the gathered intensity brought to the grey of the hills; In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills; In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still Though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill That rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe: E'en the serpent that slid away silent,-he felt the new law. The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers: And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, With their obstinate, all but hushed voices-``E'en so, it is so!'' The jumping hare. One of the three cities of Refuge. * A brook in Jerusalem. ~ Robert Browning, Rhyme for a Child Viewing a Naked Venus in a Painting of 'The Judgement of Paris' ,

1119:The Kalevala - Rune Iii WAINAMOINEN AND YOUKAHAINEN. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Passed his years in full contentment, On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala, Singing ever wondrous legends, Songs of ancient wit and wisdom, Chanting one day, then a second, Singing in the dusk of evening, Singing till the dawn of morning, Now the tales of old-time heroes, Tales of ages long forgotten, Now the legends of creation, Once familiar to the children, By our children sung no longer, Sung in part by many heroes, In these mournful days of evil, Evil days our race befallen. Far and wide the story travelled, Far away men spread the knowledge Of the chanting of the hero, Of the song of Wainamoinen; To the South were heard the echoes, All of Northland heard the story. Far away in dismal Northland, Lived the singer, Youkahainen, Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, Once upon a time when feasting, Dining with his friends and fellows, Came upon his ears the story That there lived a sweeter singer, On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala, Better skilled in chanting legends, Better skilled than Youkahainen, Better than the one that taught him. Straightway then the bard grew angry, 23 Envy rose within his bosom, Envy of this Wainamoinen, Famed to be a sweeter singer; Hastes he angry to his mother, To his mother, full of wisdom, Vows that he will southward hasten, Hie him southward and betake him To the dwellings of Wainola, To the cabins of the Northland, There as bard to vie in battle, With the famous Wainamoinen. 'Nay,' replies the anxious father, 'Do not go to Kalevala.' 'Nay,' replies the fearful mother, 'Go not hence to Wainamoinen, There with him to offer battle; He will charm thee with his singing Will bewitch thee in his anger, He will drive thee back dishonored, Sink thee in the fatal snow-drift, Turn to ice thy pliant fingers, Turn to ice thy feet and ankles.' These the words of Youkahainen: Good the judgement of a father, Better still, a mother's counsel, Best of all one's own decision. I will go and face the minstrel, Challenge him to sing in contest, Challenge him as bard to battle, Sing to him my sweet-toned measures, Chant to him my oldest legends, Chant to him my garnered wisdom, That this best of boasted singers, That this famous bard of Suomi, Shall be worsted in the contest, Shall become a hapless minstrel; By my songs shall I transform him, That his feet shall be as flint-stone, And as oak his nether raiment; And this famous, best of singers, Thus bewitched, shall carry ever, In his heart a stony burden, 24 On his shoulder bow of marble, On his hand a flint-stone gauntlet, On his brow a stony visor.' Then the wizard, Youkahainen, Heeding not advice paternal, Heeding not his mother's counsel, Leads his courser from his stable, Fire outstreaming from his nostrils, From his hoofs, the sparks outshooting, Hitches to his sledge, the fleet-foot, To his golden sledge, the courser, Mounts impetuous his snow-sledge, Leaps upon the hindmost cross-bench, Strikes his courser with his birch-whip, With his birch-whip, pearl-enamelled. Instantly the prancing racer Springs away upon his journey; On he, restless, plunges northward, All day long be onward gallops, All the next day, onward, onward, So the third from morn till evening, Till the third day twilight brings him To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala. As it happened, Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, the magician, Rode that sunset on the highway, Silently for pleasure driving Down Wainola's peaceful meadows, O'er the plains of Kalevala. Youkahainen, young and fiery, Urging still his foaming courser, Dashes down upon the singer, Does not turn aside in meeting, Meeting thus in full collision; Shafts are driven tight together, Hames and collars wedged and tangled, Tangled are the reins and traces. Thus perforce they make a stand-still, Thus remain and well consider; Water drips from hame and collar, Vapors rise from both their horses. 25 Speaks the minstrel, Wainamoinen: 'Who art thou, and whence? Thou comest Driving like a stupid stripling, Wainamoinen and Youkahainen. Careless, dashing down upon me. Thou hast ruined shafts and traces; And the collar of my racer Thou hast shattered into ruin, And my golden sleigh is broken, Box and runners dashed to pieces.' Youkahainen then make answer, Spake at last the words that follow: 'I am youthful Youkahainen, But make answer first, who thou art, Whence thou comest, where thou goest, From what lowly tribe descended?' Wainamolinen, wise and ancient, Answered thus the youthful minstrel: 'If thou art but Youkahainen, Thou shouldst give me all the highway; I am many years thy senior.' Then the boastful Youkahainen Spake again to Wainamoinen: 'Young or ancient, little matter, Little consequence the age is; He that higher stands in wisdom, He whose knowledge is the greater, He that is the sweeter singer, He alone shall keep the highway, And the other take the roadside. Art thou ancient Wainamoinen, Famous sorcerer and minstrel? Let us then begin our singing, Let us sing our ancient legends, Let us chant our garnered wisdom, That the one may hear the other, That the one may judge the other, In a war of wizard sayings.' Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Thus replied in modest accents: 'What I know is very little, Hardly is it worth the singing, 26 Neither is my singing wondrous: All my days I have resided In the cold and dreary Northland, In a desert land enchanted, In my cottage home for ayes; All the songs that I have gathered, Are the cuckoo's simple measures, Some of these I may remember; But since thou perforce demandest, I accept thy boastful challenge. Tell me now, my golden youngster, What thou knowest more than others, Open now thy store of wisdom.' Thus made answer Youkahainen, Lapland's young and fiery minstrel: 'Know I many bits of learning This I know in perfect clearness: Every roof must have a chimney, Every fire-place have a hearth-stone; Lives of seal are free and merry, Merry is the life of walrus, Feeding on incautious salmon, Daily eating perch and whiting; Whitings live in quiet shallows, Salmon love the level bottoms; Spawns the pike in coldest weather, And defies the storms of winter. Slowly perches swim in Autumn, Wry-backed, hunting deeper water, Spawn in shallows in the summer, Bounding on the shore of ocean. Should this wisdom seem too little, I can tell thee other matters, Sing thee other wizard sayings: All the Northmen plow with reindeer, Mother-horses plow the Southland, Inner Lapland plows with oxen; All the trees on Pisa-mountain, Know I well in all their grandeur; On the Horna-rock are fir-trees, Fir-trees growing tall and slender; Slender grow the trees on mountains. 27 Three, the water-falls in number, Three in number, inland oceans, Three in number, lofty mountains, Shooting to the vault of heaven. Hallapyora's near to Yaemen, Katrakoski in Karyala; Imatra, the falling water, Tumbles, roaring, into Wuoksi.' Then the ancient Wainimoinen: 'Women's tales and children's wisdom Do not please a bearded hero, Hero, old enough for wedlock; Tell the story of creation, Tell me of the world's beginning, Tell me of the creatures in it, And philosophize a little.' Then the youthful Youkahainen Thus replied to Wainamoinen: 'Know I well the titmouse-fountains, Pretty birdling is the titmouse; And the viper, green, a serpent; Whitings live in brackish waters; Perches swim in every river; Iron rusts, and rusting weakens; Bitter is the taste of umber; Boiling water is malicious; Fire is ever full of danger; First physician, the Creator; Remedy the oldest, water; Magic is the child of sea-foam; God the first and best adviser; Waters gush from every mountain; Fire descended first from heaven; Iron from the rust was fashioned; Copper from the rocks created; Marshes are of lands the oldest; First of all the trees, the willow; Fir-trees were the first of houses; Hollowed stones the first of kettles.' Now the ancient Wainamoinen Thus addresses Youkahainen: 'Canst thou give me now some wisdom, 28 Is this nonsense all thou knowest?' Youkahainen thus made answer: 'I can tell thee still a trifle, Tell thee of the times primeval, When I plowed the salt-sea's bosom, When I raked the sea-girt islands, When I dug the salmon-grottoes, Hollowed out the deepest caverns, When I all the lakes created, When I heaped the mountains round them, When I piled the rocks about them. I was present as a hero, Sixth of wise and ancient heroes, Seventh of all primeval heroes, When the heavens were created, When were formed the ether-spaces, When the sky was crystal-pillared, When was arched the beauteous rainbow, When the Moon was placed in orbit, When the silver Sun was planted, When the Bear was firmly stationed, And with stars the heavens were sprinkled.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Thou art surely prince of liars, Lord of all the host of liars; Never wert thou in existence, Surely wert thou never present, When was plowed the salt-sea's bosom, When were raked the sea-girt islands, When were dug the salmon-grottoes, When were hollowed out the caverns, When the lakes were all created, When were heaped the mountains round them, When the rocks were piled about them. Thou wert never seen or heard of When the earth was first created, When were made the ether-spaces, When the air was crystal-pillared, When the Moon was placed in orbit, When the silver Sun was planted, When the Bear was firmly stationed, When the skies with stars were sprinkled.' 29 Then in anger Youkahainen Answered ancient Wainamoinen: 'Then, sir, since I fail in wisdom, With the sword I offer battle; Come thou, famous bard and minstrel, Thou the ancient wonder-singer, Let us try our strength with broadswords, let our blades be fully tested.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Not thy sword and not thy wisdom, Not thy prudence, nor thy cunning, Do I fear a single moment. Let who may accept thy challenge, Not with thee, a puny braggart, Not with one so vain and paltry, Will I ever measure broadswords.' Then the youthful Youkahainen, Mouth awry and visage sneering, Shook his golden locks and answered: 'Whoso fears his blade to measure, Fears to test his strength at broadswords, Into wild-boar of the forest, Swine at heart and swine in visage, Singing I will thus transform him; I will hurl such hero-cowards, This one hither, that one thither, Stamp him in the mire and bedding, In the rubbish of the stable.' Angry then grew Wainamoinen, Wrathful waxed, and fiercely frowning, Self-composed he broke his silence, And began his wondrous singing. Sang he not the tales of childhood, Children's nonsense, wit of women, Sang he rather bearded heroes, That the children never heard of, That the boys and maidens knew not Known but half by bride and bridegroom, Known in part by many heroes, In these mournful days of evil, Evil times our race befallen. Grandly sang wise Wainamoinen, 30 Till the copper-bearing mountains, And the flinty rocks and ledges Heard his magic tones and trembled; Mountain cliffs were torn to pieces, All the ocean heaved and tumbled; And the distant hills re-echoed. Lo! the boastful Youkahainen Is transfixed in silent wonder, And his sledge with golden trimmings Floats like brushwood on the billows; Sings his braces into reed-grass, Sings his reins to twigs of willow, And to shrubs his golden cross-bench. Lo! his birch-whip, pearl-enameled, Floats a reed upon the border; Lo! his steed with golden forehead, Stands a statue on the waters; Hames and traces are as fir-boughs, And his collar, straw and sea-grass. Still the minstrel sings enchantment, Sings his sword with golden handle, Sings it into gleam of lightning, Hangs it in the sky above him; Sings his cross-bow, gaily painted, To a rainbow o'er the ocean; Sings his quick and feathered arrows Into hawks and screaming eagles; Sings his dog with bended muzzle, Into block of stone beside him; Sings his cap from off his forehead, Sings it into wreaths of vapor; From his hands he sings his gauntlets Into rushes on the waters; Sings his vesture, purple-colored, Into white clouds in the heavens; Sings his girdle, set with jewels, Into twinkling stars around him; And alas! for Youkahainen, Sings him into deeps of quick-sand; Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, In his torture, sinks the wizard, To his belt in mud and water. 31 Now it was that Youkahainen Comprehended but too clearly What his folly, what the end was, Of the journey he had ventured, Vainly he had undertaken For the glory of a contest With the grand, old Wainamoinen. When at last young Youkahainen, Pohyola's old and sorry stripling, Strives his best to move his right foot, But alas! the foot obeys not; When he strives to move his left foot, Lo! he finds it turned to flint-stone. Thereupon sad Youkahainen, In the deeps of desperation, And in earnest supplication, Thus addresses Wainamoinen: 'O thou wise and worthy minstrel, Thou the only true, magician, Cease I pray thee thine enchantment,. Only turn away thy magic, Let me leave this slough of horror, Loose me from this stony prison, Free me from this killing torment, I will pay a golden ransom.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'What the ransom thou wilt give me If I cease from mine enchantment, If I turn away my magic, Lift thee from thy slough of horror, Loose thee from thy stony prison, Free thee from thy killing torment?' Answered youthful Youkahainen: 'Have at home two magic cross-bows, Pair of bows of wondrous power, One so light a child can bend it, Only strength can bend the other, Take of these the one that pleases.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Do not wish thy magic cross-bows, Have a few of such already, Thine to me are worse than useless 32 I have bows in great abundance, Bows on every nail and rafter, Bows that laugh at all the hunters, Bows that go themselves a-hunting.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Sang alas! poor Youkahainen Deeper into mud and water, Deeper in the slough of torment. Youkahainen thus made answer: 'Have at home two magic shallops, Beautiful the boats and wondrous; One rides light upon the ocean, One is made for heavy burdens; Take of these the one that pleases.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Do not wish thy magic shallops, Have enough of such already; All my bays are full of shallops, All my shores are lined with shallops, Some before the winds are sailors, Some were built to sail against them.' Still the Wainola bard and minstrel Sings again poor Youkahainen Deeper, deeper into torment, Into quicksand to his girdle, Till the Lapland bard in anguish Speaks again to Wainamoinen: 'Have at home two magic stallions, One a racer, fleet as lightning, One was born for heavy burdens; Take of these the one that pleases.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Neither do I wish thy stallions, Do not need thy hawk-limbed stallions, Have enough of these already; Magic stallions swarm my stables, Eating corn at every manger, Broad of back to hold the water, Water on each croup in lakelets.' Still the bard of Kalevala Sings the hapless Lapland minstrel Deeper, deeper into torment, 33 To his shoulders into water. Spake again young Youkahainen: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Thou the only true magician, Cease I pray thee thine enchantment, Only turn away thy magic, I will give thee gold abundant, Countless stores of shining silver; From the wars my father brought it, Brought it from the hard-fought battles.' Spake the wise, old Wainamoinen: 'For thy gold I have no longing, Neither do I wish thy silver, Have enough of each already; Gold abundant fills my chambers, On each nail hang bags of silver, Gold that glitters in the sunshine, Silver shining in the moonlight.' Sank the braggart, Youkahainen, Deeper in his slough of torment, To his chin in mud and water, Ever praying, thus beseeching: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Greatest of the old magicians, Lift me from this pit of horror, From this prison-house of torture; I will give thee all my corn-fields, Give thee all my corn in garners, Thus my hapless life to ransom, Thus to gain eternal freedom.' Wainamoinen thus made answer: 'Take thy corn to other markets, Give thy garners to the needy; I have corn in great abundance, Fields have I in every quarter, Corn in all my fields is growing; One's own fields are always richer, One's own grain is much the sweeter.' Lapland's young and reckless minstrel, Sorrow-laden, thus enchanted, Deeper sinks in mud and water, Fear-enchained and full of anguish, 34 In the mire, his beard bedrabbled, Mouth once boastful filled with sea-weed, In the grass his teeth entangled, Youkahainen thus beseeches: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Wisest of the wisdom-singers, Cease at last thine incantations, Only turn away thy magic, And my former life restore me, Lift me from this stifling torment, Free mine eyes from sand and water, I will give thee sister, Aino, Fairest daughter of my mother, Bride of thine to be forever, Bride of thine to do thy pleasure, Sweep the rooms within thy cottage, Keep thy dwelling-place in order, Rinse for thee the golden platters, Spread thy couch with finest linens, For thy bed, weave golden covers, Bake for thee the honey-biscuit.' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Finds at last the wished-for ransom, Lapland's young and fairest daughter, Sister dear of Youkahainen; Happy he, that he has won him, In his age a beauteous maiden, Bride of his to be forever, Pride and joy of Kalevala. Now the happy Wainamoinen, Sits upon the rock of gladness, Joyful on the rock of music, Sings a little, sings and ceases, Sings again, and sings a third time, Thus to break the spell of magic, Thus to lessen the enchantment, Thus the potent charm to banish. As the magic spell is broken, Youkahainen, sad, but wiser, Drags his feet from out the quicksand, Lifts his beard from out the water, From the rocks leads forth his courser, 35 Brings his sledge back from the rushes, Calls his whip back from the ocean, Sets his golden sledge in order, Throws himself upon the cross-bench, Snaps his whip and hies him homeward, Hastens homeward, heavy-hearted, Sad indeed to meet his mother, Aino's mother, gray and aged. Careless thus be hastens homeward, Nears his home with noise and bustle, Reckless drives against the pent-house, Breaks the shafts against the portals, Breaks his handsome sledge in pieces. Then his mother, quickly guessing, Would have chided him for rashness, But the father interrupted: 'Wherefore dost thou break thy snow-sledge, Wherefore dash thy thills in fragments, Wherefore comest home so strangely, Why this rude and wild behavior?' Now alas! poor Youkahainen, Cap awry upon his forehead, Falls to weeping, broken-hearted, Head depressed and mind dejected, Eyes and lips expressing sadness, Answers not his anxious father. Then the mother quickly asked him, Sought to find his cause for sorrow: 'Tell me, first-born, why thou weepest, Why thou weepest, heavy-hearted, Why thy mind is so dejected, Why thine eyes express such sadness.' Youkahainen then made answer: 'Golden mother, ever faithful, Cause there is to me sufficient, Cause enough in what has happened, Bitter cause for this my sorrow, Cause for bitter tears and murmurs: All my days will pass unhappy, Since, O mother of my being, I have promised beauteous Aino, Aino, thy beloved daughter, 36 Aino, my devoted sister, To decrepit Wainamoinen, Bride to be to him forever, Roof above him, prop beneath him, Fair companion at his fire-side.' Joyful then arose the mother, Clapped her hands in glee together, Thus addressing Youkahainen: 'Weep no more, my son beloved, Thou hast naught to cause thy weeping, Hast no reason for thy sorrow, Often I this hope have cherished; Many years have I been praying That this mighty bard and hero, Wise and valiant Wainamoinen, Spouse should be to beauteous Aino, Son-in-law to me, her mother.' But the fair and lovely maiden, Sister dear of Youkahainen, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, On the threshold wept and lingered, Wept all day and all the night long, Wept a second, then a third day, Wept because a bitter sorrow On her youthful heart had fallen. Then the gray-haired mother asked her: 'Why this weeping, lovely Aino? Thou hast found a noble suitor, Thou wilt rule his spacious dwelling, At his window sit and rest thee, Rinse betimes his golden platters, Walk a queen within his dwelling.' Thus replied the tearful Aino: 'Mother dear, and all-forgiving, Cause enough for this my sorrow, Cause enough for bitter weeping: I must loose my sunny tresses, Tresses beautiful and golden, Cannot deck my hair with jewels, Cannot bind my head with ribbons, All to be hereafter hidden Underneath the linen bonnet 37 That the wife. must wear forever; Weep at morning, weep at evening, Weep alas! for waning beauty, Childhood vanished, youth departed, Silver sunshine, golden moonlight, Hope and pleasure of my childhood, Taken from me now forever, And so soon to be forgotten At the tool-bench of my brother, At the window of my sister, In the cottage of my father.' Spake again the gray-haired mother To her wailing daughter Aino: 'Cease thy sorrow, foolish maiden, By thy tears thou art ungrateful, Reason none for thy repining, Not the slightest cause for weeping; Everywhere the silver sunshine Falls as bright on other households; Not alone the moonlight glimmers Through thy father's open windows, On the work-bench of thy brother; Flowers bloom in every meadow, Berries grow on every mountain; Thou canst go thyself and find them, All the day long go and find them; Not alone thy brother's meadows Grow the beauteous vines and flowers; Not alone thy father's mountains Yield the ripe, nutritious berries; Flowers bloom in other meadows, Berries grow on other mountains, There as here, my lovely Aino.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1120:The Temple Of Fame In that soft season, when descending show'rs Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs; When op'ning buds salute the welcome day, And earth relenting feels the genial day, As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest, And love itself was banish'd from my breast, (What time the morn mysterious visions brings, While purer slumbers spread their golden wings) A train of phantoms in wild order rose, And, join'd, this intellectual sense compose. I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies; The whole creation open to my eyes: In air self-balanc'd hung the globe below, Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow; Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen, There tow'ry cities, and the forests green: Here sailing ships delight the wand'ring eyes: There trees, and intermingled temples rise; Now a clear sun the shining scene displays, The transient landscape now in clouds decays. O'er the wide Prospect as I gaz'd around, Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound, Like broken thunders that at distance roar, Then gazing up, a glorious pile beheld, Whose tow'ring summit ambient clouds conceal'd. High on a rock of Ice the structure lay, Steep its ascent, and slipp'ry was the way; The wond'rous rock like Parian marble shone, And seem'd, to distant sight, of solid stone. Inscriptions here of various Names I view'd, The greater part by hostile time subdu'd; Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past, And Poets once had promis'd they should last. Some fresh engrav'd appear'd of Wits renown'd; I look'd again, nor could their trace be found. Critics I saw, that other names deface, And fix their own, with labour, in their place: Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd, Or disappear'd, and left the first behind. 245 Nor was the work impair'd by storms alone, But felt th' approaches of too warm a sun; For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays Not more by Envy than excess of Praise. Yet part no injuries of heav'n could feel, Like crystal faithful to th' graving steel: The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade, Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade. Their names inscrib'd, unnumber'd ages past From time's first birth, with time itself shall last; These ever new, nor subject to decays, Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days. So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of frost) Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast; Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away, And on th' impassive ice the light'nings play; Eternal snows the growing mass supply, Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent sky: As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears, The gather'd winter of a thousand years. On this foundation Fame's high temple stands; Stupendous pile! not rear'd by mortal hands. Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld, Or elder Babylon, its frame excell'd. Four faces had the dome, and ev'ry face Of various structure, but of equal grace: Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high, Salute the diff'rent quarters of the sky. Here fabled Chiefs in darker ages born, Or Worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn, Who cities rais'd, or tam'd a monstrous race; The walls in venerable order grace: Heroes in animated marble frown, And Legislators seem to think in stone. Westward, a sumptuous frontispiece appear'd, On Doric pillars of white marble rear'd, Crown'd with an architrave of antique mold, And sculpture rising on the roughen'd mold, In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld, And Perseus dreadful with Minerva's shield: There great Alcides stooping with his toil, Rests on his club, and holds th' Hesperian spoil. 246 Here Orpheus sings; trees moving to the sound Start from their roots, and form a shade around: Amphion there the loud creating lyre Strikes, and beholds a sudden Thebes aspire! Cithaeron's echoes answer to his call, And half the mountain rolls into a wall: There might you see the length'ning spires ascend, The domes swell up, the wid'ning arches bend, The growing tow'rs, like exhalations rise, And the huge columns heave into the skies. The Eastern front was glorious to behold, With di'mond flaming, and Barbaric gold. There Ninus shone, who spread th' Assyrian fame, And the great founder of the Persian name: There in long robes the royal Magi stand, Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand, The sage Chaldaeans rob'd in white appear'd, And Brahmans, deep in desert woods rever'd. These stop'd the moon, and call'd th' unbody'd shades To midnight banquets in the glimm'ring glades; Made visionary fabrics round them rise, And airy spectres skim before their eyes; Of Talismans and Sigils knew the pow'r, And careful watch'd the Planetary hour. Superior, and alone, Confucius stood, Who taught that useful science, to be good. But on the South, a long majestic race Of AEgypt's Priests the gilded niches grace, Who measur'd earth, describ'd the starry spheres, And trac'd the long records of lunar years. High on his car Sesostris struck my view, Whom scepter'd slaves in golden harness drew: His hands a bow and pointed javelin hold; His giant limbs are arm'd in scales of gold. Between the statues Obelisks were plac'd, And the learn'd walls with Hieroglyphics grac'd. Of Gothic structure was the Northern side, O'erwrought with ornaments of barb'rous pride. There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crown'd, And Runic characters were grav'd around. There sate Zamolxis with erected eyes, And Odin here in mimic trances dies. 247 There on rude iron columns, smear'd with blood, The horrid forms of Scythian heroes stood, Druids and Bards (their once loud harps unstrung) And youths that died to be by Poets sung. These and a thousand more of doubtful fame, To whom old fables gave a lasting name, In ranks adorn'd the Temple's outward face; The wall in lustre and effect like Glass, Which o'er each object casting various dyes, Enlarges some, and others multiplies: Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall, For thus romantic Fame increases all. The Temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold, Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold: Rais'd on a thousand pillars, wreath'd around With laurel-foliage, and with eagles crown'd: Of bright, transparent beryl were the walls, The friezes gold, an gold the capitals: As heav'n with stars, the roof with jewels glows, And ever-living lamps depend in rows. Full in the passage of each spacious gate, The sage Historians in white garments wait; Grav'd o'er their seats the form of Time was found, His scythe revers'd, and both his pinions bound. Within stood Heroes, who thro' loud alarms In bloody fields pursu'd renown in arms. High on a throne with trophies charg'd, I view'd The Youth that all things but himself subdu'd; His feet on sceptres and tiara's trod, And his horn'd head bely'd the Libyan God. There Caesar, grac'd with both Minerva's, shone; Unmov'd, superior still in ev'ry state, And scarce detested in his Country's fate. But chief were those, who not for empire fought, But with their toils their people's safety bought: High o'er the rest Epaminondas stood; Timoleon, glorious in his brother's blood; Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state; Great in his triumphs, in retirement great; And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind With boundless pow'r unbounded virtue join'd, His own strict judge, and patron of mankind. 248 Much-suff'ring heroes next their honours claim, Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame, Fair Virtue's silent train: supreme of these Here ever shines the godlike Socrates: He whom ungrateful Athens could expell, At all times just, but when he sign'd the Shell: Here his abode the martyr'd Phocion claims, With Agis, not the last of Spartan names: Unconquered Cato shews the wound he tore, And Brutus his ill Genius meets no more. But in the centre of the hallow'd choir, Six pompous columns o'er the rest aspire; Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand, Hold the chief honours, and the fane command. High on the first, the mighty Homer shone; Eternal Adamant compos'd his throne; Father of verse! in holy fillets drest, His silver beard wav'd gently o'er his breast; Tho' blind, a boldness in his looks appears; In years he seem'd, but not impair'd by years. The wars of Troy were round the Pillar seen: Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen; Here Hector glorious from Patroclus' fall, Here dragg'd in triumph round the Trojan wall, Motion and life did ev'ry part inspire, Bold was the work, and prov'd the master's fire; A strong expression most he seem'd t' affect, And here and there disclos'd a brave neglect. A golden column next in rank appear'd, On which a shrine of purest gold was rear'd; Finish'd the whole, and labour'd ev'ry part, With patient touches of unweary'd art: The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate, Compos'd his posture, and his look sedate; On Homer still he fix'd a rev'rend eye, Great without pride, in modest majesty. In living sculpture on the sides were spread The Latian Wars, and haughty Turnus dead; Eliza stretch'd upon the fun'ral pyre, AEneas ending with his aged sire: Troy flam'd in burning gold, and o'er the throne 249 Arms of the Man in golden cyphers shone. Four swans sustain a car of silver bright, With heads advanc'd, and pinions stretch'd for flight: Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode, And seem'd to labour with th' inspiring God. Across the harp a careless hand he flings, And boldly sinks into the sounding strings. The figur'd games of Greece the column grace, Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race. The youths hand o'er their chariots as they run; The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone; The champions in distorted postures threat; And all appear'd irregularly great. Here happy Horace tun'd th' Ausonian lyre To sweeter sounds, and temper'd Pindar's fire: Pleas'd with Alcaeus' manly rage t' infuse The softer spirit of the Sapphic Muse. The polish'd pillar diff'rent sculptures grace; A work outlasting monumental brass. Here smiling Loves and Bacchanals appear, The Julian star, and great Augustus here, The Doves that round the infant poet spread Myrtles and bays, hung hov'ring o'er his head. Here in a shrine that cast a dazzling light, Sate fix'd in thought the mighty Stagirite; His sacred head a radiant Zodiac crown'd, And various Animals his sides surround; His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view Superior worlds, and look all Nature through. With equal rays immortal Tully shone, The Roman Rostra deck'd the Consul's throne: Gath'ring his flowing robe, he seem'd to stand In act to speak, and graceful stretch'd his hand. Behind, Rome's Genius waits with Civic crowns, And the great Father of his country owns. These massy columns in a circle rise, O'er which a pompous dome invades the skies: Scarce to the top I stretch'd my aching sight, So large it spread, and swell'd to such a height. Full in the midst proud Fame's imperial seat, With jewels blaz'd, magnificently great; The vivid em'ralds there revive the eye, 250 The flaming rubies shew their sanguine dye, Bright azure rays from lively sapphrys stream, And lucid amber casts a golden gleam. With various-colour'd light the pavement shone, And all on fire appear'd the glowing throne; The dome's high arch reflects the mingled blaze, And forms a rainbow of alternate rays. When on the Goddess first I cast my sight, Scarce seem'd her stature of a cubit's height; But swell'd to larger size, the more I gaz'd, Till to the roof her tow'ring front she rais'd. With her, the Temple ev'ry moment grew, And ampler Vista's open'd to my view: Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend, And arches widen, and long aisles extend. Such was her form as ancient bards have told, Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold; A thousand busy tongues the Goddess bears, And thousand open eyes, and thousand list'ning ears. Beneath, in order rang'd, the tuneful Nine (Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine: With eyes on Fame for ever fix'd, they sing; For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string; With time's first birth began the heav'nly lays, And last, eternal, thro' the length of days. Around these wonders as I cast a look, The trumpet sounded, and the temple shoo, And all the nations, summon'd at the call, From diff'rent quarters fill the crowded hall: Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard; In various garbs promiscuous throngs appear'd; Thick as the bees, that with the spring renew Their flow'ry toils, and sip the fragrant dew, When the wing'd colonies first tempt the sky, O'er dusky fields and shaded waters fly, Or settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield, And a low murmur runs along the field. Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend, And all degrees before the Goddess bend; The poor, the rich, the valiant and the sage, And boasting youth, and narrative old-age. 251 Their pleas were diff'rent, their request the same: For good and bad alike are fond of Fame. Some she disgrac'd, and some with honours crown'd; Unlike successes equal merits found. Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns, And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains. First at the shrine the Learned world appear, And to the Goddess thus prefer their play'r. 'Long have we sought t' instruct and please mankind, With studies pale, with midnight vigils blind; But thank'd by few, rewarded yet by none, We here appeal to thy superior throne: On wit and learning the just prize bestow, For fame is all we must expect below.' The Goddess heard, and bade the Muses raise The golden Trumpet of eternal Praise: From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound, That fills the circuit of the world around; Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud; The notes at first were rather sweet than loud: By just degrees they ev'ry moment rise, Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies. At ev'ry breath were balmy odours shed, Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread; Less fragrant scents th' unfolding rose exhales, Or spices breathing in Arabian gales. Next these the good and just, an awful train, Thus on their knees address the sacred fane. 'Since living virtue is with envy curs'd, And the best men are treated like the worst, Do thou, just Goddess, call our merits forth, And give each deed th' exact intrinsic worth.' 'Not with bare justice shall your act be crown'd' (Said Fame) 'but high above desert renown'd: Let fuller notes th' applauding world amaze, And the full loud clarion labour in your praise.' This band dismiss'd, behold another croud The constant tenour of whose well-spent days No less deserv'd a just return of praise. But strait the direful Trump of Slander sounds; Thro' the big dome the doubling thunder bounds; Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies, 252 The dire report thro' ev'ry region flies, In ev'ry ear incessant rumours rung, And gath'ring scandals grew on ev'ry tongue. From the black trumpet's rusty concave broke Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke: The pois'nous vapour blots the purple skies, And withers all before it as it flies. A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore, And proud defiance in their looks they bore: 'For thee' (they cry'd) 'amidst alarms and strife, We sail'd in tempests down the stream of life; For thee whole nations fill'd with flames and blood, And swam to empire thro' the purple flood. Those ills we dar'd, thy inspiration own, What virtue seem'd, was done for thee alone.' 'Ambitious fools!' (the Queen reply'd, and frown'd) 'Be all your acts in dark oblivion drown'd; There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone, Your statues moulder'd, and your names unknown!' A sudden cloud straight snatch'd them from my sight, And each majestic phantom sunk in night. Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen; Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien. 'Great idol of mankind! we neither claim The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame! But safe in deserts from th' applause of men, Would die unheard of, as we liv'd unseen, 'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight Those acts of goodness, which themselves requite. To follow virtue ev'n for virtue's sake.' 'And live there men, who slight immortal fame? Who then with incense shall adore our name? But mortals! know, 'tis still our greatest pride To blaze those virtues, which the good would hide. Rise! Muses, rise; add all your tuneful breath, These must not sleep in darkness and in death.' She said: in air the trembling music floats, And on the winds triumphant swell the notes; So soft, tho' high, so loud, and yet so clear, Ev'n list'ning Angels lean'd from heav'n to hear: To farthest shores th' Ambrosial spirit flies, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies. 253 Next these a youthful train their vows express'd, With feathers crown'd, with gay embroid'ry dress'd: 'Hither,' they cry'd, 'direct your eyes, and see The men of pleasure, dress, and gallantry; Ours is the place at banquets, balls, and plays, Sprightly our nights, polite are all our days; Courts we frequent, where 'tis our pleasing care To pay due visits, and address the fair: In fact, 'tis true, no nymph we could persuade, But still in fancy vanquish'd ev'ry maid; Of unknown Duchesses lewd tales we tell, Yet, would the world believe us, all were well. The joy let others have, and we the name, And what we want in pleasure, grant in fame.' The Queen assents, the trumpet rends the skies, And at each blast a Lady's honour dies. Pleas'd with the strange success, vast numbers prest Around the shrine, and made the same request: 'What? you,' (she cry'd) 'unlearn'd in arts to please, Slaves to yourselves, and ev'n fatigu'd with ease, Who lose a length of undeserving days, Would you usurp the lover's dear-bought praise? To just contempt, ye vain pretenders, fall, The people's fable, and the scorn of all.' Straight the black clarion sends a horrid sound, Loud laughs burst out, and bitter scoffs fly round, Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud, And scornful hisses run thro' the crowd. Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done, Enslave their country, or usurp a throne; Or who their glory's dire foundation lay'd On Sov'reigns ruin'd, or on friends betray'd; Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix, Of crooked counsels and dark politics; Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne, And beg to make th' immortal treasons known. The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire, With sparks, that seem'd to set the world on fire. At the dread sound, pale mortals stood aghast, And startled nature trembled with the blast. This having heard and seen, and snatch'd me from the throne. Before my view appear'd a structure fair, 254 Its site uncertain, if in earth or air; With rapid motion turn'd the mansion round; With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound; Not less in number were the spacious doors, Than leaves on trees, or sand upon the shores; Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day, Pervious to winds, and open ev'ry way. As flames by nature to the skies ascend, As weighty bodies to the centre tend, As to the sea returning rivers toll, And the touch'd needle trembles to the pole; Hither, as to their proper place, arise All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies, Or spoke aloud, or whisper'd in the ear; Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here. As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes The sinking stone at first a circle makes; The trembling surface by the motion stir'd, Spreads in a second circle, then a third; Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance, Fill all the wat'ry plain, and to the margin dance: Thus ev'ry voice and sound, when first they break, On neighb'ring air a soft impression make; Another ambient circle then they move; That, in its turn, impels the next above; Thro' undulating air the sounds are sent, And spread o'er all the fluid element. There various news I heard of love and strife, Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and life, Of loss and gain, of famine and of store, Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore, Of prodigies, and portents seen in air, Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair, Of turns of fortune, changes in the state, The falls of fav'rites, projects of the great, Of old mismanagements, taxations new: All neither wholly false, nor wholly true. Above, below, without, within, around. Confus'd, unnumber'd multitudes are found, Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away; Hosts rais'd by fear, and phantoms of a day: Astrologers, that future fates foreshew, 255 Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few; And priests, and party-zealots, num'rous bands With home-born lies, or tales from foreign lands; Each talk'd aloud, or in some secret place, And wild impatience star'd in ev'ry face. The flying rumours gather'd as they roll'd, Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told; And all who told it added something new, And all who heard it, made enlargements too, In ev'ry ear it spread, on ev'ry tongue it grew. Thus flying east and west, and north and south, News travel'd with increase from mouth to mouth. So from a spark, that kindled first by chance, With gath'ring force the quick'ning flames advance; Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire, And tow'rs and temples sink in floods of fire. When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung, Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue, Thro' thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow, And rush in millions on the world below. Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course, Their date determines, and prescribes their force: Some to remain, and some to perish soon; Or wane and wax alternate like the moon. Around, a thousand winged wonders fly, Borne by the trumpet's blast, and scatter'd thro' the sky. There, at one passage, oft you might survey A lie and truth contending for the way; And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent, Which first should issue thro' the narrow vent: At last agreed, together out they fly, Inseparable now, the truth and lie; The strict companions are for ever join'd, And this or that unmix'd, no mortal e'er shall find. While thus I stood, intent to see and hear, One came, methought, and whisper'd in my ear: What could thus high thy rash ambition raise? Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise? 'Tis true, said I, not void of hopes I came, For who so fond as youthful bards of Fame? But few, alas! the casual blessing boast, So hard to gain, so easy to be lost. 256 How vain that second life in others breath, Th' estate which wits inherit after death! Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign, (Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine!) The great man's curse, without the gains endure, Be envy'd, wretched, and be flatter'd, poor; All luckless wits their enemies profest, And all successful, jealous friends at best. Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call; She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all. But if the purchase costs so dear a price, As soothing Folly, or exalting Vice: Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway, And follow still where fortune leads the way; Or if no basis bear my rising name, But the fall'n ruin of another's fame; Then teach me, heav'n! to scorn the guilty bays, Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise, Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown; Oh grant an honest fame, or grant me none! ~ Alexander Pope,

1121:The Kalevala - Rune Xxvi ORIGIN OF THE SERPENT. Ahti, living on the island, Near the Kauko-point and harbor, Plowed his fields for rye and barley, Furrowed his extensive pastures, Heard with quickened ears an uproar, Heard the village in commotion, Heard a noise along the sea-shore, Heard the foot-steps on the ice-plain, Heard the rattle of the sledges; Quick his mind divined the reason, Knew it was Pohyola's wedding, Wedding of the Rainbow-virgin. Quick he stopped in disappointment, Shook his sable locks in envy, Turned his hero-head in anger, While the scarlet blood ceased flowing Through his pallid face and temples; Ceased his plowing and his sowing, On the field he left the furrows, On his steed he lightly mounted, Straightway galloped fleetly homeward To his well-beloved mother, To his mother old and golden, Gave his mother these directions, These the words of Lemminkainen: 'My beloved, faithful mother, Quickly bring me beer and viands, Bring me food for I am hungry, Food and drink for me abundant, Have my bath-room quickly heated, Quickly set the room in order, That I may refresh my body, Dress myself in hero-raiment.' Lemminkainen's aged mother Brings her hero food in plenty, Beer and viands for the hungry, 440 For her thirsting son and hero; Quick she heats the ancient bath-room, Quickly sets his bath in order. Then the reckless Lemminkainen Ate his meat with beer inspiring, Hastened to his bath awaiting; Only was the bullfinch bathing, With the many-colored bunting; Quick the hero laved his temples, Laved himself to flaxen whiteness, Quick returning to his mother, Spake in haste the words that follow: 'My beloved, helpful mother, Go at once to yonder mountain, To the store-house on the hill-top, Bring my vest of finest texture, Bring my hero-coat of purple, Bring my suit of magic colors, Thus to make me look attractive, Thus to robe myself in beauty.' First the ancient mother asked him, Asked her son this simple question: 'Whither dost thou go, my hero? Dost thou go to hunt the roebuck, Chase the lynx upon the mountains, Shoot the squirrel in the woodlands?' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Also known as Kaukomieli: 'Worthy mother of my being, Go I not to hunt the roebuck, Chase the lynx upon the mountains, Shoot the squirrel on the tree-tops; I am going to Pohyola, To the feasting of her people. Bring at once my purple vestments, Straightway bring my nuptial outfit, Let me don it for the marriage Of the maiden of the Northland.' But the ancient dame dissented, And the wife forebade the husband; Two of all the best of heroes, Three of nature's fairest daughters, 441 Strongly urged wild Lemminkainen Not to go to Sariola, To Pohyola's great carousal, To the marriage-feast of Northland, 'Since thou hast not been invited, Since they do not wish thy presence.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen. These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Where the wicked are invited, There the good are always welcome, Herein lies my invitation; I am constantly reminded By this sword of sharpened edges, By this magic blade and scabbard, That Pohyola needs my presence.' Lemminkainen's aged mother Sought again to stay her hero: 'Do not go, my son beloved, To the feasting in Pohyola; Full of horrors are the highways, On the road are many wonders, Three times Death appears to frighten, Thrice destruction hovers over!' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, These the words of Kaukomieli: 'Death is seen by aged people, Everywhere they see perdition, Death can never frighten heroes, Heroes do not fear the spectre; Be that as it may, dear mother, Tell that I may understand thee, Name the first of all destructions, Name the first and last destroyers!' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'I will tell thee, son and hero, Not because I wish to speak it, But because the truth is worthy; I will name the chief destruction, Name the first of the destroyers. When thou hast a distance journeyed, Only one day hast thou travelled, Comes a stream along the highway, 442 Stream of fire of wondrous beauty, In the stream a mighty fire-spout, In the spout a rock uprising, On the rock a fiery hillock, On the top a flaming eagle, And his crooked beak he sharpens, Sharpens too his bloody talons, For the coming of the stranger, For the people that approach him.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Women die beneath the eagle, Such is not the death of heroes; Know I well a magic lotion, That will heal the wounds of eagles; Make myself a steed of alders, That will walk as my companion, That will stride ahead majestic; As a duck I'll drive behind him, Drive him o'er the fatal waters, Underneath the flaming eagle, With his bloody beak and talons. Worthy mother of my being, Name the second of destroyers.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'This the second of destroyers: When thou hast a distance wandered, Only two clays hast thou travelled, Comes a pit of fire to meet thee, In the centre of the highway, Eastward far the pit extending, Stretches endless to the westward, Filled with burning coals and pebbles, Glowing with the heat of ages; Hundreds has this monster swallowed, In his jaws have thousands perished, Hundreds with their trusty broadswords, Thousands on their fiery chargers.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Never will the hero perish In the jaws of such a monster; 443 Know I well the means of safety, Know a remedy efficient: I will make of snow a master, On the snow-clad fields, a hero, Drive the snow-man on before me, Drive him through the flaming vortex, Drive him through the fiery furnace, With my magic broom of copper; I will follow in his shadow, Follow close the magic image, Thus escape the frightful monster, With my golden locks uninjured, With my flowing beard untangled. Ancient mother of my being, Name the last of the destructions, Name the third of the destroyers.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'This the third of fatal dangers: Hast thou gone a greater distance, Hast thou travelled one day longer, To the portals of Pohyola, To the narrowest of gate-ways, There a wolf will rise to meet thee, There the black-bear sneak upon thee-, In Pohyola's darksome portals, Hundreds in their jaws have perished, Have devoured a thousand heroes; Wherefore will they not destroy thee, Since thy form is unprotected?' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'Let them eat the gentle lambkins, Feed upon their tender tissues, They cannot devour this hero; I am girded with my buckler, Girded with my belt of copper, Armlets wear I of the master, From the wolf and bear protected, Will not hasten to Untamo. I can meet the wolf of Lempo, For the bear I have a balsam, For his mouth I conjure bridles, 444 For the wolf, forge chains of iron; I will smite them as the willow, Chop them into little fragments, Thus I'll gain the open court-yard, Thus triumphant end my journey.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Then thy journey is not ended, Greater dangers still await thee, Great the wonders yet before thee, Horrors three within thy pathway; Three great dangers of the hero Still await thy reckless footsteps, These the worst of all thy dangers: When thou hast still farther wandered, Thou wilt reach the Court of Pohya, Where the walls are forged from iron, And from steel the outer bulwark; Rises from the earth to heaven, Back again to earth returning; Double spears are used for railings, On each spear are serpents winding, On each rail are stinging adders; Lizards too adorn the bulwarks, Play their long tails in the sunlight, Hissing lizards, venomed serpents, Jump and writhe upon the rampart, Turn their horrid heads to meet thee; On the greensward lie the monsters, On the ground the things of evil, With their pliant tongues of venom, Hissing, striking, crawling, writhing; One more horrid than the others, Lies before the fatal gate-way, Longer than the longest rafters, Larger than the largest portals; Hisses with the tongue of anger, Lifts his head in awful menace, Raises it to strike none other Than the hero of the islands.' Spake the warlike Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli: 'By such things the children perish, 445 Such is not the death of heroes; Know I well the fire to manage, I can quench the flames of passion, I can meet the prowling wild-beasts, Can appease the wrath of serpents, I can heal the sting of adders, I have plowed the serpent-pastures, Plowed the adder-fields of Northland; While my hands were unprotected, Held the serpents in my fingers, Drove the adders to Manala, On my hands the blood of serpents, On my feet the fat of adders. Never will thy hero stumble On the serpents of the Northland; With my heel I'll crush the monsters, Stamp the horrid things to atoms; I will banish them from Pohya, Drive them to Manala's kingdom, Step within Pohyola's mansion, Walk the halls of Sariola!' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Do not go, my son beloved, To the firesides of Pohyola, Through the Northland fields and fallows; There are warriors with broadswords, Heroes clad in mail of copper, Are on beer intoxicated, By the beer are much embittered; They will charm thee, hapless creature, On the tips of swords of magic; Greater heroes have been conjured, Stronger ones have been outwitted.' Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Formerly thy son resided In the hamlets of Pohyola; Laplanders cannot enchant me, Nor the Turyalanders harm me I the, Laplander will conjure, Charm him with my magic powers, Sing his shoulders wide asunder, In his chin I'll sing a fissure, 446 Sing his collar-bone to pieces, Sing his breast to thousand fragments.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Foolish son, ungrateful wizard, Boasting of thy former visit, Boasting of thy fatal journey! Once in Northland thou wert living, In the homesteads of Pohyola; There thou tried to swim the whirlpool, Tasted there the dog-tongue waters, Floated down the fatal current, Sank beneath its angry billows; Thou hast seen Tuoni's river, Thou hast measured Mana's waters, There to-day thou wouldst be sleeping, Had it not been for thy mother! What I tell thee well remember, Shouldst thou gain Pohyola's chambers, Filled with stakes thou'lt find the court-yard, These to hold the heads of heroes; There thy head will rest forever, Shouldst thou go to Sariola.' Spake the warlike Lemminkainen: 'Fools indeed may heed thy counsel, Cowards too may give attention; Those of seven conquest-summers Cannot heed such weak advising. Bring to me my battle-armor. Bring my magic mail of copper, Bring me too my father's broadsword, Keep the old man's blade from rusting; Long it has been cold and idle, Long has lain in secret places, Long and constantly been weeping, Long been asking for a bearer.' Then he took his mail of copper, Took his ancient battle-armor, Took his father's sword of magic, Tried its point against the oak-wood, Tried its edge upon the sorb-tree; In his hand the blade was bended, Like the limber boughs of willow, 447 Like the juniper in summer. Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: 'There is none in Pohya's hamlets, In the courts of Sariola, That with me can measure broadswords, That can meet this blade ancestral.' From the nail he took a cross-bow, Took the strongest from the rafters, Spake these words in meditation: 'I shall recognize as worthy, Recognize that one a hero That can bend this mighty cross-bow, That can break its magic sinews, In the hamlets of Pohyola.' Lemminkainen, filled with courage, Girds himself in suit of battle, Dons his mighty mail of copper, To his servant speaks as follows: 'Trusty slave, and whom I purchased, Whom I bought with gold and silver, Quick prepare my fiery charger, Harness well my steed of battle; I am going to the feasting, To the banquet-fields of Lempo.' Quick obeys the faithful servant, Hitches well the noble war-horse, Quick prepares the fire-red stallion, Speaks these words when all is I ready: 'I have done what thou hast hidden, Ready harnessed is the charger, Waiting to obey his master.' Comes the hour of the departing Of the hero, Lemminkainen, Right hand ready, left unwilling, All his anxious fingers pain him, Till at last in full obedience, All his members give permission; Starts the hero on his journey, While the mother gives him counsel, At the threshold of the dwelling, At the highway of the court-yard: 'Child of courage, my beloved, 448 Son of strength, my wisdom-hero, If thou goest to the feasting, Shouldst thou reach the great carousal, Drink thou only a half a cupful, Drink the goblet to the middle, Always give the half remaining, Give the worse half to another, To another more unworthy; In the lower half are serpents, Worms, and frogs, and hissing lizards, Feeding on the slimy bottom.' Furthermore she tells her hero, Gives her son these sage directions, On the border of the court-yard, At the portals farthest distant: 'If thou goest to the banquet, Shouldst thou reach the great carousal, Occupy but half the settle, Take but half a stride in walking, Give the second half to others, To another less deserving; Only thus thou'lt be a hero, Thus become a son immortal; In the guest-rooms look courageous, Bravely move about the chambers, In the gatherings of heroes, With the hosts of magic valor.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Quickly leaped upon the cross-bench Of his battle-sledge of wonder, Raised his pearl-enamelled birch-rod, Snapped his whip above his charger, And the steed flew onward fleetly, Galloped on his distant journey. He had travelled little distance, When a flight of hazel-chickens Quick arose before his coming, Flew before the foaming racer. There were left some feathers lying, Feathers of the hazel-chickens, Lying in the hero's pathway. These the reckless Lemminkainen 449 Gathered for their magic virtues, Put them in his pouch of leather, Did not know what things might happen On his journey to Pohyola; All things have some little value, In a strait all things are useful. Then he drove a little distance, Galloped farther on the highway, When his courser neighed in danger, And the fleet-foot ceased his running. Then the stout-heart, Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Rose upon his seat in wonder, Craned his neck and looked about him Found it as his mother told him, Found a stream of fire opposing; Ran the fire-stream like a river, Ran across the hero's pathway. In the river was a fire-fall, In the cataract a fire-rock, On the rock a fiery hillock, On its summit perched an eagle, From his throat the fire was streaming To the crater far below him, Fire out-shooting from his feathers, Glowing with a fiery splendor; Long he looked upon the hero, Long he gazed on Lemminkainen, Then the eagle thus addressed him: 'Whither art thou driving, Ahti, Whither going, Lemminkainen?' Kaukomieli spake in answer: 'To the feastings of Pohyola, To the drinking-halls of Louhi, To the banquet of her people; Move aside and let me journey, Move a little from my pathway, Let this wanderer pass by thee, I am warlike Lemminkainen.' This the answer of the eagle, Screaming from his throat of splendor: 'Though thou art wild Lemminkainen, 450 I shall let thee wander onward, Through my fire-throat let thee journey, Through these flames shall be thy passage To the banquet-halls of Louhi, To Pohyola's great carousal!' Little heeding, Kaukomieli Thinks himself in little trouble, Thrusts his fingers in his pockets, Searches in his pouch of leather, Quickly takes the magic feathers, Feathers from the hazel-chickens, Rubs them into finest powder, Rubs them with his magic fingers Whence a flight of birds arises, Hazel-chickens from the feathers, Large the bevy of the young birds. Quick the wizard, Lemminkainen, Drives them to the eagle's fire-mouth, Thus to satisfy his hunger, Thus to quench the fire out-streaming. Thus escapes the reckless hero, Thus escapes the first of dangers, Passes thus the first destroyer, On his journey to Pohyola. With his whip he strikes his courser, With his birch-whip, pearl-enamelled; Straightway speeds the fiery charger, Noiselessly upon his journey, Gallops fast and gallops faster, Till the flying steed in terror Neighs again and ceases running. Lemminkainen, quickly rising, Cranes his neck and looks about him, Sees his mother's words were truthful, Sees her augury well-taken. Lo! before him yawned a fire-gulf, Stretching crosswise through his pathway; Far to east the gulf extending, To the west an endless distance, Filled with stones and burning pebbles, Running streams of burning matter. Little heeding, Lemminkainen 451 Cries aloud in prayer to Ukko: 'Ukko, thou O God above me, Dear Creator, omnipresent, From the north-west send a storm-cloud, From the east, dispatch a second, From the south send forth a third one; Let them gather from the south-west, Sew their edges well together, Fill thou well the interspaces, Send a snow-fall high as heaven, Let it fall from upper ether, Fall upon the flaming fire-pit, On the cataract and whirlpool!' Mighty Ukko, the Creator, Ukko, father omnipresent, Dwelling in the courts of heaven, Sent a storm-cloud from the north-west, From the east he sent a second, From the south despatched a third one, Let them gather from the south-west, Sewed their edges well together, Filled their many interspaces, Sent a snow-fall high as heaven, From the giddy heights of ether, Sent it seething to the fire-pit, On the streams of burning matter; From the snow-fall in the fire-pond, Grows a lake with rolling billows. Quick the hero, Lemminkainen, Conjures there of ice a passage From one border to the other, Thus escapes his second danger, Thus his second trouble passes. Then the reckless Lemminkainen Raised his pearl-enamelled birch-rod, Snapped his whip above his racer, And the steed flew onward swiftly, Galloped on his distant journey O'er the highway to Pohyola; Galloped fast and galloped faster, Galloped on a greater distance, When the stallion loudly neighing, 452 Stopped and trembled on the highway, Then the lively Lemminkainen Raised himself upon the cross-bench, Looked to see what else had happened; Lo I a wolf stands at the portals, in the passage-way a black-bear, At the high-gate of Pohyola, At the ending of the journey. Thereupon young Lemminkainen, Handsome hero, Kaukomieli, Thrusts his fingers in his pockets, Seeks his magic pouch of leather, Pulls therefrom a lock of ewe-wool, Rubs it firmly in his fingers, In his hands it falls to powder; Breathes the breath of life upon it, When a flock of sheep arises, Goats and sheep of sable color; On the flock the black-wolf pounces, And the wild-bear aids the slaughter, While the reckless Lemminkainen Rushes by them on his journey; Gallops on a little distance, To the court of Sariola, Finds the fence of molten iron, And of steel the rods and pickets, In the earth a hundred fathoms, To the azure sky, a thousand, Double-pointed spears projecting; On each spear were serpents twisted, Adders coiled in countless numbers, Lizards mingled with the serpents, Tails entangled pointing earthward, While their heads were skyward whirling, Writhing, hissing mass of evil. Then the stout-heart, Kaukomieli, Deeply thought and long considered: 'It is as my mother told me, This the wall that she predicted, Stretching from the earth to heaven; Downward deep are serpents creeping, Deeper still the rails extending; 453 High as highest flight of eagles, Higher still the wall shoots upward.' But the hero, Lemminkainen, Little cares, nor feels disheartened, Draws his broadsword from its scabbard, Draws his mighty blade ancestral, Hews the wall with might of magic, Breaks the palisade in pieces, Hews to atoms seven pickets, Chops the serpent-wall to fragments; Through the breach he quickly passes To the portals of Pohyola. In the way, a serpent lying, Lying crosswise in the entry, Longer than the longest rafters, Larger than the posts of oak-wood; Hundred-eyed, the heinous serpent, And a thousand tongues, the monster, Eyes as large as sifting vessels, Tongues as long as shafts of javelins, Teeth as large as hatchet-handles, Back as broad as skiffs of ocean. Lemminkainen does not venture Straightway through this host opposing, Through the hundred heads of adders, Through the thousand tongues of serpents. Spake the magic Lemminkainen: 'Venomed viper, thing of evil, Ancient adder of Tuoni, Thou that crawlest in the stubble, Through the flower-roots of Lempo, Who has sent thee from thy kingdom, Sent thee from thine evil coverts, Sent thee hither, crawling, writhing, In the pathway I would travel? Who bestowed thy mouth of venom, Who insisted, who commanded, Thou shouldst raise thy head toward heaven, Who thy tail has given action? Was this given by the father, Did the mother give this power, Or the eldest of the brothers, 454 Or the youngest of the sisters, Or some other of thy kindred? 'Close thy mouth, thou thing of evil, Hide thy pliant tongue of venom, In a circle wrap thy body, Coil thou like a shield in silence, Give to me one-half the pathway, Let this wanderer pass by thee, Or remove thyself entirely; Get thee hence to yonder heather, Quick retreat to bog and stubble, Hide thyself in reeds and rushes, In the brambles of the lowlands. Like a ball of flax enfolding, Like a sphere of aspen-branches, With thy head and tail together, Roll thyself to yonder mountain; In the heather is thy dwelling, Underneath the sod thy caverns. Shouldst thou raise thy head in anger, Mighty Ukko will destroy it, Pierce it with his steel-tipped arrows, With his death-balls made of iron!' Hardly had the hero ended, When the monster, little heeding, Hissing with his tongue in anger, Plying like the forked lightning, Pounces with his mouth of venom At the head of Lemminkainen; But the hero, quick recalling, Speaks the master-words of knowledge, Words that came from distant ages, Words his ancestors had taught him, Words his mother learned in childhood, These the words of Lemminkainen: 'Since thou wilt not heed mine order, Since thou wilt not leave the highway, Puffed with pride of thine own greatness, Thou shall burst in triple pieces. Leave thy station for the borders, I will hunt thine ancient mother, Sing thine origin of evil, 455 How arose thy head of horror; Suoyatar, thine ancient mother, Thing of evil, thy creator!' 'Suoyatar once let her spittle Fall upon the waves of ocean; This was rocked by winds and waters, Shaken by the ocean-currents, Six years rocked upon the billows, Rocked in water seven summers, On the blue-back of the ocean, On the billows high as heaven; Lengthwise did the billows draw it, And the sunshine gave it softness, To the shore the billows washed it, On the coast the waters left it. 'Then appeared Creation's daughters, Three the daughters thus appearing, On the roaring shore of ocean, There beheld the spittle lying, And the daughters spake as follows: 'What would happen from this spittle, Should the breath of the Creator Fall upon the writhing matter, Breathe the breath of life upon it, Give the thing the sense of vision? 'The Creator heard these measures, Spake himself the words that follow: 'Evil only comes from evil, This is the expectoration Of fell Suoyatar, its mother; Therefore would the thing be evil, Should I breathe a soul within it, Should I give it sense of vision.' 'Hisi heard this conversation, Ever ready with his mischief, Made himself to be creator, Breathed a soul into the spittle, To fell Suoyatar's fierce anger. Thus arose the poison-monster, Thus was born the evil serpent, This the origin of evil. 'Whence the life that gave her action'? 456 From the carbon-pile of Hisi. Whence then was her heart created? From the heart-throbs of her mother Whence arose her brain of evil? From the foam of rolling waters. Whence was consciousness awakened? From the waterfall's commotion. Whence arose her head of venom? From the seed-germs of the ivy. Whence then came her eyes of fury? From the flaxen seeds of Lempo. Whence the evil ears for hearing? From the foliage of Hisi. Whence then was her mouth created? This from Suoyatar's foam-currents Whence arose thy tongue of anger r From the spear of Keitolainen. Whence arose thy fangs of poison? From the teeth of Mana's daughter. Whence then was thy back created? From the carbon-posts of Piru. How then was thy tail created? From the brain of the hobgoblin. Whence arose thy writhing entrails? From the death-belt of Tuoni. 'This thine origin, O Serpent, This thy charm of evil import, Vilest thing of God's creation, Writhing, hissing thing of evil, With the color of Tuoni, With the shade of earth and heaven, With the darkness of the storm-cloud. Get thee hence, thou loathsome monster, Clear the pathway of this hero. I am mighty Lemminkainen, On my journey to Pohyola, To the feastings and carousals, In the halls of darksome Northland.' Thereupon the snake uncoiling, Hundred-eyed and heinous monster, Crawled away to other portals, That the hero, Kaukomieli, 457 Might proceed upon his errand, To the dismal Sariola, To the feastings and carousals In the banquet-halls of Pohya. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

1122:The Ancient Banner In boundless mercy, the Redeemer left, The bosom of his Father, and assumed A servant's form, though he had reigned a king, In realms of glory, ere the worlds were made, Or the creating words, 'Let there be light' In heaven were uttered. But though veiled in flesh, His Deity and his Omnipotence, Were manifest in miracles. Disease Fled at his bidding, and the buried dead Rose from the sepulchre, reanimate, At his command, or, on the passing bier Sat upright, when he touched it. But he came, Not for this only, but to introduce A glorious dispensation, in the place Of types and shadows of the Jewish code. Upon the mount, and round Jerusalem, He taught a purer, and a holier law,— His everlasting Gospel, which is yet To fill the earth with gladness; for all climes Shall feel its influence, and shall own its power. He came to suffer, as a sacrifice Acceptable to God. The sins of all Were laid upon Him, when in agony He bowed upon the cross. The temple's veil Was rent asunder, and the mighty rocks, Trembled, as the incarnate Deity, By his atoning blood, opened that door, Through which the soul, can have communion with Its great Creator; and when purified, From all defilements, find acceptance too, Where it can finally partake of all The joys of His salvation. But the pure Church he planted,—the pure Church Which his apostles watered,—and for which, The blood of countless martyrs freely flowed, In Roman Amphitheatres,—on racks,— And in the dungeon's gloom,—this blessed Church, Which grew in suffering, when it overspread Surrounding nations, lost its purity. 278 Its truth was hidden, and its light obscured By gross corruption, and idolatry. As things of worship, it had images, And even painted canvas was adored. It had a head and bishop, but this head Was not the Saviour, but the Pope of Rome. Religion was a traffic. Men defiled, Professed to pardon sin, and even sell, The joys of heaven for money,—and to raise Souls out of darkness to eternal light, For paltry silver lavished upon them. And thus thick darkness, overspread the Church As with a mantle. At length the midnight of apostacy Passed by, and in the horizon appeared, Day dawning upon Christendom. The light, Grew stronger, as the Reformation spread. For Luther, and Melancthon, could not be Silenced by papal bulls, nor by decrees Of excommunication thundered forth Out of the Vatican. And yet the light, Of Luther's reformation, never reached Beyond the morning's dawn. The noontide blaze Of Truth's unclouded day, he never saw. Yet after him, its rising sun displayed More and more light upon the horizon. Though thus enlightened, the professing Church, Was far from many of the precious truths Of the Redeemer's gospel; and as yet, Owned not his Spirit's government therein. But now the time approached, when he would pour A larger measure of his light below; And as he chose unlearned fishermen To spread his gospel when first introduced, So now he passed mere human learning by, And chose an instrument, comparable To the small stone the youthful David used, To smite the champion who defied the Lord. Apart from human dwellings, in a green Rich pasturage of England, sat a youth, Who seemed a shepherd, for around him there A flock was feeding, and the sportive lambs 279 Gambolled amid the herbage. But his face Bore evidence of sadness. On his knee The sacred book lay open, upon which The youth looked long and earnestly, and then, Closing the book, gazed upward, in deep thought This was the instrument by whom the Lord Designed to spread a clearer light below And fuller reformation. He appeared, Like ancient Samuel, to be set apart For the Lord's service from his very birth. Even in early childhood, he refrained From youthful follies, and his mind was turned To things of highest moment. He was filled With awful feelings, by the wickedness He saw around him. As he grew in years, Horror of sin grew stronger; and his mind Became so clothed with sadness, and so full Of soul-felt longings, for the healing streams Of heavenly consolation, that he left His earthly kindred, seeking quietude In solitary places, where he read The book of inspiration, and in prayer, Sought heavenly counsel. In this deep-proving season he was told, Of priests, whose reputation had spread wide For sanctity and wisdom; and from these He sought for consolation,—but in vain. One of these ministers became enraged, Because the youth had inadvertently Misstepped within his garden; and a priest Of greater reputation, counselled him To use tobacco, and sing holy psalms! And the inquirer found a third to be But as an empty, hollow cask at best. Finding no help in man, the youthful Fox, Turned to a higher and a holier source, For light and knowledge. In his Saviour's school, He sat a scholar, and was clearly shown The deep corruption, that had overspread Professing Christendom. And one by one, The doctrines of the Gospel, were unveiled, To the attentive student,—doctrines, which, 280 Though clearly written on the sacred page, Had long been hidden, by the rubbish man's Perversions and inventions heaped thereon. He saw that colleges, could not confer, A saving knowledge of the way of Truth, Nor qualify a minister to preach The everlasting Gospel; but that Christ, Is the true Teacher, and that he alone Has power to call, anoint, and qualify, And send a Gospel minister to preach Glad tidings of salvation. He was shown, No outward building, made of wood and stone Could be a holy place,—and that the Church— The only true and living Church—must be A holy people gathered to the Lord, And to his teaching. He was clearly taught, The nature of baptism, by which souls Are purified and fitted for this Church; That this was not, by being dipped into, Or sprinkled with clear water, but it was The one baptism of the Holy Ghost. He saw the Supper was no outward food, Made and administered by human hands,— But the Lord's Table was within the heart; Where in communion with him, holy bread Was blessed and broken, and the heavenly wine, Which cheers the fainting spirit, handed forth. The Saviour showed him that all outward wars, Are now forbidden,—that the warfare here, Is to be waged within. Its weapons too, Though mighty, even to the pulling down, Of the strong holds of Satan, are yet all The Spirit's weapons. He was shown, that oaths Judicial or profane, are banished from The Christian dispensation, which commands, 'Swear not at all.' He saw the compliments,— Hat honour, and lip service of the world, Sprang from pride's evil root, and were opposed To the pure spirit of Christ's holy law. And by His inward Light, was clearly seen The perfect purity of heart and life For which that Saviour calls, who never asked, 281 Things unattainable. These truths and others, being thus revealed, Fox was prepared and qualified to preach, The unveiled Gospel, to the sons of men. Clothed with divine authority, he went Abroad through Britain, and proclaimed that Light, Which Christ's illuminating Spirit sheds, In the dark heart of man. Some heard of this, Who seemed prepared and waiting, to receive His Gospel message, and were turned to Him, Whose Holy Spirit sealed it on their hearts. And not a few of these, were called upon, To take the message, and themselves declare The way of Truth to others. But the Priests, Carnal professors, and some magistrates, Heard of the inward light, and purity, With indignation, and they seized upon, And thrust the Preacher within prison walls. Not once alone, but often was he found, Amid the very dregs of wickedness— With robbers, and with blood-stained criminals, Locked up in loathsome jails. And when abroad Upon his Master's service, he was still Reviled and buffeted, and spit upon. But none of these things moved him, for within He felt that soul-sustaining evidence, Which bore his spirit high above the waves, Of bitter persecution. But now the time approached, for his release From suffering and from labour. He had spent, Long years in travel for the cause of Truth,— Not all in Britain,—for he preached its light, And power in Holland,—the West Indian isles, And North America. Far through the wild, And trackless wilderness, this faithful man, Carried his Master's message; he lived, To see Truth's banner fearlessly displayed Upon both continents. He lived to see, Pure hearted men and women gathered to The inward teaching of the Saviour's will,— Banded together in the covenant, Of light and life. But his allotted work, 282 Was now accomplished, and his soul prepared, For an inheritance with saints in light, And with his loins all girded, he put off His earthly shackles, triumphing in death, That the Seed reigned, and Truth was over all! Where the dark waters of the Delaware, Roll onward to the ocean, sweeping by, Primeval forests, where the red man still, Built his rude wigwam, and the timid deer Fled for concealment from the Indian's eye, And the unerring arrow of his bow; There, in the shadow of these ancient woods, A sea-worn ship has anchored. On her deck, Men of grave mien are gathered. One of whom, Of noble figure, and quick searching eyes, Surveys the scene, wrapt in the deepest thought. And this is William Penn. He stands among, Fellow believers, who have sought a home, And place of refuge, in this wilderness. Born of an ancient family, his sire An English Admiral, the youthful Penn, Might, with his talents, have soon ranked among The proudest subjects of the British throne. He chose the better part—to serve that King Who is immortal and invisible. While yet a student within college halls, He heard Truth's message, and his heart was reached, And fully owned it, though it came through one Of that despised and persecuted class, Called in derision Quakers. Thus convinced, He left the college worship, to commune In spirit with his Maker. And for this, He was expelled from Oxford; and was soon Maltreated by his father, who, enraged, Because his only son, had turned away From brilliant prospects, to pursue the path Of self-denial, drove him harshly forth From the paternal roof. But William Penn, Had still a Father, who supported him, With strength and courage to perform his will; And he was called and qualified to preach, And to bear witness of that blessed Light 283 Which shines within. He suffered in the cause, His share of trial. He was dragged before Judges and juries, and was shut within The walls of prisons. Looking abroad through England, he was filled With deep commiseration, for the jails— The loathsome, filthy jails—were crowded with His brethren in the Truth. For their relief, He sought the ear of royalty, and plead Their cruel sufferings; and their innocence; And thus became the instrument through which Some prison doors were opened. But he sought A place of refuge from oppression's power, That Friends might worship the Creator there, Free from imprisonment and penalties. And such a place soon opened to his view, Far in the Western Wilderness, beyond The Atlantic's wave. And here is William Penn, and here a band Of weary emigrants, who now behold The promised land before them; but it is The Indian's country, and the Indian's home. Penn had indeed, received a royal grant, To occupy it; but a grant from one Who had no rightful ownership therein; He therefore buys it honestly from those Whose claims are aboriginal, and just. With these inhabitants, behold, he stands Beneath an ancient elm, whose spreading limbs O'erhang the Delaware. The forest chiefs Sit in grave silence, while the pipe of peace Goes round the circle. They have made a league With faithful Onas—a perpetual league, And treaty of true friendship, to endure While the sun shines, and while the waters run. And here was founded in the wilderness, A refuge from oppression, where all creeds Found toleration, and where truth and right Were the foundation of its government, And its protection. In that early day, The infant colony sought no defence But that of justice and of righteousness; 284 The only guarantees of peace on earth, Because they ever breathe, good will to men. His colony thus planted, William Penn Sought his old field of labour, and again, Both through the press and vocally, he plead The right of conscience, and the rights of man; And frequently, and forcibly he preached Christ's universal and inshining Light. His labour was incessant; and the cares, And the perplexities connected with His distant province, which he visited A second time, bore heavily upon His burdened spirit, which demanded rest;— That rest was granted. In the midst of all His labour and his trials, there was drawn A veil, in mercy, round his active mind, Which dimmed all outward things; but he still saw The beauty and the loveliness of Truth, And found sweet access to the Source of good. And thus, shut out from the perplexities And sorrows of the world, he was prepared To hear the final summons, to put off His tattered garments, and be clothed upon With heavenly raiment. Scotland, thou hadst a noble citizen, In him of Ury! Born amid thy hills, Though educated where enticing scenes, Crowd giddy Paris, he rejected all The world's allurements, and unlike the youth Who talked with Jesus, Barclay turned away From great possessions, and embraced the Truth. He early dedicated all the powers Of a well cultivated intellect To the Redeemer and His holy cause. He was a herald, to proclaim aloud, Glad tidings of salvation; and his life Preached a loud sermon by its purity. Not only were his lips made eloquent, By the live coal that touched them, but his pen, Moved by a force from the same altar, poured Light, truth, and wisdom. From it issued forth The great Apology, which yet remains 285 One of the best expositors of Truth That man has published, since that sacred book Anciently written. Seekers are still led By its direction, to that blessed Light, And inward Teacher, who is Jesus Christ. But now, this noble servant of the Lord, Rests from his faithful labour, while his works Yet follow him. Early believers in the light of Truth, Dwelt not at ease in Zion. They endured Conflicts and trials, and imprisonments. Even the humble Penington, whose mind Seemed purged and purified from all the dross Of human nature—who appeared as meek And harmless as an infant—was compelled To dwell in loathsome prisons. But he had, Though in the midst of wickedness, sublime And holy visions of the purity, And the true nature of Christ's living Church. While Edmundson, the faithful pioneer Of Truth in Ireland, was compelled to drink Deeply of suffering for the blessed cause. Dragged from his home, half naked, by a mob Who laid that home in ashes, he endured Heart-rending cruelties. But all of these, Stars of the morning, felt oppression's hand, And some endured it to the closing scene. Burroughs, a noble servant of the Lord, Whose lips and pen were eloquent for Truth, Drew his last breath in prison. Parnel, too, A young and valiant soldier of the Lamb, Died, a true martyr in a dungeon's gloom. Howgill and Hubberthorn, both ministers Of Christ's ordaining, were released from all Their earthly trials within prison walls. And beside these, there was a multitude Of faithful men, and noble women too, Who past from scenes of conflict, to the joys Of the Redeemer's kingdom, within jails, And some in dungeons. But amid it all, Light spread in Britain, and a living Church Was greatly multiplied. The tender minds, 286 Even of children, felt the power of Truth, And showed the fruit and firmness it affords. When persecution, rioted within The town of Bristol, and all older Friends Were locked in prison, little children met, Within their place of worship, by themselves, To offer praises, in the very place From which their parents had been dragged to jail. But let us turn from Britain, and look down, Upon an inland sea whose swelling waves Encircle Malta. There a cloudless sun, In Eastern beauty, pours its light upon The Inquisition. All without its walls Seems calm and peaceful, let us look within. There, stretched upon the floor, within a close, Dark, narrow cell, inhaling from a crack A breath of purer air, two women lie. But who are these, and wherefore are they here? These are two ministers of Christ, who left Their homes in England, faithfully to bear, The Saviour's message into eastern lands. And here at Malta they were seized upon By bigotted intolerance, and shut Within this fearful engine of the Pope. Priests and Inquisitor assail them here, And urge the claims of popery. The rack, And cruel deaths are threatened; and again Sweet liberty is offered, as the price Of their apostacy. All, all in vain! For years these tender women have been thus, Victims of cruelty. At times apart, Confined in gloomy, solitary cells. But all these efforts to convert them failed: The Inquisition had not power enough To shake their faith and confidence in Him, Whose holy presence was seen anciently To save his children from devouring flames; He, from this furnace of affliction, brought These persecuted women, who came forth Out of the burning, with no smell of fire Upon their garments, and again they trod, Their native land rejoicing. 287 In Hungary, two ministers of Christ, Were stretched upon the rack. Their tortured limbs Were almost torn asunder, but no force Could tear them from their Master, and they came Out of the furnace, well refined gold. Nor were these all who suffered for the cause Of truth and righteousness, in foreign lands. For at Mequinez and Algiers, some toiled, And died in slavery. But nothing could Discourage faithful messengers of Christ From his required service. They were found Preaching repentance where the Israelites Once toiled in Egypt, and the ancient Nile Still rolls its waters. And the holy light Of the eternal Gospel was proclaimed, Where its great Author had first published it— Where the rich temple of King Solomon, Stood in its ancient glory. Even there, The haughty Musselmen, were told of Him, The one great Prophet, who now speaks within. For their refusing to participate In carnal warfare, many early Friends, Were made to suffer. On a ship of war Equipped for battle, Richard Sellers bore, With a meek, Christian spirit, cruelties The most atrocious, for obeying Him Who was his heavenly Captain, and by whom, War is forbidden. Sellers would not touch, The instruments of carnage, nor could all The cruelties inflicted, move his soul From a reliance on that holy Arm, Which had sustained him in the midst of all His complicated trials; and he gained A peaceful, but a greater victory Than that of battle, for he wearied out Oppression, by his constancy, and left A holy savor, with that vessel's crew. But let us turn from persecuting scenes, That stain the annals of the older world, To young America, whose virgin shores Offer a refuge from oppression's power. Here lies a harbour in the noble bay 288 Of Massachusetts. Many little isles Dot its expanding waters, and Nahant Spreads its long beach and eminence beyond, A barrier to the ocean. The whole scene, Looks beautiful, in the clear northern air, And loveliness of morning. On the heights That overlook the harbour, there is seen An infant settlement. Let us approach, And anchor where the Puritans have sought, For liberty of conscience. But there seems, Disquietude in Boston. Men appear Urged on by stormy passions, and some wear A look of unrelenting bitterness. But what is that now rising into view, Where crowds are gathered on an eminence? These are the Puritans. They now surround A common gallows. On its platform, stands A lovely woman in the simple garb Worn by the early Quakers. Of the throng, She only seems unmoved, although her blood They madly thirst for. The first professors of Christ's inward Light, Who brought this message into Boston bay, Were inoffensive women. They were searched For signs of witchcraft, and their books were burned. The captain who had brought them, was compelled To carry them away. But others came, Both men and women, zealous for the Truth. These were received with varied cruelties— By frequent whippings and imprisonments. Law after law was made excluding them; But all in vain, for still these faithful ones Carried their Master's message undismayed Among the Puritans, and still they found Those who received it, and embraced the Truth, And steadily maintained it, in the midst Of whipping posts, and pillories, and jails! A law was then enacted, by which all The banished Quakers, who were found again Within the province, were to suffer death. But these, though ever ready to obey All just enactments, when laws trespassed on 289 The rights of conscience, and on God's command, Could never for a moment hesitate, Which to obey.—And soon there stood upon A scaffold of New England, faithful friends, Who, in obeying Christ, offended man! Of these was Mary Dyer, who exclaimed, While passing to this instrument of death, 'No eye can witness, and no ear can hear, No tongue can utter, nor heart understand The incomes and refreshings from the Lord Which now I feel.' And in the spirit which These words a little pictured, Robinson, Past to the presence of that Holy One For whom he laboured, and in whom he died. Then Stevenson, another faithful steward And servant of the Lamb, was ushered from Deep scenes of suffering into scenes of joy. But Mary Dyer, who was all prepared, To join these martyrs in their heavenward flight, Was left a little longer upon earth. But a few fleeting months had rolled away, Ere this devoted woman felt constrained, Again to go among the Puritans, In Massachusetts, and in Boston too. And here she stands! the second time, upon A gallows of New England. No reprieve Arrests her sentence now. But still she feels The same sweet incomes, and refreshing streams From the Lord's Holy Spirit. In the midst Of that excited multitude, she seems The most resigned and peaceful.—But the deed Is now accomplished, and the scene is closed! Among the faithful martyrs of the Lamb, Gathered forever round His Holy Throne, She doubtless wears a pure and spotless robe, And bears the palm of victory. The blood of Leddra was soon after shed, Which closed the scene of martyrdom among The early Quakers in this colony, But not the scene of suffering. Women were Dragged through its towns half-naked, tied to carts, While the lash fell upon their unclothed backs, 290 And bloody streets, showed where they past along. And such inhuman treatment was bestowed On the first female minister of Christ, Who preached the doctrine of his inward Light. But in New England, there was really found A refuge from oppression, justice reigned Upon Rhode Island. In that early day, The rights of conscience were held sacred there, And persecution was a thing unknown. A bright example, as a governor, Was William Coddington. He loved the law— The perfect law of righteousness—and strove To govern by it; and all faithful Friends Felt him a brother in the blessed Truth. In North America, the Puritans Stood not alone in efforts to prevent The introduction and the spread of light. The Dutch plantation of New Amsterdam, Sustained a measure of the evil work. The savage cruelties inflicted on The faithful Hodgson, have few parallels In any age or country; but the Lord Was with His servant in the midst of all, And healed his tortured and his mangled frame. The early Friends were bright and shining stars, For they reflected the clear holy light The Sun of Righteousness bestowed on them. They followed no deceiving, transient glare— No ignis fatuus of bewildered minds; They followed Jesus in the holiness Of His unchanging Gospel. They endured Stripes and imprisonment and pillories, Torture and slavery and banishment, And even death; but they would not forsake Their Holy Leader, or His blessed cause. Their patient suffering, and firm steadfastness, Secured a rich inheritance for those Who have succeeded them. Do these now feel That firm devotion to the cause of Truth—That singleheartedness their fathers felt? Do they appreciate the price and worth Of the great legacy and precious trust 291 Held for their children? The great cruelties Borne by the fathers, have not been entailed On their descendants, who now dwell at ease. The world does not revile them. Do not some Love it the more for this? and do they not Make more alliance with it, and partake More and more freely of its tempting baits, Its fashions and its spirit? but are these More pure and holy than they were of old, When in the light of Truth, their fathers saw That deep corruption overspread the world? Other professors latterly have learned To speak of Quakers with less bitterness Than when the name reproachfully was cast In ridicule upon them. Has not this Drawn watchmen from the citadel of Truth? Has it not opened doors that had been closed, And should have been forever? And by these, Has not an enemy been stealing in, To spoil the goods of many; to assail, And strive in secrecy to gather strength, To overcome the citadel at last? Is it not thought illiberal to refuse Alliances with those who now profess Respect and friendship? Must the Quaker then Bow in the house of Rimmon, saying, Lord Pardon in this thy servant? Do not some Fail to resist encroachments, when they come Clothed in enticing words, and wear the guise Of charity and kindness, and are veiled, Or sweetened to the taste, by courtesy? But is a snare less certain, when concealed By some enticing bait? or is a ball Less sure and fatal, when it flies unheard, Or, when the hand that sends it is unseen, Or offers friendship? Did not Joab say, 'Art thou in health my brother?' and appeared To kiss Amasa, while he thrust his sword Into his life-blood? And when Jonas fled From the Lord's service, and the stormy waves Threatened the ship that bore him, was the cause Not found within it? Was there not a calm 292 When he, whose disobedience to the Lord Had raised the tempest, was no longer there? Truth has a standard openly displayed, Untorn—unsullied. Man indeed may change, And may forsake it; but the Standard still Remains immutable. May all who love This Holy Banner, rally to it now! May all whose dwellings are upon the sand, Seek for a building on that living Rock, Which stands forever;—for a storm has come— A storm that tries foundations! Even now, The flooding rains are falling, and the winds Rapidly rising to a tempest, beat Upon all dwellings. They alone can stand Which have the Rock beneath them, and above The Omnipresent and Omnipotent Creator and Defender of His Church! ~ Anonymous Americas,

1123:The Botanic Garden( Part I) The Economy Of Vegetation Canto I STAY YOUR RUDE STEPS! whose throbbing breasts infold The legion-fiends of Glory, or of Gold! Stay! whose false lips seductive simpers part, While Cunning nestles in the harlot-heart!For you no Dryads dress the roseate bower, For you no Nymphs their sparkling vases pour; Unmark'd by you, light Graces swim the green, And hovering Cupids aim their shafts, unseen. 'But THOU! whose mind the well-attemper'd ray Of Taste and Virtue lights with purer day; Whose finer sense each soft vibration owns With sweet responsive sympathy of tones; So the fair flower expands it's lucid form To meet the sun, and shuts it to the storm;For thee my borders nurse the fragrant wreath, My fountains murmur, and my zephyrs breathe; Slow slides the painted snail, the gilded fly Smooths his fine down, to charm thy curious eye; On twinkling fins my pearly nations play, Or win with sinuous train their trackless way; My plumy pairs in gay embroidery dress'd Form with ingenious bill the pensile nest, To Love's sweet notes attune the listening dell, And Echo sounds her soft symphonious shell. 'And, if with Thee some hapless Maid should stray, Disasterous Love companion of her way, Oh, lead her timid steps to yonder glade, Whose arching cliffs depending alders shade; There, as meek Evening wakes her temperate breeze, And moon-beams glimmer through the trembling trees, The rills, that gurgle round, shall soothe her ear, The weeping rocks shall number tear for tear; There as sad Philomel, alike forlorn, Sings to the Night from her accustomed thorn; While at sweet intervals each falling note 80 Sighs in the gale, and whispers round the grot; The sister-woe shall calm her aching breast, And softer slumbers steal her cares to rest.'Winds of the North! restrain your icy gales, Nor chill the bosom of these happy vales! Hence in dark heaps, ye gathering Clouds, revolve! Disperse, ye Lightnings! and, ye Mists, dissolve! -Hither, emerging from yon orient skies, BOTANIC GODDESS! bend thy radiant eyes; O'er these soft scenes assume thy gentle reign, Pomona, Ceres, Flora in thy train; O'er the still dawn thy placid smile effuse, And with thy silver sandals print the dews; In noon's bright blaze thy vermil vest unfold, And wave thy emerald banner star'd with gold.' Thus spoke the GENIUS, as He stept along, And bade these lawns to Peace and Truth belong; Down the steep slopes He led with modest skill The willing pathway, and the truant rill, Stretch'd o'er the marshy vale yon willowy mound, Where shines the lake amid the tufted ground, Raised the young woodland, smooth'd the wavy green, And gave to Beauty all the quiet scene.She comes!-the GODDESS!-through the whispering air, Bright as the morn, descends her blushing car; Each circling wheel a wreath of flowers intwines, And gem'd with flowers the silken harness shines; The golden bits with flowery studs are deck'd, And knots of flowers the crimson reins connect.And now on earth the silver axle rings, And the shell sinks upon its slender springs; Light from her airy seat the Goddess bounds, And steps celestial press the pansied grounds. Fair Spring advancing calls her feather'd quire, And tunes to softer notes her laughing lyre; Bids her gay hours on purple pinions move, And arms her Zephyrs with the shafts of Love, Pleased GNOMES, ascending from their earthy beds, Play round her graceful footsteps, as she treads; Gay SYLPHS attendant beat the fragrant air On winnowing wings, and waft her golden hair; Blue NYMPHS emerging leave their sparkling streams, 81 And FIERY FORMS alight from orient beams; Musk'd in the rose's lap fresh dews they shed, Or breathe celestial lustres round her head. First the fine Forms her dulcet voice requires, Which bathe or bask in elemental fires; From each bright gem of Day's refulgent car, From the pale sphere of every twinkling star, From each nice pore of ocean, earth, and air, With eye of flame the sparkling hosts repair, Mix their gay hues, in changeful circles play, Like motes, that tenant the meridian ray.So the clear Lens collects with magic power The countless glories of the midnight hour; Stars after stars with quivering lustre fall, And twinkling glide along the whiten'd wall.Pleased, as they pass, she counts the glittering bands, And stills their murmur with her waving hands; Each listening tribe with fond expectance burns, And now to these, and now to those, she turns. I. 'NYMPHS OF PRIMEVAL FIRE! YOUR vestal train Hung with gold-tresses o'er the vast inane, Pierced with your silver shafts the throne of Night, And charm'd young Nature's opening eyes with light; When LOVE DIVINE, with brooding wings unfurl'd, Call'd from the rude abyss the living world. '-LET THERE BE LIGHT!' proclaim'd the ALMIGHTY LORD, Astonish'd Chaos heard the potent word;Through all his realms the kindling Ether runs, And the mass starts into a million suns; Earths round each sun with quick explosions burst, And second planets issue from the first; Bend, as they journey with projectile force, In bright ellipses their reluctant course; Orbs wheel in orbs, round centres centres roll, And form, self-balanced, one revolving Whole. -Onward they move amid their bright abode, Space without bound, THE BOSOM OF THEIR GOD! II. 'ETHEREAL POWERS! YOU chase the shooting stars, Or yoke the vollied lightenings to your cars, Cling round the aërial bow with prisms bright, 82 And pleased untwist the sevenfold threads of light; Eve's silken couch with gorgeous tints adorn, And fire the arrowy throne of rising Morn. -OR, plum'd with flame, in gay battalion's spring To brighter regions borne on broader wing; Where lighter gases, circumfused on high, Form the vast concave of exterior sky; With airy lens the scatter'd rays assault, And bend the twilight round the dusky vault; Ride, with broad eye and scintillating hair, The rapid Fire-ball through the midnight air; Dart from the North on pale electric streams, Fringing Night's sable robe with transient beams. -OR rein the Planets in their swift careers, Gilding with borrow'd light their twinkling spheres; Alarm with comet-blaze the sapphire plain, The wan stars glimmering through its silver train; Gem the bright Zodiac, stud the glowing pole, Or give the Sun's phlogistic orb to roll. III. NYMPHS! YOUR fine forms with steps impassive mock Earth's vaulted roofs of adamantine rock; Round her still centre tread the burning soil, And watch the billowy Lavas, as they boil; Where, in basaltic caves imprison'd deep, Reluctant fires in dread suspension sleep; Or sphere on sphere in widening waves expand, And glad with genial warmth the incumbent land. So when the Mother-bird selects their food With curious bill, and feeds her callow brood; Warmth from her tender heart eternal springs, And pleased she clasps them with extended wings. 'YOU from deep cauldrons and unmeasured caves Blow flaming airs, or pour vitrescent waves; O'er shining oceans ray volcanic light, Or hurl innocuous embers to the night.While with loud shouts to Etna Heccla calls, And Andes answers from his beacon'd walls; Sea-wilder'd crews the mountain-stars admire, And Beauty beams amid tremendous fire. 'Thus when of old, as mystic bards presume, Huge CYCLOPS dwelt in Etna's rocky womb, 83 On thundering anvils rung their loud alarms, And leagued with VULCAN forged immortal arms; Descending VENUS sought the dark abode, And sooth'd the labours of the grisly God.While frowning Loves the threatening falchion wield, And tittering Graces peep behind the shield, With jointed mail their fairy limbs o'erwhelm, Or nod with pausing step the plumed helm; With radiant eye She view'd the boiling ore, Heard undismay'd the breathing bellows roar, Admired their sinewy arms, and shoulders bare, And ponderous hammers lifted high in air, With smiles celestial bless'd their dazzled sight, And Beauty blazed amid infernal night. IV. 'EFFULGENT MAIDS! YOU round deciduous day, Tressed with soft beams, your glittering bands array; On Earth's cold bosom, as the Sun retires, Confine with folds of air the lingering fires; O'er Eve's pale forms diffuse phosphoric light, And deck with lambent flames the shrine of Night. So, warm'd and kindled by meridian skies, And view'd in darkness with dilated eyes, BOLOGNA'S chalks with faint ignition blaze, BECCARI'S shells emit prismatic rays. So to the sacred Sun in MEMNON's fane, Spontaneous concords quired the matin strain; -Touch'd by his orient beam, responsive rings The living lyre, and vibrates all it's strings; Accordant ailes the tender tones prolong, And holy echoes swell the adoring song. 'YOU with light Gas the lamps nocturnal feed, Which dance and glimmer o'er the marshy mead; Shine round Calendula at twilight hours, And tip with silver all her saffron flowers; Warm on her mossy couch the radiant Worm, Guard from cold dews her love-illumin'd form, From leaf to leaf conduct the virgin light, Star of the earth, and diamond of the night. You bid in air the tropic Beetle burn, And fill with golden flame his winged urn; Or gild the surge with insect-sparks, that swarm 84 Round the bright oar, the kindling prow alarm; Or arm in waves, electric in his ire, The dread Gymnotus with ethereal fire.Onward his course with waving tail he helms, And mimic lightenings scare the watery realms, So, when with bristling plumes the Bird of JOVE Vindictive leaves the argent fields above, Borne on broad wings the guilty world he awes, And grasps the lightening in his shining claws. V. 1. 'NYMPHS! Your soft smiles uncultur'd man subdued, And charm'd the Savage from his native wood; You, while amazed his hurrying Hords retire From the fell havoc of devouring FIRE, Taught, the first Art! with piny rods to raise By quick attrition the domestic blaze, Fan with soft breath, with kindling leaves provide, And lift the dread Destroyer on his side. So, with bright wreath of serpent-tresses crown'd, Severe in beauty, young MEDUSA frown'd; Erewhile subdued, round WISDOM'S Aegis roll'd Hiss'd the dread snakes, and flam'd in burnish'd gold; Flash'd on her brandish'd arm the immortal shield, And Terror lighten'd o'er the dazzled field. 2. NYMPHS! YOU disjoin, unite, condense, expand, And give new wonders to the Chemist's hand; On tepid clouds of rising steam aspire, Or fix in sulphur all it's solid fire; With boundless spring elastic airs unfold, Or fill the fine vacuities of gold; With sudden flash vitrescent sparks reveal, By fierce collision from the flint and steel; Or mark with shining letter KUNKEL's name In the pale Phosphor's self-consuming flame. So the chaste heart of some enchanted Maid Shines with insidious light, by Love betray'd; Round her pale bosom plays the young Desire, And slow she wastes by self-consuming fire. 3. 'YOU taught mysterious BACON to explore Metallic veins, and part the dross from ore; With sylvan coal in whirling mills combine The crystal'd nitre, and the sulphurous mine; 85 Through wiry nets the black diffusion strain, And close an airy ocean in a grain.Pent in dark chambers of cylindric brass Slumbers in grim repose the sooty mass; Lit by the brilliant spark, from grain to grain Runs the quick fire along the kindling train; On the pain'd ear-drum bursts the sudden crash, Starts the red flame, and Death pursues the flash.Fear's feeble hand directs the fiery darts, And Strength and Courage yield to chemic arts; Guilt with pale brow the mimic thunder owns, And Tyrants tremble on their blood-stain'd thrones. VI. NYMPHS! You erewhile on simmering cauldrons play'd, And call'd delighted SAVERY to your aid; Bade round the youth explosive STEAM aspire In gathering clouds, and wing'd the wave with fire; Bade with cold streams the quick expansion stop, And sunk the immense of vapour to a drop.Press'd by the ponderous air the Piston falls Resistless, sliding through it's iron walls; Quick moves the balanced beam, of giant-birth, Wields his large limbs, and nodding shakes the earth. 'The Giant-Power from earth's remotest caves Lifts with strong arm her dark reluctant waves; Each cavern'd rock, and hidden den explores, Drags her dark coals, and digs her shining ores.Next, in close cells of ribbed oak confined, Gale after gale, He crowds the struggling wind; The imprison'd storms through brazen nostrils roar, Fan the white flame, and fuse the sparkling ore. Here high in air the rising stream He pours To clay-built cisterns, or to lead-lined towers; Fresh through a thousand pipes the wave distils, And thirsty cities drink the exuberant rills.There the vast mill-stone with inebriate whirl On trembling floors his forceful fingers twirl. Whose flinty teeth the golden harvests grind, Feast without blood! and nourish human-kind. 'Now his hard hands on Mona's rifted crest, Bosom'd in rock, her azure ores arrest; With iron lips his rapid rollers seize 86 The lengthening bars, in thin expansion squeeze; Descending screws with ponderous fly-wheels wound The tawny plates, the new medallions round; Hard dyes of steel the cupreous circles cramp, And with quick fall his massy hammers stamp. The Harp, the Lily and the Lion join, And GEORGE and BRITAIN guard the sterling coin. 'Soon shall thy arm, UNCONQUER'D STEAM! afar Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car; Or on wide-waving wings expanded bear The flying-chariot through the fields of air. -Fair crews triumphant, leaning from above, Shall wave their fluttering kerchiefs as they move; Or warrior-bands alarm the gaping crowd, And armies shrink beneath the shadowy cloud. 'So mighty HERCULES o'er many a clime Waved his vast mace in Virtue's cause sublime, Unmeasured strength with early art combined, Awed, served, protected, and amazed mankind.First two dread Snakes at JUNO'S vengeful nod Climb'd round the cradle of the sleeping God; Waked by the shrilling hiss, and rustling sound, And shrieks of fair attendants trembling round, Their gasping throats with clenching hands he holds; And Death untwists their convoluted folds. Next in red torrents from her sevenfold heads Fell HYDRA'S blood on Lerna's lake he sheds; Grasps ACHELOUS with resistless force, And drags the roaring River to his course; Binds with loud bellowing and with hideous yell The monster Bull, and threefold Dog of Hell. 'Then, where Nemea's howling forests wave, He drives the Lion to his dusky cave; Seized by the throat the growling fiend disarms, And tears his gaping jaws with sinewy arms; Lifts proud ANTEUS from his mother-plains, And with strong grasp the struggling Giant strains; Back falls his fainting head, and clammy hair, Writhe his weak limbs, and flits his life in air;By steps reverted o'er the blood-dropp'd fen He tracks huge CACUS to his murderous den; Where breathing flames through brazen lips he fled, 87 And shakes the rock-roof'd cavern o'er his head. 'Last with wide arms the solid earth He tears, Piles rock on rock, on mountain mountain rears; Heaves up huge ABYLA on Afric's sand, Crowns with high CALPÈ Europe's saliant strand, Crests with opposing towers the splendid scene, And pours from urns immense the sea between.-Loud o'er her whirling flood Charybdis roars, Affrighted Scylla bellows round his shores, Vesuvio groans through all his echoing caves, And Etna thunders o'er the insurgent waves. VII. 1. NYMPHS! YOUR fine hands ethereal floods amass From the warm cushion, and the whirling glass; Beard the bright cylinder with golden wire, And circumfuse the gravitating fire. Cold from each point cerulean lustres gleam, Or shoot in air the scintillating stream. So, borne on brazen talons, watch'd of old The sleepless dragon o'er his fruits of gold; Bright beam'd his scales, his eye-balls blazed with ire, And his wide nostrils breath'd inchanted fire. 'YOU bid gold-leaves, in crystal lantherns held, Approach attracted, and recede repel'd; While paper-nymphs instinct with motion rife, And dancing fauns the admiring Sage surprize. OR, if on wax some fearless Beauty stand, And touch the sparkling rod with graceful hand; Through her fine limbs the mimic lightnings dart, And flames innocuous eddy round her heart; O'er her fair brow the kindling lustres glare, Blue rays diverging from her bristling hair; While some fond Youth the kiss ethereal sips. And soft fires issue from their meeting lips. So round the virgin Saint in silver streams The holy Halo shoots it's arrowy beams. 'YOU crowd in coated jars the denser fire, Pierce the thin glass, and fuse the blazing wire; Or dart the red flash through the circling band Of youths and timorous damsels, hand in hand. -Starts the quick Ether through the fibre-trains Of dancing arteries, and of tingling veins, 88 Goads each fine nerve, with new sensation thrill'd, Bends the reluctant limbs with power unwill'd; Palsy's cold hands the fierce concussion own, And Life clings trembling on her tottering throne.So from dark clouds the playful lightning springs, Rives the firm oak, or prints the Fairy-rings. 2. NYMPHS! on that day YE shed from lucid eyes. Celestial tears, and breathed ethereal sighs! When RICHMAN rear'd, by fearless haste betrayed, The wiry rod in Nieva's fatal shade;Clouds o'er the Sage, with fringed skirts succeed, Flash follows flash, the warning corks recede; Near and more near He ey'd with fond amaze The silver streams, and watch'd the saphire blaze; Then burst the steel, the dart electric sped, And the bold Sage lay number'd with the dead!NYMPHS! on that day YE shed from lucid eyes Celestial tears, and breathed ethereal sighs! 3. 'YOU led your FRANKLIN to your glazed retreats, Your air-built castles, and your silken seats; Bade his bold arm invade the lowering sky, And seize the tiptoe lightnings, ere they fly; O'er the young Sage your mystic mantle spread, And wreath'd the crown electric round his head.Thus when on wanton wing intrepid LOVE Snatch'd the raised lightning from the arm of JOVE; Quick o'er his knee the triple bolt He bent, The cluster'd darts and forky arrows rent, Snapp'd with illumin'd hands each flaming shaft, His tingling fingers shook, and stamp'd, and laugh'd; Bright o'er the floor the scatter'd fragments blaz'd, And Gods retreating trembled as they gaz'd; The immortal Sire, indulgent to his child, Bow'd his ambrosial locks, and Heaven relenting smiled. VIII. 'When Air's pure essence joins the vital flood, And with phosphoric Acid dyes the blood, YOUR VIRGIN TRAINS the transient HEAT dispart, And lead the soft combustion round the heart; Life's holy lamp with fires successive feed, From the crown'd forehead to the prostrate weed, From Earth's proud realms to all that swim or sweep 89 The yielding ether or tumultuous deep. You swell the bulb beneath the heaving lawn, Brood the live seed, unfold the bursting spawn; Nurse with soft lap, and warm with fragrant breath The embryon panting in the arms of Death; Youth's vivid eye with living light adorn, And fire the rising blush of Beauty's golden morn. 'Thus when the Egg of Night, on Chaos hurl'd, Burst, and disclosed the cradle of the world; First from the gaping shell refulgent sprung IMMORTAL LOVE, his bow celestial strung;O'er the wide waste his gaudy wings unfold, Beam his soft smiles, and wave his curls of gold;With silver darts He pierced the kindling frame, And lit with torch divine the ever-living flame.' IX. The GODDESS paused, admired with conscious pride The effulgent legions marshal'd by her side, Forms sphered in fire with trembling light array'd, Ens without weight, and substance without shade; And, while tumultuous joy her bosom warms, Waves her white hand, and calls her hosts to arms, 'Unite, ILLUSTRIOUS NYMPHS! your radiant powers, Call from their long repose the VERNAL HOURS. Wake with soft touch, with rosy hands unbind The struggling pinions of the WESTERN WIND; Chafe his wan cheeks, his ruffled plumes repair, And wring the rain-drops from his tangled hair. Blaze round each frosted rill, or stagnant wave, And charm the NAIAD from her silent cave; Where, shrined in ice, like NIOBE she mourns, And clasps with hoary arms her empty urns. Call your bright myriads, trooping from afar, With beamy helms, and glittering shafts of war; In phalanx firm the FIEND OF FROST assail, Break his white towers, and pierce his crystal mail; To Zembla's moon-bright coasts the Tyrant bear, And chain him howling to the Northern Bear. 'So when enormous GRAMPUS, issuing forth From the pale regions of the icy North; Waves his broad tail, and opes his ribbed mouth, And seeks on winnowing fin the breezy South; 90 From towns deserted rush the breathless hosts, Swarm round the hills, and darken all the coasts; Boats follow boats along the shouting tides, And spears and javelins pierce his blubbery sides; Now the bold Sailor, raised on pointed toe, Whirls the wing'd harpoon on the slimy foe; Quick sinks the monster in his oozy bed, The blood-stain'd surges circling o'er his head, Steers to the frozen pole his wonted track, And bears the iron tempest on his back. X. 'On wings of flame, ETHEREAL VIRGINS! sweep O'er Earth's fair bosom, and complacent deep; Where dwell my vegetative realms benumb'd, In buds imprison'd, or in bulbs intomb'd, Pervade, PELLUCID FORMS! their cold retreat, Ray from bright urns your viewless floods of heat From earth's deep wastes electric torrents pour, Or shed from heaven the scintillating shower; Pierce the dull root, relax its fibre-trains, Thaw the thick blood, which lingers in its veins; Melt with warm breath the fragrant gums, that bind The expanding foliage in its scaly rind; And as in air the laughing leaflets play, And turn their shining bosoms to the ray, NYMPHS! with sweet smile each opening glower invite, And on its damask eyelids pour the light 'So shall my pines, Canadian wilds that shade, Where no bold step has pierc'd the tangled glade, High-towering palms, that part the Southern flood With shadowy isles and continents of wood, Oaks, whose broad antlers crest Britannia's plain, Or bear her thunders o'er the conquer'd main, Shout, as you pass, inhale the genial skies, And bask and brighten in your beamy eyes; Bow their white heads, admire the changing clime, 91 Shake from their candied trunks the tinkling rime; With bursting buds their wrinkled barks adorn, And wed the timorous floret to her thorn; Deep strike their roots, their lengthening tops revive, And all my world of foliage wave, alive. 'Thus with Hermetic art the ADEPT combines The royal acid with cobaltic mines; Marks with quick pen, in lines unseen portrayed, The blushing mead, green dell, and dusky glade; Shades with pellucid clouds the tintless field, And all the future Group exists conceal'd; Till waked by fire the dawning tablet glows, Green springs the herb, the purple floret blows, Hills vales and woods in bright succession rise, And all the living landscape charms his eyes. XI. 'With crest of gold should sultry SIRIUS glare, And with his kindling tresses scorch the air; With points of flame the shafts of Summer arm, And burn the beauties he designs to warm;-So erst when JOVE his oath extorted mourn'd, And clad in glory to the Fair return'd; While Loves at forky bolts their torches light, And resting lightnings gild the car of Night; His blazing form the dazzled Maid admir'd, Met with fond lips, and in his arms expir'd;NYMPHS! on light pinion lead your banner'd hosts High o'er the cliffs of ORKNEY'S gulphy coasts; Leave on your left the red volcanic light, Which HECCLA lifts amid the dusky night; Mark on the right the DOFRINE'S snow-capt brow, Where whirling MAELSTROME roars and foams below; Watch with unmoving eye, where CEPHEUS bends His triple crown, his scepter'd hand extends; Where studs CASSIOPE with stars unknown Her golden chair, and gems her sapphire zone; Where with vast convolution DRACO holds The ecliptic axis in his scaly folds, O'er half the skies his neck enormous rears, And with immense meanders parts the BEARS; Onward, the kindred BEARS with footstep rude Dance round the Pole, pursuing and pursued. 92 'There in her azure coif and starry stole, Grey TWILIGHT sits, and rules the slumbering Pole; Bends the pale moon-beams round the sparkling coast, And strews with livid hands eternal frost. There, NYMPHS! alight, array your dazzling powers, With sudden march alarm the torpid Hours; On ice-built isles expand a thousand sails, Hinge the strong helms, and catch the frozen gales; The winged rocks to feverish climates guide, Where fainting Zephyrs pant upon the tide; Pass, where to CEUTA CALPE'S thunder roars, And answering echoes shake the kindred shores; Pass, where with palmy plumes CANARY smiles, And in her silver girdle binds her isles; Onward, where NIGER'S dusky Naiad laves A thousand kingdoms with prolific waves, Or leads o'er golden sands her threefold train In steamy channels to the fervid main, While swarthy nations croud the sultry coast, Drink the fresh breeze, and hail the floating Frost, NYMPHS! veil'd in mist, the melting treasures steer, And cool with arctic snows the tropic year. So from the burning Line by Monsoons driven Clouds sail in squadrons o'er the darken'd heaven; Wide wastes of sand the gelid gales pervade, And ocean cools beneath the moving shade. XII. Should SOLSTICE, stalking through the sickening bowers, Suck the warm dew-drops, lap the falling showers; Kneel with parch'd lip, and bending from it's brink From dripping palm the scanty river drink; NYMPHS! o'er the soil ten thousand points erect, And high in air the electric flame collect. Soon shall dark mists with self-attraction shroud The blazing day, and sail in wilds of cloud; Each silvery Flower the streams aerial quaff, Bow her sweet head, and infant Harvest laugh. 'Thus when ELIJA mark'd from Carmel's brow In bright expanse the briny flood below; Roll'd his red eyes amid the scorching air, Smote his firm breast, and breathed his ardent prayer; High in the midst a massy altar stood, 93 And slaughter'd offerings press'd the piles of wood; While ISRAEL'S chiefs the sacred hill surround, And famish'd armies crowd the dusty ground; While proud Idolatry was leagued with dearth, And wither'd famine swept the desert earth.'OH, MIGHTY LORD! thy woe-worn servant hear, 'Who calls thy name in agony of prayer; 'Thy fanes dishonour'd, and thy prophets slain, 'Lo! I alone survive of all thy train!'Oh send from heaven thy sacred fire,-and pour 'O'er the parch'd land the salutary shower,'So shall thy Priest thy erring flock recal,'And speak in thunder, 'THOU ART LORD OF ALL.'He cried, and kneeling on the mountain-sands, Stretch'd high in air his supplicating hands. -Descending flames the dusky shrine illume; Fire the wet wood, the sacred bull consume; Wing'd from the sea the gathering mists arise, And floating waters darken all the skies; The King with shifted reins his chariot bends, And wide o'er earth the airy flood descends; With mingling cries dispersing hosts applaud, And shouting nations own THE LIVING GOD.' The GODDESS ceased,-the exulting tribes obey, Start from the soil, and win their airy way; The vaulted skies with streams of transient rays Shine, as they pass, and earth and ocean blaze. So from fierce wars when lawless Monarch's cease, Or Liberty returns with laurel'd Peace; Bright fly the sparks, the colour'd lustres burn, Flash follows f Blue serpents sweep along the dusky air, Imp'd by long trains of scintillating hair; Red rockets rise, loud cracks are heard on high, And showers of stars rush headlong from the sky, Burst, as in silver lines they hiss along, And the quick flash unfolds the gazing throng. ~ Erasmus Darwin,

1124:Scene. Colmar in Alsatia: an Inn. 1528. Paracelsus, Festus. Paracelsus [to Johannes Oporinus, his Secretary]. Sic itur ad astra! Dear Von Visenburg Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralysed, And every honest soul that Basil holds Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say, Just as though Liechtenfels had never set So true a value on his sorry carcass, And learned Ptter had not frowned us dumb. We live; and shall as surely start to morrow For Nuremberg, as we drink speedy scathe To Basil in this mantling wine, suffused A delicate blush, no fainter tinge is born I' the shut heart of a bud. Pledge me, good John "Basil; a hot plague ravage it, and Ptter "Oppose the plague!" Even so? Do you too share Their panic, the reptiles? Ha, ha; faint through these, Desist for these! They manage matters so At Basil, 't is like: but others may find means To bring the stoutest braggart of the tribe Once more to crouch in silencemeans to breed A stupid wonder in each fool again, Now big with admiration at the skill Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes: And, that done,means to brand each slavish brow So deeply, surely, ineffaceably, That henceforth flattery shall not pucker it Out of the furrow; there that stamp shall stay To show the next they fawn on, what they are, This Basil with its magnates,fill my cup, Whom I curse soul and limb. And now despatch, Despatch, my trusty John; and what remains To do, whate'er arrangements for our trip Are yet to be completed, see you hasten This night; we'll weather the storm at least: to-morrow For Nuremberg! Now leave us; this grave clerk Has divers weighty matters for my ear: [Oporinus goes out. And spare my lungs. At last, my gallant Festus, I am rid of this arch-knave that dogs my heels As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep; at last May give a loose to my delight. How kind, How very kind, my first best only friend! Why, this looks like fidelity. Embrace me! Not a hair silvered yet? Right! you shall live Till I am worth your love; you shall be pround, And Ibut let time show! Did you not wonder? I sent to you because our compact weighed Upon my conscience(you recall the night At Basil, which the gods confound!)because Once more I aspire. I call you to my side: You come. You thought my message strange? Festus.                       So strange That I must hope, indeed, your messenger Has mingled his own fancies with the words Purporting to be yours. Paracelsus.             He said no more, 'T is probable, than the precious folk I leave Said fiftyfold more roughly. Well-a-day, 'T is true! poor Paracelsus is exposed At last; a most egregious quack he proves: And those he overreached must spit their hate On one who, utterly beneath contempt, Could yet deceive their topping wits. You heard Bare truth; and at my bidding you come here To speed me on my enterprise, as once Your lavish wishes sped me, my own friend! Festus. What is your purpose, Aureole? Paracelsus.                 Oh, for purpose, There is no lack of precedents in a case Like mine; at least, if not precisely mine, The case of men cast off by those they sought To benefit. Festus.      They really cast you off? I only heard a vague tale of some priest, Cured by your skill, who wrangled at your claim, Knowing his life's worth best; and how the judge The matter was referred to, saw no cause To interfere, nor you to hide your full Contempt of him; nor he, again, to smother His wrath thereat, which raised so fierce a flame That Basil soon was made no place for you. Paracelsus. The affair of Liechtenfels? the shallowest fable, The last and silliest outragemere pretence! I knew it, I foretold it from the first, How soon the stupid wonder you mistook For genuine loyaltya cheering promise Of better things to comewould pall and pass; And every word comes true. Saul is among The prophets! Just so long as I was pleased To play off the mere antics of my art, Fantastic gambols leading to no end, I got huge praise: but one can ne'er keep down Our foolish nature's weakness. There they flocked, Poor devils, jostling, swearing and perspiring, Till the walls rang again; and all for me! I had a kindness for them, which was right; But then I stopped not till I tacked to that A trust in them and a respecta sort Of sympathy for them; I must needs begin To teach them, not amaze them, "to impart "The spirit which should instigate the search "Of truth," just what you bade me! I spoke out. Forthwith a mighty squadron, in disgust, Filed off"the sifted chaff of the sack," I said, Redoubling my endeavours to secure The rest. When lo! one man had tarried so long Only to ascertain if I supported This tenet of his, or that; another loved To hear impartially before he judged, And having heard, now judged; this bland disciple Passed for my dupe, but all along, it seems, Spied error where his neighbours marvelled most; That fiery doctor who had hailed me friend, Did it because my by-paths, once proved wrong And beaconed properly, would commend again The good old ways our sires jogged safely o'er, Though not their squeamish sons; the other worthy Discovered divers verses of St. John, Which, read successively, refreshed the soul, But, muttered backwards, cured the gout, the stone, The colic and what not. Quid multa? The end Was a clear class-room, and a quiet leer From grave folk, and a sour reproachful glance From those in chief who, cap in hand, installed The new professor scarce a year before; And a vast flourish about patient merit Obscured awhile by flashy tricks, but sure Sooner or later to emerge in splendour Of which the example was some luckless wight Whom my arrival had discomfited, But now, it seems, the general voice recalled To fill my chair and so efface the stain Basil had long incurred. I sought no better, Only a quiet dismissal from my post, And from my heart I wished them better suited And better served. Good night to Basil, then! But fast as I proposed to rid the tribe Of my obnoxious back, I could not spare them The pleasure of a parting kick. Festus.                  You smile: Despise them as they merit! Paracelsus.                If I smile, 'T is with as very contempt as ever turned Flesh into stone. This courteous recompense, This grateful . . . Festus, were your nature fit To be defiled, your eyes the eyes to ache At gangrene-blotches, eating poison-blains, The ulcerous barky scurf of leprosy Which findsa man, and leavesa hideous thing That cannot but be mended by hell fire, I would lay bare to you the human heart Which God cursed long ago, and devils make since Their pet nest and their never-tiring home. Oh, sages have discovered we are born For various endsto love, to know: has ever One stumbled, in his search, on any signs Of a nature in us formed to hate? To hate? If that be our true object which evokes Our powers in fullest strength, be sure 't is hate! Yet men have doubted if the best and bravest Of spirits can nourish him with hate alone. I had not the monopoly of fools, It seems, at Basil. Festus.           But your plans, your plans! I have yet to learn your purpose, Aureole! Paracelsus. Whether to sink beneath such ponderous shame, To shrink up like a crushed snail, undergo In silence and desist from further toil, and so subside into a monument Of one their censure blasted? or to bow Cheerfully as submissively, to lower My old pretensions even as Basil dictates, To drop into the rank her wits assign me And live as they prescribe, and make that use Of my poor knowledge which their rules allow, Proud to be patted now and then, and careful To practise the true posture for receiving The amplest benefit from their hoofs' appliance When they shall condescend to tutor me? Then, one may feel resentment like a flame Within, and deck false systems in truth's garb, And tangle and entwine mankind with error, And give them darkness for a dower and falsehood For a possession, ages: or one may mope Into a shade through thinking, or else drowse Into a dreamless sleep and so die off. But I,now Festus shall divine!but I Am merely setting out once more, embracing My earliest aims again! What thinks he now? Festus. Your aims? the aims?to Know? and where is found The early trust . . . Paracelsus.            Nay, not so fast; I say, The aimsnot the old means. You know they made me A laughing-stock; I was a fool; you know The when and the how: hardly those means again! Not but they had their beauty; who should know Their passing beauty, if not I? Still, dreams They were, so let them vanish, yet in beauty If that may be. Stay: thus they pass in song! [He sings. Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain. And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, With mothed and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young. Mine, every word! And on such pile shall die My lovely fancies, with fair perished things, Themselves fair and forgotten; yes, forgotten, Or why abjure them? So, I made this rhyme That fitting dignity might be preserved; No little proud was I; though the list of drugs Smacks of my old vocation, and the verse Halts like the best of Luther's psalms. Festus.                      But, Aureole, Talk not thus wildly and madly. I am here Did you know all! I have travelled far, indeed, To learn your wishes. Be yourself again! For in this mood I recognize you less Than in the horrible despondency I witnessed last. You may account this, joy; But rather let me gaze on that despair Than hear these incoherent words and see This flushed cheek and intensely-sparkling eye. Paracelsus. Why, man, I was light-hearted in my prime I am light-hearted now; what would you have? Aprile was a poet, I make songs 'T is the very augury of success I want! Why should I not be joyous now as then? Festus. Joyous! and how? and what remains for joy? You have declared the ends (which I am sick Of naming) are impracticable. Paracelsus.                Ay, Pursued as I pursued themthe arch-fool! Listen: my plan will please you not, 't is like, But you are little versed in the world's ways. This is my plan(first drinking its good luck) I will accept all helps; all I despised So rashly at the outset, equally With early impulses, late years have quenched: I have tried each way singly: now for both! All helps! no one sort shall exclude the rest. I seek to know and to enjoy at once, Not one without the other as before. Suppose my labour should seem God's own cause Once more, as first I dreamed,it shall not baulk me Of the meanest earthliest sensualest delight That may be snatched; for every joy is gain, And gain is gain, however small. My soul Can die then, nor be taunted"what was gained?" Nor, on the other hand, should pleasure follow As though I had not spurned her hitherto, Shall she o'ercloud my spirit's rapt communion With the tumultuous past, the teeming future, Glorious with visions of a full success. Festus. Success! Paracelsus.     And wherefore not? Why not prefer Results obtained in my best state of being, To those derived alone from seasons dark As the thoughts they bred? When I was best, my youth Unwasted, seemed success not surest too? It is the nature of darkness to obscure. I am a wanderer: I remember well One journey, how I feared the track was missed, So long the city I desired to reach Lay hid; when suddenly its spires afar Flashed through the circling clouds; you may conceive My transport. Soon the vapours closed again, But I had seen the city, and one such glance No darkness could obscure: nor shall the present A few dull hours, a passing shame or two, Destroy the vivid memories of the past. I will fight the battle out; a little spent Perhaps, but still an able combatant. You look at my grey hair and furrowed brow? But I can turn even weakness to account: Of many tricks I know, 't is not the least To push the ruins of my frame, whereon The fire of vigour trembles scarce alive, Into a heap, and send the flame aloft. What should I do with age? So, sickness lends An aid; it being, I fear, the source of all We boast of: mind is nothing but disease, And natural health is ignorance. Festus.                  I see But one good symptom in this notable scheme. I feared your sudden journey had in view To wreak immediate vengeance on your foes 'T is not so: I am glad. Paracelsus.              And if I please To spit on them, to trample them, what then? 'T is sorry warfare truly, but the fools Provoke it. I would spare their self-conceit But if they must provoke me, cannot suffer Forbearance on my part, if I may keep No quality in the shade, must needs put forth Power to match power, my strength against their strength, And teach them their own game with their own arms Why, be it so and let them take their chance! I am above them like a god, there's no Hiding the fact: what idle scruples, then, Were those that ever bade me soften it, Communicate it gently to the world, Instead of proving my supremacy, Taking my natural station o'er their head, Then owning all the glory was a man's! And in my elevation man's would be. But live and learn, though life's short, learning, hard! And therefore, though the wreck of my past self, I fear, dear Ptter, that your lecture-room Must wait awhile for its best ornament, The penitent empiric, who set up For somebody, but soon was taught his place; Now, but too happy to be let confess His error, snuff the candles, and illustrate (Fiat experientia corpore vili) Your medicine's soundness in his person. Wait, Good Ptter! Festus.       He who sneers thus, is a god!       Paracelsus. Ay, ay, laugh at me! I am very glad You are not gulled by all this swaggering; you Can see the root of the matter!how I strive To put a good face on the overthrow I have experienced, and to bury and hide My degradation in its length and breadth; How the mean motives I would make you think Just mingle as is due with nobler aims, The appetites I modestly allow May influence me as being mortal still Do goad me, drive me on, and fast supplant My youth's desires. You are no stupid dupe: You find me out! Yes, I had sent for you To palm these childish lies upon you, Festus! Laughyou shall laugh at me! Festus.                The past, then, Aureole, Proves nothing? Is our interchange of love Yet to begin? Have I to swear I mean No flattery in this speech or that? For you, Whate'er you say, there is no degradation; These low thoughts are no inmates of your mind, Or wherefore this disorder? You are vexed As much by the intrusion of base views, Familiar to your adversaries, as they Were troubled should your qualities alight Amid their murky souls; not otherwise, A stray wolf which the winter forces down From our bleak hills, suffices to affright A village in the valeswhile foresters Sleep calm, though all night long the famished troop Snuff round and scratch against their crazy huts. These evil thoughts are monsters, and will flee. Paracelsus. May you be happy, Festus, my own friend! Festus. Nay, further; the delights you fain would think The superseders of your nobler aims, Though ordinary and harmless stimulants, Will ne'er content you. . . . Paracelsus.                Hush! I once despised them, But that soon passes. We are high at first In our demand, nor will abate a jot Of toil's strict value; but time passes o'er, And humbler spirits accept what we refuse: In short, when some such comfort is doled out As these delights, we cannot long retain Bitter contempt which urges us at first To hurl it back, but hug it to our breast And thankfully retire. This life of mine Must be lived out and a grave thoroughly earned: I am just fit for that and nought beside. I told you once, I cannot now enjoy, Unless I deem my knowledge gains through joy; Nor can I know, but straight warm tears reveal My need of linking also joy to knowledge: So, on I drive, enjoying all I can, And knowing all I can. I speak, of course, Confusedly; this will better explainfeel here! Quick beating, is it not?a fire of the heart To work off some way, this as well as any. So, Festus sees me fairly launched; his calm Compassionate look might have disturbed me once, But now, far from rejecting, I invite What bids me press the closer, lay myself Open before him, and be soothed with pity; I hope, if he command hope, and believe As he directs mesatiating myself With his enduring love. And Festus quits me To give place to some credulous disciple Who holds that God is wise, but Paracelsus Has his peculiar merits: I suck in That homage, chuckle o'er that admiration, And then dismiss the fool; for night is come. And I betake myself to study again, Till patient searchings after hidden lore Half wring some bright truth from its prison; my frame Trembles, my forehead's veins swell out, my hair Tingles for triumph. Slow and sure the morn Shall break on my pent room and dwindling lamp And furnace dead, and scattered earths and ores; When, with a failing heart and throbbing brow, I must review my captured truth, sum up Its value, trace what ends to what begins, Its present power with its eventual bearings, Latent affinities, the views it opens, And its full length in perfecting my scheme. I view it sternly circumscribed, cast down From the high place my fond hopes yielded it, Proved worthlesswhich, in getting, yet had cost Another wrench to this fast-falling frame. Then, quick, the cup to quaff, that chases sorrow! I lapse back into youth, and take again My fluttering pulse for evidence that God Means good to me, will make my cause his own. See! I have cast off this remorseless care Which clogged a spirit born to soar so free, And my dim chamber has become a tent, Festus is sitting by me, and his Michal . . . Why do you start? I say, she listening here, (For yonderWrzburg through the orchard-bough!) Motions as though such ardent words should find No echo in a maiden's quiet soul, But her pure bosom heaves, her eyes fill fast With tears, her sweet lips tremble all the while! Ha, ha! Festus.    It seems, then, you expect to reap No unreal joy from this your present course, But rather . . . Paracelsus.          Death! To die! I owe that much To what, at least, I was. I should be sad To live contented after such a fall, To thrive and fatten after such reverse! The whole plan is a makeshift, but will last My time. Festus.     And you have never mused and said, "I had a noble purpose, and the strength "To compass it; but I have stopped half-way, "And wrongly given the first-fruits of my toil "To objects little worthy of the gift. "Why linger round them still? why clench my fault? "Why seek for consolation in defeat, "In vain endeavours to derive a beauty "From ugliness? why seek to make the most "Of what no power can change, nor strive instead "With mighty effort to redeem the past "And, gathering up the treasures thus cast down, "To hold a steadfast course till I arrive "At their fit destination and my own?" You have never pondered thus? Paracelsus.                Have I, you ask? Often at midnight, when most fancies come, Would some such airy project visit me: But ever at the end . . . or will you hear The same thing in a tale, a parable? You and I, wandering over the world wide, Chance to set foot upon a desert coast. Just as we cry, "No human voice before "Broke the inveterate silence of these rocks!" Their querulous echo startles us; we turn: What ravaged structure still looks o'er the sea? Some characters remain, too! While we read, The sharp salt wind, impatient for the last Of even this record, wistfully comes and goes, Or sings what we recover, mocking it. This is the record; and my voice, the wind's. [He sings. Over the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave, A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nailed all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows' game: So, each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view, But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning drooped the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor starshine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretched along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast. Now, one morn, land appeareda speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky: "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check "The shout, restrain the eager eye!" But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; So, we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statute bright was on every deck! We shouted, every man of us, And steered right into the harbour thus, With pomp and pan glorious. A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for every one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done. When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders! "Our isles are just at hand," they cried, "Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping "Our temple-gates are opened wide, "Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping "For these majestic forms"they cried. Oh, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we called out"Depart! "Our gifts, once given, must here abide. "Our work is done; we have no heart "To mar our work,"we cried. Festus. In truth? Paracelsus.      Nay, wait: all this in tracings faint On rugged stones strewn here and there, but piled In order once: then followsmark what follows! "The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung "To their first fault, and withered in their pride." Festus. Come back then, Aureole; as you fear God, come! This is foul sin; come back! Renounce the past, Forswear the future; look for joy no more, But wait death's summons amid holy sights, And trust me for the eventpeace, if not joy. Return with me to Einsiedeln, dear Aureole! Paracelsus. No way, no way! it would not turn to good. A spotless child sleeps on the flowering moss 'T is well for him; but when a sinful man, Envying such slumber, may desire to put His guilt away, shall he return at once To rest by lying there? Our sires knew well (Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons) The fitting course for such: dark cells, dim lamps, A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm: No mossy pillow blue with violets! Festus. I see no symptom of these absolute And tyrannous passions. You are calmer now. This verse-making can purge you well enough Without the terrible penance you describe. You love me still: the lusts you fear will never Outrage your friend. To Einsiedeln, once more! Say but the word! Paracelsus.          No, no; those lusts forbid: They crouch, I know, cowering with half-shut eye Beside you; 't is their nature. Thrust yourself Between them and their prey; let some fool style me Or king or quack, it matters notthen try Your wisdom, urge them to forego their treat! No, no; learn better and look deeper, Festus! If you knew how a devil sneers within me While you are talking now of this, now that, As though we differed scarcely save in trifles! Festus. Do we so differ? True, change must proceed, Whether for good or ill; keep from me, which! Do not confide all secrets: I was born To hope, and you . . . Paracelsus.            To trust: you know the fruits!            Festus. Listen: I do believe, what you call trust Was self-delusion at the best: for, see! So long as God would kindly pioneer A path for you, and screen you from the world, Procure you full exemption from man's lot, Man's common hopes and fears, on the mere pretext Of your engagement in his serviceyield you A limitless licence, make you God, in fact, And turn your slaveyou were content to say Most courtly praises! What is it, at last, But selfishness without example? None Could trace God's will so plain as you, while yours Remained implied in it; but now you fail, And we, who prate about that will, are fools! In short, God's service is established here As he determines fit, and not your way, And this you cannot brook. Such discontent Is weak. Renounce all creatureship at once! Affirm an absolute right to have and use Your energies; as though the rivers should say "We rush to the ocean; what have we to do "With feeding streamlets, lingering in the vales, "Sleeping in lazy pools?" Set up that plea, That will be bold at least! Paracelsus.                'T is like enough. The serviceable spirits are those, no doubt, The East produces: lo, the master bids, They wake, raise terraces and garden-grounds In one night's space; and, this done, straight begin Another century's sleep, to the great praise Of him that framed them wise and beautiful, Till a lamp's rubbing, or some chance akin, Wake them again. I am of different mould. I would have soothed my lord, and slaved for him And done him service past my narrow bond, And thus I get rewarded for my pains! Beside, 't is vain to talk of forwarding God's glory otherwise; this is alone The sphere of its increase, as far as men Increase it; why, then, look beyond this sphere? We are his glory; and if we be glorious, Is not the thing achieved? Festus.               Shall one like me Judge hearts like yours? Though years have changed you much, And you have left your first love, and retain Its empty shade to veil your crooked ways, Yet I still hold that you have honoured God. And who shall call your course without reward? For, wherefore this repining at defeat Had triumph ne'er inured you to high hopes? I urge you to forsake the life you curse, And what success attends me?simply talk Of passion, weakness and remorse; in short, Anything but the naked truthyou choose This so-despised career, and cheaply hold My happiness, or rather other men's. Once more, return! Paracelsus.          And quickly. John the thief Has pilfered half my secrets by this time: And we depart by daybreak. I am weary, I know not how; not even the wine-cup soothes My brain to-night . . . Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus? No flattery! One like you needs not be told We live and breathe deceiving and deceived. Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts, Me and my cant, each petty subterfuge, My rhymes and all this frothy shower of words, My glozing self-deceit, my outward crust Of lies which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfair Wrapt the sound flesh?so, see you flatter not! Even God flatters: but my friend, at least, Is true. I would depart, secure henceforth Against all further insult, hate and wrong From puny foes; my one friend's scorn shall brand me: No fear of sinking deeper! Festus.               No, dear Aureole! No, no; I came to counsel faithfully. There are old rules, made long ere we were born, By which I judge you. I, so fallible, So infinitely low beside your mighty Majestic spirit!even I can see You own some higher law than ours which call Sin, what is no sinweakness, what is strength. But I have only these, such as they are, To guide me; and I blame you where they bid, Only so long as blaming promises To win peace for your soul: the more, that sorrow Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me So that I faint not under my distress. But wherefore should I scruple to avow In spite of all, as brother judging brother, Your fate is most inexplicable to me? And should you perish without recompense And satisfaction yettoo hastily I have relied on love: you may have sinned, But you have loved. As a mere human matter As I would have God deal with fragile men In the endI say that you will triumph yet! Paracelsus. Have you felt sorrow, Festus?'t is because You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours! Well thought on: never let her know this last Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared Insult meme she loved:so, grieve her not! Festus. Your ill success can little grieve her now. Paracelsus. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze! Festus. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus! Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof I cannot bear those eyes. Paracelsus.              Nay, really dead?              Festus. 'T is scarce a month. Paracelsus.            Stone dead!then you have laid her Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know, I can reveal a secret which shall comfort Even you. I have no julep, as men think, To cheat the grave; but a far better secret. Know, then, you did not ill to trust your love To the cold earth: I have thought much of it: For I believe we do not wholly die. Festus. Aureole! Paracelsus.     Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason For what I say: I think the soul can never Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see, Very unfit to put so strange a thought In an intelligible dress of words; But take it as my trust, she is not dead. Festus. But not on this account alone? you surely, Aureole, you have believed this all along? Paracelsus. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews, While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing, As though it mattered how the farce plays out, So it be quickly played. Away, away! Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize, Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats And leave a clear arena for the brave About to perish for your sport!Behold! ~ Robert Browning, Paracelsus - Part IV - Paracelsus Aspires ,

1125:Beachy Head ON thy stupendous summit, rock sublime ! That o'er the channel rear'd, half way at sea The mariner at early morning hails, I would recline; while Fancy should go forth, And represent the strange and awful hour Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent Stretch'd forth his arm, and rent the solid hills, Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between The rifted shores, and from the continent Eternally divided this green isle. Imperial lord of the high southern coast ! From thy projecting head-land I would mark Far in the east the shades of night disperse, Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun Just lifts above it his resplendent orb. Advances now, with feathery silver touched, The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands, While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry, Their white wings glancing in the level beam, The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food, And thy rough hollows echo to the voice Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws, With clamour, not unlike the chiding hounds, While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog, Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock. The high meridian of the day is past, And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven, Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low The tide of ebb, upon the level sands. The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still, Catches the light and variable airs That but a little crisp the summer sea. Dimpling its tranquil surface. Afar off, 17 And just emerging from the arch immense Where seem to part the elements, a fleet Of fishing vessels stretch their lesser sails; While more remote, and like a dubious spot Just hanging in the horizon, laden deep, The ship of commerce richly freighted, makes Her slower progress, on her distant voyage, Bound to the orient climates, where the sun Matures the spice within its odorous shell, And, rivalling the gray worm's filmy toil, Bursts from its pod the vegetable down; Which in long turban'd wreaths, from torrid heat Defends the brows of Asia's countless casts. There the Earth hides within her glowing breast The beamy adamant, and the round pearl Enchased in rugged covering; which the slave, With perilous and breathless toil, tears off From the rough sea-rock, deep beneath the waves. These are the toys of Nature; and her sport Of little estimate in Reason's eye: And they who reason, with abhorrence see Man, for such gaudes and baubles, violate The sacred freedom of his fellow man­ Erroneous estimate ! As Heaven's pure air, Fresh as it blows on this aërial height, Or sound of seas upon the stony strand, Or inland, the gay harmony of birds, And winds that wander in the leafy woods; Are to the unadulterate taste more worth Than the elaborate harmony, brought out From fretted stop, or modulated airs Of vocal science.­So the brightest gems, Glancing resplendent on the regal crown, Or trembling in the high born beauty's ear, Are poor and paltry, to the lovely light Of the fair star, that as the day declines, Attendant on her queen, the crescent moon, Bathes her bright tresses in the eastern wave. For now the sun is verging to the sea, 18 And as he westward sinks, the floating clouds Suspended, move upon the evening gale, And gathering round his orb, as if to shade The insufferable brightness, they resign Their gauzy whiteness; and more warm'd, assume All hues of purple. There, transparent gold Mingles with ruby tints, and sapphire gleams, And colours, such as Nature through her works Shews only in the ethereal canopy. Thither aspiring Fancy fondly soars, Wandering sublime thro' visionary vales, Where bright pavilions rise, and trophies, fann'd By airs celestial; and adorn'd with wreaths Of flowers that bloom amid elysian bowers. Now bright, and brighter still the colours glow, Till half the lustrous orb within the flood Seems to retire: the flood reflecting still Its splendor, and in mimic glory drest; Till the last ray shot upward, fires the clouds With blazing crimson; then in paler light, Long lines of tenderer radiance, lingering yield To partial darkness; and on the opposing side The early moon distinctly rising, throws Her pearly brilliance on the trembling tide. The fishermen, who at set seasons pass Many a league off at sea their toiling night, Now hail their comrades, from their daily task Returning; and make ready for their own, With the night tide commencing:­The night tide Bears a dark vessel on, whose hull and sails Mark her a coaster from the north. Her keel Now ploughs the sand; and sidelong now she leans, While with loud clamours her athletic crew Unload her; and resounds the busy hum Along the wave-worn rocks. Yet more remote, Where the rough cliff hangs beetling o'er its base, All breathes repose; the water's rippling sound Scarce heard; but now and then the sea-snipe's cry Just tells that something living is abroad; And sometimes crossing on the moonbright line, 19 Glimmers the skiff, faintly discern'd awhile, Then lost in shadow. Contemplation here, High on her throne of rock, aloof may sit, And bid recording Memory unfold Her scroll voluminous­bid her retrace The period, when from Neustria's hostile shore The Norman launch'd his galleys, and the bay O'er which that mass of ruin frowns even now In vain and sullen menace, then received The new invaders; a proud martial race, Of Scandinavia the undaunted sons, Whom Dogon, Fier-a-bras, and Humfroi led To conquest: while Trinacria to their power Yielded her wheaten garland; and when thou, Parthenope ! within thy fertile bay Receiv'd the victors­ In the mailed ranks Of Normans landing on the British coast Rode Taillefer; and with astounding voice Thunder'd the war song daring Roland sang First in the fierce contention: vainly brave, One not inglorious struggle England made­ But failing, saw the Saxon heptarchy Finish for ever.­Then the holy pile, Yet seen upon the field of conquest, rose, Where to appease heaven's wrath for so much blood, The conqueror bade unceasing prayers ascend, And requiems for the slayers and the slain. But let not modern Gallia form from hence Presumptuous hopes, that ever thou again, Queen of the isles ! shalt crouch to foreign arms. The enervate sons of Italy may yield; And the Iberian, all his trophies torn And wrapp'd in Superstition's monkish weed, May shelter his abasement, and put on Degrading fetters. Never, never thou ! Imperial mistress of the obedient sea; But thou, in thy integrity secure, 20 Shalt now undaunted meet a world in arms. England ! 'twas where this promontory rears Its rugged brow above the channel wave, Parting the hostile nations, that thy fame, Thy naval fame was tarnish'd, at what time Thou, leagued with the Batavian, gavest to France One day of triumph­triumph the more loud, Because even then so rare. Oh ! well redeem'd, Since, by a series of illustrious men, Such as no other country ever rear'd, To vindicate her cause. It is a list Which, as Fame echoes it, blanches the cheek Of bold Ambition; while the despot feels The extorted sceptre tremble in his grasp. From even the proudest roll by glory fill'd, How gladly the reflecting mind returns To simple scenes of peace and industry, Where, bosom'd in some valley of the hills Stands the lone farm; its gate with tawny ricks Surrounded, and with granaries and sheds, Roof'd with green mosses, and by elms and ash Partially shaded; and not far remov'd The hut of sea-flints built; the humble home Of one, who sometimes watches on the heights, When hid in the cold mist of passing clouds, The flock, with dripping fleeces, are dispers'd O'er the wide down; then from some ridged point That overlooks the sea, his eager eye Watches the bark that for his signal waits To land its merchandize:­Quitting for this Clandestine traffic his more honest toil, The crook abandoning, he braves himself The heaviest snow-storm of December's night, When with conflicting winds the ocean raves, And on the tossing boat, unfearing mounts To meet the partners of the perilous trade, And share their hazard. Well it were for him, If no such commerce of destruction known, He were content with what the earth affords 21 To human labour; even where she seems Reluctant most. More happy is the hind, Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor, Or turbary, his independent hut Cover'd with heather, whence the slow white smoke Of smouldering peat arises­­A few sheep, His best possession, with his children share The rugged shed when wintry tempests blow; But, when with Spring's return the green blades rise Amid the russet heath, the household live Joint tenants of the waste throughout the day, And often, from her nest, among the swamps, Where the gemm'd sun-dew grows, or fring'd buck-bean, They scare the plover, that with plaintive cries Flutters, as sorely wounded, down the wind. Rude, and but just remov'd from savage life Is the rough dweller among scenes like these, (Scenes all unlike the poet's fabling dreams Describing Arcady)­But he is free; The dread that follows on illegal acts He never feels; and his industrious mate Shares in his labour. Where the brook is traced By crouding osiers, and the black coot hides Among the plashy reeds, her diving brood, The matron wades; gathering the long green rush That well prepar'd hereafter lends its light To her poor cottage, dark and cheerless else Thro' the drear hours of Winter. Otherwhile She leads her infant group where charlock grows 'Unprofitably gay,' or to the fields, Where congregate the linnet and the finch, That on the thistles, so profusely spread, Feast in the desert; the poor family Early resort, extirpating with care These, and the gaudier mischief of the ground; Then flames the high rais'd heap; seen afar off Like hostile war-fires flashing to the sky. Another task is theirs: On fields that shew As angry Heaven had rain'd sterility, Stony and cold, and hostile to the plough, 22 Where clamouring loud, the evening curlew runs And drops her spotted eggs among the flints; The mother and the children pile the stones In rugged pyramids;­and all this toil They patiently encounter; well content On their flock bed to slumber undisturb'd Beneath the smoky roof they call their own. Oh ! little knows the sturdy hind, who stands Gazing, with looks where envy and contempt Are often strangely mingled, on the car Where prosperous Fortune sits; what secret care Or sick satiety is often hid, Beneath the splendid outside: He knows not How frequently the child of Luxury Enjoying nothing, flies from place to place In chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp; And that content is e'en less found by him, Than by the labourer, whose pick-axe smooths The road before his chariot; and who doffs What was an hat; and as the train pass on, Thinks how one day's expenditure, like this, Would cheer him for long months, when to his toil The frozen earth closes her marble breast. Ah ! who is happy ? Happiness ! a word That like false fire, from marsh effluvia born, Misleads the wanderer, destin'd to contend In the world's wilderness, with want or woe­ Yet they are happy, who have never ask'd What good or evil means. The boy That on the river's margin gaily plays, Has heard that Death is there­He knows not Death, And therefore fears it not; and venturing in He gains a bullrush, or a minnow­then, At certain peril, for a worthless prize, A crow's, or raven's nest, he climbs the boll, Of some tall pine; and of his prowess proud, Is for a moment happy. Are your cares, Ye who despise him, never worse applied ? The village girl is happy, who sets forth 23 To distant fair, gay in her Sunday suit, With cherry colour'd knots, and flourish'd shawl, And bonnet newly purchas'd. So is he Her little brother, who his mimic drum Beats, till he drowns her rural lovers' oaths Of constant faith, and still increasing love; Ah ! yet a while, and half those oaths believ'd, Her happiness is vanish'd; and the boy While yet a stripling, finds the sound he lov'd Has led him on, till he has given up His freedom, and his happiness together. I once was happy, when while yet a child, I learn'd to love these upland solitudes, And, when elastic as the mountain air, To my light spirit, care was yet unknown And evil unforeseen:­Early it came, And childhood scarcely passed, I was condemned, A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew The contrast; and regretting, I compar'd With the polluted smoky atmosphere And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills That to the setting Sun, their graceful heads Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks With her white rocks, the strong impetuous tide, When western winds the vast Atlantic urge To thunder on the coast­Haunts of my youth ! Scenes of fond day dreams, I behold ye yet ! Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scatter'd thorns: whose spiny branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun; And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain, And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone The grating wheel. Advancing higher still 24 The prospect widens, and the village church But little, o'er the lowly roofs around Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring, When on each bough, the rosy-tinctur'd bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit, Console them for the vineyards of the south, Surpass not these. Where woods of ash, and beech, And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home, There wanders by, a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, But still refreshing in its shallow course, The cottage garden; most for use design'd, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement; yet the briar Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers; And pansies rayed, and freak'd and mottled pinks Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue: There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow Almost uncultured: Some with dark green leaves Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white; Others, like velvet robes of regal state Of richest crimson, while in thorny moss Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely, wear The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.­ With fond regret I recollect e'en now In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt Among these cottage gardens, and how much Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush By village housewife or her ruddy maid, Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd. An early worshipper at Nature's shrine; I loved her rudest scenes­warrens, and heaths, 25 And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, And hedge rows, bordering unfrequented lanes Bowered with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch With bittersweet, and bryony inweave, And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups­ I loved to trace the brooks whose humid banks Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil; And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech, Lending in Summer, from the heats of noon A whispering shade; while haply there reclines Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers, Who, from the tumps with bright green mosses clad, Plucks the wood sorrel, with its light thin leaves, Heart-shaped, and triply folded; and its root Creeping like beaded coral; or who there Gathers, the copse's pride, anémones, With rays like golden studs on ivory laid Most delicate: but touch'd with purple clouds, Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow. Ah ! hills so early loved ! in fancy still I breathe your pure keen air; and still behold Those widely spreading views, mocking alike The Poet and the Painter's utmost art. And still, observing objects more minute, Wondering remark the strange and foreign forms Of sea-shells; with the pale calcareous soil Mingled, and seeming of resembling substance. Tho' surely the blue Ocean (from the heights Where the downs westward trend, but dimly seen) Here never roll'd its surge. Does Nature then Mimic, in wanton mood, fantastic shapes Of bivalves, and inwreathed volutes, that cling To the dark sea-rock of the wat'ry world ? Or did this range of chalky mountains, once Form a vast bason, where the Ocean waves Swell'd fathomless ? What time these fossil shells, Buoy'd on their native element, were thrown Among the imbedding calx: when the huge hill Its giant bulk heaved, and in strange ferment 26 Grew up a guardian barrier, 'twixt the sea And the green level of the sylvan weald. Ah ! very vain is Science' proudest boast, And but a little light its flame yet lends To its most ardent votaries; since from whence These fossil forms are seen, is but conjecture, Food for vague theories, or vain dispute, While to his daily task the peasant goes, Unheeding such inquiry; with no care But that the kindly change of sun and shower, Fit for his toil the earth he cultivates. As little recks the herdsman of the hill, Who on some turfy knoll, idly reclined, Watches his wether flock; that deep beneath Rest the remains of men, of whom is left No traces in the records of mankind, Save what these half obliterated mounds And half fill'd trenches doubtfully impart To some lone antiquary; who on times remote, Since which two thousand years have roll'd away, Loves to contemplate. He perhaps may trace, Or fancy he can trace, the oblong square Where the mail'd legions, under Claudius, rear'd, The rampire, or excavated fossé delved; What time the huge unwieldy Elephant Auxiliary reluctant, hither led, From Afric's forest glooms and tawny sands, First felt the Northern blast, and his vast frame Sunk useless; whence in after ages found, The wondering hinds, on those enormous bones Gaz'd; and in giants dwelling on the hills Believed and marvell'd­ Hither, Ambition, come ! Come and behold the nothingness of all For which you carry thro' the oppressed Earth, War, and its train of horrors­see where tread The innumerous hoofs of flocks above the works By which the warrior sought to register His glory, and immortalize his name­ 27 The pirate Dane, who from his circular camp Bore in destructive robbery, fire and sword Down thro' the vale, sleeps unremember'd here; And here, beneath the green sward, rests alike The savage native, who his acorn meal Shar'd with the herds, that ranged the pathless woods; And the centurion, who on these wide hills Encamping, planted the Imperial Eagle. All, with the lapse of Time, have passed away, Even as the clouds, with dark and dragon shapes, Or like vast promontories crown'd with towers, Cast their broad shadows on the downs: then sail Far to the northward, and their transient gloom Is soon forgotten. But from thoughts like these, By human crimes suggested, let us turn To where a more attractive study courts The wanderer of the hills; while shepherd girls Will from among the fescue bring him flowers, Of wonderous mockery; some resembling bees In velvet vest, intent on their sweet toil, While others mimic flies, that lightly sport In the green shade, or float along the pool, But here seem perch'd upon the slender stalk, And gathering honey dew. While in the breeze That wafts the thistle's plumed seed along, Blue bells wave tremulous. The mountain thyme Purples the hassock of the heaving mole, And the short turf is gay with tormentil, And bird's foot trefoil, and the lesser tribes Of hawkweed; spangling it with fringed stars.­ Near where a richer tract of cultur'd land Slopes to the south; and burnished by the sun, Bend in the gale of August, floods of corn; The guardian of the flock, with watchful care, Repels by voice and dog the encroaching sheep­ While his boy visits every wired trap That scars the turf; and from the pit-falls takes The timid migrants, who from distant wilds, Warrens, and stone quarries, are destined thus 28 To lose their short existence. But unsought By Luxury yet, the Shepherd still protects The social bird, who from his native haunts Of willowy current, or the rushy pool, Follows the fleecy croud, and flirts and skims, In fellowship among them. Where the knoll More elevated takes the changeful winds, The windmill rears its vanes; and thitherward With his white load, the master travelling, Scares the rooks rising slow on whispering wings, While o'er his head, before the summer sun Lights up the blue expanse, heard more than seen, The lark sings matins; and above the clouds Floating, embathes his spotted breast in dew. Beneath the shadow of a gnarled thorn, Bent by the sea blast, from a seat of turf With fairy nosegays strewn, how wide the view ! Till in the distant north it melts away, And mingles indiscriminate with clouds: But if the eye could reach so far, the mart Of England's capital, its domes and spires Might be perceived­Yet hence the distant range Of Kentish hills, appear in purple haze; And nearer, undulate the wooded heights, And airy summits, that above the mole Rise in green beauty; and the beacon'd ridge Of Black-down shagg'd with heath, and swelling rude Like a dark island from the vale; its brow Catching the last rays of the evening sun That gleam between the nearer park's old oaks, Then lighten up the river, and make prominent The portal, and the ruin'd battlements Of that dismantled fortress; rais'd what time The Conqueror's successors fiercely fought, Tearing with civil feuds the desolate land. But now a tiller of the soil dwells there, And of the turret's loop'd and rafter'd halls Has made an humbler homestead­Where he sees, 29 Instead of armed foemen, herds that graze Along his yellow meadows; or his flocks At evening from the upland driv'n to fold­ In such a castellated mansion once A stranger chose his home; and where hard by In rude disorder fallen, and hid with brushwood Lay fragments gray of towers and buttresses, Among the ruins, often he would muse­ His rustic meal soon ended, he was wont To wander forth, listening the evening sounds Of rushing milldam, or the distant team, Or night-jar, chasing fern-flies: the tir'd hind Pass'd him at nightfall, wondering he should sit On the hill top so late: they from the coast Who sought bye paths with their clandestine load, Saw with suspicious doubt, the lonely man Cross on their way: but village maidens thought His senses injur'd; and with pity say That he, poor youth ! must have been cross'd in love­ For often, stretch'd upon the mountain turf With folded arms, and eyes intently fix'd Where ancient elms and firs obscured a grange, Some little space within the vale below, They heard him, as complaining of his fate, And to the murmuring wind, of cold neglect And baffled hope he told.­The peasant girls These plaintive sounds remember, and even now Among them may be heard the stranger's songs. Were I a Shepherd on the hill And ever as the mists withdrew Could see the willows of the rill Shading the footway to the mill Where once I walk'd with you­ And as away Night's shadows sail, And sounds of birds and brooks arise, Believe, that from the woody vale I hear your voice upon the gale In soothing melodies; And viewing from the Alpine height, 30 The prospect dress'd in hues of air, Could say, while transient colours bright Touch'd the fair scene with dewy light, 'Tis, that her eyes are there ! I think, I could endure my lot And linger on a few short years, And then, by all but you forgot, Sleep, where the turf that clothes the spot May claim some pitying tears. For 'tis not easy to forget One, who thro' life has lov'd you still, And you, however late, might yet With sighs to Memory giv'n, regret The Shepherd of the Hill. Yet otherwhile it seem'd as if young Hope Her flattering pencil gave to Fancy's hand, And in his wanderings, rear'd to sooth his soul Ideal bowers of pleasure­Then, of Solitude And of his hermit life, still more enamour'd, His home was in the forest; and wild fruits And bread sustain'd him. There in early spring The Barkmen found him, e'er the sun arose; There at their daily toil, the Wedgecutters Beheld him thro' the distant thicket move. The shaggy dog following the truffle hunter, Bark'd at the loiterer; and perchance at night Belated villagers from fair or wake, While the fresh night-wind let the moonbeams in Between the swaying boughs, just saw him pass, And then in silence, gliding like a ghost He vanish'd ! Lost among the deepening gloom.­ But near one ancient tree, whose wreathed roots Form'd a rude couch, love-songs and scatter'd rhymes, Unfinish'd sentences, or half erased, And rhapsodies like this, were sometimes found­ ­­­­­­ Let us to woodland wilds repair While yet the glittering night-dews seem To wait the freshly-breathing air, 31 Precursive of the morning beam, That rising with advancing day, Scatters the silver drops away. An elm, uprooted by the storm, The trunk with mosses gray and green, Shall make for us a rustic form, Where lighter grows the forest scene; And far among the bowery shades, Are ferny lawns and grassy glades. Retiring May to lovely June Her latest garland now resigns; The banks with cuckoo-flowers are strewn, The woodwalks blue with columbines, And with its reeds, the wandering stream Reflects the flag-flower's golden gleam. There, feathering down the turf to meet, Their shadowy arms the beeches spread, While high above our sylvan seat, Lifts the light ash its airy head; And later leaved, the oaks between Extend their bows of vernal green. The slender birch its paper rind Seems offering to divided love, And shuddering even without a wind Aspins, their paler foliage move, As if some spirit of the air Breath'd a low sigh in passing there. The Squirrel in his frolic mood, Will fearless bound among the boughs; Yaffils laugh loudly thro' the wood, And murmuring ring-doves tell their vows; While we, as sweetest woodscents rise, Listen to woodland melodies. And I'll contrive a sylvan room Against the time of summer heat, Where leaves, inwoven in Nature's loom, Shall canopy our green retreat; And gales that 'close the eye of day' Shall linger, e'er they die away. 32 And when a sear and sallow hue From early frost the bower receives, I'll dress the sand rock cave for you, And strew the floor with heath and leaves, That you, against the autumnal air May find securer shelter there. The Nightingale will then have ceas'd To sing her moonlight serenade; But the gay bird with blushing breast, And Woodlarks still will haunt the shade, And by the borders of the spring Reed-wrens will yet be carolling. The forest hermit's lonely cave None but such soothing sounds shall reach, Or hardly heard, the distant wave Slow breaking on the stony beach; Or winds, that now sigh soft and low, Now make wild music as they blow. And then, before the chilling North The tawny foliage falling light, Seems, as it flits along the earth, The footfall of the busy Sprite, Who wrapt in pale autumnal gloom, Calls up the mist-born Mushroom. Oh ! could I hear your soft voice there, And see you in the forest green All beauteous as you are, more fair You'ld look, amid the sylvan scene, And in a wood-girl's simple guise, Be still more lovely in mine eyes. Ye phantoms of unreal delight, Visions of fond delirium born ! Rise not on my deluded sight, Then leave me drooping and forlorn To know, such bliss can never be, Unless loved like me. The visionary, nursing dreams like these, Is not indeed unhappy. Summer woods Wave over him, and whisper as they wave, 33 Some future blessings he may yet enjoy. And as above him sail the silver clouds, He follows them in thought to distant climes, Where, far from the cold policy of this, Dividing him from her he fondly loves, He, in some island of the southern sea, May haply build his cane-constructed bower Beneath the bread-fruit, or aspiring palm, With long green foliage rippling in the gale. Oh ! let him cherish his ideal bliss­ For what is life, when Hope has ceas'd to strew Her fragile flowers along its thorny way ? And sad and gloomy are his days, who lives Of Hope abandon'd ! Just beneath the rock Where Beachy overpeers the channel wave, Within a cavern mined by wintry tides Dwelt one, who long disgusted with the world And all its ways, appear'd to suffer life Rather than live; the soul-reviving gale, Fanning the bean-field, or the thymy heath, Had not for many summers breathed on him; And nothing mark'd to him the season's change, Save that more gently rose the placid sea, And that the birds which winter on the coast Gave place to other migrants; save that the fog, Hovering no more above the beetling cliffs Betray'd not then the little careless sheep On the brink grazing, while their headlong fall Near the lone Hermit's flint-surrounded home, Claim'd unavailing pity; for his heart Was feelingly alive to all that breath'd; And outraged as he was, in sanguine youth, By human crimes, he still acutely felt For human misery. Wandering on the beach, He learn'd to augur from the clouds of heaven, And from the changing colours of the sea, And sullen murmurs of the hollow cliffs, 34 Or the dark porpoises, that near the shore Gambol'd and sported on the level brine When tempests were approaching: then at night He listen'd to the wind; and as it drove The billows with o'erwhelming vehemence He, starting from his rugged couch, went forth And hazarding a life, too valueless, He waded thro' the waves, with plank or pole Towards where the mariner in conflict dread Was buffeting for life the roaring surge; And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulphs, The dismal gleaming of the clouded moon Shew'd the dire peril. Often he had snatch'd From the wild billows, some unhappy man Who liv'd to bless the hermit of the rocks. But if his generous cares were all in vain, And with slow swell the tide of morning bore Some blue swol'n cor'se to land; the pale recluse Dug in the chalk a sepulchre­above Where the dank sea-wrack mark'd the utmost tide, And with his prayers perform'd the obsequies For the poor helpless stranger. One dark night The equinoctial wind blew south by west, Fierce on the shore; ­the bellowing cliffs were shook Even to their stony base, and fragments fell Flashing and thundering on the angry flood. At day-break, anxious for the lonely man, His cave the mountain shepherds visited, Tho' sand and banks of weeds had choak'd their way­ He was not in it; but his drowned cor'se By the waves wafted, near his former home Receiv'd the rites of burial. Those who read Chisel'd within the rock, these mournful lines, Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve, That dying in the cause of charity His spirit, from its earthly bondage freed, Had to some better region fled for ever. 35 ~ Charlotte Smith,

1126:Andromeda Over the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to the southward, Dwells in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired AEthiop people, Skilful with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer and carver, Skilful, but feeble of heart; for they know not the lords of Olympus, Lovers of men; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor Pallas Athene, Teacher of wisdom to heroes, bestower of might in the battle; Share not the cunning of Hermes, nor list to the songs of Apollo. Fearing the stars of the sky, and the roll of the blue salt water, Fearing all things that have life in the womb of the seas and the livers, Eating no fish to this day, nor ploughing the main, like the Phoenics, Manful with black-beaked ships, they abide in a sorrowful region, Vexed with the earthquake, and flame, and the sea-floods, scourge of Poseidon. Whelming the dwellings of men, and the toils of the slow-footed oxen, Drowning the barley and flax, and the hard-earned gold of the harvest, Up to the hillside vines, and the pastures skirting the woodland, Inland the floods came yearly; and after the waters a monster, Bred of the slime, like the worms which are bred from the slime of the Nilebank, Shapeless, a terror to see; and by night it swam out to the seaward, Daily returning to feed with the dawn, and devoured of the fairest, Cattle, and children, and maids, till the terrified people fled inland. Fasting in sackcloth and ashes they came, both the king and his people, Came to the mountain of oaks, to the house of the terrible sea-gods, Hard by the gulf in the rocks, where of old the world-wide deluge Sank to the inner abyss; and the lake where the fish of the goddess, Holy, undying, abide; whom the priests feed daily with dainties. There to the mystical fish, high-throned in her chamber of cedar, Burnt they the fat of the flock; till the flame shone far to the seaward. Three days fasting they prayed; but the fourth day the priests of the goddess, Cunning in spells, cast lots, to discover the crime of the people. All day long they cast, till the house of the monarch was taken, Cepheus, king of the land; and the faces of all gathered blackness. Then once more they cast; and Cassiopoeia was taken, Deep-bosomed wife of the king, whom oft far-seeing Apollo Watched well-pleased from the welkin, the fairest of AEthiop women: Fairest, save only her daughter; for down to the ankle her tresses Rolled, blue-black as the night, ambrosial, joy to beholders. 18 Awful and fair she arose, most like in her coming to Here, Queen before whom the Immortals arise, as she comes on Olympus, Out of the chamber of gold, which her son Hephaestos has wrought her. Such in her stature and eyes, and the broad white light of her forehead. Stately she came from her place, and she spoke in the midst of the people. 'Pure are my hands from blood: most pure this heart in my bosom. Yet one fault I remember this day; one word have I spoken; Rashly I spoke on the shore, and I dread lest the sea should have heard it. Watching my child at her bath, as she plunged in the joy of her girlhood, Fairer I called her in pride than Atergati, queen of the ocean. Judge ye if this be my sin, for I know none other.' She ended; Wrapping her head in her mantle she stood, and the people were silent. Answered the dark-browed priests, 'No word, once spoken, returneth, Even if uttered unwitting. Shall gods excuse our rashness? That which is done, that abides; and the wrath of the sea is against us; Hers, and the wrath of her brother, the Sun-god, lord of the sheepfolds. Fairer than her hast thou boasted thy daughter? Ah folly! for hateful, Hateful are they to the gods, whoso, impious, liken a mortal, Fair though he be, to their glory; and hateful is that which is likened, Grieving the eyes of their pride, and abominate, doomed to their anger. What shall be likened to gods? The unknown, who deep in the darkness Ever abide, twyformed, many-handed, terrible, shapeless. Woe to the queen; for the land is defiled, and the people accursed. Take thou her therefore by night, thou ill-starred Cassiopoeia, Take her with us in the night, when the moon sinks low to the westward; Bind her aloft for a victim, a prey for the gorge of the monster, Far on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for ever; So may the goddess accept her, and so may the land make atonement, Purged by her blood from its sin: so obey thou the doom of the rulers.' Bitter in soul they went out, Cepheus and Cassiopoeia, Bitter in soul; and their hearts whirled round, as the leaves in the eddy. Weak was the queen, and rebelled: but the king, like a shepherd of people, Willed not the land should waste; so he yielded the life of his daughter. Deep in the wane of the night, as the moon sank low to the westward, They by the shade of the cliffs, with the horror of darkness around them, Stole, as ashamed, to a deed which became not the light of the sunshine, Slowly, the priests, and the queen, and the virgin bound in the galley, Slowly they rowed to the rocks: but Cepheus far in the palace Sate in the midst of the hall, on his throne, like a shepherd of people, Choking his woe, dry-eyed, while the slaves wailed loudly around him. They on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for ever, Set her in silence, the guiltless, aloft with her face to the eastward. 19 Under a crag of the stone, where a ledge sloped down to the water; There they set Andromeden, most beautiful, shaped like a goddess, Lifting her long white arms wide-spread to the walls of the basalt, Chaining them, ruthless, with brass; and they called on the might of the Rulers. 'Mystical fish of the seas, dread Queen whom AEthiops honour, Whelming the land in thy wrath, unavoidable, sharp as the sting-ray, Thou, and thy brother the Sun, brain-smiting, lord of the sheepfold, Scorching the earth all day, and then resting at night in thy bosom, Take ye this one life for many, appeased by the blood of a maiden, Fairest, and born of the fairest, a queen, most priceless of victims.' Thrice they spat as they went by the maid: but her mother delaying Fondled her child to the last, heart-crushed; and the warmth of her weeping Fell on the breast of the maid, as her woe broke forth into wailing. 'Daughter! my daughter! forgive me! Oh curse not the murderess! Curse not! How have I sinned, but in love? Do the gods grudge glory to mothers? Loving I bore thee in vain in the fate-cursed bride-bed of Cepheus, Loving I fed thee and tended, and loving rejoiced in thy beauty, Blessing thy limbs as I bathed them, and blessing thy locks as I combed them; Decking thee, ripening to woman, I blest thee: yet blessing I slew thee! How have I sinned, but in love? Oh swear to me, swear to thy mother, Never to haunt me with curse, as I go to the grave in my sorrow, Childless and lone: may the gods never send me another, to slay it! See, I embrace thy knees-soft knees, where no babe will be fondledSwear to me never to curse me, the hapless one, not in the death-pang.' Weeping she clung to the knees of the maid; and the maid low answered'Curse thee! Not in the death-pang!' The heart of the lady was lightened. Slowly she went by the ledge; and the maid was alone in the darkness. Watching the pulse of the oars die down, as her own died with them, Tearless, dumb with amaze she stood, as a storm-stunned nestling Fallen from bough or from eave lies dumb, which the home-going herdsman Fancies a stone, till he catches the light of its terrified eyeball. So through the long long hours the maid stood helpless and hopeless, Wide-eyed, downward gazing in vain at the black blank darkness. Feebly at last she began, while wild thoughts bubbled within her'Guiltless I am: why thus, then? Are gods more ruthless than mortals? Have they no mercy for youth? no love for the souls who have loved them? Even as I loved thee, dread sea, as I played by thy margin, Blessing thy wave as it cooled me, thy wind as it breathed on my forehead, Bowing my head to thy tempest, and opening my heart to thy children, Silvery fish, wreathed shell, and the strange lithe things of the water, 20 Tenderly casting them back, as they gasped on the beach in the sunshine, Home to their mother-in vain! for mine sits childless in anguish! O false sea! false sea! I dreamed what I dreamed of thy goodness; Dreamed of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the plash of thy ripple: False and devouring thou art, and the great world dark and despiteful.' Awed by her own rash words she was still: and her eyes to the seaward Looked for an answer of wrath: far off, in the heart of the darkness, Blight white mists rose slowly; beneath them the wandering ocean Glimmered and glowed to the deepest abyss; and the knees of the maiden Trembled and sunk in her fear, as afar, like a dawn in the midnight, Rose from their seaweed chamber the choir of the mystical sea-maids. Onward toward her they came, and her heart beat loud at their coming, Watching the bliss of the gods, as they wakened the cliffs with their laughter. Onward they came in their joy, and before them the roll of the surges Sank, as the breeze sank dead, into smooth green foam-flecked marble, Awed; and the crags of the cliff, and the pines of the mountain were silent. Onward they came in their joy, and around them the lamps of the sea-nymphs, Myriad fiery globes, swam panting and heaving; and rainbows Crimson and azure and emerald, were broken in star-showers, lighting Far through the wine-dark depths of the crystal, the gardens of Nereus, Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean. Onward they came in their joy, more white than the foam which they scattered, Laughing and singing, and tossing and twining, while eager, the Tritons Blinded with kisses their eyes, unreproved, and above them in worship Hovered the terns, and the seagulls swept past them on silvery pinions Echoing softly their laughter; around them the wantoning dolphins Sighed as they plunged, full of love; and the great sea-horses which bore them Curved up their crests in their pride to the delicate arms of the maidens, Pawing the spray into gems, till a fiery rainfall, unharming, Sparkled and gleamed on the limbs of the nymphs, and the coils of the mermen. Onward they went in their joy, bathed round with the fiery coolness, Needing nor sun nor moon, self-lighted, immortal: but others, Pitiful, floated in silence apart; in their bosoms the sea-boys, Slain by the wrath of the seas, swept down by the anger of Nereus; Hapless, whom never again on strand or on quay shall their mothers Welcome with garlands and vows to the temple, but wearily pining Gaze over island and bay for the sails of the sunken; they heedless Sleep in soft bosoms for ever, and dream of the surge and the sea-maids. Onward they passed in their joy; on their brows neither sorrow nor anger; 21 Self-sufficing, as gods, never heeding the woe of the maiden. She would have shrieked for their mercy: but shame made her dumb; and their eyeballs Stared on her careless and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols. Seeing they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on the murmuring ripple. Stunned by the wonder she gazed, wide-eyed, as the glory departed. 'O fair shapes! far fairer than I! Too fair to be ruthless! Gladden mine eyes once more with your splendour, unlike to my fancies; You, then, smiled in the sea-gleam, and laughed in the plash of the ripple. Awful I deemed you and formless; inhuman, monstrous as idols; Lo, when ye came, ye were women, more loving and lovelier, only; Like in all else; and I blest you: why blest ye not me for my worship? Had you no mercy for me, thus guiltless? Ye pitied the sea-boys: Why not me, then, more hapless by far? Does your sight and your knowledge End with the marge of the waves? Is the world which ye dwell in not our world?' Over the mountain aloft ran a rush and a roll and a roaring; Downward the breeze came indignant, and leapt with a howl to the water, Roaring in cranny and crag, till the pillars and clefts of the basalt Rang like a god-swept lyre, and her brain grew mad with the noises; Crashing and lapping of waters, and sighing and tossing of weed-beds, Gurgle and whisper and hiss of the foam, while thundering surges Boomed in the wave-worn halls, as they champed at the roots of the mountain. Hour after hour in the darkness the wind rushed fierce to the landward, Drenching the maiden with spray; she shivering, weary and drooping, Stood with her heart full of thoughts, till the foam-crests gleamed in the twilight, Leaping and laughing around, and the east grew red with the dawning. Then on the ridge of the hills rose the broad bright sun in his glory, Hurling his arrows abroad on the glittering crests of the surges, Gilding the soft round bosoms of wood, and the downs of the coastland; Gilding the weeds at her feet, and the foam-laced teeth of the ledges, Showing the maiden her home through the veil of her locks, as they floated Glistening, damp with the spray, in a long black cloud to the landward. High in the far-off glens rose thin blue curls from the homesteads; Softly the low of the herds, and the pipe of the outgoing herdsman, Slid to her ear on the water, and melted her heart into weeping. Shuddering, she tried to forget them; and straining her eyes to the seaward, Watched for her doom, as she wailed, but in vain, to the terrible Sun-god. 'Dost thou not pity me, Sun, though thy wild dark sister be ruthless; Dost thou not pity me here, as thou seest me desolate, weary, 22 Sickened with shame and despair, like a kid torn young from its mother? What if my beauty insult thee, then blight it: but me-Oh spare me! Spare me yet, ere he be here, fierce, tearing, unbearable! See me, See me, how tender and soft, and thus helpless! See how I shudder, Fancying only my doom. Wilt thou shine thus bright, when it takes me? Are there no deaths save this, great Sun? No fiery arrow, Lightning, or deep-mouthed wave? Why thus? What music in shrieking, Pleasure in warm live limbs torn slowly? And dar'st thou behold them! Oh, thou hast watched worse deeds! All sights are alike to thy brightness! What if thou waken the birds to their song, dost thou waken no sorrow; Waken no sick to their pain; no captive to wrench at his fetters? Smile on the garden and fold, and on maidens who sing at the milking; Flash into tapestried chambers, and peep in the eyelids of lovers, Showing the blissful their bliss-Dost love, then, the place where thou smilest? Lovest thou cities aflame, fierce blows, and the shrieks of the widow? Lovest thou corpse-strewn fields, as thou lightest the path of the vulture? Lovest thou these, that thou gazest so gay on my tears, and my mother's, Laughing alike at the horror of one, and the bliss of another? What dost thou care, in thy sky, for the joys and the sorrows of mortals? Colder art thou than the nymphs: in thy broad bright eye is no seeing. Hadst thou a soul-as much soul as the slaves in the house of my father, Wouldst thou not save? Poor thralls! they pitied me, clung to me weeping, Kissing my hands and my feet-What, are gods more ruthless than mortals? Worse than the souls which they rule? Let me die: they war not with ashes!' Sudden she ceased, with a shriek: in the spray, like a hovering foam-bow, Hung, more fair than the foam-bow, a boy in the bloom of his manhood, Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, ambrosial; over his shoulder Hung for a veil of his beauty the gold-fringed folds of the goat-skin, Bearing the brass of his shield, as the sun flashed clear on its clearness. Curved on his thigh lay a falchion, and under the gleam of his helmet Eyes more blue than the main shone awful; around him Athene Shed in her love such grace, such state, and terrible daring. Hovering over the water he came, upon glittering pinions, Living, a wonder, outgrown from the tight-laced gold of his sandals; Bounding from billow to billow, and sweeping the crests like a sea-gull; Leaping the gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in the joy of his leaping. Fair and majestic he sprang to the rock; and the maiden in wonder Gazed for a while, and then hid in the dark-rolling wave of her tresses, Fearful, the light of her eyes; while the boy (for her sorrow had awed him) Blushed at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the cliffs at the sunrise. Fearful at length she looked forth: he was gone: she, wild with amazement, 23 Wailed for her mother aloud: but the wail of the wind only answered. Sudden he flashed into sight, by her side; in his pity and anger Moist were his eyes; and his breath like a rose-bed, as bolder and bolder, Hovering under her brows, like a swallow that haunts by the house-eaves, Delicate-handed, he lifted the veil of her hair; while the maiden Motionless, frozen with fear, wept loud; till his lips unclosing Poured from their pearl-strung portal the musical wave of his wonder. 'Ah, well spoke she, the wise one, the gray-eyed Pallas Athene,Known to Immortals alone are the prizes which lie for the heroes Ready prepared at their feet; for requiring a little, the rulers Pay back the loan tenfold to the man who, careless of pleasure, Thirsting for honour and toil, fares forth on a perilous errand Led by the guiding of gods, and strong in the strength of Immortals. Thus have they led me to thee: from afar, unknowing, I marked thee, Shining, a snow-white cross on the dark-green walls of the sea-cliff; Carven in marble I deemed thee, a perfect work of the craftsman. Likeness of Amphitrite, or far-famed Queen Cythereia. Curious I came, till I saw how thy tresses streamed in the sea-wind, Glistening, black as the night, and thy lips moved slow in thy wailing. Speak again now-Oh speak! For my soul is stirred to avenge thee; Tell me what barbarous horde, without law, unrighteous and heartless, Hateful to gods and to men, thus have bound thee, a shame to the sunlight, Scorn and prize to the sailor: but my prize now; for a coward, Coward and shameless were he, who so finding a glorious jewel Cast on the wayside by fools, would not win it and keep it and wear it, Even as I will thee; for I swear by the head of my father, Bearing thee over the sea-wave, to wed thee in Argos the fruitful, Beautiful, meed of my toil no less than this head which I carry, Hidden here fearful-Oh speak!' But the maid, still dumb with amazement, Watered her bosom with weeping, and longed for her home and her mother. Beautiful, eager, he wooed her, and kissed off her tears as he hovered, Roving at will, as a bee, on the brows of a rock nymph-haunted, Garlanded over with vine, and acanthus, and clambering roses, Cool in the fierce still noon, where streams glance clear in the mossbeds, Hums on from blossom to blossom, and mingles the sweets as he tastes them. Beautiful, eager, he kissed her, and clasped her yet closer and closer, Praying her still to speak'Not cruel nor rough did my mother Bear me to broad-browed Zeus in the depths of the brass-covered dungeon; Neither in vain, as I think, have I talked with the cunning of Hermes, Face unto face, as a friend; or from gray-eyed Pallas Athene 24 Learnt what is fit, and respecting myself, to respect in my dealings Those whom the gods should love; so fear not; to chaste espousals Only I woo thee, and swear, that a queen, and alone without rival By me thou sittest in Argos of Hellas, throne of my fathers, Worshipped by fair-haired kings: why callest thou still on thy mother? Why did she leave thee thus here? For no foeman has bound thee; no foeman Winning with strokes of the sword such a prize, would so leave it behind him.' Just as at first some colt, wild-eyed, with quivering nostril, Plunges in fear of the curb, and the fluttering robes of the rider; Soon, grown bold by despair, submits to the will of his master, Tamer and tamer each hour, and at last, in the pride of obedience, Answers the heel with a curvet, and arches his neck to be fondled, Cowed by the need that maid grew tame; while the hero indignant Tore at the fetters which held her: the brass, too cunningly tempered, Held to the rock by the nails, deep wedged: till the boy, red with anger, Drew from his ivory thigh, keen flashing, a falchion of diamond'Now let the work of the smith try strength with the arms of Immortals!' Dazzling it fell; and the blade, as the vine-hook shears off the vine-bough, Carved through the strength of the brass, till her arms fell soft on his shoulder. Once she essayed to escape: but the ring of the water was round her, Round her the ring of his arms; and despairing she sank on his bosom. Then, like a fawn when startled, she looked with a shriek to the seaward. 'Touch me not, wretch that I am! For accursed, a shame and a hissing, Guiltless, accurst no less, I await the revenge of the sea-gods. Yonder it comes! Ah go! Let me perish unseen, if I perish! Spare me the shame of thine eyes, when merciless fangs must tear me Piecemeal! Enough to endure by myself in the light of the sunshine Guiltless, the death of a kid!' But the boy still lingered around her, Loth, like a boy, to forego her, and waken the cliffs with his laughter. 'Yon is the foe, then? A beast of the sea? I had deemed him immortal. Titan, or Proteus' self, or Nereus, foeman of sailors: Yet would I fight with them all, but Poseidon, shaker of mountains, Uncle of mine, whom I fear, as is fit; for he haunts on Olympus, Holding the third of the world; and the gods all rise at his coming. Unto none else will I yield, god-helped: how then to a monster, Child of the earth and of night, unreasoning, shapeless, accursed?' 'Art thou, too, then a god?' 'No god I,' smiling he answered; 'Mortal as thou, yet divine: but mortal the herds of the ocean, 25 Equal to men in that only, and less in all else; for they nourish Blindly the life of the lips, untaught by the gods, without wisdom: Shame if I fled before such!' In her heart new life was enkindled, Worship and trust, fair parents of love: but she answered him sighing. 'Beautiful, why wilt thou die? Is the light of the sun, then, so worthless, Worthless to sport with thy fellows in flowery glades of the forest, Under the broad green oaks, where never again shall I wander, Tossing the ball with my maidens, or wreathing the altar in garlands, Careless, with dances and songs, till the glens rang loud to our laughter. Too full of death the sad earth is already: the halls full of weepers, Quarried by tombs all cliffs, and the bones gleam white on the sea-floor, Numberless, gnawn by the herds who attend on the pitiless sea-gods, Even as mine will be soon: and yet noble it seems to me, dying, Giving my life for a people, to save to the arms of their lovers Maidens and youths for a while: thee, fairest of all, shall I slay thee? Add not thy bones to the many, thus angering idly the dread ones! Either the monster will crush, or the sea-queen's self overwhelm thee, Vengeful, in tempest and foam, and the thundering walls of the surges. Why wilt thou follow me down? can we love in the black blank darkness? Love in the realms of the dead, in the land where all is forgotten? Why wilt thou follow me down? is it joy, on the desolate oozes, Meagre to flit, gray ghosts in the depths of the gray salt water? Beautiful! why wilt thou die, and defraud fair girls of thy manhood? Surely one waits for thee longing, afar in the isles of the ocean. Go thy way; I mine; for the gods grudge pleasure to mortals.' Sobbing she ended her moan, as her neck, like a storm-bent lily, Drooped with the weight of her woe, and her limbs sank, weary with watching, Soft on the hard-ledged rock: but the boy, with his eye on the monster, Clasped her, and stood, like a god; and his lips curved proud as he answered'Great are the pitiless sea-gods: but greater the Lords of Olympus; Greater the AEgis-wielder, and greater is she who attends him. Clear-eyed Justice her name is, the counsellor, loved of Athene; Helper of heroes, who dare, in the god-given might of their manhood, Greatly to do and to suffer, and far in the fens' and the forests Smite the devourers of men, Heaven-hated, brood of the giants, Twyformed, strange, without like, who obey not the golden-haired Rulers. Vainly rebelling they rage, till they die by the swords of the heroes, Even as this must die; for I burn with the wrath of my father, Wandering, led by Athene; and dare whatsoever betides me. Led by Athene I won from the gray-haired terrible sisters 26 Secrets hidden from men, when I found them asleep on the sand-hills, Keeping their eye and their tooth, till they showed me the perilous pathway Over the waterless ocean, the valley that led to the Gorgon. Her too I slew in my craft, Medusa, the beautiful horror; Taught by Athene I slew her, and saw not herself, but her image, Watching the mirror of brass, in the shield which a goddess had lent me. Cleaving her brass-scaled throat, as she lay with her adders around her, Fearless I bore off her head, in the folds of the mystical goat-skin Hide of Amaltheie, fair nurse of the AEgis-wielder. Hither I bear it, a gift to the gods, and a death to my foe-men, Freezing the seer to stone; to hide thine eyes from the horror. Kiss me but once, and I go.' Then lifting her neck, like a sea-bird Peering up over the wave, from the foam-white swells of her bosom, Blushing she kissed him: afar, on the topmost Idalian summit Laughed in the joy of her heart, far-seeing, the queen Aphrodite. Loosing his arms from her waist he flew upward, awaiting the sea-beast. Onward it came from the southward, as bulky and black as a galley, Lazily coasting along, as the fish fled leaping before it; Lazily breasting the ripple, and watching by sandbar and headland, Listening for laughter of maidens at bleaching, or song of the fisher, Children at play on the pebbles, or cattle that pawed on the sand-hills. Rolling and dripping it came, where bedded in glistening purple Cold on the cold sea-weeds lay the long white sides of the maiden, Trembling, her face in her hands, and her tresses afloat on the water. As when an osprey aloft, dark-eyebrowed, royally crested, Flags on by creek and by cove, and in scorn of the anger of Nereus Ranges, the king of the shore; if he see on a glittering shallow, Chasing the bass and the mullet, the fin of a wallowing dolphin, Halting, he wheels round slowly, in doubt at the weight of his quarry, Whether to clutch it alive, or to fall on the wretch like a plummet, Stunning with terrible talon the life of the brain in the hindhead: Then rushes up with a scream, and stooping the wrath of his eyebrows Falls from the sky, like a star, while the wind rattles hoarse in his pinions. Over him closes the foam for a moment; and then from the sand-bed Rolls up the great fish, dead, and his side gleams white in the sunshine. Thus fell the boy on the beast, unveiling the face of the Gorgon; Thus fell the boy on the beast; thus rolled up the beast in his horror, Once, as the dead eyes glared into his; then his sides, death-sharpened, Stiffened and stood, brown rock, in the wash of the wandering water. Beautiful, eager, triumphant, he leapt back again to his treasure; 27 Leapt back again, full blest, toward arms spread wide to receive him. Brimful of honour he clasped her, and brimful of love she caressed him, Answering lip with lip; while above them the queen Aphrodite Poured on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, ambrosial odours, Givers of longing, and rapture, and chaste content in espousals. Happy whom ere they be wedded anoints she, the Queen Aphrodite! Laughing she called to her sister, the chaste Tritonid Athene, 'Seest thou yonder thy pupil, thou maid of the AEgis-wielder? How he has turned himself wholly to love, and caresses a damsel, Dreaming no longer of honour, or danger, or Pallas Athene? Sweeter, it seems, to the young my gifts are; so yield me the stripling; Yield him me now, lest he die in his prime, like hapless Adonis.' Smiling she answered in turn, that chaste Tritonid Athene: 'Dear unto me, no less than to thee, is the wedlock of heroes; Dear, who can worthily win him a wife not unworthy; and noble, Pure with the pure to beget brave children, the like of their father. Happy, who thus stands linked to the heroes who were, and who shall be; Girdled with holiest awe, not sparing of self; for his mother Watches his steps with the eyes of the gods; and his wife and his children Move him to plan and to do in the farm and the camp and the council. Thence comes weal to a nation: but woe upon woe, when the people Mingle in love at their will, like the brutes, not heeding the future.' Then from her gold-strung loom, where she wrought in her chamber of cedar, Awful and fair she arose; and she went by the glens of Olympus; Went by the isles of the sea, and the wind never ruffled her mantle; Went by the water of Crete, and the black-beaked fleets of the Phoenics; Came to the sea-girt rock which is washed by the surges for ever, Bearing the wealth of the gods, for a gift to the bride of a hero. There she met Andromeden and Persea, shaped like Immortals; Solemn and sweet was her smile, while their hearts beat loud at her coming; Solemn and sweet was her smile, as she spoke to the pair in her wisdom. 'Three things hold we, the Rulers, who sit by the founts of Olympus, Wisdom, and prowess, and beauty; and freely we pour them on mortals; Pleased at our image in man, as a father at his in his children. One thing only we grudge to mankind: when a hero, unthankful, Boasts of our gifts as his own, stiffnecked, and dishonours the givers, Turning our weapons against us. Him Ate follows avenging; Slowly she tracks him and sure, as a lyme-hound; sudden she grips him, Crushing him, blind in his pride, for a sign and a terror to folly. This we avenge, as is fit; in all else never weary of giving. Come, then, damsel, and know if the gods grudge pleasure to mortals.' Loving and gentle she spoke: but the maid stood in awe, as the goddess 28 Plaited with soft swift finger her tresses, and decked her in jewels, Armlet and anklet and earbell; and over her shoulders a necklace, Heavy, enamelled, the flower of the gold and the brass of the mountain. Trembling with joy she gazed, so well Haephaistos had made it, Deep in the forges of AEtna, while Charis his lady beside him Mingled her grace in his craft, as he wrought for his sister Athene. Then on the brows of the maiden a veil bound Pallas Athene; Ample it fell to her feet, deep-fringed, a wonder of weaving. Ages and ages agone it was wrought on the heights of Olympus, Wrought in the gold-strung loom, by the finger of cunning Athene. In it she wove all creatures that teem in the womb of the ocean; Nereid, siren, and triton, and dolphin, and arrowy fishes Glittering round, many-hued, on the flame-red folds of the mantle. In it she wove, too, a town where gray-haired kings sat in judgment; Sceptre in hand in the market they sat, doing right by the people, Wise: while above watched Justice, and near, far-seeing Apollo. Round it she wove for a fringe all herbs of the earth and the water, Violet, asphodel, ivy, and vine-leaves, roses and lilies, Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean: Now from Olympus she bore it, a dower to the bride of a hero. Over the limbs of the damsel she wrapt it: the maid still trembled, Shading her face with her hands; for the eyes of the goddess were awful. Then, as a pine upon Ida when southwest winds blow landward, Stately she bent to the damsel, and breathed on her: under her breathing Taller and fairer she grew; and the goddess spoke in her wisdom. 'Courage I give thee; the heart of a queen, and the mind of Immortals; Godlike to talk with the gods, and to look on their eyes unshrinking; Fearing the sun and the stars no more, and the blue salt water; Fearing us only, the lords of Olympus, friends of the heroes; Chastely and wisely to govern thyself and thy house and thy people, Bearing a godlike race to thy spouse, till dying I set thee High for a star in the heavens, a sign and a hope to the seamen, Spreading thy long white arms all night in the heights of the aether, Hard by thy sire and the hero thy spouse, while near thee thy mother Sits in her ivory chair, as she plaits ambrosial tresses. All night long thou wilt shine; all day thou wilt feast on Olympus, Happy, the guest of the gods, by thy husband, the god-begotten.' Blissful, they turned them to go: but the fair-tressed Pallas Athene Rose, like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver Olympus; Far above ocean and shore, and the peaks of the isles and the mainland; Where no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless abysses, High in the home of the summer, the seats of the happy Immortals, 29 Shrouded in keen deep blaze, unapproachable; there ever youthful Hebe, Harmonie, and the daughter of Jove, Aphrodite, Whirled in the white-linked dance with the gold-crowned Hours and the Graces, Hand within hand, while clear piped Phoebe, queen of the woodlands. All day long they rejoiced: but Athene still in her chamber Bent herself over her loom, as the stars rang loud to her singing, Chanting of order and right, and of foresight, warden of nations; Chanting of labour and craft, and of wealth in the port and the garner; Chanting of valour and fame, and the man who can fall with the foremost, Fighting for children and wife, and the field which his father bequeathed him. Sweetly and solemnly sang she, and planned new lessons for mortals: Happy, who hearing obey her, the wise unsullied Athene. Eversley, 1852. ~ Charles Kingsley,

1127:Orpheus ORPHEUS. LAUGHTER and dance, and sounds of harp and lyre, Piping of flutes, singing of festal songs, Ribbons of flame from flaunting torches, dulled By the broad summer sunshine, these had filled Since the high noon the pillared vestibules, The peristyles and porches, in the house Of the bride's father. Maidens, garlanded With rose and myrtle dedicate to Love, Adorned with chaplets fresh the bride, and veiled The shining head and wistful, girlish face, Ineffable sweetness of divided lips, Large light of clear, gray eyes, low, lucid brows, White as a cloud, beneath pale, clustering gold. When sunless skies uncertain twilight cast, That makes a friend's face as an alien's strange, Investing with a foreign mystery The dear green fields about our very home. Then waiting stood the gilded chariot Before the porch, and from the vine-wreathed door, Issued the white-veiled bride, while jocund youths And mænads followed her with dance and song. She came with double glory; for her lord, Son of Apollo and Calliope, Towered beside her, beautiful in limb And feature, as though formed to magic strains, Like the Bœotian city, that arose In airy structures to Amphion's lute. The light serene shone from his brow and eyes, Of one whose lofty thoughts keep consonance With the celestial music of the spheres. His smile was fluent, and his speech outsang The cadences of soft-stringed instruments. He to the chariot led Eurydice, And these twain, mounting with their paranymph, Drove onward through the dusky twilit fields, Preceded by the nymphs and singing youths, And boys diffusing light and odors warm, With flaming brands of aromatic woods, 138 And matrons bearing symbols of the life Of careful wives, the distaff and the sieve; And followed by the echoes of their songs, The fragrance crushed from moist and trodden grass, The blessing of the ever-present gods, Whom they invoked with earnest hymns and prayer. From Orpheus' portico, festooned with vines, Issued a flood of rare, ambrosial light, As though Olympian portals stood ajar, And Hymen, radiant by his torch's flame, Mystic with saffron vest and purple, stood With hands munificent to greet and bless. Ripe fruits were poured upon the married pair Alighting, and the chariot wheels were burnt, A token that the bride returned no more Unto her father's house. With step resolved, She crossed the threshold soft with flowers, secure That his heroic soul who guided her, Was potent and alert to grace her life, With noble outlines and ideal hues, Uplifting it to equal height with his. EPITHALAMIUM. TO ZEUS. Because thou art enthroned beyond our reach, Behind the brightest and the farthest star, And silence is as eloquent as speech, To thee who knowest us for what we are, We bring thee naught save brief and simple prayer, Strong in its naked, frank sincerity. Send sacred joys of marriage to this pair, With fertile increase and prosperity. Three nymphs had met beneath an oak that cast Cool, dappled shadow on the glowing grass, And liquid gleam of the translucent brook. The air was musical with frolic sounds Of feminine voices, and of laughter blithe. Patines of sunshine fell like mottled gold On the rose-white of bright bare limbs and neck, On flowing, snowy mantles, and again With sudden splendor on the gloriole Of warm, rich hair. The fairest nymph reclined Beneath the tree, and leaned her yellow head, With its crisp, clustering rings, against the trunk, 139 And dipped her pure feet in the colorless brook, Stirring the ripples into circles wide, With cool, delicious plashings in the stream. Her young companions lay upon the grass, With indolent eyes half closed, and parted lips Half-smiling, in the languor of the noon. But suddenly these twain, arising, cried, Startled and sharply, 'Lo, Eurydice, Behold!' and she, uplifting frightened eyes, Saw a strange shepherd watching with bold glance. Veiling their faces with their mantles light, Her sisters fled swift-footed, with shrill cries, Adown the meadow, but her wet feet clung To the dry grasses and the earthy soil. 'Eurydice, I love thee! fear me not, For I am Aristæus, with gray groves Of hoary olives, and innumerous flocks, And precious swarms of yellow-vested bees.' But she with sudden strength eluding him, Sprang o'er the flowery turf, with back-blown hair, And wing-like garments, shortened breath, and face Kindled with shame and terror. In her flight She ran through fatal flowers and tangled weeds, And thick rank grass beside a stagnant pool, When, with a keen and breathless cry of pain, Abrupt she fell amidst the tall, green reeds. Then Aristæus reached her, as a snake Crept back in sinuous lines amidst the slime. Desire was changed to pity, when he saw The wounded dryad in her agony Strive vainly to escape, repelling him With feeble arms. 'Forgive me, nymph,' he cried; ' I will not touch, save with most reverent hands, Thy sacred form. But let me bear thee hence, And soothe thy bruise with healing herbs. 'Too late, Leave me,' she sighed, 'and lead thou Orpheus here, That I may see him ere the daylight fails.' He left her pale with suffering, —earth seemed strange Unto her eyes, who knew she looked her last On level-stretching meadows, hazy hills, And all the light and color of the sky. Brief as a dream she saw her happy life, 140 Her father's face, her mother's blessed eyes, The hero who, unheralded, appeared, And all was changed,— all things put forth a voice, As in the season of the singing birds. She looked around revived, and saw again The lapsing river and abiding sky. Across the sunny fields came Aristæus, With Orpheus following,— and after these, Sad nymphs and heroes grave with sympathy. Quite calm she lay, and almost wished to die Before they reached her, if the throbbing pain Of limb and heart could only thus be stilled. But Orpheus hastened to her side, and mourned, 'Eurydice, Eurydice! Remain, — For there is no delight of speech nor song Among the dead. Will the gods jest with me, And call this life, which must forevermore Be but a void, a hunger, a desire, A stretching out of empty hands to grasp What earth nor sea nor heaven will restore? Is this the life that I conceived and sang, Rich with all noble opportunities And beautiful realities?' But she: 'Brave Orpheus, search thou not the eternal gods, Surely they love us dearer than we know. Do thou refrain, for yet I hold my faith. When I am gone, thou still wilt have thy lyre; Love it and cherish,— it is Fate's best gift, And with death's clearer vision, I can see That in all ages men will be upraised Nearer to gods through this than through aught else. My death may but inspire a larger note, A passionate cadence to thy strain, which else Were not quite human, and thus incomplete. And with this thought I am content to die. Cease not to sing to me when I am gone; Thy voice will reach me in the farthest spheres, Or wake me out of silence. Now begin, That I may float on those celestial waves Into the darkness, as I oft have longed.' ORPHEUS. Once in a wild, bright vision, came to me 141 Beautiful music, luminous as morn, An effluence of light and rapture born, With eyes as full of splendor as the sea; Dazzling as youth, with pinions frail as air, Yet potent to uplift and soar as prayer. Again I see her, cypress in her wreath, Sad with all grave and tender mysteries; Tears in her unimaginable eyes, That look their first with wondering awe on Death. Never again, in all the after years, Will her lips laugh with utter mirthfulness; Nor the strange longing in her eyes grow less, Nor any time dispel their mist of tears. Yea, with new numbers she completes her strain, A song unsung before by gods or men; But she hath lost, ah! lost for evermore, The ringing note of joy ineffable, The high assurance proud, that all is well, The glad refrain that pealed from shore to shore. O lyre, thou hast done with joyous things, Triumphant ecstasies, exultant song; Of subtle pain, keen anguish, hopeless wrong, I fashion now another of thy strings, And strike thee with a strong hand passionate, Into a fuller music, adequate Unto a soul that seeks insatiably, With fond, illusive hope and faith divine; For through all ages will my soul seek thine, Eurydice, my lost Eurydice! What solace to lament with empty hands And smitten heart, above a mound of earth, Vivid with mockery of perpetual flowers, O'er one small urn that holds beneath its lid, With overmeasure, all the flameless dust And soulless ashes of our love? Yet this Was Orpheus' life, to mourn beside the grave, From his stringed lyre compelling wild response And thrilling intonation of his grief, That made the hearts of gnarled and knotty oaks Ache as with human sympathy, and rived The adamantine centre of the rock, And lured the forest beasts, and hushed the birds, 142 Mavis and lark, while with wide, awful wings, The eagle shadowed his exalted brow. 'Surely,' he cried, 'the senseless dust hears not, More than the burnt brand hears old natural sounds Innumerable rustle of young leaves. It cannot be that only these remain, The ashes of her glittering limbs, warm flesh, And blessed hair,— my love had more than these Where is the vital soul, that was to me An inspiration and an influence? The gods are not unstable like rash man, Aimlessly to create and discreate, With cruel and capricious fantasy, For thus the immaculate skies would be a lie; Eurydice is but withdrawn from me, And disembodied, while mine eyesight blinds, My senses are a hindrance, and obstruct The accurate perception of my soul. When mine own spirit, nightly disenthralled, Soars to the land of dreams, whose boundaries, By day, loom infinitely far and vague, And yet, at night, become our very home,— There still I see thee with the same bright form, The same auroral eyes that made for me Perpetual morning; and I stretch mine arms Hungering after thee, and, calling, wake Unto the vapid glare of languid dawn. Yet all these things address my very soul, Telling it that thou art not dead; for death Is but the incarnation of man's fears; Gods do not recognize it. If thou art (As I have faith) in the known universe, Yea, though it be in the extremest land, Beyond the sunset, with its shining isles, I will go forth and seek thee, nor will cease To mourn thee and desire, till I have found.' Thus Orpheus fared across the full-fed streams Of Hebrus and of Strymon, and beyond The purple outlines and aerial crags, Snow-glittering of Scardus, Rhodope, And grand Orbelus; through fair, fertile fields Of Thessaly with increase of ripe corn, 143 Through Attica, Bœotia and Eubœa, And southward to the royal-citied state, Beautiful Corinth, throned upon the base Of green Acrocorinthus, whose soft slope Was dedicate with temples to the gods, And towering over all the sacred shrine Of Aphrodite. Upward from the town The mountain rose defensive, where the walls Of Corinth ended, and beyond the gates, The radiant plain of the Corinthian Gulf Stretched infinitely. Orpheus rested here, Till he bethought him to ascend the mount, With offerings at Aphrodite's shrine— Not sanguine victims, but fresh myrtle wreath And faultless rose—to sue the oracle For help and guidance. All the town was still, The bright red band of sunrise lit the sky Above the dark blue gulf, and Orpheus heard A hundred birds saluting, from the brake, Aurora, and cool rush of waterfalls. Made murmurous music, while Athené breathed The vigor of the morning in his soul. Up the steep mountain side he passed, beyond The silver growth of olives, and the belt Of pines, to where the foam-white temple stood, Smitten at once by all the beams of morn. He saw the double peak, rose-white with snow And early sunshine, of Parnassus cleave The northern sky, and sacred Helicon Erect its head, crowned with the Muses' grove, The Bay of Crissa and Corinthian Gulf, Below flashed restless, and a path of gold Divided with clear, tremulous light the waves. From the large beauty of the morn, he went Into the holy limits of the shrine, With warm air heavy with the odorous rose. ORPHEUS. I put into my prayer to thee, O mother, The tumult and the passion of the ocean, The unflecked purity of winnowed foam-wreaths; To thee who sprang from these, the incarnation 144 Of all the huge sea holds of grace or splendor, With its own light between thine amorous eyelids. For I, in thy most sacred cause a pilgrim, Have wandered tireless, from Thrace to Corinth, 'Midst foreign scenes and alien men and women. And at my right hand Grief incessant follows, And at my left walks Memory with the semblance Of lost Eurydice's ethereal beauty. Infatuate I gaze, until the vision Thrills me to madness, and I start and tremble, Remembering also Grief is my companion. Onward through spacious fields, by copious waters, Through purple growth of amaranth and crocus, And past the marble beauty of great cities, We three have journeyed,— strangers saw me reckless, And knew at once that I had walked with sorrow, And that the gods had chosen me their victim. Are all my carols useless, worse than useless? Shall my long pilgrimage, thus unrewarded, End at the blank, insuperable ocean? Hast thou no wise compassion, goddess, mother? In all the measureless years' unfathomed chances, Is the dear past to be repeated never? O supreme mother! crowned with blessed poppy As well as myrtle,— bring her here, or compass My soul with death, that elsewhere I may seek her. He ceased, and through the temple spread a mist Ambrosial, and above the shrine a star Serenely brightened, and a heavenly voice Made sweet response: ' Love guides himself thy course To the last sea-girt rock. No worthy soul May ever truly seek, and fail to find.' Still southward Orpheus journeyed, till he reached Cape Tænarus, the last bleak point of Greece, Desolate o'er an infinite waste of waves, While sunset lit the western sea and sky With yellow floods of warm, diffusive light, Kindling his serious face and earnest eyes, And glittering on his lyre. Long time he stood, And gazed upon the trouble of the waves, Expectant of a word, a sign— and still No answer made the wild, indifferent sea. 145 Impetuous, he smote his quivering lyre To reckless and sonorous melody, Vibrating o'er the watery turbulence. Then far below its western bath, the sun Dipped and was gone, and all the sea was gray. Still through the air rang those imploring notes, Unutterably plaintive— till there came From out the ocean cave of Tænarus The shining forms of Oceanides, With myriad faces raised supremely fair, And myriad arms that beckoned as he sang. Behold! a stir amidst the frothing brine, As though upheaved by powers submarine, In implicate confusion, wave on wave, Then rose with windy manes and fiery eyes, Proudly careering, the immortal steeds, Bearing, within the shell-shaped car, the god Of august aspect and imperial port, With such profusion of ambrosial locks As curl around the very front of Zeus. He with benign regard the minstrel viewed, Then whirling thrice his massy trident, struck The scarpéd promontory with its fork. And Orpheus felt the solid basis yield, And heard the hollow rumbling, as when earth Rocks to her centre, and high hills spit flame. And lo! he stood before a sulphurous throne, Set in an open space, wherefrom there streamed Four rivers stagnant, black. Here Ades reigned, His very presence unto mortal sense Oppressive as low thunder in the air. The triple-headed guardian of his realm Crouched at his feet, and in the dismal murk, The hideous Harpies hovered o'er his head. The serpent-haired Eumenides stood near, Brow-bound with sanguine fillets, and the Fates Wielded the distaff, spindle, and sharp shears. The air was dense with noisome influence, And shadowy apparitions seemed to float Athwart the dusk. But on the infernal throne Conspicuous in beauty, by her lord, Persephone was seated. Wonderment 146 Looked from her eyes, in seeing him, no god, Who came before his time among the dead, Unarmed with spear or shield, a glistening lyre Nigh slipping from the loose grasp of his hands. 'Who comes unsummoned to my realm?' began The baleful godhead in discordant tones, Widely reverberant; and the low, clear voice Of Orpheus answered: 'One who would remain, If but the impotent body could be free To follow the desires of the soul,— Orpheus, an unskilled singer.' 'Birth and death Are preordained for thee, presumptuous man. What narrow space of time the Fates accord, 'Twould best become thee to bear worthily, With dignity, and leave the rest to them, The end as the beginning.' 'Plead for me, O beautiful Persephone, — behold! Eurydice was snatched with violent hand From out mine eager arms, and I have sought Her image o'er the peopled earth in vain.' Then she: 'I may not summon her, nor hope To swerve the haughty purpose of my lord. With influence of thy familiar voice, If thou canst touch her spirit, she is thine.' But Ades: 'Who recalls the dead by prayer? They whose calm souls are once possessed by death, Find such a solid joy in grasping firm, After life's phantasms, this reality, That wisdom, grief, nor love persuadeth them Their liberated spirits to confine With fleshly limitations. Nathless sing,— And prove life's glittering evanescence vain, Outweighed by death's sublime security.' ORPHEUS. I render thanks, eternal gods, that ye Empower myself to call Eurydice. Man only can fulfill his own desire; And if I fail, the sorrow rests with me. Ye give what we deserve; I pray alone Ne'er to be cursed with what I have not won. And to whom else would I intrust my lyre, This supreme invocation to intone? 147 But in myself I feel the love, the power, The lyric inspiration, while the flower Of all my life brings forth its proper fruit, In this my loftiest, most godlike hour. If I could make ye feel the agony Of the strong man, O gods, condemned to see The light fail from dear eyes, the white lips mute, The elusive soul take flight eternally To where we cannot follow it nor find, With the most subtle searchings of the mind, With the most passionate longings of the soul, Deaf, unresponsive as the empty wind; Then would your pity as your power be, 'Twould crown us all with immortality, And grace us with completeness, make us whole, Worthy to be the peers of deity. For we are mighty now to slay and bless, Yea, gifted with strange strength of steadfastness, To conquer bodiless and viewless foes Within ourselves, yet in our helplessness, As children, in the presence of this Death, Whom nor revolt nor patience conquereth, Implacable, with grim mouth fastened close, That with no hope our anguish answereth. Resound with wildest utterance, O my lyre; Let each note be a living flame of fire, To reach her, to burn through her, to compel, Strong with the infinite strength of my desire. I am no god, yet Fate, Eurydice, A goddess for my slave hath given me,— Immortal Music, pure, ineffable; And I send her, my handmaid, after thee. If all wherein I put my faith as sure, Be not delusions vain which death will cure; If the sublime reliance of the soul On her own powers be no empty lure, Whereat the high gods laugh in bitter scorn; If what I have achieved and what forborne, Will lead me nearer to a worthy goal, If all life's promises be not forsworn,— Eurydice, appear! Before mine eyes, O gods, I see a formless essence rise, 148 That moulds itself unto the music's beat, Appareled in the glory of the skies. Now, while I ring a more celestial tone, The spirit more divinely bright hath grown, To larger modulations, strains complete, The white limbs from the shapeless mist are won, As from the bosom of a summer cloud, Wherewith a goddess would her semblance shroud. Is this mine own creation? Is it truth, That with warm life I have blank air endowed? The soft cloud parts asunder,— yea, 'tis she! Once more the face that was my star I see, Crowned with the beauty of immortal youth, Eurydice, my lost Eurydice! Silent beside his silent, fallen lyre, The singer stood, and clasped her in his arms, Gazing upon this pale, fair face as one Whose heart's supreme desire is satisfied. 'Is not this hour the hour I have foreseen, Through all obstructions and infirmities Of my mortality, and is it not More glorious in fruition than I dreamed! Yea, I have dreamed it all, eternal gods, Even as now have pressed her to my heart With the same clinging effort to retain, And seen this breathing form, these lucent eyes Vivid as now, instinct with life and love. Yet have I waked to chill discouragement, To vacant disappointment, and the sense Of aching, unassuaged desire. O speak, For in my dreams I never hear thy voice, Save veiled and indistinct, a mockery Of the old limpid music. Speak to me: Thy flesh is warm, thy heart beats close to mine, Thine upturned face is wet with human tears; O speak to me,— lest I should wake again To barren fields and empty skies of Thrace.' Then in low, natural tones, Eurydice: 'Thy voice hath reached me in the farthest spheres, And waked me out of silence.' 'Follow me,— It is thyself,— if I must wake from this, 'Twill be to death or madness. Follow me, 149 From darkness palpable, to earth, to light Of ample skies, and freshness of blown grass And rolling waters.' 'Hold!' the jarring voice Of Ades interposed: ''Tis excellent The attribute we gave thee, to convert To such a weapon as may overcome The old hereditary foes of man, Sleep, death, corruption, and necessity. But to reveal thyself the peer of gods, Not only through inspired ecstasy, But through a continent persistency, This never was accomplished by thy race, And thou must yet be tried. This soul is thine, For thou hast won her from the jaws of Hell; Yea, she may follow thee as free as light,— Lead thou the way and charm the hostile fiends. Look forward ever; if thine eyes revert But once to gaze on her, to reassure Unworthy fears, or sate a mean desire, Thou art not mate for us. She will dissolve To empty air —never to be recalled. ORPHEUS. Back to the vital earth, O follow me, Regained Eurydice. To rippling well-heads and to sunlit plains, Greened by soft wash of rains. See orchards rosy with prolific bloom, And vineyards' purple gloom. Lulled by the languid flow of lilied streams, There will I sing my dreams. Behold! I chant a hymn of adoration, Triumphant exultation, For I can see, in all the universe, No error and no curse. The gods have naught withheld, in power and sway, From him who will obey Their own divine and everlasting laws. Above the world's applause, As vigorous as morning, he can rise, Wrest the desired prize From the clenched hands of Nemesis and Fate. With victory elate, 150 I chant unmitigated prayer and praise To gods who part our ways, Seeing 'midst clamorous change incredible, That all is ordered well. In more harmonious strains, O lyre, express My twice-born happiness; Yea, utter and translate with larger sense My rich experience, That makes complete life's solemn threnody Joy unalloyed and free, Grief unexampled, victory at last, When strife is overpast. Through pathways hedged with horrors still they fared Invulnerable. Darkness stayed them not, Nor yet more dreadful light, revealing oft The hideous fiends who rose on every side, Huge shapes of ill, to gaze upon the twain. A Greek, who, fleeing, smote a vibrant lyre, That chimed to carols more divinely quired Than those that fill with ravishment a grove, Misty with moonlight, where the plain brown bird Makes midnight vocal. Closely following him, A woman with grave aspect, parted lips, Upraising, in enthralléd ecstasy, Large eyes serene, fulfilled with holier light For having pierced beyond the boundaries Of time and of mortality. The day Shone through the murk at last, and filled their path With dusky sunbeams; and far-stretching fields Of soft, delicious green, and crystal skies, Encouraged them; all perils past save one. But a black, stagnant river crawled along, Spanned by no bridge, and ferried by no sail, With muddy tide between the day and them. And Orpheus with enamored eyes passed on, And saw not how the loathsome waters crept, Nor how his magic song enchanted them To solid substance; but he missed at once The footsteps light that had inspired his lay. Impetuous he turned to reassure His fearful soul, and sate his hungry eyes; But as he turned, the inspiration fled, 151 His lips refused to frame the fruitless words, His eyes beheld,—O gods! Eurydice Removed already far away from him, By all the wide-expanded space, between Our loftiest dream and our unworthy deed. She gazed with no reproachful glance nor tears, And Orpheus felt himself beneath her, fall, Momently down from empyreal heights, And lo! he stood within the fields of Thrace, On earth familiar, 'neath familiar skies, And heard a voice float through the shining air, From unimaginable distances, Faint as a dream, — 'Farewell, farewell, farewell.' 'Woe! woe! what lamentations may express The fullness of my new calamity! I, overbearing, who presumed to reach The lordly and severe stability Of the immortals, — whom may I invoke? To whom may man appeal when he hath failed Unto himself? What god will interpose To thwart invincible necessity? Lost, lost forever! I stood elevate, For one brief moment dreaming I had won The skill and power of true divinity. Gods! with what lofty and superb disdain Ye must look down on mine unworthy haste,— Ye, who with grandeur of sublime repose, And majesty of patience, still abide Invariable through eternity! Alas! my mighty visions were to me Auspicious omens, and they fed my heart With vigor and encouragement; but now, This was no dream; for Hope, full-flushed and fair, Born, like the freshness of auroral dew, From unseen air, and traceless vanishing, Consorts not with this mighty goddess, Truth, With solemn and unfathomable eyes, For Truth is one with Death and Destiny. With what a depth of meaning didst thou turn, For the last time, to me, Eurydice, A glory 'midst the darkness, with that glance Of infinite compassion, hands outstretched, 152 As if to save the from mine own defect. With what humiliation and despair I saw thee rising unattainably!— The vault, the stream accursed had disappeared; I was in Thrace uplooking to the sky. O, to what harmonies I might have wed The blessed tidings which all men await! Now I can only make my song express A distant echo, a suggestion vague, Of the serene contentment of thy voice. Sing this, my lyre, that all who hark to thee With an attentive and a gentle ear, May hear the promise, faint and yet assured, Recall the grace and the deliciousness Of immortality, and strive anew Towards the ideal unattained by me, Yet still accessible to stronger souls.' Thus Orpheus, when the first wild burst of woe Had passed; no need to seek her now; No need to wander o'er the peopled earth. Was he in truth a victim of the gods, Or rather with a fairer fortune blest Than happier men, selected for a fate Divinely tragical, that he might know The fullness of a life's experience, And find expression adequate for all, Simple as wisdom, and as dignified As silence? From his kind he lived apart, As one who cherishes a grief, nor seeks Forgetfulness nor comfort; elevate To glittering eminence by destiny, And lonely through the privacy of woe Beyond the reaches of man's sympathy. Where lucid Hebrus bathes its golden sands, He sat discoursing gracious harmonies, Amidst the morning fields, when on his ears Sounded with horrid dissonance the clang Of smitten cymbals and the throb of drums. But still the revelers remained unseen, Till, rounding suddenly a neighboring hill, The whole mad troop came dancing into sight. First marched a jovial bacchanal, who bore 153 A crystal vessel, decked with branching vine, Then youth and nymphs with ivy chapleted, In purfled raiment of hues delicate, With mitres, thyrsi, cymbals, drums and flutes, Some balancing upon their graceful heads, Regal with crisp-curled gold, their burdens light Of baskets heaped with figs and dusky grapes. And 'midst them all the sacrificial goat, Adorned with berries. Thus the festal throng, With wanton gestures, and with antic bounds, And wild embracings, mad with wine, approached, With peals of laughter, echoing faintly back From jocund hill to hill, and lusty shouts Of 'Bacché, Bacché!' SONG. With wassail all the night, Celestial Bacchus, we have worshipped thee! With riotous revel and with festal wine. Still on the hills in early morning light, With frolic dances and brisk jollity, Our hymns of praise are thine. For we have seen thee, god! The fawn-skin slipping from thy shoulder bare, Thy gestures lithe and loose, thine eyes that shine, Thy rosy hands that waved a clustered rod Of uncrushed grapes, and thine ambrosial hair, Dripping with myrrh and wine. Thou art not strict, severe, Like loftier gods and ruthless goddesses, Implacable like Pallas, Zeus, or Truth; But to humanity akin and near, Eager for folly, and the luxuries Of lustful health and youth. This crystal-vialed balm, Divinely brewed, soothing as Lethe's streams, Is the most generous gift of Deity, Informing us with soft oblivion calm Of Death and Fate, with joys beyond the dreams Of grave sobriety. Come, let us drink again. Resound, O timbrels, and thou bird-voiced flute; Thyrsus and pipes make shrill and dear acclaim, 154 To Bacchus, who impurples hill and plain With vineyards bursting with increase of fruit, Subtle as liquid flame. Œoë! quaff and sing! Who drinks no more, offends the deity Of Bacchus! lo on Hebrus' grassy brink, A minstrel sits, with gold lute glistening, Marring our rites with stern solemnity, Who doth not chant nor drink. Ho! Orpheus, laugh again, From mirthful heart, and join our happy throng; Cease to lament with unappeased desire. We bring a cordial for all grief and pain. Add to the choral strain thy siren song, And thine enchanted lyre. For Fate hath answered thee With cold derision; Death respondeth not. Here is a god who soothes tire soul and sense With sweet nepenthe,—thy Eurydice Thou wilt not lure to earthly grove nor grot With suasive eloquence. Here, nymphs no whit less fair Are waiting thee, with warm, caressing arms And loving eyes, lips fit for gods to kiss, And rosy shoulders, dimpling white and bare,— Pliant and graceful, with innumerous Charms, To sate thy heart with bliss. ORPHEUS. Hence, thou ignoble throng! Dare ye profane the splendid purity, The high nobility of morn, with rites Lewd and disgusting, and delirious song, Completing in dear sunshine, shamelessly, Rude orgies of wild nights? BACCHANTES. Ha! he insults the god, With his presumptuous and impious scorn. Avenge, O bacchanals, the cause divine; Compel him with the sacred cup and rod, To quaff his salutation to the morn, In frothing, Massic wine! ORPHEUS. 155 Mad bacchanals, begone! I honor all the gods and Nemesis. They favor not such frantic revelry, But blameless lives, and deeds most like their own, The service of a patient heart submiss, And staunch integrity. Behold the morning hills, Sky-kissed Libethra, delicate as air; The fragile grasses gray with wreaths of dew. Hark to the tumbling of the mountain rills To Eos and Athene your first prayer And sacrifice are due. BACCHANTES. With shameless blasphemy, He dares proscribe, O god, thy rank and fame. Enough! enough! he hath despised us long, Bewailing his beloved Eurydice. O nymphs, avenge yourselves in Liber's name, Slay him 'midst dance and song. Your deadly javelins fling With flinty missiles at the singer proud, Who deems himself an equal of the gods, Because he hath the skill to pipe and sing, With facile fluency of speech endowed. Smite him with spears and rods. ORPHEUS. Ring forth, my lyre, again,— With magic harmonies my doom avert, In tones as plaintive and as rich as life. BACCHANTES. Our stones and javelins we have hurled in vain; His lyre enchants them, he remains unhurt, 'Midst all the wrath and strife. Toss the loud tambourine, Its tight-drawn skin with noisy fingers smite; Clash ye the cymbals, sing with fatal art; Cast ye his sundered limbs the stream within,— They irritate us, soft and bare and white; Rend them, O nymphs, apart. ORPHEUS. Sweet Death, deliver me Out of the reach of envy, lust, and hate; 156 Enfold me in thy large-embracing arms. BACCHANTES. Ah! will he now invoke Eurydice, Madly resisting his allotted fate With vile, unhallowed charms? So with a clamorous swell Of drums and timbrels, we o'erpower the breath Of dulcet and persuasive melody. ORPHEUS. The maniacs conquer! O my lyre, farewell! Approach, thou beautiful and welcome Death, With lost Eurydice. ~ Emma Lazarus,

1128:A SATYRIC DRAMA TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES. SILENUS. ULYSSES. CHORUS OF SATYRS. THE CYCLOPS. SILENUS: O Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now And ere these limbs were overworn with age, Have I endured for thee! First, when thou fledst The mountain-nymphs who nursed thee, driven afar By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee; Then in the battle of the Sons of Earth, When I stood foot by foot close to thy side, No unpropitious fellow-combatant, And, driving through his shield my winged spear, Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now, Is it a dream of which I speak to thee? By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies! And now I suffer more than all before. For when I heard that Juno had devised A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea With all my children quaint in search of you, And I myself stood on the beaked prow And fixed the naked mast; and all my boys Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain Made white with foam the green and purple sea,-- And so we sought you, king. We were sailing Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose, And drove us to this waste Aetnean rock; The one-eyed children of the Ocean God, The man-destroying Cyclopses, inhabit, On this wild shore, their solitary caves, And one of these, named Polypheme. has caught us To be his slaves; and so, for all delight Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody, We keep this lawless giants wandering flocks. My sons indeed on far declivities, Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep, But I remain to fill the water-casks, Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering Some impious and abominable meal To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it! And now I must scrape up the littered floor With this great iron rake, so to receive My absent master and his evening sheep In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see My children tending the flocks hitherward. Ha! what is this? are your Sicinnian measures Even now the same, as when with dance and song You brought young Bacchus to Althaeas halls? CHORUS OF SATYRS: STROPHE: Where has he of race divine Wandered in the winding rocks? Here the air is calm and fine For the father of the flocks;-- Here the grass is soft and sweet, And the river-eddies meet In the trough beside the cave, Bright as in their fountain wave.-- Neither here, nor on the dew Of the lawny uplands feeding? Oh, you come!a stone at you Will I throw to mend your breeding;-- Get along, you horned thing, Wild, seditious, rambling! EPODE: An Iacchic melody To the golden Aphrodite Will I lift, as erst did I Seeking her and her delight With the Maenads, whose white feet To the music glance and fleet. Bacchus, O beloved, where, Shaking wide thy yellow hair, Wanderest thou alone, afar? To the one-eyed Cyclops, we, Who by right thy servants are, Minister in misery, In these wretched goat-skins clad, Far from thy delights and thee. SILENUS: Be silent, sons; command the slaves to drive The gathered flocks into the rock-roofed cave. CHORUS: Go! But what needs this serious haste, O father? SILENUS: I see a Grecian vessel on the coast, And thence the rowers with some general Approaching to this cave.About their necks Hang empty vessels, as they wanted food, And water-flasks.Oh, miserable strangers! Whence come they, that they know not what and who My master is, approaching in ill hour The inhospitable roof of Polypheme, And the Cyclopian jaw-bone, man-destroying? Be silent, Satyrs, while I ask and hear 85 Whence coming, they arrive the Aetnean hill. ULYSSES: Friends, can you show me some clear water-spring, The remedy of our thirst? Will any one Furnish with food seamen in want of it? Ha! what is this? We seem to be arrived At the blithe court of Bacchus. I observe This sportive band of Satyrs near the caves. First let me greet the elder.--Hail! SILENUS: Hail thou, O Stranger! tell thy country and thy race. ULYSSES: The Ithacan Ulysses and the king Of Cephalonia. SILENUS: Oh! I know the man, Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus. ULYSSES: I am the same, but do not rail upon me.-- SILENUS: Whence sailing do you come to Sicily? ULYSSES: From Ilion, and from the Trojan toils. SILENUS: How, touched you not at your paternal shore? ULYSSES: The strength of tempests bore me here by force. SILENUS: The self-same accident occurred to me. ULYSSES: Were you then driven here by stress of weather? SILENUS: Following the Pirates who had kidnapped Bacchus. ULYSSES: What land is this, and who inhabit it?-- SILENUS: Aetna, the loftiest peak in Sicily. ULYSSES: And are there walls, and tower-surrounded towns? SILENUS: There are not.--These lone rocks are bare of men. ULYSSES: And who possess the land? the race of beasts? SILENUS: Cyclops, who live in caverns, not in houses. ULYSSES: Obeying whom? Or is the state popular? SILENUS: Shepherds: no one obeys any in aught. ULYSSES: How live they? do they sow the corn of Ceres? SILENUS: On milk and cheese, and on the flesh of sheep. ULYSSES: Have they the Bromian drink from the vines stream? SILENUS: Ah! no; they live in an ungracious land. ULYSSES: And are they just to strangers?hospitable? SILENUS: They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings Is his own flesh. ULYSSES: What! do they eat mans flesh? SILENUS: No one comes here who is not eaten up. ULYSSES: The Cyclops now--where is he? Not at home? SILENUS: Absent on Aetna, hunting with his dogs. ULYSSES: Knowst thou what thou must do to aid us hence? SILENUS: I know not: we will help you all we can. ULYSSES: Provide us food, of which we are in want. SILENUS: Here is not anything, as I said, but meat. ULYSSES: But meat is a sweet remedy for hunger. SILENUS: Cows milk there is, and store of curdled cheese. ULYSSES: Bring out:--I would see all before I bargain. SILENUS: But how much gold will you engage to give? ULYSSES: I bring no gold, but Bacchic juice. SILENUS: Oh, joy! Tis long since these dry lips were wet with wine. ULYSSES: Maron, the son of the God, gave it me. SILENUS: Whom I have nursed a baby in my arms. ULYSSES: The son of Bacchus, for your clearer knowledge. SILENUS: Have you it now?or is it in the ship? ULYSSES: Old man, this skin contains it, which you see. SILENUS: Why, this would hardly be a mouthful for me. ULYSSES: Nay, twice as much as you can draw from thence. SILENUS: You speak of a fair fountain, sweet to me. ULYSSES: Would you first taste of the unmingled wine? SILENUS: Tis justtasting invites the purchaser. ULYSSES: Here is the cup, together with the skin. SILENUS: Pour: that the draught may fillip my remembrance. ULYSSES: See! SILENUS: Papaiapax! what a sweet smell it has! ULYSSES: You see it then?-- SILENUS: By Jove, no! but I smell it. ULYSSES: Taste, that you may not praise it in words only. SILENUS: Babai! Great Bacchus calls me forth to dance! Joy! joy! ULYSSES: Did it flow sweetly down your throat? SILENUS: So that it tingled to my very nails. ULYSSES: And in addition I will give you gold. SILENUS: Let gold alone! only unlock the cask. ULYSSES: Bring out some cheeses now, or a young goat. SILENUS: That will I do, despising any master. Yes, let me drink one cup, and I will give All that the Cyclops feed upon their mountains. ... CHORUS: Ye have taken Troy and laid your hands on Helen? ULYSSES: And utterly destroyed the race of Priam. ... SILENUS: The wanton wretch! she was bewitched to see The many-coloured anklets and the chain Of woven gold which girt the neck of Paris, And so she left that good man Menelaus. There should be no more women in the world But such as are reserved for me alone.-- See, here are sheep, and here are goats, Ulysses, Here are unsparing cheeses of pressed milk; Take them; depart with what good speed ye may; First leaving my reward, the Bacchic dew Of joy-inspiring grapes. ULYSSES: Ah me! Alas! What shall we do? the Cyclops is at hand! Old man, we perish! whither can we fly? SILENUS: Hide yourselves quick within that hollow rock. ULYSSES: Twere perilous to fly into the net. SILENUS: The cavern has recesses numberless; Hide yourselves quick. ULYSSES: That will I never do! The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced If I should fly one man. How many times Have I withstood, with shield immovable. Ten thousand Phrygians!if I needs must die, Yet will I die with glory;--if I live, The praise which I have gained will yet remain. SILENUS: What, ho! assistance, comrades, haste, assistance! [THE CYCLOPS, SILENUS, ULYSSES; CHORUS.] CYCLOPS: What is this tumult? Bacchus is not here, Nor tympanies nor brazen castanets. How are my young lambs in the cavern? Milking Their dams or playing by their sides? And is The new cheese pressed into the bulrush baskets? Speak! Ill beat some of you till you rain tears-- Look up, not downwards when I speak to you. SILENUS: See! I now gape at Jupiter himself; I stare upon Orion and the stars. CYCLOPS: Well, is the dinner fitly cooked and laid? SILENUS: All ready, if your throat is ready too. CYCLOPS: Are the bowls full of milk besides? SILENUS: Oer-brimming; So you may drink a tunful if you will. CYCLOPS: Is it ewes milk or cows milk, or both mixed?-- SILENUS: Both, either; only pray dont swallow me. CYCLOPS: By no means.-- ... What is this crowd I see beside the stalls? Outlaws or thieves? for near my cavern-home I see my young lambs coupled two by two With willow bands; mixed with my cheeses lie Their implements; and this old fellow here Has his bald head broken with stripes. SILENUS: Ah me! I have been beaten till I burn with fever. CYCLOPS: By whom? Who laid his fist upon your head? SILENUS: Those men, because I would not suffer them To steal your goods. CYCLOPS: Did not the rascals know I am a God, sprung from the race of Heaven? SILENUS: I told them so, but they bore off your things, And ate the cheese in spite of all I said, And carried out the lambsand said, moreover, Theyd pin you down with a three-cubit collar, And pull your vitals out through your one eye, Furrow your back with stripes, then, binding you, Throw you as ballast into the ships hold, And then deliver you, a slave, to move Enormous rocks, or found a vestibule. CYCLOPS: In truth? Nay, haste, and place in order quickly The cooking-knives, and heap upon the hearth, And kindle it, a great **** of wood.-- As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall fill My belly, broiling warm from the live coals, Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling caldron. I am quite sick of the wild mountain game; Of stags and lions I have gorged enough, And I grow hungry for the flesh of men. SILENUS: Nay, master, something new is very pleasant After one thing forever, and of late Very few strangers have approached our cave. ULYSSES: Hear, Cyclops, a plain tale on the other side. We, wanting to buy food, came from our ship Into the neighbourhood of your cave, and here This old Silenus gave us in exchange These lambs for wine, the which he took and drank, And all by mutual compact, without force. There is no word of truth in what he says, For slyly he was selling all your store. SILENUS: I? May you perish, wretch-- ULYSSES: If I speak false! SILENUS: Cyclops, I swear by Neptune who begot thee, By mighty Triton and by Nereus old, Calypso and the glaucous Ocean Nymphs, The sacred waves and all the race of fishes-- Be these the witnesses, my dear sweet master, My darling little Cyclops, that I never Gave any of your stores to these false strangers;-- If I speak false may those whom most I love, My children, perish wretchedly! CHORUS: There stop! I saw him giving these things to the strangers. If I speak false, then may my father perish, But do not thou wrong hospitality. CYCLOPS: You lie! I swear that he is juster far Than Rhadamanthus--I trust more in him. But let me ask, whence have ye sailed, O strangers? Who are you? And what city nourished ye? ULYSSES: Our race is Ithacan--having destroyed The town of Troy, the tempests of the sea Have driven us on thy land, O Polypheme. CYCLOPS: What, have ye shared in the unenvied spoil Of the false Helen, near Scamanders stream? ULYSSES: The same, having endured a woful toil. CYCLOPS: Oh, basest expedition! sailed ye not From Greece to Phrygia for one womans sake? ULYSSES: Twas the Gods workno mortal was in fault. But, O great Offspring of the Ocean-King, We pray thee and admonish thee with freedom, That thou dost spare thy friends who visit thee, And place no impious food within thy jaws. For in the depths of Greece we have upreared Temples to thy great Father, which are all His homes. The sacred bay of Taenarus Remains inviolate, and each dim recess Scooped high on the Malean promontory, And aery Suniums silver-veined crag, Which divine Pallas keeps unprofaned ever, The Gerastian asylums, and whateer Within wide Greece our enterprise has kept From Phrygian contumely; and in which You have a common care, for you inhabit The skirts of Grecian land, under the roots Of Aetna and its crags, spotted with fire. Turn then to converse under human laws, Receive us shipwrecked suppliants, and provide Food, clothes, and fire, and hospitable gifts; Nor fixing upon oxen-piercing spits Our limbs, so fill your belly and your jaws. Priams wide land has widowed Greece enough; And weapon-winged murder leaped together Enough of dead, and wives are husbandless, And ancient women and gray fathers wail Their childless age;if you should roast the rest-- And tis a bitter feast that you prepare-- Where then would any turn? Yet be persuaded; Forgo the lust of your jaw-bone; prefer Pious humanity to wicked will: Many have bought too dear their evil joys. SILENUS: Let me advise you, do not spare a morsel Of all his flesh. If you should eat his tongue You would become most eloquent, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: Wealth, my good fellow, is the wise mans God, All other things are a pretence and boast. What are my fathers ocean promontories, The sacred rocks whereon he dwells, to me? Stranger, I laugh to scorn Joves thunderbolt, I know not that his strength is more than mine. As to the rest I care not.When he pours Rain from above, I have a close pavilion Under this rock, in which I lie supine, Feasting on a roast calf or some wild beast, And drinking pans of milk, and gloriously Emulating the thunder of high Heaven. And when the Thracian wind pours down the snow, I wrap my body in the skins of beasts, Kindle a fire, and bid the snow whirl on. The earth, by force, whether it will or no, Bringing forth grass, fattens my flocks and herds, Which, to what other God but to myself And this great belly, first of deities, Should I be bound to sacrifice? I well know The wise mans only Jupiter is this, To eat and drink during his little day, And give himself no care. And as for those Who complicate with laws the life of man, I freely give them tears for their reward. I will not cheat my soul of its delight, Or hesitate in dining upon you:-- And that I may be quit of all demands, These are my hospitable gifts;fierce fire And yon ancestral caldron, which oer-bubbling Shall finely cook your miserable flesh. Creep in!-- ... ULYSSES: Ai! ai! I have escaped the Trojan toils, I have escaped the sea, and now I fall Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. O Pallas, Mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove, Now, now, assist me! Mightier toils than Troy Are these;I totter on the chasms of peril;-- And thou who inhabitest the thrones Of the bright stars, look, hospitable Jove, Upon this outrage of thy deity, Otherwise be considered as no God! CHORUS (ALONE): For your gaping gulf and your gullet wide, The ravin is ready on every side, The limbs of the strangers are cooked and done; There is boiled meat, and roast meat, and meat from the coal, You may chop it, and tear it, and gnash it for fun, An hairy goats-skin contains the whole. Let me but escape, and ferry me oer The stream of your wrath to a safer shore. The Cyclops Aetnean is cruel and bold, He murders the strangers That sit on his hearth, And dreads no avengers To rise from the earth. He roasts the men before they are cold, He snatches them broiling from the coal, And from the caldron pulls them whole, And minces their flesh and gnaws their bone With his cursed teeth, till all be gone. Farewell, foul pavilion: Farewell, rites of dread! The Cyclops vermilion, With slaughter uncloying, Now feasts on the dead, In the flesh of strangers joying! ULYSSES: O Jupiter! I saw within the cave Horrible things; deeds to be feigned in words, But not to be believed as being done. CHORUS: What! sawest thou the impious Polypheme Feasting upon your loved companions now? ULYSSES: Selecting two, the plumpest of the crowd, He grasped them in his hands.-- CHORUS: Unhappy man! ... ULYSSES: Soon as we came into this craggy place, Kindling a fire, he cast on the broad hearth The knotty limbs of an enormous oak, Three waggon-loads at least, and then he strewed Upon the ground, beside the red firelight, His couch of pine-leaves; and he milked the cows, And pouring forth the white milk, filled a bowl Three cubits wide and four in depth, as much As would contain ten amphorae, and bound it With ivy wreaths; then placed upon the fire A brazen pot to boil, and made red hot The points of spits, not sharpened with the sickle But with a fruit tree bough, and with the jaws Of axes for Aetnean slaughterings. And when this God-abandoned Cook of Hell Had made all ready, he seized two of us And killed them in a kind of measured manner; For he flung one against the brazen rivets Of the huge caldron, and seized the other By the foots tendon, and knocked out his brains Upon the sharp edge of the craggy stone: Then peeled his flesh with a great cooking-knife And put him down to roast. The others limbs He chopped into the caldron to be boiled. And I, with the tears raining from my eyes, Stood near the Cyclops, ministering to him; The rest, in the recesses of the cave, Clung to the rock like bats, bloodless with fear. When he was filled with my companions flesh, He threw himself upon the ground and sent A loathsome exhalation from his maw. Then a divine thought came to me. I filled The cup of Maron, and I offered him To taste, and said:Child of the Ocean God, Behold what drink the vines of Greece produce, The exultation and the joy of Bacchus. He, satiated with his unnatural food, Received it, and at one draught drank it off, And taking my hand, praised me:Thou hast given A sweet draught after a sweet meal, dear guest. And I, perceiving that it pleased him, filled Another cup, well knowing that the wine Would wound him soon and take a sure revenge. And the charm fascinated him, and I Plied him cup after cup, until the drink Had warmed his entrails, and he sang aloud In concert with my wailing fellow-seamen A hideous discordand the cavern rung. I have stolen out, so that if you will You may achieve my safety and your own. But say, do you desire, or not, to fly This uncompanionable man, and dwell As was your wont among the Grecian Nymphs Within the fanes of your beloved God? Your father there within agrees to it, But he is weak and overcome with wine, And caught as if with bird-lime by the cup, He claps his wings and crows in doting joy. You who are young escape with me, and find Bacchus your ancient friend; unsuited he To this rude Cyclops. CHORUS: Oh my dearest friend, That I could see that day, and leave for ever The impious Cyclops. ... ULYSSES: Listen then what a punishment I have For this fell monster, how secure a flight From your hard servitude. CHORUS: O sweeter far Than is the music of an Asian lyre Would be the news of Polypheme destroyed. ULYSSES: Delighted with the Bacchic drink he goes To call his brother Cyclops--who inhabit A village upon Aetna not far off. CHORUS: I understand, catching him when alone You think by some measure to dispatch him, Or thrust him from the precipice. ULYSSES: Oh no; Nothing of that kind; my device is subtle. CHORUS: How then? I heard of old that thou wert wise. ULYSSES: I will dissuade him from this plan, by saying It were unwise to give the Cyclopses This precious drink, which if enjoyed alone Would make life sweeter for a longer time. When, vanquished by the Bacchic power, he sleeps, There is a trunk of olive wood within, Whose point having made sharp with this good sword I will conceal in fire, and when I see It is alight, will fix it, burning yet, Within the socket of the Cyclops eye And melt it out with fireas when a man Turns by its handle a great auger round, Fitting the framework of a ship with beams, So will I, in the Cyclops fiery eye Turn round the brand and dry the pupil up. CHORUS: Joy! I am mad with joy at your device. ULYSSES: And then with you, my friends, and the old man, Well load the hollow depth of our black ship, And row with double strokes from this dread shore. CHORUS: May I, as in libations to a God, Share in the blinding him with the red brand? I would have some communion in his death. ULYSSES: Doubtless: the brand is a great brand to hold. CHORUS: Oh! I would lift an hundred waggon-loads, If like a wasps nest I could scoop the eye out Of the detested Cyclops. ULYSSES: Silence now! Ye know the close deviceand when I call, Look ye obey the masters of the craft. I will not save myself and leave behind My comrades in the cave: I might escape, Having got clear from that obscure recess, But twere unjust to leave in jeopardy The dear companions who sailed here with me. CHORUS: Come! who is first, that with his hand Will urge down the burning brand Through the lids, and quench and pierce The Cyclops eye so fiery fierce? SEMICHORUS 1 [SONG WITHIN]: Listen! listen! he is coming, A most hideous discord humming. Drunken, museless, awkward, yelling, Far along his rocky dwelling; Let us with some comic spell Teach the yet unteachable. By all means he must be blinded, If my counsel be but minded. SEMICHORUS 2: Happy thou made odorous With the dew which sweet grapes weep, To the village hastening thus, Seek the vines that soothe to sleep; Having first embraced thy friend, Thou in luxury without end, With the strings of yellow hair, Of thy voluptuous leman fair, Shalt sit playing on a bed!-- Speak! what door is opened? CYCLOPS: Ha! ha! ha! Im full of wine, Heavy with the joy divine, With the young feast oversated; Like a merchants vessel freighted To the waters edge, my crop Is laden to the gullets top. The fresh meadow grass of spring Tempts me forth thus wandering To my brothers on the mountains, Who shall share the wines sweet fountains. Bring the cask, O stranger, bring! CHORUS: One with eyes the fairest Cometh from his dwelling; Some one loves thee, rarest Bright beyond my telling. In thy grace thou shinest Like some nymph divinest In her caverns dewy:-- All delights pursue thee, Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing, Shall thy head be wreathing. ULYSSES: Listen, O Cyclops, for I am well skilled In Bacchus, whom I gave thee of to drink. CYCLOPS: What sort of God is Bacchus then accounted? ULYSSES: The greatest among men for joy of life. CYCLOPS: I gulped him down with very great delight. ULYSSES: This is a God who never injures men. CYCLOPS: How does the God like living in a skin? ULYSSES: He is content wherever he is put. CYCLOPS: Gods should not have their body in a skin. ULYSSES: If he gives joy, what is his skin to you? CYCLOPS: I hate the skin, but love the wine within. ULYSSES: Stay here now: drink, and make your spirit glad. CYCLOPS: Should I not share this liquor with my brothers? ULYSSES: Keep it yourself, and be more honoured so. CYCLOPS: I were more useful, giving to my friends. ULYSSES: But village mirth breeds contests, broils, and blows. CYCLOPS: When I am drunk none shall lay hands on me.-- ULYSSES: A drunken man is better within doors. CYCLOPS: He is a fool, who drinking, loves not mirth. ULYSSES: But he is wise, who drunk, remains at home. CYCLOPS: What shall I do, Silenus? Shall I stay? SILENUS: Stayfor what need have you of pot companions? CYCLOPS: Indeed this place is closely carpeted With flowers and grass. SILENUS: And in the sun-warm noon Tis sweet to drink. Lie down beside me now, Placing your mighty sides upon the ground. CYCLOPS: What do you put the cup behind me for? SILENUS: That no one here may touch it. CYCLOPS: Thievish One! You want to drink;--here place it in the midst. And thou, O stranger, tell how art thou called? ULYSSES: My name is Nobody. What favour now Shall I receive to praise you at your hands? CYCLOPS: Ill feast on you the last of your companions. ULYSSES: You grant your guest a fair reward, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: Ha! what is this? Stealing the wine, you rogue! SILENUS: It was this stranger kissing me because I looked so beautiful. CYCLOPS: You shall repent For kissing the coy wine that loves you not. SILENUS: By Jupiter! you said that I am fair. CYCLOPS: Pour out, and only give me the cup full. SILENUS: How is it mixed? let me observe. CYCLOPS: Curse you! Give it me so. SILENUS: Not till I see you wear That coronal, and taste the cup to you. CYCLOPS: Thou wily traitor! SILENUS: But the wine is sweet. Ay, you will roar if you are caught in drinking. CYCLOPS: See now, my lip is clean and all my beard. SILENUS: Now put your elbow right and drink again. As you see me drink--... CYCLOPS: How now? SILENUS: Ye Gods, what a delicious gulp! CYCLOPS: Guest, take it;--you pour out the wine for me. ULYSSES: The wine is well accustomed to my hand. CYCLOPS: Pour out the wine! ULYSSES: I pour; only be silent. CYCLOPS: Silence is a hard task to him who drinks. ULYSSES: Take it and drink it off; leave not a dreg. Oh that the drinker died with his own draught! CYCLOPS: Papai! the vine must be a sapient plant. ULYSSES: If you drink much after a mighty feast, Moistening your thirsty maw, you will sleep well; If you leave aught, Bacchus will dry you up. CYCLOPS: Ho! ho! I can scarce rise. What pure delight! The heavens and earth appear to whirl about Confusedly. I see the throne of Jove And the clear congregation of the Gods. Now if the Graces tempted me to kiss I would notfor the loveliest of them all I would not leave this Ganymede. SILENUS: Polypheme, I am the Ganymede of Jupiter. CYCLOPS: By Jove, you are; I bore you off from Dardanus. ... [ULYSSES AND THE CHORUS.] ULYSSES: Come, boys of Bacchus, children of high race, This man within is folded up in sleep, And soon will vomit flesh from his fell maw; The brand under the shed thrusts out its smoke, No preparation needs, but to burn out The monsters eye;but bear yourselves like men. CHORUS: We will have courage like the adamant rock, All things are ready for you here; go in, Before our father shall perceive the noise. ULYSSES: Vulcan, Aetnean king! burn out with fire The shining eye of this thy neighbouring monster! And thou, O Sleep, nursling of gloomy Night, Descend unmixed on this God-hated beast, And suffer not Ulysses and his comrades, Returning from their famous Trojan toils, To perish by this man, who cares not either For God or mortal; or I needs must think That Chance is a supreme divinity, And things divine are subject to her power. CHORUS: Soon a crab the throat will seize Of him who feeds upon his guest, Fire will burn his lamp-like eyes In revenge of such a feast! A great oak stump now is lying In the ashes yet undying. Come, Maron, come! Raging let him fix the doom, Let him tear the eyelid up Of the Cyclopsthat his cup May be evil! Oh! I long to dance and revel With sweet Bromian, long desired, In loved ivy wreaths attired; Leaving this abandoned home-- Will the moment ever come? ULYSSES: Be silent, ye wild things! Nay, hold your peace, And keep your lips quite close; dare not to breathe, Or spit, or een wink, lest ye wake the monster, Until his eye be tortured out with fire. CHORUS: Nay, we are silent, and we chaw the air. ULYSSES: Come now, and lend a hand to the great stake Withinit is delightfully red hot. CHORUS: You then command who first should seize the stake To burn the Cyclops eye, that all may share In the great enterprise. SEMICHORUS 1: We are too far; We cannot at this distance from the door Thrust fire into his eye. SEMICHORUS 2: And we just now Have become lame! cannot move hand or foot. CHORUS: The same thing has occurred to us,--our ankles Are sprained with standing here, I know not how. ULYSSES: What, sprained with standing still? CHORUS: And there is dust Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence. ULYSSES: Cowardly dogs! ye will not aid me then? CHORUS: With pitying my own back and my back-bone, And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out, This cowardice comes of itselfbut stay, I know a famous Orphic incantation To make the brand stick of its own accord Into the skull of this one-eyed son of Earth. ULYSSES: Of old I knew ye thus by nature; now I know ye better.I will use the aid Of my own comrades. Yet though weak of hand Speak cheerfully, that so ye may awaken The courage of my friends with your blithe words. CHORUS: This I will do with peril of my life, And blind you with my exhortations, Cyclops. Hasten and thrust, And parch up to dust, The eye of the beast Who feeds on his guest. Burn and blind The Aetnean hind! Scoop and draw, But beware lest he claw Your limbs near his maw. CYCLOPS: Ah me! my eyesight is parched up to cinders. CHORUS: What a sweet paean! sing me that again! CYCLOPS: Ah me! indeed, what woe has fallen upon me! But, wretched nothings, think ye not to flee Out of this rock; I, standing at the outlet, Will bar the way and catch you as you pass. CHORUS: What are you roaring out, Cyclops? CYCLOPS: I perish! CHORUS: For you are wicked. CYCLOPS: And besides miserable. CHORUS: What, did you fall into the fire when drunk? CYCLOPS: Twas Nobody destroyed me. CHORUS: Why then no one Can be to blame. CYCLOPS: I say twas Nobody Who blinded me. CHORUS: Why then you are not blind. CYCLOPS: I wish you were as blind as I am. CHORUS: Nay, It cannot be that no one made you blind. CYCLOPS: You jeer me; where, I ask, is Nobody? CHORUS: Nowhere, O Cyclops. CYCLOPS: It was that stranger ruined me:--the wretch First gave me wine and then burned out my eye, For wine is strong and hard to struggle with. Have they escaped, or are they yet within? CHORUS: They stand under the darkness of the rock And cling to it. CYCLOPS: At my right hand or left? CHORUS: Close on your right. CYCLOPS: Where? CHORUS: Near the rock itself. You have them. CYCLOPS: Oh, misfortune on misfortune! Ive cracked my skull. CHORUS: Now they escape you--there. CYCLOPS: Not there, although you say so. CHORUS: Not on that side. CYCLOPS: Where then? CHORUS: They creep about you on your left. CYCLOPS: Ah! I am mocked! They jeer me in my ills. CHORUS: Not there! he is a little there beyond you. CYCLOPS: Detested wretch! where are you? ULYSSES: Far from you I keep with care this body of Ulysses. CYCLOPS: What do you say? You proffer a new name. ULYSSES: My father named me so; and I have taken A full revenge for your unnatural feast; I should have done ill to have burned down Troy And not revenged the murder of my comrades. CYCLOPS: Ai! ai! the ancient oracle is accomplished; It said that I should have my eyesight blinded By your coming from Troy, yet it foretold That you should pay the penalty for this By wandering long over the homeless sea. ULYSSES: I bid thee weepconsider what I say; I go towards the shore to drive my ship To mine own land, oer the Sicilian wave. CYCLOPS: Not so, if, whelming you with this huge stone, I can crush you and all your men together; I will descend upon the shore, though blind, Groping my way adown the steep ravine. CHORUS: And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now, Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives. Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824; dated 1819. Amongst the Shelley manuscripts at the Bodleian there is a copy, 'practically complete,' which has been collated by Mr. C.D. Locock. See Examination, etc., 1903, pages 64-70. 'Though legible throughout, and comparatively free from corrections, it has the appearance of being a first draft' (Locock). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cyclops ,

1129:TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER. I. Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, The Herald-child, king of Arcadia And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love Having been interwoven, modest May Bore Heavens dread Supreme. An antique grove Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then. II. Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling, And Heavens tenth moon chronicled her relief, She gave to light a babe all babes excelling, A schemer subtle beyond all belief; A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing, A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief, Who mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, And other glorious actions to achieve. III. The babe was born at the first peep of day; He began playing on the lyre at noon, And the same evening did he steal away Apollos herds;the fourth day of the moon On which him bore the venerable May, From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon, Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep, But out to seek Apollos herds would creep. IV. Out of the lofty cavern wandering He found a tortoise, and cried out--'A treasure!' (For Mercury first made the tortoise sing) The beast before the portal at his leisure The flowery herbage was depasturing, Moving his feet in a deliberate measure Over the turf. Joves profitable son Eying him laughed, and laughing thus begun:-- V. A useful godsend are you to me now, King of the dance, companion of the feast, Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain-beast, Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know, You must come home with me and be my guest; You will give joy to me, and I will do All that is in my power to honour you. VI. Better to be at home than out of door, So come with me; and though it has been said That you alive defend from magic power, I know you will sing sweetly when youre dead. Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, Lifting it from the grass on which it fed And grasping it in his delighted hold, His treasured prize into the cavern old. VII. Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel, He bored the life and soul out of the beast.-- Not swifter a swift thought of woe or weal Darts through the tumult of a human breast Which thronging cares annoynot swifter wheel The flashes of its torture and unrest Out of the dizzy eyesthan Maias son All that he did devise hath featly done. VIII. ... And through the tortoises hard stony skin At proper distances small holes he made, And fastened the cut stems of reeds within, And with a piece of leather overlaid The open space and fixed the cubits in, Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched oer all Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical. IX. When he had wrought the lovely instrument, He tried the chords, and made division meet, Preluding with the plectrum, and there went Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent A strain of unpremeditated wit Joyous and wild and wanton--such you may Hear among revellers on a holiday. X. He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal Dallied in love not quite legitimate; And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal, And naming his own name, did celebrate; His mothers cave and servant maids he planned all In plastic verse, her household stuff and state, Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan,-- But singing, he conceived another plan. XI. ... Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, He in his sacred crib deposited The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet Rushed with great leaps up to the mountains head, Revolving in his mind some subtle feat Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might Devise in the lone season of dun night. XII. Lo! the great Sun under the oceans bed has Driven steeds and chariot--the child meanwhile strode Oer the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, Where the immortal oxen of the God Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows, And safely stalled in a remote abode.-- The archer Argicide, elate and proud, Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud. XIII. He drove them wandering oer the sandy way, But, being ever mindful of his craft, Backward and forward drove he them astray, So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft; His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray, And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs, And bound them in a lump with withy twigs. XIV. And on his feet he tied these sandals light, The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, Like a man hastening on some distant way, He from Pierias mountain bent his flight; But an old man perceived the infant pass Down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass. XV. The old man stood dressing his sunny vine: Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder! You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine Methinks even you must grow a little older: Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine, As you would scape what might appal a bolder-- Seeing, see not--and hearing, hear not--and-- If you have understanding--understand. XVI. So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast; Oer shadowy mountain and resounding dell, And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; Till the black night divine, which favouring fell Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast Wakened the world to work, and from her cell Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime Into her watch-tower just began to climb. XVII. Now to Alpheus he had driven all The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun; They came unwearied to the lofty stall And to the water-troughs which ever run Through the fresh fields--and when with rushgrass tall, Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one Had pastured been, the great God made them move Towards the stall in a collected drove. XVIII. A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped, And having soon conceived the mystery Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stripped The bark, and rubbed them in his palms;--on high Suddenly forth the burning vapour leaped And the divine child saw delightedly.-- Mercury first found out for human weal Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel. XIX. And fine dry logs and roots innumerous He gathered in a delve upon the ground-- And kindled themand instantaneous The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around: And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus Wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound, Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud, Close to the firesuch might was in the God. XX. And on the earth upon their backs he threw The panting beasts, and rolled them oer and oer, And bored their lives out. Without more ado He cut up fat and flesh, and down before The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two, Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done He stretched their hides over a craggy stone. XXI. We mortals let an ox grow old, and then Cut it up after long consideration,-- But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen Drew the fat spoils to the more open station Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and when He had by lot assigned to each a ration Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware Of all the joys which in religion are. XXII. For the sweet savour of the roasted meat Tempted him though immortal. Natheless He checked his haughty will and did not eat, Though what it cost him words can scarce express, And every wish to put such morsels sweet Down his most sacred throat, he did repress; But soon within the lofty portalled stall He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all. XXIII. And every trace of the fresh butchery And cooking, the God soon made disappear, As if it all had vanished through the sky; He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,-- The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;-- And when he saw that everything was clear, He quenched the coal, and trampled the black dust, And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed. XXIV. All night he worked in the serene moonshine-- But when the light of day was spread abroad He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine. On his long wandering, neither Man nor God Had met him, since he killed Apollos kine, Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road; Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed, Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast. XXV. Right through the temple of the spacious cave He went with soft light feetas if his tread Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave; Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave Lay playing with the covering of the bed With his left hand about his knees--the right Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight. XXVI. There he lay innocent as a new-born child, As gossips say; but though he was a God, The Goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled, Knew all that he had done being abroad: Whence come you, and from what adventure wild, You cunning rogue, and where have you abode All the long night, clothed in your impudence? What have you done since you departed hence? XXVII. Apollo soon will pass within this gate And bind your tender body in a chain Inextricably tight, and fast as fate, Unless you can delude the God again, Even when within his arms--ah, runagate! A pretty torment both for Gods and Men Your father made when he made you!--Dear mother, Replied sly Hermes, wherefore scold and bother? XXVIII. As if I were like other babes as old, And understood nothing of what is what; And cared at all to hear my mother scold. I in my subtle brain a scheme have got, Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolled Will profit you and me--nor shall our lot Be as you counsel, without gifts or food, To spend our lives in this obscure abode. XXIX. But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave And live among the Gods, and pass each day In high communion, sharing what they have Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey; And from the portion which my father gave To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away, Which if my father will not--natheless I, Who am the king of robbers, can but try. XXX. And, if Latonas son should find me out, Ill countermine him by a deeper plan; Ill pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout, And sack the fane of everything I can-- Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt, Each golden cup and polished brazen pan, 235 All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.-- So they together talked;--meanwhile the Day XXXI. Aethereal born arose out of the flood Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men. Apollo passed toward the sacred wood, Which from the inmost depths of its green glen Echoes the voice of Neptune,--and there stood On the same spot in green Onchestus then That same old animal, the vine-dresser, Who was employed hedging his vineyard there. XXXII. Latonas glorious Son began:--I pray Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green, Whether a drove of kine has passed this way, All heifers with crooked horns? for they have been Stolen from the herd in high Pieria, Where a black bull was fed apart, between Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen, And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men. XXXIII. And what is strange, the author of this theft Has stolen the fatted heifers every one, But the four dogs and the black bull are left:-- Stolen they were last night at set of sun, Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft.-- Now tell me, man born ere the world begun, Have you seen any one pass with the cows?-- To whom the man of overhanging brows: XXXIV. My friend, it would require no common skill Justly to speak of everything I see: On various purposes of good or ill Many pass by my vineyard,--and to me Tis difficult to know the invisible Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be:-- Thus much alone I certainly can say, I tilled these vines till the decline of day, XXXV. And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak With certainty of such a wondrous thing, A child, who could not have been born a week, Those fair-horned cattle closely following, And in his hand he held a polished stick: And, as on purpose, he walked wavering From one side to the other of the road, And with his face opposed the steps he trod. XXXVI. Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on-- No winged omen could have shown more clear That the deceiver was his fathers son. So the God wraps a purple atmosphere Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there, And found their track and his, yet hardly cold, And criedWhat wonder do mine eyes behold! XXXVII. Here are the footsteps of the horned herd Turned back towards their fields of asphodel;-- But THESE are not the tracks of beast or bird, Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell, Or maned Centaur--sand was never stirred By man or woman thus! Inexplicable! Who with unwearied feet could eer impress The sand with such enormous vestiges? XXXVIII. That was most strange--but this is stranger still! Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously Sought high Cyllenes forest-cinctured hill, And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie, And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will Bore the Saturnians love-child, Mercury-- And a delightful odour from the dew Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew. XXXIX. And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roof Arched over the dark cavern:--Maias child Perceived that he came angry, far aloof, About the cows of which he had been beguiled; And over him the fine and fragrant woof Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled-- As among fire-brands lies a burning spark Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark. XL. There, like an infant who had sucked his fill And now was newly washed and put to bed, Awake, but courting sleep with weary will, And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and head, He lay, and his beloved tortoise still He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade. Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew, Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who XLI. Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took The glittering key, and opened three great hollow Recesses in the rock--where many a nook Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow, And mighty heaps of silver and of gold Were piled within--a wonder to behold! XLII. And white and silver robes, all overwrought With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet-- Except among the Gods there can be nought In the wide world to be compared with it. Latonas offspring, after having sought His herds in every corner, thus did greet Great Hermes:--Little cradled rogue, declare Of my illustrious heifers, where they are! XLIII. Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us Must rise, and the event will be, that I Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus, In fiery gloom to dwell eternally; Nor shall your father nor your mother loose The bars of that black dungeonutterly You shall be cast out from the light of day, To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as they. XLIV. To whom thus Hermes slily answered:--Son Of great Latona, what a speech is this! Why come you here to ask me what is done With the wild oxen which it seems you miss? I have not seen them, nor from any one Have heard a word of the whole business; If you should promise an immense reward, I could not tell more than you now have heard. XLV. An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong, And I am but a little new-born thing, Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:-- My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling The cradle-clothes about me all day long,-- Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, And to be washed in water clean and warm, And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm. XLVI. O, let not eer this quarrel be averred! The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if eer You should allege a story so absurd As that a new-born infant forth could fare Out of his home after a savage herd. I was born yesterday--my small feet are Too tender for the roads so hard and rough:-- And if you think that this is not enough, XLVII. I swear a great oath, by my fathers head, That I stole not your cows, and that I know Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.-- Whatever things cows are, I do not know, For I have only heard the name.--This said He winked as fast as could be, and his brow Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he, Like one who hears some strange absurdity. XLVIII. Apollo gently smiled and said:--Ay, ay,-- You cunning little rascal, you will bore Many a rich mans house, and your array Of thieves will lay their siege before his door, Silent as night, in night; and many a day In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore That you or yours, having an appetite, Met with their cattle, comrade of the night! XLIX. And this among the Gods shall be your gift, To be considered as the lord of those Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;-- But now if you would not your last sleep doze; Crawl out!--Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes, And in his arms, according to his wont, A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont. L. ... ... And sneezed and shuddered--Phoebus on the grass Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed He did perform--eager although to pass, Apollo darted from his mighty mind Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:-- Do not imagine this will get you off, LI. You little swaddled child of Jove and May! And seized him:--By this omen I shall trace My noble herds, and you shall lead the way.-- Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place, Like one in earnest haste to get away, Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face Round both his ears up from his shoulders drew His swaddling clothes, andWhat mean you to do LII. With me, you unkind God?--said Mercury: Is it about these cows you tease me so? I wish the race of cows were perished!--I Stole not your cows--I do not even know What things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh That since I came into this world of woe, I should have ever heard the name of one-- But I appeal to the Saturnians throne. LIII. Thus Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury Talked without coming to an explanation, With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he Sought not revenge, but only information, And Hermes tried with lies and roguery To cheat Apollo.--But when no evasion Served--for the cunning one his match had found-- He paced on first over the sandy ground. LIV. ... He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire Came both his children, beautiful as Love, And from his equal balance did require A judgement in the cause wherein they strove. Oer odorous Olympus and its snows A murmuring tumult as they came arose,-- LV. And from the folded depths of the great Hill, While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood Before Joves throne, the indestructible Immortals rushed in mighty multitude; And whilst their seats in order due they fill, The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood To Phoebus said:Whence drive you this sweet prey, This herald-baby, born but yesterday?-- LVI. A most important subject, trifler, this To lay before the Gods!--Nay, Father, nay, When you have understood the business, Say not that I alone am fond of prey. I found this little boy in a recess Under Cyllenes mountains far away-- A manifest and most apparent thief, A scandalmonger beyond all belief. LVII. I never saw his like either in Heaven Or upon earth for knavery or craft:-- Out of the field my cattle yester-even, By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed, He right down to the river-ford had driven; And mere astonishment would make you daft To see the double kind of footsteps strange He has impressed wherever he did range. LVIII. The cattles track on the black dust, full well Is evident, as if they went towards The place from which they came--that asphodel Meadow, in which I feed my many herds,-- HIS steps were most incomprehensible-- I know not how I can describe in words Those trackshe could have gone along the sands Neither upon his feet nor on his hands;-- LIX. He must have had some other stranger mode Of moving on: those vestiges immense, Far as I traced them on the sandy road, Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings:--but thence No mark nor track denoting where they trod The hard ground gave:but, working at his fence, A mortal hedger saw him as he passed To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste. LX. I found that in the dark he quietly Had sacrificed some cows, and before light Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly About the roadthen, still as gloomy night, Had crept into his cradle, either eye Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight. No eagle could have seen him as he lay Hid in his cavern from the peering day. LXI. I taxed him with the fact, when he averred Most solemnly that he did neither see Nor even had in any manner heard Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be; Nor could he tell, though offered a reward, Not even who could tell of them to me. So speaking, Phoebus sate; and Hermes then Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men:-- LXII. Great Father, you know clearly beforehand That all which I shall say to you is sooth; I am a most veracious person, and Totally unacquainted with untruth. At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no band Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath, To my abode, seeking his heifers there, And saying that I must show him where they are, LXIII. Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss. I know that every Apollonian limb Is clothed with speed and might and manliness, As a green bank with flowersbut unlike him I was born yesterday, and you may guess He well knew this when he indulged the whim Of bullying a poor little new-born thing That slept, and never thought of cow-driving. LXIV. Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine? Believe me, dearest Father--such you are-- This driving of the herds is none of mine; Across my threshold did I wander neer, So may I thrive! I reverence the divine Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care Even for this hard accuser--who must know I am as innocent as they or you. LXV. I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals (It is, you will allow, an oath of might) Through which the multitude of the Immortals Pass and repass forever, day and night, Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals-- I am guiltless; and I will requite, Although mine enemy be great and strong, His cruel threat--do thou defend the young! LXVI. So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted: And Jupiter, according to his wont, Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-witted Infant give such a plausible account, And every word a lie. But he remitted Judgement at presentand his exhortation Was, to compose the affair by arbitration. LXVII. And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden To go forth with a single purpose both, Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden: And Mercury with innocence and truth To lead the way, and show where he had hidden The mighty heifers.--Hermes, nothing loth, Obeyed the Aegis-bearers willfor he Is able to persuade all easily. LXVIII. These lovely children of Heavens highest Lord Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spied The hides of those the little babe had slain, Stretched on the precipice above the plain. LXIX. How was it possible, then Phoebus said, That you, a little child, born yesterday, A thing on mothers milk and kisses fed, Could two prodigious heifers ever flay? Even I myself may well hereafter dread Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May, When you grow strong and tall.--He spoke, and bound Stiff withy bands the infants wrists around. LXX. He might as well have bound the oxen wild; The withy bands, though starkly interknit, Fell at the feet of the immortal child, Loosened by some device of his quick wit. Phoebus perceived himself again beguiled, And staredwhile Hermes sought some hole or pit, Looking askance and winking fast as thought, Where he might hide himself and not be caught. LXXI. Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might Of winning music, to his mightier will; His left hand held the lyre, and in his right The plectrum struck the chordsunconquerable Up from beneath his hand in circling flight The gathering music roseand sweet as Love The penetrating notes did live and move LXXII. Within the heart of great Apollo--he Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure. Close to his side stood harping fearlessly The unabashed boy; and to the measure Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure Of his deep song, illustrating the birth Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth: LXXIII. And how to the Immortals every one A portion was assigned of all that is; But chief Mnemosyne did Maias son Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;-- And, as each God was born or had begun, He in their order due and fit degrees Sung of his birth and beingand did move Apollo to unutterable love. LXXIV. These words were winged with his swift delight: You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you Deserve that fifty oxen should requite Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, One of your secrets I would gladly know, Whether the glorious power you now show forth Was folded up within you at your birth, LXXV. Or whether mortal taught or God inspired The power of unpremeditated song? Many divinest sounds have I admired, The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired, And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong, Yet did I never hear except from thee, Offspring of May, impostor Mercury! LXXVI. What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, What exercise of subtlest art, has given Thy songs such power?--for those who hear may choose From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, Delight, and love, and sleep,--sweet sleep, whose dews Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:-- And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow: LXXVII. And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise Of song and overflowing poesy; And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly; But never did my inmost soul rejoice In this dear work of youthful revelry As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove; Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. LXXVIII. Now since thou hast, although so very small, Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,-- And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall, Witness between us what I promise here,-- That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear, And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee, And even at the end will neer deceive thee. LXXIX. To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:-- Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: I envy thee no thing I know to teach Even this day:for both in word and will I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, Who loves thee in the fulness of his love. LXXX. The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude Of his profuse exhaustless treasury; By thee, tis said, the depths are understood Of his far voice; by thee the mystery Of all oracular fates,and the dread mood Of the diviner is breathed up; even I-- A childperceive thy might and majesty. LXXXI. Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit Can find or teach;--yet since thou wilt, come take The lyre--be mine the glory giving it-- Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit Of tranced sound--and with fleet fingers make Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee,-- It can talk measured music eloquently. LXXXII. Then bear it boldly to the revel loud, Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state, A joy by night or day--for those endowed With art and wisdom who interrogate It teaches, babbling in delightful mood All things which make the spirit most elate, Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play, Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay. LXXXIII. To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue, Though they should question most impetuously Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong-- Some senseless and impertinent reply. But thou who art as wise as thou art strong Canst compass all that thou desirest. I Present thee with this music-flowing shell, Knowing thou canst interrogate it well. LXXXIV. And let us two henceforth together feed, On this green mountain-slope and pastoral plain, The herds in litigation -- they will breed Quickly enough to recompense our pain, If to the bulls and cows we take good heed;-- And thou, though somewhat over fond of gain, Grudge me not half the profit.Having spoke, The shell he proffered, and Apollo took; LXXXV. And gave him in return the glittering lash, Installing him as herdsman;--from the look Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash. And then Apollo with the plectrum strook The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shook The soul with sweetness, and like an adept His sweeter voice a just accordance kept. LXXXVI. The herd went wandering oer the divine mead, Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter Won their swift way up to the snowy head Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre Soothing their journey; and their father dread Gathered them both into familiar Affection sweet,and then, and now, and ever, Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver, LXXXVII. To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded, Which skilfully he held and played thereon. He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded The echo of his pipings; every one Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded; While he conceived another piece of fun, One of his old trickswhich the God of Day Perceiving, said:I fear thee, Son of May;-- LXXXVIII. I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit, Lest thou should steal my lyre and crooked bow; This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit, To teach all craft upon the earth below; Thieves love and worship theeit is thy merit To make all mortal business ebb and flow By roguery:now, Hermes, if you dare By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear LXXXIX. That you will never rob me, you will do A thing extremely pleasing to my heart. Then Mercury swore by the Stygian dew, That he would never steal his bow or dart, Or lay his hands on what to him was due, Or ever would employ his powerful art Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoebus swore There was no God or Man whom he loved more. XC. And I will give thee as a good-will token, The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness; A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken, Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless; And whatsoever by Joves voice is spoken Of earthly or divine from its recess, It, like a loving soul, to thee will speak, And more than this, do thou forbear to seek. XCI. For, dearest child, the divinations high Which thou requirest, tis unlawful ever That thou, or any other deity Should understandand vain were the endeavour; For they are hidden in Joves mind, and I, In trust of them, have sworn that I would never Betray the counsels of Joves inmost will To any Godthe oath was terrible. XCII. Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me not To speak the fates by Jupiter designed; But be it mine to tell their various lot To the unnumbered tribes of human-kind. Let good to these, and ill to those be wrought As I dispensebut he who comes consigned By voice and wings of perfect augury To my great shrine, shall find avail in me. XCIII. Him will I not deceive, but will assist; But he who comes relying on such birds As chatter vainly, who would strain and twist The purpose of the Gods with idle words, And deems their knowledge light, he shall have missed His roadwhilst I among my other hoards His gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May, I have another wondrous thing to say. XCIV. There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, who Rejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings, Their heads with flour snowed over white and new, Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flings Its circling skirtsfrom these I have learned true Vaticinations of remotest things. My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms, They sit apart and feed on honeycombs. XCV. They, having eaten the fresh honey, grow Drunk with divine enthusiasm, and utter With earnest willingness the truth they know; But if deprived of that sweet food, they mutter All plausible delusions;--these to you I give;--if you inquire, they will not stutter; Delight your own soul with them:--any man You would instruct may profit if he can. XCVI. Take these and the fierce oxen, Maias child-- Oer many a horse and toil-enduring mule, Oer jagged-jawed lions, and the wild White-tusked boars, oer all, by field or pool, Of cattle which the mighty Mother mild Nourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule-- Thou dost alone the veil from death uplift-- Thou givest notyet this is a great gift. XCVII. Thus King Apollo loved the child of May In truth, and Jove covered their love with joy. Hermes with Gods and Men even from that day Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy, And little profit, going far astray Through the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy, Of Jove and Maia sprung,never by me, Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremembered be Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. This alone of the Translations is included in the Harvard manuscript book. Fragments of the drafts of this and the other Hymns of Homer exist among the Boscombe manuscripts (Forman). ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hymn To Mercury ,

1130:The thought of Eglamor's least like a thought, And yet a false one, was, "Man shrinks to nought "If matched with symbols of immensity; "Must quail, forsooth, before a quiet sky "Or sea, too little for their quietude:" And, truly, somewhat in Sordello's mood Confirmed its speciousness, while eve slow sank Down the near terrace to the farther bank, And only one spot left from out the night Glimmered upon the river opposite A breadth of watery heaven like a bay, A sky-like space of water, ray for ray, And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendours folded in To die. Nor turned he till Ferrara's din (Say, the monotonous speech from a man's lip Who lets some first and eager purpose slip In a new fancy's birththe speech keeps on Though elsewhere its informing soul be gone) Aroused him, surely offered succour. Fate Paused with this eve; ere she precipitate Herself,best put off new strange thoughts awhile, That voice, those large hands, that portentous smile, What help to pierce the future as the past Lay in the plaining city?              And at last The main discovery and prime concern, All that just now imported him to learn, Truth's self, like yonder slow moon to complete Heaven, rose again, and, naked at his feet, Lighted his old life's every shift and change, Effort with counter-effort; nor the range Of each looked wrong except wherein it checked, Some otherwhich of these could he suspect, Prying into them by the sudden blaze? The real way seemed made up of all the ways Mood after mood of the one mind in him; Tokens of the existence, bright or dim, Of a transcendent all-embracing sense Demanding only outward influence, A soul, in Palma's phrase, above his soul, Power to uplift his power,such moon's control Over such sea-depths,and their mass had swept Onward from the beginning and still kept Its course: but years and years the sky above Held none, and so, untasked of any love, His sensitiveness idled, now amort, Alive now, and, to sullenness or sport Given wholly up, disposed itself anew At every passing instigation, grew And dwindled at caprice, in foam-showers spilt, Wedge-like insisting, quivered now a gilt Shield in the sunshine, now a blinding race Of whitest ripples o'er the reeffound place For much display; not gathered up and, hurled Right from its heart, encompassing the world. So had Sordello been, by consequence, Without a function: others made pretence To strength not half his own, yet had some core Within, submitted to some moon, before Them still, superior still whate'er their force, Were able therefore to fulfil a course, Nor missed life's crown, authentic attribute. To each who lives must be a certain fruit Of having lived in his degree,a stage, Earlier or later in men's pilgrimage, To stop at; and to this the spirits tend Who, still discovering beauty without end, Amass the scintillations, make one star Something unlike them, self-sustained, afar, And meanwhile nurse the dream of being blest By winning it to notice and invest Their souls with alien glory, some one day Whene'er the nucleus, gathering shape alway, Round to the perfect circlesoon or late, According as themselves are formed to wait; Whether mere human beauty will suffice The yellow hair and the luxurious eyes, Or human intellect seem best, or each Combine in some ideal form past reach On earth, or else some shade of these, some aim, Some love, hate even, take their place, the same, So to be servedall this they do not lose, Waiting for death to live, nor idly choose What must be Hella progress thus pursued Through all existence, still above the food That 's offered them, still fain to reach beyond The widened range, in virtue of their bond Of sovereignty. Not that a Palma's Love, A Salinguerra's Hate, would equal prove To swaying all Sordello: but why doubt Some love meet for such strength, some moon without Would match his sea?or fear, Good manifest, Only the Best breaks faith?Ah but the Best Somehow eludes us ever, still might be And is not! Crave we gems? No penury Of their material round us! Pliant earth And plastic flamewhat balks the mage his birth Jacinth in balls or lodestone by the block? Flinders enrich the strand, veins swell the rock; Nought more! Seek creatures? Life 's i' the tempest, thought Clothes the keen hill-top, mid-day woods are fraught With fervours: human forms are well enough! But we had hoped, encouraged by the stuff Profuse at nature's pleasure, men beyond These actual men!and thus are over-fond In arguing, from Goodthe Best, from force Dividedforce combined, an ocean's course From this our sea whose mere intestine pants Might seem at times sufficient to our wants. External power! If none be adequate, And he stand forth ordained (a prouder fate) Himself a law to his own sphere? "Remove "All incompleteness!" for that law, that love? Nay, if all other laws be feints,truth veiled Helpfully to weak vision that had failed To grasp aught but its special want,for lure, Embodied? Stronger vision could endure The unbodied want: no partthe whole of truth! The People were himself; nor, by the ruth At their condition, was he less impelled To alter the discrepancy beheld, Than if, from the sound whole, a sickly part Subtracted were transformed, decked out with art, Then palmed on him as alien woethe Guelf To succour, proud that he forsook himself. All is himself; all service, therefore, rates Alike, nor serving one part, immolates The rest: but all in time! "That lance of yours "Makes havoc soon with Malek and his Moors, "That buckler 's lined with many a giant's beard "Ere long, our champion, be the lance upreared, "The buckler wielded handsomely as now! "But view your escort, bear in mind your vow, "Count the pale tracts of sand to pass ere that, "And, if you hope we struggle through the flat, "Put lance and buckler by! Next half-month lacks "Mere sturdy exercise of mace and axe "To cleave this dismal brake of prickly-pear "Which bristling holds Cydippe by the hair, "Lames barefoot Agathon: this felled, we 'll try "The picturesque achievements by and by "Next life!"       Ay, rally, mock, O People, urge Your claims!for thus he ventured, to the verge, Push a vain mummery which perchance distrust Of his fast-slipping resolution thrust Likewise: accordingly the Crowd(as yet He had unconsciously contrived forget I' the whole, to dwell o' the points . . . one might assuage The signal horrors easier than engage With a dim vulgar vast unobvious grief Not to be fancied off, nor gained relief In brilliant fits, cured by a happy quirk, But by dim vulgar vast unobvious work To correspond . . .) this Crowd then, forth they stood. "And now content thy stronger vision, brood "On thy bare want; uncovered, turf by turf, "Study the corpse-face thro' the taint-worms' scurf!" Down sank the People's Then; uprose their Now. These sad ones render service to! And how Piteously little must that service prove Had surely proved in any case! for, move Each other obstacle away, let youth Become aware it had surprised a truth 'T were service to impartcan truth be seized, Settled forthwith, and, of the captive eased, Its captor find fresh prey, since this alit So happily, no gesture luring it, The earnest of a flock to follow? Vain, Most vain! a life to spend ere this he chain To the poor crowd's complacence: ere the crowd Pronounce it captured, he descries a cloud Its kin of twice the plume; which he, in turn, If he shall live as many lives, may learn How to secure: not else. Then Mantua called Back to his mind how certain bards were thralled Buds blasted, but of breath more like perfume Than Naddo's staring nosegay's carrion bloom; Some insane rose that burnt heart out in sweets, A spendthrift in the spring, no summer greets; Some Dularete, drunk with truths and wine, Grown bestial, dreaming how become divine. Yet to surmount this obstacle, commence With the commencement, merits crowning! Hence Must truth be casual truth, elicited In sparks so mean, at intervals dispread So rarely, that 't is like at no one time Of the world's story has not truth, the prime Of truth, the very truth which, loosed, had hurled The world's course right, been really in the world Content the while with some mean spark by dint Of some chance-blow, the solitary hint Of buried fire, which, rip earth's breast, would stream Sky-ward!      Sordello's miserable gleam Was looked for at the moment: he would dash This badge. and all it brought, to earth,abash Taurello thus, perhaps persuade him wrest The Kaiser from his purpose,would attest His own belief, in any case. Before He dashes it however, think once more! For, were that little, truly service? "Ay, "I' the end, no doubt; but meantime? Plain you spy "Its ultimate effect, but many flaws "Of vision blur each intervening cause. "Were the day's fraction clear as the life's sum "Of service, Now as filled as teems To-come "With evidence of goodnor too minute "A share to vie with evil! No dispute, "'T were fitliest maintain the Guelfs in rule: "That makes your life's work: but you have to school "Your day's work on these natures circumstanced "Thus variously, which yet, as each advanced "Or might impede the Guelf rule, must be moved "Now, for the Then's sake,hating what you loved, "Loving old hatreds! Nor if one man bore "Brand upon temples while his fellow wore "The aureole, would it task you to decide: "But, portioned duly out, the future vied "Never with the unparcelled present! Smite "Or spare so much on warrant all so slight? "The present's complete sympathies to break, "Aversions bear with, for a future's sake "So feeble? Tito ruined through one speck, "The Legate saved by his sole lightish fleck? "This were work, true, but work performed at cost "Of other work; aught gained here, elsewhere lost. "For a new segment spoil an orb half-done? "Rise with the People one step, and sinkone? "Were it but one step, less than the whole face "Of things, your novel duty bids erase! "Harms to abolish! What, the prophet saith, "The minstrel singeth vainly then? Old faith, "Old courage, only born because of harms, "Were not, from highest to the lowest, charms? "Flame may persist; but is not glare as staunch? "Where the salt marshes stagnate, crystals branch; "Blood dries to crimson; Evil 's beautified "In every shape. Thrust Beauty then aside "And banish Evil! Wherefore? After all, "Is Evil a result less natural "Than Good? For overlook the seasons' strife "With tree and flower,the hideous animal life, "(Of which who seeks shall find a grinning taunt "For his solution, and endure the vaunt "Of nature's angel, as a child that knows "Himself befooled, unable to propose "Aught better than the fooling)and but care "For men, for the mere People then and there, "In these, could you but see that Good and Ill "Claimed you alike! Whence rose their claim but still "From Ill, as fruit of Ill? What else could knit "You theirs but Sorrow? Any free from it "Were also free from you! Whose happiness "Could be distinguished in this morning's press "Of miseries?the fool's who passed a gibe "'On thee,' jeered he, `so wedded to thy tribe, "`Thou carriest green and yellow tokens in "'Thy very face that thou art Ghibellin!' "Much hold on you that fool obtained! Nay mount "Yet higherand upon men's own account "Must Evil stay: for, what is joy?to heave "Up one obstruction more, and common leave "What was peculiar, by such act destroy "Itself; a partial death is every joy; "The sensible escape, enfranchisement "Of a sphere's essence: once the vexedcontent, "The crampedat large, the growing circleround, "All 's to begin againsome novel bound "To break, some new enlargement to entreat; "The sphere though larger is not more complete. "Now for Mankind's experience: who alone "Might style the unobstructed world his own? "Whom palled Goito with its perfect things? "Sordello's self: whereas for Mankind springs "Salvation by each hindrance interposed. "They climb; life's view is not at once disclosed "To creatures caught up, on the summit left, "Heaven plain above them, yet of wings bereft: "But lower laid, as at the mountain's foot. "So, range on range, the girdling forests shoot "'Twixt your plain prospect and the throngs who scale "Height after height, and pierce mists, veil by veil, "Heartened with each discovery; in their soul, "The Whole they seek by Partsbut, found that Whole, "Could they revert, enjoy past gains? The space "Of time you judge so meagre to embrace "The Parts were more than plenty, once attained "The Whole, to quite exhaust it: nought were gained "But leave to looknot leave to do: Beneath "Soon sates the lookerlook Above, and Death "Tempts ere a tithe of Life be tasted. Live "First, and die soon enough, Sordello! Give "Body and spirit the first right they claim, "And pasture soul on a voluptuous shame "That you, a pageant-city's denizen, "Are neither vilely lodged midst Lombard men "Can force joy out of sorrow, seem to truck "Bright attributes away for sordid muck, "Yet manage from that very muck educe "Gold; then subject nor scruple, to your cruce "The world's discardings! Though real ingots pay "Your pains, the clods that yielded them are clay "To all beside,would clay remain, though quenched "Your purging-fire; who 's robbed then? Had you wrenched "An ampler treasure forth!As 't is, they crave "A share that ruins you and will not save "Them. Why should sympathy command you quit "The course that makes your joy, nor will remit "Their woe? Would all arrive at joy? Reverse "The order (time instructs you) nor coerce "Each unit till, some predetermined mode, "The total be emancipate; men's road "Is one, men's times of travel many; thwart "No enterprising soul's precocious start "Before the general march! If slow or fast "All straggle up to the same point at last, "Why grudge your having gained, a month ago, "The brakes at balm-shed, asphodels in blow, "While they were landlocked? Speed their Then, but how "This badge would suffer you improve your Now!" His time of action for, against, or with Our world (I labour to extract the pith Of this his problem) grew, that even-tide, Gigantic with its power of joy, beside The world's eternity of impotence To profit though at his whole joy's expense. "Make nothing of my day because so brief? "Rather make more: instead of joy, use grief "Before its novelty have time subside! "Wait not for the late savour, leave untried "Virtue, the creaming honey-wine, quick squeeze "Vice like a biting spirit from the lees "Of life! Together let wrath, hatred, lust, "All tyrannies in every shape, be thrust "Upon this Now, which time may reason out "As mischiefs, far from benefits, no doubt; "But long ere then Sordello will have slipt "Away; you teach him at Goito's crypt, "There 's a blank issue to that fiery thrill. "Stirring, the few cope with the many, still: "So much of sand as, quiet, makes a mass "Unable to produce three tufts of grass, "Shall, troubled by the whirlwind, render void "The whole calm glebe's endeavour: be employed! "And e'en though somewhat smart the Crowd for this, "Contribute each his pang to make your bliss, "'T is but one pangone blood-drop to the bowl "Which brimful tempts the sluggish asp uncowl "At last, stains ruddily the dull red cape, "And, kindling orbs grey as the unripe grape "Before, avails forthwith to disentrance "The portent, soon to lead a mystic dance "Among you! For, who sits alone in Rome? "Have those great hands indeed hewn out a home, "And set me there to live? Oh life, life-breath, "Life-blood,ere sleep, come travail, life ere death! "This life stream on my soul, direct, oblique, "But always streaming! Hindrances? They pique: "Helps? such . . . but why repeat, my soul o'ertops "Each height, then every depth profoundlier drops? "Enough that I can live, and would live! Wait "For some transcendent life reserved by Fate "To follow this? Oh, never! Fate, I trust "The same, my soul to; for, as who flings dust, "Perchance (so facile was the deed) she chequed "The void with these materials to affect "My soul diversely: these consigned anew "To nought by death, what marvel if she threw "A second and superber spectacle "Before me? What may serve for sun, what still "Wander a moon above me? What else wind "About me like the pleasures left behind, "And how shall some new flesh that is not flesh "Cling to me? What 's new laughter? Soothes the fresh "Sleep like sleep? Fate 's exhaustless for my sake "In brave resource: but whether bids she slake "My thirst at this first rivulet, or count "No draught worth lip save from some rocky fount "Above i' the clouds, while here she 's provident "Of pure loquacious pearl, the soft tree-tent "Guards, with its face of reate and sedge, nor fail "The silver globules and gold-sparkling grail "At bottom? Oh, 't were too absurd to slight "For the hereafter the to-day's delight! "Quench thirst at this, then seek next well-spring: wear "Home-lilies ere strange lotus in my hair! "Here is the Crowd, whom I with freest heart "Offer to serve, contented for my part "To give life up in service,only grant "That I do serve; if otherwise, why want "Aught further of me? If men cannot choose "But set aside life, why should I refuse "The gift? I take itI, for one, engage "Never to falter through my pilgrimage "Nor end it howling that the stock or stone "Were enviable, truly: I, for one, "Will praise the world, you style mere anteroom "To palacebe it so! shall I assume "My foot the courtly gait, my tongue the trope, "My mouth the smirk, before the doors fly ope "One moment? What? with guarders row on row, "Gay swarms of varletry that come and go, "Pages to dice with, waiting-girls unlace "The plackets of, pert claimants help displace, "Heart-heavy suitors get a rank for,laugh "At yon sleek parasite, break his own staff "'Cross Beetle-brows the Usher's shoulder,why "Admitted to the presence by and by, "Should thought of having lost these make me grieve "Among new joys I reach, for joys I leave? "Cool citrine-crystals, fierce pyropus-stone, "Are floor-work there! But do I let alone "That black-eyed peasant in the vestibule "Once and for ever?Floor-work? No such fool! "Rather, were heaven to forestall earth, I 'd say "I, is it, must be blest? Then, my own way "Bless me! Giver firmer arm and fleeter foot, "I 'll thank you: but to no mad wings transmute "These limbs of mineour greensward was so soft! "Nor camp I on the thunder-cloud aloft: "We feel the bliss distinctlier, having thus "Engines subservient, not mixed up with us. "Better move palpably through heaven: nor, freed "Of flesh, forsooth, from space to space proceed "'Mid flying synods of worlds! No: in heaven's marge "Show Titan still, recumbent o'er his targe "Solid with starsthe Centaur at his game, "Made tremulously out in hoary flame! "Life! Yet the very cup whose extreme dull "Dregs, even, I would quaff, was dashed, at full, "Aside so oft; the death I fly, revealed "So oft a better life this life concealed, "And which sage, champion, martyr, through each path "Have hunted fearlesslythe horrid bath, "The crippling-irons and the fiery chair. "'T was well for them; let me become aware "As they, and I relinquish life, too! Let "What masters life disclose itself! Forget "Vain ordinances, I have one appeal "I feel, am what I feel, know what I feel; "So much is truth to me. What Is, then? Since "One object, viewed diversely, may evince "Beauty and uglinessthis way attract, "That way repel,why gloze upon the fact? "Why must a single of the sides be right? "What bids choose this and leave the opposite? "Where 's abstract Right for me?in youth endued "With Right still present, still to be pursued, "Thro' all the interchange of circles, rife "Each with its proper law and mode of life, "Each to be dwelt at ease in: where, to sway "Absolute with the Kaiser, or obey "Implicit with his serf of fluttering heart, "Or, like a sudden thought of God's, to start "Up, Brutus in the presence, then go shout "That some should pick the unstrung jewels out "Each, well!"        And, as in moments when the past Gave partially enfranchisement, he cast Himself quite through mere secondary states Of his soul's essence, little loves and hates, Into the mid deep yearnings overlaid By these; as who should pierce hill, plain, grove, glade, And on into the very nucleus probe That first determined there exist a globe. As that were easiest, half the globe dissolved, So seemed Sordello's closing-truth evolved By his flesh-half's break-up; the sudden swell Of his expanding soul showed Ill and Well, Sorrow and Joy, Beauty and Ugliness, Virtue and Vice, the Larger and the Less, All qualities, in fine, recorded here, Might be but modes of Time and this one sphere, Urgent on these, but not of force to bind Eternity, as Timeas MatterMind, If Mind, Eternity, should choose assert Their attributes within a Life: thus girt With circumstance, next change beholds them cinct Quite otherwisewith Good and Ill distinct, Joys, sorrows, tending to a like result Contrived to render easy, difficult, This or the other course of . . . what new bond In place of flesh may stop their flight beyond Its new sphere, as that course does harm or good To its arrangements. Once this understood, As suddenly he felt himself alone, Quite out of Time and this world: all was known. What made the secret of his past despair? Most imminent when he seemed most aware Of his own self-sufficiency: made mad By craving to expand the power he had, And not new power to be expanded?just This made it; Soul on Matter being thrust, Joy comes when so much Soul is wreaked in Time On Matter: let the Soul's attempt sublime Matter beyond the scheme and so prevent By more or less that deed's accomplishment, And Sorrow follows: Sorrow how avoid? Let the employer match the thing employed, Fit to the finite his infinity, And thus proceed for ever, in degree Changed but in kind the same, still limited To the appointed circumstance and dead To all beyond. A sphere is but a sphere; Small, Great, are merely terms we bandy here; Since to the spirit's absoluteness all Are like. Now, of the present sphere we call Life, are conditions; take but this among Many; the body was to be so long Youthful, no longer: but, since no control Tied to that body's purposes his soul, She chose to understand the body's trade More than the body's selfhad fain conveyed Her boundless to the body's bounded lot. Hence, the soul permanent, the body not, Scarcely its minute for enjoying here, The soul must needs instruct her weak compeer, Run o'er its capabilities and wring A joy thence, she held worth experiencing: Which, far from half discovered even,lo, The minute gone, the body's power let go Apportioned to that joy's acquirement! Broke Morning o'er earth, he yearned for all it woke From the volcano's vapour-flag, winds hoist Black o'er the spread of sea,down to the moist Dale's silken barley-spikes sullied with rain, Swayed earthwards, heavily to rise again The Small, a sphere as perfect as the Great To the soul's absoluteness. Meditate Too long on such a morning's cluster-chord And the whole music it was framed afford, The chord's might half discovered, what should pluck One string, his finger, was found palsy-struck. And then no marvel if the spirit, shown A saddest sightthe body lost alone Through her officious proffered help, deprived Of this and that enjoyment Fate contrived, Virtue, Good, Beauty, each allowed slip hence, Vain-gloriously were fain, for recompense, To stem the ruin even yet, protract The body's term, supply the power it lacked From her infinity, compel it learn These qualities were only Time's concern, And body may, with spirit helping, barred Advance the same, vanquishedobtain reward, Reap joy where sorrow was intended grow, Of Wrong make Right, and turn Ill Good below. And the result is, the poor body soon Sinks under what was meant a wondrous boon, Leaving its bright accomplice all aghast. So much was plain then, proper in the past; To be complete for, satisfy the whole Series of spheresEternity, his soul Needs must exceed, prove incomplete for, each Single sphereTime. But does our knowledge reach No farther? Is the cloud of hindrance broke But by the failing of the fleshly yoke, Its loves and hates, as now when death lets soar Sordello, self-sufficient as before, Though during the mere space that shall elapse 'Twixt his enthralment in new bonds perhaps? Must life be ever just escaped, which should Have been enjoyed?nay, might have been and would, Each purpose ordered rightthe soul 's no whit Beyond the body's purpose under it. Like yonder breadth of watery heaven, a bay, And that sky-space of water, ray for ray And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendours folded in To diewould soul, proportioned thus, begin Exciting discontent, or surelier quell The body if, aspiring, it rebel? But how so order life? Still brutalize The soul, the sad world's way, with muffled eyes To all that was before, all that shall be After this sphereall and each quality Save some sole and immutable Great, Good And Beauteous whither fate has loosed its hood To follow? Never may some soul see All The Great Before and After, and the Small Now, yet be saved by this the simplest lore, And take the single course prescribed before, As the king-bird with ages on his plumes Travels to die in his ancestral glooms? But where descry the Love that shall select That course? Here is a soul whom, to affect, Nature has plied with all her means, from trees And flowers e'en to the Multitude!and these, Decides he save or no? One word to end! Ah my Sordello, I this once befriend And speak for you. Of a Power above you still Which, utterly incomprehensible, Is out of rivalry, which thus you can Love, tho' unloving all conceived by man What need! And ofnone the minutest duct To that out-nature, nought that would instruct And so let rivalry begin to live But of a Power its representative Who, being for authority the same, Communication different, should claim A course, the first chose but this last revealed This Human clear, as that Divine concealed What utter need!          What has Sordello found? Or can his spirit go the mighty round, End where poor Eglamor begun? So, says Old fable, the two eagles went two ways About the world: where, in the midst, they met, Though on a shifting waste of sand, men set Jove's temple. Quick, what has Sordello found? For they approachapproachthat foot's rebound Palma? No, Salinguerra though in mail; They mount, have reached the threshold, dash the veil Asideand you divine who sat there dead, Under his foot the badge: still, Palma said, A triumph lingering in the wide eyes, Wider than some spent swimmer's if he spies Help from above in his extreme despair, And, head far back on shoulder thrust, turns there With short quick passionate cry: as Palma pressed In one great kiss, her lips upon his breast, It beat.     By this, the hermit-bee has stopped His day's toil at Goito: the new-cropped Dead vine-leaf answers, now 't is eve, he bit, Twirled so, and filed all day: the mansion 's fit, God counselled for. As easy guess the word That passed betwixt them, and become the third To the soft small unfrighted bee, as tax Him with one faultso, no remembrance racks Of the stone maidens and the font of stone He, creeping through the crevice, leaves alone. Alas, my friend, alas Sordello, whom Anon they laid within that old font-tomb, And, yet again, alas!            And now is 't worth Our while bring back to mind, much less set forth How Salinguerra extricates himself Without Sordello? Ghibellin and Guelf May fight their fiercest out? If Richard sulked In durance or the Marquis paid his mulct, Who cares, Sordello gone? The upshot, sure, Was peace; our chief made some frank overture That prospered; compliment fell thick and fast On its disposer, and Taurello passed With foe and friend for an outstripping soul, Nine days at least. Then,fairly reached the goal, He, by one effort, blotted the great hope Out of his mind, nor further tried to cope With Este, that mad evening's style, but sent Away the Legate and the League, content No blame at least the brothers had incurred, Dispatched a message to the Monk, he heard Patiently first to last, scarce shivered at, Then curled his limbs up on his wolfskin mat And ne'er spoke more,informed the Ferrarese He but retained their rule so long as these Lingered in pupilage,and last, no mode Apparent else of keeping safe the road From Germany direct to Lombardy For Friedrich,none, that is, to guarantee The faith and promptitude of who should next Obtain Sofia's dowry,sore perplexed (Sofia being youngest of the tribe Of daughters, Ecelin was wont to bribe The envious magnates withnor, since he sent Henry of Egna this fair child, had Trent Once failed the Kaiser's purposes"we lost "Egna last year, and who takes Egna's post "Opens the Lombard gate if Friedrich knock?") Himself espoused the Lady of the Rock In pure necessity, and, so destroyed His slender last of chances, quite made void Old prophecy, and spite of all the schemes Overt and covert, youth's deeds, age's dreams, Was sucked into Romano. And so hushed He up this evening's work that, when 't was brushed Somehow against by a blind chronicle Which, chronicling whatever woe befell Ferrara, noted this the obscure woe Of "Salinguerra's sole son Giacomo "Deceased, fatuous and doting, ere his sire," The townsfolk rubbed their eyes, could but admire Which of Sofia's five was meant.                  The chaps Of earth's dead hope were tardy to collapse, Obliterated not the beautiful Distinctive features at a crash: but dull And duller these, next year, as Guelfs withdrew Each to his stronghold. Then (securely too Ecelin at Campese slept; close by, Who likes may see him in Solagna lie, With cushioned head and gloved hand to denote The cavalier he was)then his heart smote Young Ecelin at last; long since adult. And, save Vicenza's business, what result In blood and blaze? (So hard to intercept Sordello till his plain withdrawal!) Stepped Then its new lord on Lombardy. I' the nick Of time when Ecelin and Alberic Closed with Taurello, come precisely news That in Verona half the souls refuse Allegiance to the Marquis and the Count Have cast them from a throne they bid him mount, Their Podest, thro' his ancestral worth. Ecelin flew there, and the town henceforth Was wholly hisTaurello sinking back From temporary station to a track That suited. News received of this acquist, Friedrich did come to Lombardy: who missed Taurello then? Another year: they took Vicenza, left the Marquis scarce a nook For refuge, and, when hundreds two or three Of Guelfs conspired to call themselves "The Free," Opposing Alberic,vile Bassanese, (Without Sordello!)Ecelin at ease Slaughtered them so observably, that oft A little Salinguerra looked with soft Blue eyes up, asked his sire the proper age To get appointed his proud uncle's page. More years passed, and that sire had dwindled down To a mere showy turbulent soldier, grown Better through age, his parts still in repute, Subtlehow else?but hardly so astute As his contemporaneous friends professed; Undoubtedly a brawler: for the rest, Known by each neighbour, and allowed for, let Keep his incorrigible ways, nor fret Men who would miss their boyhood's bugbear: "trap "The ostrich, suffer our bald osprey flap "A battered pinion!"was the word. In fine, One flap too much and Venice's marine Was meddled with; no overlooking that! She captured him in his Ferrara, fat And florid at a banquet, more by fraud Than force, to speak the truth; there 's slender laud Ascribed you for assisting eighty years To pull his death on such a man; fate shears The life-cord prompt enough whose last fine threads You fritter: so, presiding his board-head, The old smile, your assurance all went well With Friedrich (as if he were like to tell!) In rushed (a plan contrived before) our friends, Made some pretence at fighting, some amends For the shame done his eighty years(apart The principle, none found it in his heart To be much angry with Taurello)gained Their galleys with the prize, and what remained But carry him to Venice for a show? Set him, as 't were, down gentlyfree to go His gait, inspect our square, pretend observe The swallows soaring their eternal curve 'Twixt Theodore and Mark, if citizens Gathered importunately, fives and tens, To point their children the Magnifico, All but a monarch once in firm-land, go His gait among them now"it took, indeed, "Fully this Ecelin to supersede "That man," remarked the seniors. Singular! Sordello's inability to bar Rivals the stage, that evening, mainly brought About by his strange disbelief that aught Was ever to be done,this thrust the Twain Under Taurello's tutelage,whom, brain And heart and hand, he forthwith in one rod Indissolubly bound to baffle God Who loves the worldand thus allowed the thin Grey wizened dwarfish devil Ecelin, And massy-muscled big-boned Alberic (Mere man, alas!) to put his problem quick To demonstrationprove wherever's will To do, there's plenty to be done, or ill Or good. Anointed, then, to rend and rip Kings of the gag and flesh-hook, screw and whip, They plagued the world: a touch of Hildebrand (So far from obsolete!) made Lombards band Together, cross their coats as for Christ's cause, And saving Milan win the world's applause. Ecelin perished: and I think grass grew Never so pleasant as in Valley R By San Zenon where Alberic in turn Saw his exasperated captors burn Seven children and their mother; then, regaled So far, tied on to a wild horse, was trailed To death through raunce and bramble-bush. I take God's part and testify that 'mid the brake Wild o'er his castle on the pleasant knoll, You hear its one tower left, a belfry, toll The earthquake spared it last year, laying flat The modern church beneath,no harm in that! Chirrups the contumacious grasshopper, Rustles the lizard and the cushats chirre Above the ravage: there, at deep of day A week since, heard I the old Canon say He saw with his own eyes a barrow burst And Alberic's huge skeleton unhearsed Only five years ago. He added, "June 's "The month for carding off our first cocoons "The silkworms fabricate"a double news, Nor he nor I could tell the worthier. Choose! And Naddo gone, all's gone; not Eglamor! Believe, I knew the face I waited for, A guest my spirit of the golden courts! Oh strange to see how, despite ill-reports, Disuse, some wear of years, that face retained Its joyous look of love! Suns waxed and waned, And still my spirit held an upward flight, Spiral on spiral, gyres of life and light More and more gorgeousever that face there The last admitted! crossed, too, with some care As perfect triumph were not sure for all, But, on a few, enduring damp must fall, A transient struggle, haply a painful sense Of the inferior nature's clingingwhence Slight starting tears easily wiped away, Fine jealousies soon stifled in the play Of irrepressible admirationnot Aspiring, all considered, to their lot Who ever, just as they prepare ascend Spiral on spiral, wish thee well, impend Thy frank delight at their exclusive track, That upturned fervid face and hair put back! Is there no more to say? He of the rhymes Many a tale, of this retreat betimes, Was born: Sordello die at once for men? The Chroniclers of Mantua tired their pen Telling how Sordello Prince Visconti saved Mantua, and elsewhere notably behaved Who thus, by fortune ordering events, Passed with posterity, to all intents, For just the god he never could become. As Knight, Bard, Gallant, men were never dumb In praise of him: while what he should have been, Could be, and was notthe one step too mean For him to take,we suffer at this day Because of: Ecelin had pushed away Its chance ere Dante could arrive and take That step Sordello spurned, for the world's sake: He did muchbut Sordello's chance was gone. Thus, had Sordello dared that step alone, Apollo had been compassed: 't was a fit He wished should go to him, not he to it As one content to merely be supposed Singing or fighting elsewhere, while he dozed Really at homeone who was chiefly glad To have achieved the few real deeds he had, Because that way assured they were not worth Doing, so spared from doing them henceforth A tree that covets fruitage and yet tastes Never itself, itself. Had he embraced Their cause then, men had plucked Hesperian fruit And, praising that, just thrown him in to boot All he was anxious to appear, but scarce Solicitous to be. A sorry farce Such life is, after all! Cannot I say He lived for some one better thing? this way. Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill, Morning just up, higher and higher runs A child barefoot and rosy. See! the sun's On the square castle's inner-court's low wall Like the chine of some extinct animal Half turned to earth and flowers; and through the haze (Save where some slender patches of grey maize Are to be overleaped) that boy has crossed The whole hill-side of dew and powder-frost Matting the balm and mountain camomile. Up and up goes he, singing all the while Some unintelligible words to beat The lark, God's poet, swooning at his feet, So worsted is he at "the few fine locks "Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks "Sun-blanched the livelong summer,"all that's left Of the Goito lay! And thus bereft, Sleep and forget, Sordello! In effect He sleeps, the feverish poetI suspect Not utterly companionless; but, friends, Wake up! The ghost's gone, and the story ends I'd fain hope, sweetly; seeing, peri or ghoul, That spirits are conjectured fair or foul, Evil or good, judicious authors think, According as they vanish in a stink Or in a perfume. Friends, be frank! ye snuff Civet, I warrant. Really? Like enough! Merely the savour's rareness; any nose May ravage with impunity a rose: Rifle a musk-pod and 't will ache like yours! I'd tell you that same pungency ensures An after-gust, but that were overbold. Who would has heard Sordello's story told. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Sixth ,

1131:Geraint And Enid O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true; Here, through the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen! So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said: 'Not at my side. I charge thee ride before, Ever a good way on before; and this I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me, No, not a word!' and Enid was aghast; And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, When crying out, 'Effeminate as I am, I will not fight my way with gilded arms, All shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty purse, Hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire. So the last sight that Enid had of home Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown With gold and scattered coinage, and the squire Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, 'To the wilds!' and Enid leading down the tracks Through which he bad her lead him on, they past The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon: A stranger meeting them had surely thought They rode so slowly and they looked so pale, That each had suffered some exceeding wrong. For he was ever saying to himself, 'O I that wasted time to tend upon her, 145 To compass her with sweet observances, To dress her beautifully and keep her true'-And there he broke the sentence in his heart Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, when his passion masters him. And she was ever praying the sweet heavens To save her dear lord whole from any wound. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold; Till the great plover's human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste she feared In ever wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again, 'If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it.' But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall knights On horseback, wholly armed, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; And heard one crying to his fellow, 'Look, Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.' Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said: 'I will go back a little to my lord, And I will tell him all their caitiff talk; For, be he wroth even to slaying me, Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.' Then she went back some paces of return, Met his full frown timidly firm, and said; 'My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.' He made a wrathful answer: 'Did I wish 146 Your warning or your silence? one command I laid upon you, not to speak to me, And thus ye keep it! Well then, look--for now, Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my death, Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.' Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit through his breast And out beyond; and then against his brace Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him A lance that splintered like an icicle, Swung from his brand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain Or slew them, and dismounting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The three gay suits of armour which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armour on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on Before you;' and she drove them through the waste. He followed nearer; ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watched The being he loved best in all the world, With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on: he fain had spoken to her, And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within; But evermore it seemed an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead, Than to cry 'Halt,' and to her own bright face Accuse her of the least immodesty: And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more That she COULD speak whom his own ear had heard Call herself false: and suffering thus he made Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 147 Before he turn to fall seaward again, Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, Three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed, Whereof one seemed far larger than her lord, And shook her pulses, crying, 'Look, a prize! Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.' 'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a knight.' The third, 'A craven; how he hangs his head.' The giant answered merrily, 'Yea, but one? Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.' And Enid pondered in her heart and said, 'I will abide the coming of my lord, And I will tell him all their villainy. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good; How should I dare obey him to his harm? Needs must I speak, and though he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine.' And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, 'Have I leave to speak?' He said, 'Ye take it, speaking,' and she spoke. 'There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly armed, and one Is larger-limbed than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass.' To which he flung a wrathful answer back: 'And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limbed than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man.' And Enid stood aside to wait the event, 148 Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but Geraint's, A little in the late encounter strained, Struck through the bulky bandit's corselet home, And then brake short, and down his enemy rolled, And there lay still; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promontory, That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince, When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, All through the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, And foemen scared, like that false pair who turned Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. Thereon Geraint, dismounting, picked the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armour, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, 'Drive them on Before you,' and she drove them through the wood. He followed nearer still: the pain she had To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart: And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fallen, and now so long By bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt 149 Her low firm voice and tender government. So through the green gloom of the wood they past, And issuing under open heavens beheld A little town with towers, upon a rock, And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-haired youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale: Then, moving downward to the meadow ground, He, when the fair-haired youth came by him, said, 'Friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.' 'Yea, willingly,' replied the youth; 'and thou, My lord, eat also, though the fare is coarse, And only meet for mowers;' then set down His basket, and dismounting on the sward They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. And Enid took a little delicately, Less having stomach for it than desire To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, And when he found all empty, was amazed; And 'Boy,' said he, 'I have eaten all, but take A horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.' He, reddening in extremity of delight, 'My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince. 'I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy, 'Not guerdon; for myself can easily, While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl; For these are his, and all the field is his, And I myself am his; and I will tell him How great a man thou art: he loves to know When men of mark are in his territory: And he will have thee to his palace here, And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.' Then said Geraint, 'I wish no better fare: I never ate with angrier appetite 150 Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. And into no Earl's palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces! And if he want me, let him come to me. But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and return With victual for these men, and let us know.' 'Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went, Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, And up the rocky pathway disappeared, Leading the horse, and they were left alone. But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed; Then with another humorous ruth remarked The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless, And watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe, And after nodded sleepily in the heat. But she, remembering her old ruined hall, And all the windy clamour of the daws About her hollow turret, plucked the grass There growing longest by the meadow's edge, And into many a listless annulet, Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, Wove and unwove it, till the boy returned And told them of a chamber, and they went; Where, after saying to her, 'If ye will, Call for the woman of the house,' to which She answered, 'Thanks, my lord;' the two remained Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute As two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield, Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield. On a sudden, many a voice along the street, And heel against the pavement echoing, burst Their drowse; and either started while the door, 151 Pushed from without, drave backward to the wall, And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Entered, the wild lord of the place, Limours. He moving up with pliant courtliness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, Found Enid with the corner of his eye, And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously According to his fashion, bad the host Call in what men soever were his friends, And feast with these in honour of their Earl; 'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.' And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours Drank till he jested with all ease, and told Free tales, and took the word and played upon it, And made it of two colours; for his talk, When wine and free companions kindled him, Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince To laughter and his comrades to applause. Then, when the Prince was merry, asked Limours, 'Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak To your good damsel there who sits apart, And seems so lonely?' 'My free leave,' he said; 'Get her to speak: she doth not speak to me.' Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet, Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, Bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly: 'Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, Enid, my early and my only love, Enid, the loss of whom hath turned me wild-What chance is this? how is it I see you here? Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild, But keep a touch of sweet civility 152 Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. I thought, but that your father came between, In former days you saw me favourably. And if it were so do not keep it back: Make me a little happier: let me know it: Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, You come with no attendance, page or maid, To serve you--doth he love you as of old? For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know Though men may bicker with the things they love, They would not make them laughable in all eyes, Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress, A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks Your story, that this man loves you no more. Your beauty is no beauty to him now: A common chance--right well I know it--palled-For I know men: nor will ye win him back, For the man's love once gone never returns. But here is one who loves you as of old; With more exceeding passion than of old: Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round: He sits unarmed; I hold a finger up; They understand: nay; I do not mean blood: Nor need ye look so scared at what I say: My malice is no deeper than a moat, No stronger than a wall: there is the keep; He shall not cross us more; speak but the word: Or speak it not; but then by Him that made me The one true lover whom you ever owned, I will make use of all the power I have. O pardon me! the madness of that hour, When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.' At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, Made his eye moist; but Enid feared his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast; And answered with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance 153 That breaks upon them perilously, and said: 'Earl, if you love me as in former years, And do not practise on me, come with morn, And snatch me from him as by violence; Leave me tonight: I am weary to the death.' Low at leave-taking, with his brandished plume Brushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous Earl, And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night. He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, Debating his command of silence given, And that she now perforce must violate it, Held commune with herself, and while she held He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased To find him yet unwounded after fight, And hear him breathing low and equally. Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heaped The pieces of his armour in one place, All to be there against a sudden need; Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoiled By that day's grief and travel, evermore Seemed catching at a rootless thorn, and then Went slipping down horrible precipices, And strongly striking out her limbs awoke; Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, With all his rout of random followers, Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; Which was the red cock shouting to the light, As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, And glimmered on his armour in the room. And once again she rose to look at it, But touched it unawares: jangling, the casque Fell, and he started up and stared at her. Then breaking his command of silence given, She told him all that Earl Limours had said, Except the passage that he loved her not; 154 Nor left untold the craft herself had used; But ended with apology so sweet, Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seemed So justified by that necessity, That though he thought 'was it for him she wept In Devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan, Saying, 'Your sweet faces make good fellows fools And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out Among the heavy breathings of the house, And like a household Spirit at the walls Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned: Then tending her rough lord, though all unasked, In silence, did him service as a squire; Till issuing armed he found the host and cried, 'Thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, 'Take Five horses and their armours;' and the host Suddenly honest, answered in amaze, 'My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!' 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the Prince, And then to Enid, 'Forward! and today I charge you, Enid, more especially, What thing soever ye may hear, or see, Or fancy (though I count it of small use To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.' And Enid answered, 'Yea, my lord, I know Your wish, and would obey; but riding first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see: Then not to give you warning, that seems hard; Almost beyond me: yet I would obey.' 'Yea so,' said he, 'do it: be not too wise; Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, Not all mismated with a yawning clown, But one with arms to guard his head and yours, With eyes to find you out however far, And ears to hear you even in his dreams.' With that he turned and looked as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil; 155 And that within her, which a wanton fool, Or hasty judger would have called her guilt, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. And Geraint looked and was not satisfied. Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, Led from the territory of false Limours To the waste earldom of another earl, Doorm, whom his shaking vassals called the Bull, Went Enid with her sullen follower on. Once she looked back, and when she saw him ride More near by many a rood than yestermorn, It wellnigh made her cheerful; till Geraint Waving an angry hand as who should say 'Ye watch me,' saddened all her heart again. But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. Then not to disobey her lord's behest, And yet to give him warning, for he rode As if he heard not, moving back she held Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. At which the warrior in his obstinacy, Because she kept the letter of his word, Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. And in the moment after, wild Limours, Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud Whose skirts are loosened by the breaking storm, Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, Dashed down on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore Down by the length of lance and arm beyond The crupper, and so left him stunned or dead, And overthrew the next that followed him, And blindly rushed on all the rout behind. But at the flash and motion of the man They vanished panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink 156 But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; So, scared but at the motion of the man, Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way; So vanish friendships only made in wine. Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyers. 'Horse and man,' he said, 'All of one mind and all right-honest friends! Not a hoof left: and I methinks till now Was honest--paid with horses and with arms; I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: And so what say ye, shall we strip him there Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine? No?--then do thou, being right honest, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, I too would still be honest.' Thus he said: And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not one word, she led the way. But as a man to whom a dreadful loss Falls in a far land and he knows it not, But coming back he learns it, and the loss So pains him that he sickens nigh to death; So fared it with Geraint, who being pricked In combat with the follower of Limours, Bled underneath his armour secretly, And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife What ailed him, hardly knowing it himself, Till his eye darkened and his helmet wagged; And at a sudden swerving of the road, Though happily down on a bank of grass, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell. And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, Suddenly came, and at his side all pale Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, 157 Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, And tearing off her veil of faded silk Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, And swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's life. Then after all was done that hand could do, She rested, and her desolation came Upon her, and she wept beside the way. And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbulence, A woman weeping for her murdered mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower: One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl; Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, He drove the dust against her veilless eyes: Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long way smoke beneath him in his fear; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, And scoured into the coppices and was lost, While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, Came riding with a hundred lances up; But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, Cried out with a big voice, 'What, is he dead?' 'No, no, not dead!' she answered in all haste. 'Would some of your people take him up, And bear him hence out of this cruel sun? Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.' Then said Earl Doorm: 'Well, if he be not dead, Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool; Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 158 Yet, since the face IS comely--some of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall: An if he live, we will have him of our band; And if he die, why earth has earth enough To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A noble one.' He spake, and past away, But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his good bone Seems to be plucked at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growled, Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, Their chance of booty from the morning's raid, Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out For those that might be wounded; laid him on it All in the hollow of his shield, and took And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before, And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. They might as well have blest her: she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one. So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, There in the naked hall, propping his head, And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. Till at the last he wakened from his swoon, And found his own dear bride propping his head, And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him; And felt the warm tears falling on his face; And said to his own heart, 'She weeps for me:' And yet lay still, and feigned himself as dead, That he might prove her to the uttermost, And say to his own heart, 'She weeps for me.' 159 But in the falling afternoon returned The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. His lusty spearmen followed him with noise: Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against his pavement, cast his lance aside, And doffed his helm: and then there fluttered in, Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dressed in many hues, And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, And called for flesh and wine to feed his spears. And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh: And none spake word, but all sat down at once, And ate with tumult in the naked hall, Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; Till Enid shrank far back into herself, To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, He rolled his eyes about the hall, and found A damsel drooping in a corner of it. Then he remembered her, and how she wept; And out of her there came a power upon him; And rising on the sudden he said, 'Eat! I never yet beheld a thing so pale. God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, For were I dead who is it would weep for me? Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath Have I beheld a lily like yourself. And so there lived some colour in your cheek, There is not one among my gentlewomen Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. But listen to me, and by me be ruled, And I will do the thing I have not done, For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest, And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will.' He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared; 160 While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the withered leaf And makes it earth, hissed each at other's ear What shall not be recorded--women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things, But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have helped him to it: and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answered in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, 'I pray you of your courtesy, He being as he is, to let me be.' She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so graciously, Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.' She answered meekly, 'How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me?' Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, crying, 'Eat.' 'No, no,' said Enid, vext, 'I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me.' 'Drink, then,' he answered. 'Here!' (And filled a horn with wine and held it to her,) 'Lo! I, myself, when flushed with fight, or hot, God's curse, with anger--often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat: Drink therefore and the wine will change thy will.' 'Not so,' she cried, 'by Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, And drink with me; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die.' 161 At this he turned all red and paced his hall, Now gnawed his under, now his upper lip, And coming up close to her, said at last: 'Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, Take warning: yonder man is surely dead; And I compel all creatures to my will. Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye butt against my wish, That I forbear you thus: cross me no more. At least put off to please me this poor gown, This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed: I love that beauty should go beautifully: For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves that beauty should go beautifully? Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.' He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen Displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Played into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems. But Enid answered, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come; and Enid said: 'In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in my father's hall: In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen arrayed me like the sun: In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honour, where no honour can be gained: And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man, 162 And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough: Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: I never loved, can never love but him: Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, He being as he is, to let me be.' Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, And took his russet beard between his teeth; Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood Crying, 'I count it of no more avail, Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand, However lightly, smote her on the cheek. Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, And since she thought, 'He had not dared to do it, Except he surely knew my lord was dead,' Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, As of a wild thing taken in the trap, Which sees the trapper coming through the wood. This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, (It lay beside him in the hollow shield), Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it Shore through the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head rolled on the floor. So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. And all the men and women in the hall Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled Yelling as from a spectre, and the two Were left alone together, and he said: 'Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man; Done you more wrong: we both have undergone That trouble which has left me thrice your own: Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. And here I lay this penance on myself, Not, though mine own ears heard you yestermorn-You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true wife: I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: I do believe yourself against yourself, 163 And will henceforward rather die than doubt.' And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: She only prayed him, 'Fly, they will return And slay you; fly, your charger is without, My palfrey lost.' 'Then, Enid, shall you ride Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, 'let us go.' And moving out they found the stately horse, Who now no more a vassal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped With a low whinny toward the pair: and she Kissed the white star upon his noble front, Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climbed; he turned his face And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away. And never yet, since high in Paradise O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived through her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, And felt him hers again: she did not weep, But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain: Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shrieked to the stranger 'Slay not a dead man!' 'The voice of Enid,' said the knight; but she, Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shrieked again, 'O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.' And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake: 164 'My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love; I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, Who love you, Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. For once, when I was up so high in pride That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, By overthrowing me you threw me higher. Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, And since I knew this Earl, when I myself Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.' 'He hears the judgment of the King of kings,' Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of Doorm Are scattered,' and he pointed to the field, Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, Were men and women staring and aghast, While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. But when the knight besought him, 'Follow me, Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured Strange chances here alone;' that other flushed, And hung his head, and halted in reply, Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, And after madness acted question asked: Till Edyrn crying, 'If ye will not go To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,' 'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went. But Enid in their going had two fears, One from the bandit scattered in the field, And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, When Edyrn reined his charger at her side, She shrank a little. In a hollow land, From which old fires have broken, men may fear Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said: 'Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause 165 To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. Yourself were first the blameless cause to make My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood Break into furious flame; being repulsed By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought Until I overturned him; then set up (With one main purpose ever at my heart) My haughty jousts, and took a paramour; Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, And, toppling over all antagonism, So waxed in pride, that I believed myself Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad: And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, I should have slain your father, seized yourself. I lived in hope that sometime you would come To these my lists with him whom best you loved; And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes The truest eyes that ever answered Heaven, Behold me overturn and trample on him. Then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me, I should not less have killed him. And so you came,-But once you came,--and with your own true eyes Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one Speaks of a service done him) overthrow My proud self, and my purpose three years old, And set his foot upon me, and give me life. There was I broken down; there was I saved: Though thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. And all the penance the Queen laid upon me Was but to rest awhile within her court; Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, And waiting to be treated like a wolf, Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, Such fine reserve and noble reticence, Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace Of tenderest courtesy, that I began To glance behind me at my former life, And find that it had been the wolf's indeed: And oft I talked with Dubric, the high saint, Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, 166 Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. And you were often there about the Queen, But saw me not, or marked not if you saw; Nor did I care or dare to speak with you, But kept myself aloof till I was changed; And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed.' He spoke, and Enid easily believed, Like simple noble natures, credulous Of what they long for, good in friend or foe, There most in those who most have done them ill. And when they reached the camp the King himself Advanced to greet them, and beholding her Though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word, But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held In converse for a little, and returned, And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse, And kissed her with all pureness, brother-like, And showed an empty tent allotted her, And glancing for a minute, till he saw her Pass into it, turned to the Prince, and said: 'Prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave To move to your own land, and there defend Your marches, I was pricked with some reproof, As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, By having looked too much through alien eyes, And wrought too long with delegated hands, Not used mine own: but now behold me come To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, With Edyrn and with others: have ye looked At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed? This work of his is great and wonderful. His very face with change of heart is changed. The world will not believe a man repents: And this wise world of ours is mainly right. Full seldom doth a man repent, or use Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and custom wholly out of him, And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 167 As I will weed this land before I go. I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, Not rashly, but have proved him everyway One of our noblest, our most valorous, Sanest and most obedient: and indeed This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself After a life of violence, seems to me A thousand-fold more great and wonderful Than if some knight of mine, risking his life, My subject with my subjects under him, Should make an onslaught single on a realm Of robbers, though he slew them one by one, And were himself nigh wounded to the death.' So spake the King; low bowed the Prince, and felt His work was neither great nor wonderful, And past to Enid's tent; and thither came The King's own leech to look into his hurt; And Enid tended on him there; and there Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, Filled all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love, As the south-west that blowing Bala lake Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes On each of all whom Uther left in charge Long since, to guard the justice of the King: He looked and found them wanting; and as now Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, He rooted out the slothful officer Or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong, And in their chairs set up a stronger race With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men To till the wastes, and moving everywhere Cleared the dark places and let in the law, And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past 168 With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. There the great Queen once more embraced her friend, And clothed her in apparel like the day. And though Geraint could never take again That comfort from their converse which he took Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, He rested well content that all was well. Thence after tarrying for a space they rode, And fifty knights rode with them to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land. And there he kept the justice of the King So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died: And being ever foremost in the chase, And victor at the tilt and tournament, They called him the great Prince and man of men. But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call Enid the Fair, a grateful people named Enid the Good; and in their halls arose The cry of children, Enids and Geraints Of times to be; nor did he doubt her more, But rested in her falty, till he crowned A happy life with a fair death, and fell Against the heathen of the Northern Sea In battle, fighting for the blameless King. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1132: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 ,

1133:And the font took them: let our laurels lie! Braid moonfern now with mystic trifoly Because once more Goito gets, once more, Sordello to itself! A dream is o'er, And the suspended life begins anew; Quiet those throbbing temples, then, subdue That cheek's distortion! Nature's strict embrace, Putting aside the past, shall soon efface Its print as wellfactitious humours grown Over the trueloves, hatreds not his own And turn him pure as some forgotten vest Woven of painted byssus, silkiest Tufting the Tyrrhene whelk's pearl-sheeted lip, Left welter where a trireme let it slip I' the sea, and vexed a satrap; so the stain O' the world forsakes Sordello, with its pain, Its pleasure: how the tinct loosening escapes, Cloud after cloud! Mantua's familiar shapes Die, fair and foul die, fading as they flit, Men, women, and the pathos and the wit, Wise speech and foolish, deeds to smile or sigh For, good, bad, seemly or ignoble, die. The last face glances through the eglantines, The last voice murmurs, 'twixt the blossomed vines, Of Men, of that machine supplied by thought To compass self-perception with, he sought By forcing half himselfan insane pulse Of a god's blood, on clay it could convulse, Never transmuteon human sights and sounds, To watch the other half with; irksome bounds It ebbs from to its source, a fountain sealed Forever. Better sure be unrevealed Than part revealed: Sordello well or ill Is finished: then what further use of Will, Point in the prime idea not realized, An oversight? inordinately prized, No less, and pampered with enough of each Delight to prove the whole above its reach. "To need become all natures, yet retain "The law of my own natureto remain "Myself, yet yearn . . . as if that chestnut, think, "Should yearn for this first larch-bloom crisp and pink, "Or those pale fragrant tears where zephyrs stanch "March wounds along the fretted pine-tree branch! "Will and the means to show will, great and small, "Material, spiritual,abjure them all "Save any so distinct, they may be left "To amuse, not tempt become! and, thus bereft, "Just as I first was fashioned would I be! "Nor, moon, is it Apollo now, but me "Thou visitest to comfort and befriend! "Swim thou into my heart, and there an end, "Since I possess thee!nay, thus shut mine eyes "And know, quite know, by this heart's fall and rise, "When thou dost bury thee in clouds, and when "Out-standest: wherefore practise upon men "To make that plainer to myself?"                  Slide here Over a sweet and solitary year Wasted; or simply notice change in him How eyes, once with exploring bright, grew dim And satiate with receiving. Some distress Was caused, too, by a sort of consciousness Under the imbecility,nought kept That down; he slept, but was aware he slept, So, frustrated: as who brainsick made pact Erst with the overhanging cataract To deafen him, yet still distinguished plain His own blood's measured clicking at his brain. To finish. One declining Autumn day Few birds about the heaven chill and grey, No wind that cared trouble the tacit woods He sauntered home complacently, their moods According, his and nature's. Every spark Of Mantua life was trodden out; so dark The embers, that the Troubadour, who sung Hundreds of songs, forgot, its trick his tongue, Its craft his brain, how either brought to pass Singing at all; that faculty might class With any of Apollo's now. The year Began to find its early promise sere As well. Thus beauty vanishes; thus stone Outlingers flesh: nature's and his youth gone, They left the world to you, and wished you joy. When, stopping his benevolent employ, A presage shuddered through the welkin; harsh The earth's remonstrance followed. 'T was the marsh Gone of a sudden. Mincio, in its place, Laughed, a broad water, in next morning's face, And, where the mists broke up immense and white I' the steady wind, burned like a spilth of light Out of the crashing of a myriad stars. And here was nature, bound by the same bars Of fate with him!          "No! youth once gone is gone: "Deeds, let escape, are never to be done. "Leaf-fall and grass-spring for the year; for us "Oh forfeit I unalterably thus "My chance? nor two lives wait me, this to spend, "Learning save that? Nature has time, may mend "Mistake, she knows occasion will recur; "Landslip or seabreach, how affects it her "With her magnificent resources?I "Must perish once and perish utterly. "Not any strollings now at even-close "Down the field-path, Sordello! by thorn-rows "Alive with lamp-flies, swimming spots of fire "And dew, outlining the black cypress' spire "She waits you at, Elys, who heard you first "Woo her, the snow-month through, but ere she durst "Answer 't was April. Linden-flower-time-long "Her eyes were on the ground; 't is July, strong "Now; and because white dust-clouds overwhelm "The woodside, here or by the village elm "That holds the moon, she meets you, somewhat pale, "But letting you lift up her coarse flax veil "And whisper (the damp little hand in yours) "Of love, heart's love, your heart's love that endures "Till death. Tush! No mad mixing with the rout "Of haggard ribalds wandering about "The hot torchlit wine-scented island-house "Where Friedrich holds his wickedest carouse, "Parading,to the gay Palermitans, "Soft Messinese, dusk Saracenic clans "Nuocera holds,those tall grave dazzling Norse, "High-cheeked, lank-haired, toothed whiter than the morse, "Queens of the caves of jet stalactites, "He sent his barks to fetch through icy seas, "The blind night seas without a saving star, "And here in snowy birdskin robes they are, "Sordello!here, mollitious alcoves gilt "Superb as Byzant domes that devils built! "Ah, Byzant, there again! no chance to go "Ever like august cheery Dandolo, "Worshipping hearts about him for a wall, "Conducted, blind eyes, hundred years and all, "Through vanquished Byzant where friends note for him "What pillar, marble massive, sardius slim, "'T were fittest he transport to Venice' Square "Flattered and promised life to touch them there "Soon, by those fervid sons of senators! "No more lifes, deaths, loves, hatreds, peaces, wars! "Ah, fragments of a whole ordained to be, "Points in the life I waited! what are ye "But roundels of a ladder which appeared "Awhile the very platform it was reared "To lift me on?that happiness I find "Proofs of my faith in, even in the blind "Instinct which bade forego you all unless "Ye led me past yourselves. Ay, happiness "Awaited me; the way life should be used "Was to acquire, and deeds like you conduced "To teach it by a self-revealment, deemed "Life's very use, so long! Whatever seemed "Progress to that, was pleasure; aught that stayed "My reaching itno pleasure. I have laid "The ladder down; I climb not; still, aloft "The platform stretches! Blisses strong and soft, "I dared not entertain, elude me; yet "Never of what they promised could I get "A glimpse till now! The common sort, the crowd, "Exist, perceive; with Being are endowed, "However slight, distinct from what they See, "However bounded; Happiness must be, "To feed the first by gleanings from the last, "Attain its qualities, and slow or fast "Become what they behold; such peace-in-strife, "By transmutation, is the Use of Life, "The Alien turning Native to the soul "Or bodywhich instructs me; I am whole "There and demand a Palma; had the world "Been from my soul to a like distance hurled, "'T were Happiness to make it one with me: "Whereas I must, ere I begin to Be, "Include a world, in flesh, I comprehend "In spirit now; and this done, what 's to blend "With? Nought is Alien in the worldmy Will "Owns all already; yet can turn itstill "LessNative, since my Means to correspond "With Will are so unworthy, 't was my bond "To tread the very joys that tantalize "Most now, into a grave, never to rise. "I die then! Will the rest agree to die? "Next Age or no? Shall its Sordello try "Clue after clue, and catch at last the clue "I miss?that 's underneath my finger too, "Twice, thrice a day, perhaps,some yearning traced "Deeper, some petty consequence embraced "Closer! Why fled I Mantua, then?complained "So much my Will was fettered, yet remained "Content within a tether half the range "I could assign it?able to exchange "My ignorance (I felt) for knowledge, and "Idle because I could thus understand "Could e'en have penetrated to its core "Our mortal mystery, yetfoolforbore, "Preferred elaborating in the dark "My casual stuff, by any wretched spark "Born of my predecessors, though one stroke "Of mine had brought the flame forth! Mantua's yoke, "My minstrel's-trade, was to behold mankind, "My own concern was just to bring my mind "Behold, just extricate, for my acquist, "Each object suffered stifle in the mist "Which hazard, custom, blindness interpose "Betwixt things and myself."                Whereat he rose. The level wind carried above the firs Clouds, the irrevocable travellers, Onward.    "Pushed thus into a drowsy copse, "Arms twine about my neck, each eyelid drops "Under a humid finger; while there fleets, "Outside the screen, a pageant time repeats "Never again! To be deposed, immured "Clandestinelystill petted, still assured "To govern were fatiguing workthe Sight "Fleeting meanwhile! 'T is noontide: wreak ere night "Somehow my will upon it, rather! Slake "This thirst somehow, the poorest impress take "That serves! A blasted bud displays you, torn, "Faint rudiments of the full flower unborn; "But who divines what glory coats o'erclasp "Of the bulb dormant in the mummy's grasp "Taurello sent?" . . .            "Taurello? Palma sent "Your Trouvere," (Naddo interposing leant Over the lost bard's shoulder)"and, believe, "You cannot more reluctantly receive "Than I pronounce her message: we depart "Together. What avail a poet's heart "Verona's pomps and gauds? five blades of grass "Suffice him. News? Why, where your marish was, "On its mud-banks smoke rises after smoke "I' the valley, like a spout of hell new-broke. "Oh, the world's tidings! small your thanks, I guess, "For them. The father of our Patroness, "Has played Taurello an astounding trick, "Parts between Ecelin and Alberic "His wealth and goes into a convent: both "Wed Guelfs: the Count and Palma plighted troth "A week since at Verona: and they want "You doubtless to contrive the marriage-chant "Ere Richard storms Ferrara." Then was told The tale from the beginninghow, made bold By Salinguerra's absence, Guelfs had burned And pillaged till he unawares returned To take revenge: how Azzo and his friend Were doing their endeavour, how the end O' the siege was nigh, and how the Count, released From further care, would with his marriage-feast Inaugurate a new and better rule, Absorbing thus Romano.            "Shall I school "My master," added Naddo, "and suggest "How you may clothe in a poetic vest "These doings, at Verona? Your response "To Palma! Wherefore jest? 'Depart at once? "A good resolve! In truth, I hardly hoped "So prompt an acquiescence. Have you groped "Out wisdom in the wilds here?thoughts may be "Over-poetical for poetry. "Pearl-white, you poets liken Palma's neck; "And yet what spoils an orient like some speck "Of genuine white, turning its own white grey? "You take me? Curse the cicala!"                  One more day, One eveappears Verona! Many a group, (You mind) instructed of the osprey's swoop On lynx and ounce, was gatheringChristendom Sure to receive, whate'er the end was, from The evening's purpose cheer or detriment, Since Friedrich only waited some event Like this, of Ghibellins establishing Themselves within Ferrara, ere, as King Of Lombardy, he 'd glad descend there, wage Old warfare with the Pontiff, disengage His barons from the burghers, and restore The rule of Charlemagne, broken of yore By Hildebrand.        I' the palace, each by each, Sordello sat and Palma: little speech At first in that dim closet, face with face (Despite the tumult in the market-place) Exchanging quick low laughters: now would rush Word upon word to meet a sudden flush, A look left off, a shifting lips' surmise But for the most part their two histories Ran best thro' the locked fingers and linked arms. And so the night flew on with its alarms Till in burst one of Palma's retinue; "Now, Lady!" gasped he. Then arose the two And leaned into Verona's air, dead-still. A balcony lay black beneath until Out, 'mid a gush of torchfire, grey-haired men Came on it and harangued the people: then Sea-like that people surging to and fro Shouted, "Hale forth the carrochtrumpets, ho, "A flourish! Run it in the ancient grooves! "Back from the bell! Hammerthat whom behoves "May hear the League is up! Peallearn who list, "Verona means not first of towns break tryst "To-morrow with the League!"                Enough. Now turn Over the eastern cypresses: discern! Is any beacon set a-glimmer?                Rang The air with shouts that overpowered the clang Of the incessant carroch, even: "Haste "The candle 's at the gateway! ere it waste, "Each soldier stand beside it, armed to march "With Tiso Sampier through the eastern arch!" Ferrara's succoured, Palma!                Once again They sat together; some strange thing in train To say, so difficult was Palma's place In taking, with a coy fastidious grace Like the bird's flutter ere it fix and feed. But when she felt she held her friend indeed Safe, she threw back her curls, began implant Her lessons; telling of another want Goito's quiet nourished than his own; Palmato serve himto be served, alone Importing; Agnes' milk so neutralized The blood of Ecelin. Nor be surprised If, while Sordello fain had captive led Nature, in dream was Palma subjected To some out-soul, which dawned not though she pined Delaying, till its advent, heart and mind Their life. "How dared I let expand the force "Within me, till some out-soul, whose resource "It grew for, should direct it? Every law "Of life, its every fitness, every flaw, "Must One determine whose corporeal shape "Would be no other than the prime escape "And revelation to me of a Will "Orb-like o'ershrouded and inscrutable "Above, save at the point which, I should know, "Shone that myself, my powers, might overflow "So far, so much; as now it signified "Which earthly shape it henceforth chose my guide, "Whose mortal lip selected to declare "Its oracles, what fleshly garb would wear "The first of intimations, whom to love; "The next, how love him. Seemed that orb, above "The castle-covert and the mountain-close, "Slow in appearing?if beneath it rose "Cravings, aversions,did our green precinct "Take pride in me, at unawares distinct "With this or that endowment,how, repressed "At once, such jetting power shrank to the rest! "Was I to have a chance touch spoil me, leave "My spirit thence unfitted to receive "The consummating spell?that spell so near "Moreover! 'Waits he not the waking year? "'His almond-blossoms must be honey-ripe "'By this; to welcome him, fresh runnels stripe "'The thawed ravines; because of him, the wind "'Walks like a herald. I shall surely find "'Him now!'      "And chief, that earnest April morn "Of Richard's Love-court, was it time, so worn "And white my cheek, so idly my blood beat, "Sitting that morn beside the Lady's feet "And saying as she prompted; till outburst "One face from all the faces. Not then first "I knew it; where in maple chamber glooms, "Crowned with what sanguine-heart pomegranate blooms, "Advanced it ever? Men's acknowledgment "Sanctioned my own: 't was taken, Palma's bent, "Sordello,recognized, accepted.                  "Dumb "Sat she still scheming. Ecelin would come "Gaunt, scared, 'Cesano baffles me,' he 'd say: "'Better I fought it out, my father's way! "'Strangle Ferrara in its drowning flats, "'And you and your Taurello yonder!what's "'Romano's business there?' An hour's concern "To cure the froward Chief!induce return "As heartened from those overmeaning eyes, "Wound up to persevere,his enterprise "Marked out anew, its exigent of wit "Apportioned,she at liberty to sit "And scheme against the next emergence, I "To covet her Taurello-sprite, made fly "Or fold the wingto con your horoscope "For leave command those steely shafts shoot ope, "Or straight assuage their blinding eagerness "In blank smooth snow What semblance of success "To any of my plans for making you "Mine and Romano's? Break the first wall through, "Tread o'er the ruins of the Chief, supplant "His sons beside, still, vainest were the vaunt: "There, Salinguerra would obstruct me sheer, "And the insuperable Tuscan, here, "Stay me! But one wild eve that Lady died "In her lone chamber: only I beside: "Taurello far at Naples, and my sire "At Padua, Ecelin away in ire "With Alberic. She held me thusa clutch "To make our spirits as our bodies touch "And so began flinging the past up heaps "Of uncouth treasure from their sunless sleeps "Within her soul; deeds rose along with dreams, "Fragments of many miserable schemes, "Secrets, more secrets, thenno, not the last "'Mongst others, like a casual trick o' the past, "How . . . ay, she told me, gathering up her face, "All left of it, into one arch-grimace "To die with . . .          "Friend, 't is gone! but not the fear "Of that fell laughing, heard as now I hear. "Nor faltered voice, nor seemed her heart grow weak "When i' the midst abrupt she ceased to speak "Dead, as to serve a purpose, mark!for in "Rushed o' the very instant Ecelin "(How summoned, who divines?)looking as if "He understood why Adelaide lay stiff "Already in my arms; for 'Girl, how must "'I manage Este in the matter thrust "'Upon me, how unravel your bad coil? "'Since' (he declared) ''t is on your browa soil "'Like hers there!' then in the same breath, 'he lacked "'No counsel after all, had signed no pact "'With devils, nor was treason here or there, "'Goito or Vicenza, his affair: "'He buried it in Adelaide's deep grave, "'Would begin life afresh, now,would not slave "'For any Friedrich's nor Taurello's sake! "'What booted him to meddle or to make "'In Lombardy?' And afterward I knew "The meaning of his promise to undo "All she had donewhy marriages were made, "New friendships entered on, old followers paid "With curses for their pains,new friends' amaze "At height, when, passing out by Gate St. Blaise, "He stopped short in Vicenza, bent his head "Over a friar's neck,'had vowed,' he said, "'Long since, nigh thirty years, because his wife "'And child were saved there, to bestow his life "'On God, his gettings on the Church.'                      "Exiled "Within Goito, still one dream beguiled "My days and nights; 't was found, the orb I sought "To serve, those glimpses came of Fomalhaut, "No other: but how serve it?authorize "You and Romano mingle destinies? "And straight Romano's angel stood beside "Me who had else been Boniface's bride, "For Salinguerra 't was, with neck low bent, "And voice lightened to music, (as he meant "To learn, not teach me,) who withdrew the pall "From the dead past and straight revived it all, "Making me see how first Romano waxed, "Wherefore he waned now, why, if I relaxed "My grasp (even I!) would drop a thing effete, "Frayed by itself, unequal to complete "Its course, and counting every step astray "A gain so much. Romano, every way "Stable, a Lombard House nowwhy start back "Into the very outset of its track? "This patching principle which late allied "Our House with other Houseswhat beside "Concerned the apparition, the first Knight "Who followed Conrad hither in such plight "His utmost wealth was summed in his one steed? "For Ecelo, that prowler, was decreed "A task, in the beginning hazardous "To him as ever task can be to us; "But did the weather-beaten thief despair "When first our crystal cincture of warm air "That binds the Trevisan,as its spice-belt "(Crusaders say) the tract where Jesus dwelt, "Furtive he pierced, and Este was to face "Despaired Saponian strength of Lombard grace? "Tried he at making surer aught made sure, "Maturing what already was mature? "No; his heart prompted Ecelo, 'Confront "'Este, inspect yourself. What 's nature? Wont. "'Discard three-parts your nature, and adopt "'The rest as an advantage!' Old strength propped "The man who first grew Podest among "The Vicentines, no less than, while there sprung "His palace up in Padua like a threat, "Their noblest spied a grace, unnoticed yet "In Conrad's crew. Thus far the object gained, "Romano was establishedhas remained "'For are you not Italian, truly peers "'With Este? Azzo better soothes our ears "'Than Alberic? or is this lion's-crine "'From over-mounts' (this yellow hair of mine) "'So weak a graft on Agnes Este's stock?' "(Thus went he on with something of a mock) "'Wherefore recoil, then, from the very fate "'Conceded you, refuse to imitate "'Your model farther? Este long since left "'Being mere Este: as a blade its heft, "'Este required the Pope to further him: "'And you, the Kaiserwhom your father's whim "'Foregoes or, better, never shall forego "'If Palma dare pursue what Ecelo "'Commenced, but Ecelin desists from: just "'As Adelaide of Susa could intrust "'Her donative,her Piedmont given the Pope, "'Her Alpine-pass for him to shut or ope "''Twixt France and Italy,to the superb "'Matilda's perfecting,so, lest aught curb "'Our Adelaide's great counter-project for "'Giving her Trentine to the Emperor "'With passage here from Germany,shall you "'Take it,my slender plodding talent, too!' "Urged me Taurello with his half-smile                      "He "As Patron of the scattered family "Conveyed me to his Mantua, kept in bruit "Azzo's alliances and Richard's suit "Until, the Kaiser excommunicate, "'Nothing remains,' Taurello said, 'but wait "'Some rash procedure: Palma was the link, "'As Agnes' child, between us, and they shrink "'From losing Palma: judge if we advance, "'Your father's method, your inheritance!' "The day I was betrothed to Boniface "At Padua by Taurello's self, took place "The outrage of the Ferrarese: again, "The day I sought Verona with the train "Agreed for,by Taurello's policy "Convicting Richard of the fault, since we "Were present to annul or to confirm, "Richard, whose patience had outstayed its term, "Quitted Verona for the siege.                 "And now "What glory may engird Sordello's brow "Through this? A month since at Oliero slunk "All that was Ecelin into a monk; "But how could Salinguerra so forget "His liege of thirty years as grudge even yet "One effort to recover him? He sent "Forthwith the tidings of this last event "To Ecelindeclared that he, despite "The recent folly, recognized his right "To order Salinguerra: 'Should he wring "'Its uttermost advantage out, or fling "'This chance away? Or were his sons now Head "'O' the House?' Through me Taurello's missive sped; "My father's answer will by me return. "Behold! 'For him,' he writes, 'no more concern "'With strife than, for his children, with fresh plots "'Of Friedrich. Old engagements out he blots "'For aye: Taurello shall no more subserve, "'Nor Ecelin impose.' Lest this unnerve "Taurello at this juncture, slack his grip "Of Richard, suffer the occasion slip, "I, in his sons' default (who, mating with "Este, forsake Romano as the frith "Its mainsea for that firmland, sea makes head "Against) I stand, Romano,in their stead "Assume the station they desert, and give "Still, as the Kaiser's representative, "Taurello licence he demands. Midnight "Morningby noon to-morrow, making light "Of the League's issue, we, in some gay weed "Like yours, disguised together, may precede "The arbitrators to Ferrara: reach "Him, let Taurello's noble accents teach "The rest! Then say if I have misconceived "Your destiny, too readily believed "The Kaiser's cause your own!"                 And Palma's fled. Though no affirmative disturbs the head, A dying lamp-flame sinks and rises o'er, Like the alighted planet Pollux wore, Until, morn breaking, he resolves to be Gate-vein of this heart's blood of Lombardy, Soul of this bodyto wield this aggregate Of souls and bodies, and so conquer fate Though he should livea centre of disgust Evenapart, core of the outward crust He vivifies, assimilates. For thus I bring Sordello to the rapturous Exclaim at the crowd's cry, because one round Of life was quite accomplished; and he found Not only that a soul, whate'er its might, Is insufficient to its own delight, Both in corporeal organs and in skill By means of such to body forth its Will And, after, insufficient to apprise Men of that Will, oblige them recognize The Hid by the Revealedbut that,the last Nor lightest of the struggles overpast, Will, he bade abdicate, which would not void The throne, might sit there, suffer he enjoyed Mankind, a varied and divine array Incapable of homage, the first way, Nor fit to render incidentally Tribute connived at, taken by the by, In joys. If thus with warrant to rescind The ignominious exile of mankind Whose proper service, ascertained intact As yet, (to be by him themselves made act, Not watch Sordello acting each of them) Was to secureif the true diadem Seemed imminent while our Sordello drank The wisdom of that golden Palma,thank Verona's Lady in her citadel Founded by Gaulish Brennus, legends tell: And truly when she left him, the sun reared A head like the first clamberer's who peered A-top the Capitol, his face on flame With triumph, triumphing till Manlius came. Nor slight too much my rhymesthat spring, dispread, Dispart, disperse, lingering over head Like an escape of angels! Rather say, My transcendental platan! mounting gay (An archimage so courts a novice-queen) With tremulous silvered trunk, whence branches sheen Laugh out, thick-foliaged next, a-shiver soon With coloured buds, then glowing like the moon One mild flame,last a pause, a burst, and all Her ivory limbs are smothered by a fall, Bloom-flinders and fruit-sparkles and leaf-dust, Ending the weird work prosecuted just For her amusement; he decrepit, stark, Dozes; her uncontrolled delight may mark Apart    Yet not so, surely never so Only, as good my soul were suffered go O'er the lagune: forth fare thee, put aside Entrance thy synod, as a god may glide Out of the world he fills, and leave it mute For myriad ages as we men compute, Returning into it without a break O' the consciousness! They sleep, and I awake O'er the lagune, being at Venice.                  Note, In just such songs as Eglamor (say) wrote With heart and soul and strength, for he believed Himself achieving all to be achieved By singerin such songs you find alone Completeness, judge the song and singer one, And either purpose answered, his in it Or its in him: while from true works (to wit Sordello's dream-performances that will Never be more than dreamed) escapes there still Some proof, the singer's proper life was 'neath The life his song exhibits, this a sheath To that; a passion and a knowledge far Transcending these, majestic as they are, Smouldered; his lay was but an episode In the bard's life: which evidence you owed To some slight weariness, some looking-off Or start-away. The childish skit or scoff In "Charlemagne," (his poem, dreamed divine In every point except one silly line About the restiff daughters)what may lurk In that? "My life commenced before this work," (So I interpret the significance Of the bard's start aside and look askance) "My life continues after: on I fare "With no more stopping, possibly, no care "To note the undercurrent, the why and how, "Where, when, o' the deeper life, as thus just now. "But, silent, shall I cease to live? Alas "For you! who sigh, 'When shall it come to pass "'We read that story? How will he compress "'The future gains, his life's true business, "'Into the better lay whichthat one flout, "'Howe'er inopportune it be, lets out "'Engrosses him already, though professed "'To meditate with us eternal rest, "'And partnership in all his life has found?'" 'T is but a sailor's promise, weather-bound: "Strike sail, slip cable, here the bark be moored "For once, the awning stretched, the poles assured! "Noontide above; except the wave's crisp dash, "Or buzz of colibri, or tortoise' splash, "The margin 's silent: out with every spoil "Made in our tracking, coil by mighty coil, "This serpent of a river to his head "I' the midst! Admire each treasure, as we spread "The bank, to help us tell our history "Aright: give ear, endeavour to descry "The groves of giant rushes, how they grew "Like demons' endlong tresses we sailed through, "What mountains yawned, forests to give us vent "Opened, each doleful side, yet on we went "Till . . . may that beetle (shake your cap) attest "The springing of a land-wind from the West!" Wherefore? Ah yes, you frolic it to-day! To-morrow, and, the pageant moved away Down to the poorest tent-pole, we and you Part company: no other may pursue Eastward your voyage, be informed what fate Intends, if triumph or decline await The tempter of the everlasting steppe. I muse this on a ruined palace-step At Venice: why should I break off, nor sit Longer upon my step, exhaust the fit England gave birth to? Who 's adorable Enough reclaim a - no Sordello's Will Alack!be queen to me? That Bassanese Busied among her smoking fruit-boats? These Perhaps from our delicious Asolo Who twinkle, pigeons o'er the portico Not prettier, bind June lilies into sheaves To deck the bridge-side chapel, dropping leaves Soiled by their own loose gold-meal? Ah, beneath The cool arch stoops she, brownest cheek! Her wreath Endures a montha half-monthif I make A queen of her, continue for her sake Sordello's story? Nay, that Paduan girl Splashes with barer legs where a live whirl In the dead black Giudecca proves sea-weed Drifting has sucked down three, four, all indeed Save one pale-red striped, pale-blue turbaned post For gondolas.        You sad dishevelled ghost That pluck at me and point, are you advised I breathe? Let stay those girls (e'en her disguised Jewels i' the locks that love no crownet like Their native field-buds and the green wheat-spike, So fair!who left this end of June's turmoil, Shook off, as might a lily its gold soil, Pomp, save a foolish gem or two, and free In dream, came join the peasants o'er the sea.) Look they too happy, too tricked out? Confess There is such ****rd stock of happiness To share, that, do one's uttermost, dear wretch, One labours ineffectually to stretch It o'er you so that mother and children, both May equitably flaunt the sumpter-cloth! Divide the robe yet farther: be content With seeing just a score pre-eminent Through shreds of it, acknowledged happy wights, Engrossing what should furnish all, by rights! For, these in evidence, you clearlier claim A like garb for the rest,grace all, the same As these my peasants. I ask youth and strength And health for each of you, not moreat length Grown wise, who asked at home that the whole race Might add the spirit's to the body's grace, And all be dizened out as chiefs and bards. But in this magic weather one discards Much old requirement. Venice seems a type Of Life'twixt blue and blue extends, a stripe, As Life, the somewhat, hangs 'twixt nought and nought: 'T is Venice, and 't is Lifeas good you sought To spare me the Piazza's slippery stone Or keep me to the unchoked canals alone, As hinder Life the evil with the good Which make up Living, rightly understood. Only, do finish something! Peasants, queens, Take them, made happy by whatever means, Parade them for the common credit, vouch That a luckless residue, we send to crouch In corners out of sight, was just as framed For happiness, its portion might have claimed As well, and so, obtaining joy, had stalked Fastuous as any!such my project, baulked Already; I hardly venture to adjust The first rags, when you find me. To mistrust Me!nor unreasonably. You, no doubt, Have the true knack of tiring suitors out With those thin lips on tremble, lashless eyes Inveterately tear-shot: there, be wise, Mistress of mine, there, there, as if I meant You insult!shall your friend (not slave) be shent For speaking home? Beside, care-bit erased Broken-up beauties ever took my taste Supremely; and I love you more, far more Than her I looked should foot Life's temple-floor. Years ago, leagues at distance, when and where A whisper came, "Let others seek!thy care "Is found, thy life's provision; if thy race "Should be thy mistress, and into one face "The many faces crowd?" Ah, had I, judge, Or no, your secret? Rough apparelgrudge All ornaments save tag or tassel worn To hint we are not thoroughly forlorn Slouch bonnet, unloop mantle, careless go Alone (that's saddest, but it must be so) Through Venice, sing now and now glance aside, Aught desultory or undignified, Then, ravishingest lady, will you pass Or not each formidable group, the mass Before the Basilic (that feast gone by, God's great day of the Corpus Domini) And, wistfully foregoing proper men, Come timid up to me for alms? And then The luxury to hesitate, feign do Some unexampled grace!when, whom but you Dare I bestow your own upon? And hear Further before you say, it is to sneer I call you ravishing; for I regret Little that she, whose early foot was set Forth as she 'd plant it on a pedestal, Now, i' the silent city, seems to fall Toward meno wreath, only a lip's unrest To quiet, surcharged eyelids to be pressed Dry of their tears upon my bosom. Strange Such sad chance should produce in thee such change, My love! Warped souls and bodies! yet God spoke Of right-hand, foot and eyeselects our yoke, Sordello, as your poetship may find! So, sleep upon my shoulder, child, nor mind Their foolish talk; we 'll manage reinstate Your old worth; ask moreover, when they prate Of evil men past hope, "Don't each contrive, "Despite the evil you abuse, to live? "Keeping, each losel, through a maze of lies, "His own conceit of truth? to which he hies "By obscure windings, tortuous, if you will, "But to himself not inaccessible; "He sees truth, and his lies are for the crowd "Who cannot see; some fancied right allowed "His vilest wrong, empowered the losel clutch "One pleasure from a multitude of such "Denied him." Then assert, "All men appear "To think all better than themselves, by here "Trusting a crowd they wrong; but really," say, "All men think all men stupider than they, "Since, save themselves, no other comprehends "The complicated scheme to make amends "Evil, the scheme by which, thro' Ignorance, "Good labours to exist." A slight advance, Merely to find the sickness you die through, And nought beside! but if one can't eschew One's portion in the common lot, at least One can avoid an ignorance increased Tenfold by dealing out hint after hint How nought were like dispensing without stint The water of lifeso easy to dispense Beside, when one has probed the centre whence Commotion 's borncould tell you of it all! "Meantime, just meditate my madrigal "O' the mugwort that conceals a dewdrop safe!" What, dullard? we and you in smothery chafe, Babes, baldheads, stumbled thus far into Zin The Horrid, getting neither out nor in, A hungry sun above us, sands that bung Our throats,each dromedary lolls a tongue, Each camel churns a sick and frothy chap, And you, 'twixt tales of Potiphar's mishap, And sonnets on the earliest **** that spoke, Remark, you wonder any one needs choke With founts about! Potsherd him, Gibeonites! While awkwardly enough your Moses smites The rock, though he forego his Promised Land Thereby, have Satan claim his carcass, and Figure as Metaphysic Poet . . . ah, Mark ye the dim first oozings? Meribah! Then, quaffing at the fount my courage gained, Recallnot that I prompt yewho explained . . . "Presumptuous!" interrupts one. You, not I 'T is brother, marvel at and magnify Such office: "office," quotha? can we get To the beginning of the office yet? What do we here? simply experiment Each on the other's power and its intent When elsewhere tasked,if this of mine were trucked For yours to either's good,we watch construct, In short, an engine: with a finished one, What it can do, is all,nought, how 't is done. But this of ours yet in probation, dusk A kernel of strange wheelwork through its husk Grows into shape by quarters and by halves; Remark this tooth's spring, wonder what that valve's Fall bodes, presume each faculty's device, Make out each other more or less precise The scope of the whole engine 's to be proved; We die: which means to say, the whole 's removed, Dismounted wheel by wheel, this complex gin, To be set up anew elsewhere, begin A task indeed, but with a clearer clime Than the murk lodgment of our building-time. And then, I grant you, it behoves forget How 't is doneall that must amuse us yet So long: and, while you turn upon your heel, Pray that I be not busy slitting steel Or shredding brass, camped on some virgin shore Under a cluster of fresh stars, before I name a tithe o' the wheels I trust to do! So occupied, then, are we: hitherto, At present, and a weary while to come, The office of ourselves,nor blind nor dumb, And seeing somewhat of man's state,has been, For the worst of us, to say they so have seen; For the better, what it was they saw; the best Impart the gift of seeing to the rest: "So that I glance," says such an one, "around, "And there 's no face but I can read profound "Disclosures in; this stands for hope, thatfear, "And for a speech, a deed in proof, look here! "'Stoop, else the strings of blossom, where the nuts "'O'erarch, will blind thee! Said I not? She shuts "'Both eyes this time, so close the hazels meet! "'Thus, prisoned in the Piombi, I repeat "'Events one rove occasioned, o'er and o'er, "'Putting 'twixt me and madness evermore "'Thy sweet shape, Zanze! Therefore stoop!'                        "'That's truth!' "(Adjudge you) 'the incarcerated youth "'Would say that!'          "Youth? Plara the bard? Set down "That Plara spent his youth in a grim town "Whose cramped ill-featured streets huddled about "The minster for protection, never out "Of its black belfry's shade and its bells' roar. "The brighter shone the suburb,all the more "Ugly and absolute that shade's reproof "Of any chance escape of joy,some roof, "Taller than they, allowed the rest detect, "Before the sole permitted laugh (suspect "Who could, 't was meant for laughter, that ploughed cheek's "Repulsive gleam!) when the sun stopped both peaks "Of the cleft belfry like a fiery wedge, "Then sank, a huge flame on its socket edge, "With leavings on the grey glass oriel-pane "Ghastly some minutes more. No fear of rain "The minster minded that! in heaps the dust "Lay everywhere. This town, the minster's trust, "Held Plara; who, its denizen, bade hail "In twice twelve sonnets, Tempe's dewy vale." "'Exact the town, the minster and the street!'" "As all mirth triumphs, sadness means defeat: "Lust triumphs and is gay, Love 's triumphed o'er "And sad: but Lucio 's sad. I said before, "Love's sad, not Lucio; one who loves may be "As gay his love has leave to hope, as he "Downcast that lusts' desire escapes the springe: "'T is of the mood itself I speak, what tinge "Determines it, else colourless,or mirth, "Or melancholy, as from heaven or earth." "'Ay, that 's the variation's gist!'                    "Indeed? "Thus far advanced in safety then, proceed! "And having seen too what I saw, be bold "And next encounter what I do behold "(That's sure) but bid you take on trust!"                        Attack The use and purpose of such sights! Alack, Not so unwisely does the crowd dispense On Salinguerras praise in preference To the Sordellos: men of action, these! Who, seeing just as little as you please, Yet turn that little to account,engage With, do not gaze at,carry on, a stage, The work o' the world, not merely make report The work existed ere their day! In short, When at some future no-time a brave band Sees, using what it sees, then shake my hand In heaven, my brother! Meanwhile where's the hurt Of keeping the Makers-see on the alert, At whose defection mortals stare aghast As though heaven's bounteous windows were slammed fast Incontinent? Whereas all you, beneath, Should scowl at, bruise their lips and break their teeth Who ply the pullies, for neglecting you: And therefore have I moulded, made anew A Man, and give him to be turned and tried, Be angry with or pleased at. On your side, Have ye times, places, actors of your own? Try them upon Sordello when full-grown, And thenah then! If Hercules first parched His foot in Egypt only to be marched A sacrifice for Jove with pomp to suit, What chance have I? The demigod was mute Till, at the altar, where time out of mind Such guests became oblations, chaplets twined His forehead long enough, and he began Slaying the slayers, nor escaped a man. Take not affront, my gentle audience! whom No Hercules shall make his hecatomb, Believe, nor from his brows your chaplet rend That's your kind suffrage, yours, my patron-friend, Whose great verse blares unintermittent on Like your own trumpeter at Marathon, You who, Plata and Salamis being scant, Put up with tna for a stimulant And did well, I acknowledged, as he loomed Over the midland sea last month, presumed Long, lay demolished in the blazing West At eve, while towards him tilting cloudlets pressed Like Persian ships at Salamis. Friend, wear A crest proud as desert while I declare Had I a flawless ruby fit to wring Tears of its colour from that painted king Who lost it, I would, for that smile which went To my heart, fling it in the sea, content, Wearing your verse in place, an amulet Sovereign against all passion, wear and fret! My English Eyebright, if you are not glad That, as I stopped my task awhile, the sad Dishevelled form, wherein I put mankind To come at times and keep my pact in mind, Renewed me,hear no crickets in the hedge, Nor let a glowworm spot the river's edge At home, and may the summer showers gush Without a warning from the missel thrush! So, to our business, nowthe fate of such As find our common natureovermuch Despised because restricted and unfit To bear the burthen they impose on it Cling when they would discard it; craving strength To leap from the allotted world, at length They do leap,flounder on without a term, Each a god's germ, doomed to remain a germ In unexpanded infancy, unless . . . But that 's the storydull enough, confess! There might be fitter subjects to allure; Still, neither misconceive my portraiture Nor undervalue its adornments quaint: What seems a fiend perchance may prove a saint. Ponder a story ancient pens transmit, Then say if you condemn me or acquit. John the Beloved, banished Antioch For Patmos, bade collectively his flock Farewell, but set apart the closing eve To comfort those his exile most would grieve, He knew: a touching spectacle, that house In motion to receive him! Xanthus' spouse You missed, made panther's meat a month since; but Xanthus himself (his nephew 't was, they shut 'Twixt boards and sawed asunder) Polycarp, Soft Charicle, next year no wheel could warp To swear by Csar's fortune, with the rest Were ranged; thro' whom the grey disciple pressed, Busily blessing right and left, just stopped To pat one infant's curls, the hangman cropped Soon after, reached the portal. On its hinge The door turns and he enters: what quick twinge Ruins the smiling mouth, those wide eyes fix Whereon, why like some spectral candlestick's Branch the disciple's arms? Dead swooned he, woke Anon, heaved sigh, made shift to gasp, heart-broke, "Get thee behind me, Satan! Have I toiled "To no more purpose? Is the gospel foiled "Here too, and o'er my son's, my Xanthus' hearth, "Portrayed with sooty garb and features swarth "Ah Xanthus, am I to thy roof beguiled "To see thethethe Devil domiciled?" Whereto sobbed Xanthus, "Father, 't is yourself "Installed, a limning which our utmost pelf "Went to procure against to-morrow's loss; "And that's no twy-prong, but a pastoral cross, "You 're painted with!"             His puckered brows unfold And you shall hear Sordello's story told. ~ Robert Browning, Sordello - Book the Third ,

1134:Scene. Basil; a chamber in the house of Paracelsus. 1526. Paracelsus, Festus. Paracelsus. Heap logs and let the blaze laugh out! Festus.                      True, true! 'T is very fit all, time and chance and change Have wrought since last we sat thus, face to face And soul to soulall cares, far-looking fears, Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred By your long absence, should be cast away, Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal Of our affections. Paracelsus.          Oh, omit not aught Which witnesses your own and Michal's own Affection: spare not that! Only forget The honours and the glories and what not, It pleases you to tell profusely out. Festus. Nay, even your honours, in a sense, I waive: The wondrous Paracelsus, life's dispenser, Fate's commissary, idol of the schools And courts, shall be no more than Aureole still, Still Aureole and my friend as when we parted Some twenty years ago, and I restrained As best I could the promptings of my spirit Which secretly advanced you, from the first, To the pre-eminent rank which, since, your own Adventurous ardour, nobly triumphing, Has won for you. Paracelsus.          Yes, yes. And Michal's face Still wears that quiet and peculiar light Like the dim circlet floating round a pearl? Festus. Just so. Paracelsus.     And yet her calm sweet countenance, Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing Alone. Does she still sing alone, bird-like, Not dreaming you are near? Her carols dropt In flakes through that old leafy bower built under The sunny wall at Wrzburg, from her lattice Among the trees above, while I, unseen, Sat conning some rare scroll from Tritheim's shelves Much wondering notes so simple could divert My mind from study. Those were happy days. Respect all such as sing when all alone! Festus. Scarcely alone: her children, you may guess, Are wild beside her. Paracelsus.            Ah, those children quite Unsettle the pure picture in my mind: A girl, she was so perfect, so distinct: No change, no change! Not but this added grace May blend and harmonize with its compeers, And Michal may become her motherhood; But't is a change, and I detest all change, And most a change in aught I loved long since. So, Michalyou have said she thinks of me? Festus. O very proud will Michal be of you! Imagine how we sat, long winter-nights, Scheming and wondering, shaping your presumed Adventure, or devising its reward; Shutting out fear with all the strength of hope. For it was strange how, even when most secure In our domestic peace, a certain dim And flitting shade could sadden all; it seemed A restlessness of heart, a silent yearning, A sense of something wanting, incomplete Not to be put in words, perhaps avoided By mute consentbut, said or unsaid, felt To point to one so loved and so long lost. And then the hopes rose and shut out the fears How you would laugh should I recount them now I still predicted your return at last With gifts beyond the greatest of them all, All Tritheim's wondrous troop; did one of which Attain renown by any chance, I smiled, As well aware of who would prove his peer Michal was sure some woman, long ere this, As beautiful as you were sage, had loved . . . Paracelsus. Far-seeing, truly, to discern so much In the fantastic projects and day-dreams Of a raw restless boy! Festus.            Oh, no: the sunrise Well warranted our faith in this full noon! Can I forget the anxious voice which said "Festus, have thoughts like these ere shaped themselves "In other brains than mine? have their possessors "Existed in like circumstance? were they weak "As I, or ever constant from the first, "Despising youth's allurements and rejecting "As spider-films the shackles I endure? "Is there hope for me?"and I answered gravely As an acknowledged elder, calmer, wiser, More gifted mortal. O you must remember, For all your glorious . . . Paracelsus.                Glorious? ay, this hair, These handsnay, touch them, they are mine! Recall With all the said recallings, times when thus To lay them by your own ne'er turned you pale As now. Most glorious, are they not? Festus.                    Whywhy Something must be subtracted from success So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, truly, Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still, Aureole, You are changed, very changed! 'T were losing nothing To look well to it: you must not be stolen From the enjoyment of your well-won meed. Paracelsus. My friend! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt: You will best gain your point, by talking, not Of me, but of yourself. Festus.             Have I not said All touching Michal and my children? Sure You know, by this, full well how Aennchen looks Gravely, while one disparts her thick brown hair; And Aureole's glee when some stray gannet builds Amid the birch-trees by the lake. Small hope Have I that he will honour (the wild imp) His namesake. Sigh not! 't is too much to ask That all we love should reach the same proud fate. But you are very kind to humour me By showing interest in my quiet life; You, who of old could never tame yourself To tranquil pleasures, must at heart despise . . . Paracelsus. Festus, strange secrets are let out by death Who blabs so oft the follies of this world: And I am death's familiar, as you know. I helped a man to die, some few weeks since, Warped even from his go-cart to one end The living on princes' smiles, reflected from A mighty herd of favourites. No mean trick He left untried, and truly well-nigh wormed All traces of God's finger out of him: Then died, grown old. And just an hour before, Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes, He sat up suddenly, and with natural voice Said that in spite of thick air and closed doors God told him it was June; and he knew well, Without such telling, harebells grew in June; And all that kings could ever give or take Would not be precious as those blooms to him. Just so, allowing I am passing sage, It seems to me much worthier argument Why pansies,[1] eyes that laugh, bear beauty's prize From violets, eyes that dream(your Michal's choice) Than all fools find to wonder at in me Or in my fortunes. And be very sure I say this from no prurient restlessness, No self-complacency, itching to turn, Vary and view its pleasure from all points, And, in this instance, willing other men May be at pains, demonstrate to itself The realness of the very joy it tastes. What should delight me like the news of friends Whose memories were a solace to me oft, As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight? Ofter than you had wasted thought on me Had you been wise, and rightly valued bliss. But there's no taming nor repressing hearts: God knows I need such!So, you heard me speak? Festus. Speak? when? Paracelsus.       When but this morning at my class? There was noise and crowd enough. I saw you not. Surely you know I am engaged to fill The chair here?that't is part of my proud fate To lecture to as many thick-skulled youths As please, each day, to throng the theatre, To my great reputation, and no small Danger of Basil's benches long unused To crack beneath such honour? Festus.                I was there; I mingled with the throng: shall I avow Small care was mine to listen?too intent On gathering from the murmurs of the crowd A full corroboration of my hopes! What can I learn about your powers? but they Know, care for nought beyond your actual state, Your actual value; yet they worship you, Those various natures whom you sway as one! But ere I go, be sure I shall attend . . . Paracelsus. Stop, o' God's name: the thing's by no means yet Past remedy! Shall I read this morning's labour At least in substance? Nought so worth the gaining As an apt scholar! Thus then, with all due Precision and emphasisyou, beside, are clearly Guiltless of understanding more, a whit, The subject than your stoolallowed to be A notable advantage. Festus.            Surely, Aureole, You laugh at me! Paracelsus.          I laugh? Ha, ha! thank heaven, I charge you, if't be so! for I forget Much, and what laughter should be like. No less, However, I forego that luxury Since it alarms the friend who brings it back. True, laughter like my own must echo strangely To thinking men; a smile were better far; So, make me smile! If the exulting look You wore but now be smiling, 't is so long Since I have smiled! Alas, such smiles are born Alone of hearts like yours, or herdsmen's souls Of ancient time, whose eyes, calm as their flocks, Saw in the stars mere garnishry of heaven, And in the earth a stage for altars only. Never change, Festus: I say, never change! Festus. My God, if he be wretched after all Paracelsus. When last we parted, Festus, you declared, Or Michal, yes, her soft lips whispered words I have preserved. She told me she believed I should succeed (meaning, that in the search I then engaged in, I should meet success) And yet be wretched: now, she augured false. Festus. Thank heaven! but you spoke strangely: could I venture To think bare apprehension lest your friend, Dazzled by your resplendent course, might find Henceforth less sweetness in his own, could move Such earnest mood in you? Fear not, dear friend, That I shall leave you, inwardly repining Your lot was not my own! Paracelsus.              And this for ever! For ever! gull who may, they will be gulled! They will not look nor think;'t is nothing new In them: but surely he is not of them! My Festus, do you know, I reckoned, you Though all beside were sand-blindyou, my friend, Would look at me, once close, with piercing eye Untroubled by the false glare that confounds A weaker vision: would remain serene, Though singular amid a gaping throng. I feared you, or I had come, sure, long ere this, To Einsiedeln. Well, error has no end, And Rhasis is a sage, and Basil boasts A tribe of wits, and I am wise and blest Past all dispute! 'T is vain to fret at it. I have vowed long ago my worshippers Shall owe to their own deep sagacity All further information, good or bad. Small risk indeed my reputation runs, Unless perchance the glance now searching me Be fixed much longer; for it seems to spell Dimly the characters a simpler man Might read distinct enough. Old Eastern books Say, the fallen prince of morning some short space Remained unchanged in semblance; nay, his brow Was hued with triumph: every spirit then Praising, his heart on flame the while:a tale! Well, Festus, what discover you, I pray? Festus. Some foul deed sullies then a life which else Were raised supreme? Paracelsus.            Good: I do well, most well Why strive to make men hear, feel, fret themselves With what is past their power to comprehend? I should not strive now: only, having nursed The faint surmise that one yet walked the earth, One, at least, not the utter fool of show, Not absolutely formed to be the dupe Of shallow plausibilities alone: One who, in youth, found wise enough to choose The happiness his riper years approve, Was yet so anxious for another's sake, That, ere his friend could rush upon a mad And ruinous course, the converse of his own, His gentle spirit essayed, prejudged for him The perilous path, foresaw its destiny, And warned the weak one in such tender words, Such accentshis whole heart in every tone That oft their memory comforted that friend When it by right should have increased despair: Having believed, I say, that this one man Could never lose the light thus from the first His portionhow should I refuse to grieve At even my gain if it disturb our old Relation, if it make me out more wise? Therefore, once more reminding him how well He prophesied, I note the single flaw That spoils his prophet's title. In plain words, You were deceived, and thus were you deceived I have not been successful, and yet am Most miserable; 't is said at last; nor you Give credit, lest you force me to concede That common sense yet lives upon the world! Festus. You surely do not mean to banter me? Paracelsus. You know, orif you have been wise enough To cleanse your memory of such mattersknew, As far as words of mine could make it clear, That't was my purpose to find joy or grief Solely in the fulfilment of my plan Or plot or whatsoe'er it was; rejoicing Alone as it proceeded prosperously, Sorrowing then only when mischance retarded Its progress. That was in those Wrzburg days! Not to prolong a theme I thoroughly hate, I have pursued this plan with all my strength; And having failed therein most signally, Cannot object to ruin utter and drear As all-excelling would have been the prize Had fortune favoured me. I scarce have right To vex your frank good spirit late so glad In my supposed prosperity, I know, And, were I lucky in a glut of friends, Would well agree to let your error live, Nay, strengthen it with fables of success. But mine is no condition to refuse The transient solace of so rare a godsend, My solitary luxury, my one friend: Accordingly I venture to put off The wearisome vest of falsehood galling me, Secure when he is by. I lay me bare Prone at his mercybut he is my friend! Not that he needs retain his aspect grave; That answers not my purpose; for't is like, Some sunny morningBasil being drained Of its wise population, every corner Of the amphitheatre crammed with learned clerks, Here OEcolampadius, looking worlds of wit, Here Castellanus, as profound as he, Munsterus here, Frobenius there, all squeezed And staring,that the zany of the show, Even Paracelsus, shall put off before them His trappings with a grace but seldom judged Expedient in such cases:the grim smile That will go round! Is it not therefore best To venture a rehearsal like the present In a small way? Where are the signs I seek, The first-fruits and fair sample of the scorn Due to all quacks? Why, this will never do! Festus. These are foul vapours, Aureole; nought beside! The effect of watching, study, weariness. Were there a spark of truth in the confusion Of these wild words, you would not outrage thus Your youth's companion. I shall ne'er regard These wanderings, bred of faintness and much study. 'T is not thus you would trust a trouble to me, To Michal's friend. Paracelsus.           I have said it, dearest Festus! For the manner, 't is ungracious probably; You may have it told in broken sobs, one day, And scalding tears, ere long: but I thought best To keep that off as long as possible. Do you wonder still? Festus.            No; it must oft fall out That one whose labour perfects any work, Shall rise from it with eye so worn that he Of all men least can measure the extent Of what he has accomplished. He alone Who, nothing tasked, is nothing weary too, May clearly scan the little he effects: But we, the bystanders, untouched by toil, Estimate each aright. Paracelsus.            This worthy Festus Is one of them, at last! 'T is so with all! First, they set down all progress as a dream; And next, when he whose quick discomfiture Was counted on, accomplishes some few And doubtful steps in his career,behold, They look for every inch of ground to vanish Beneath his tread, so sure they spy success! Festus. Few doubtful steps? when death retires before Your presencewhen the noblest of mankind, Broken in body or subdued in soul, May through your skill renew their vigour, raise The shattered frame to pristine stateliness? When men in racking pain may purchase dreams Of what delights them most, swooning at once Into a sea of bliss or rapt along As in a flying sphere of turbulent light? When we may look to you as one ordained To free the flesh from fell disease, as frees Our Luther's burning tongue the fettered soul? When . . . Paracelsus.      When and where, the devil, did you get This notable news? Festus.          Even from the common voice; From those whose envy, daring not dispute The wonders it decries, attributes them To magic and such folly. Paracelsus.              Folly? Why not To magic, pray? You find a comfort doubtless In holding, God ne'er troubles him about Us or our doings: once we were judged worth The devil's tempting . . . I offend: forgive me, And rest content. Your prophecy on the whole Was fair enough as prophesyings go; At fault a little in detail, but quite Precise enough in the main; and hereupon I pay due homage: you guessed long ago (The prophet!) I should failand I have failed. Festus. You mean to tell me, then, the hopes which fed Your youth have not been realized as yet? Some obstacle has barred them hitherto? Or that their innate . . . Paracelsus.               As I said but now, You have a very decent prophet's fame, So you but shun details here. Little matter Whether those hopes were mad,the aims they sought, Safe and secure from all ambitious fools; Or whether my weak wits are overcome By what a better spirit would scorn: I fail. And now methinks't were best to change a theme I am a sad fool to have stumbled on. I say confusedly what comes uppermost; But there are times when patience proves at fault, As now: this morning's strange encounteryou Beside me once again! you, whom I guessed Alive, since hitherto (with Luther's leave) No friend have I among the saints at peace, To judge by any good their prayers effect. I knew you would have helped mewhy not he, My strange competitor in enterprise, Bound for the same end by another path, Arrived, or ill or well, before the time, At our disastrous journey's doubtful close? How goes it with Aprile? Ah, they miss Your lone sad sunny idleness of heaven, Our martyrs for the world's sake; heaven shuts fast: The poor mad poet is howling by this time! Since you are my sole friend then, here or there, I could not quite repress the varied feelings This meeting wakens; they have had their vent, And now forget them. Do the rear-mice still Hang like a fretwork on the gate (or what In my time was a gate) fronting the road From Einsiedeln to Lachen? Festus.               Trifle not: Answer me, for my sake alone! You smiled Just now, when I supposed some deed, unworthy Yourself, might blot the else so bright result; Yet if your motives have continued pure, Your will unfaltering, and in spite of this, You have experienced a defeat, why then I say not you would cheerfully withdraw From contestmortal hearts are not so fashioned But surely you would ne'ertheless withdraw. You sought not fame nor gain nor even love, No end distinct from knowledge,I repeat Your very words: once satisfied that knowledge Is a mere dream, you would announce as much, Yourself the first. But how is the event? You are defeatedand I find you here! Paracelsus. As though "here" did not signify defeat! I spoke not of my little labours here, But of the break-down of my general aims: For you, aware of their extent and scope, To look on these sage lecturings, approved By beardless boys, and bearded dotards worse, As a fit consummation of such aims, Is worthy notice. A professorship At Basil! Since you see so much in it, And think my life was reasonably drained Of life's delights to render me a match For duties arduous as such post demands, Be it far from me to deny my power To fill the petty circle lotted out Of infinite space, or justify the host Of honours thence accruing. So, take notice, This jewel dangling from my neck preserves The features of a prince, my skill restored To plague his people some few years to come: And all through a pure whim. He had eased the earth For me, but that the droll despair which seized The vermin of his household, tickled me. I came to see. Here, drivelled the physician, Whose most infallible nostrum was at fault; There quaked the astrologer, whose horoscope Had promised him interminable years; Here a monk fumbled at the sick man's mouth With some undoubted relica sudary Of the Virgin; while another piebald knave Of the same brotherhood (he loved them ever) Was actively preparing 'neath his nose Such a suffumigation as, once fired, Had stunk the patient dead ere he could groan. I cursed the doctor and upset the brother, Brushed past the conjurer, vowed that the first gust Of stench from the ingredients just alight Would raise a cross-grained devil in my sword, Not easily laid: and ere an hour the prince Slept as he never slept since prince he was. A dayand I was posting for my life, Placarded through the town as one whose spite Had near availed to stop the blessed effects Of the doctor's nostrum which, well seconded By the sudary, and most by the costly smoke Not leaving out the strenuous prayers sent up Hard by in the abbeyraised the prince to life: To the great reputation of the seer Who, confident, expected all along The glad eventthe doctor's recompense Much largess from his highness to the monks And the vast solace of his loving people, Whose general satisfaction to increase, The prince was pleased no longer to defer The burning of some dozen heretics Remanded till God's mercy should be shown Touching his sickness: last of all were joined Ample directions to all loyal folk To swell the complement by seizing me Whodoubtless some rank sorcererendeavoured To thwart these pious offices, obstruct The prince's cure, and frustrate heaven by help Of certain devils dwelling in his sword. By luck, the prince in his first fit of thanks Had forced this bauble on me as an earnest Of further favours. This one case may serve To give sufficient taste of many such, So, let them pass. Those shelves support a pile Of patents, licences, diplomas, titles From Germany, France, Spain, and Italy; They authorize some honour; ne'ertheless, I set more store by this Erasmus sent; He trusts me; our Frobenius is his friend, And him "I raised" (nay, read it) "from the dead." I weary you, I see. I merely sought To show, there's no great wonder after all That, while I fill the class-room and attract A crowd to Basil, I get leave to stay, And therefore need not scruple to accept The utmost they can offer, if I please: For't is but right the world should be prepared To treat with favour e'en fantastic wants Of one like me, used up in serving her. Just as the mortal, whom the gods in part Devoured, received in place of his lost limb Some virtue or othercured disease, I think; You mind the fables we have read together. Festus. You do not think I comprehend a word. The time was, Aureole, you were apt enough To clothe the airiest thoughts in specious breath; But surely you must feel how vague and strange These speeches sound. Paracelsus.            Well, then: you know my hopes; I am assured, at length, those hopes were vain; That truth is just as far from me as ever; That I have thrown my life away; that sorrow On that account is idle, and further effort To mend and patch what's marred beyond repairing, As useless: and all this was taught your friend By the convincing good old-fashioned method Of forceby sheer compulsion. Is that plain? Festus. Dear Aureole, can it be my fears were just? God wills not . . . Paracelsus.           Now, 't is this I most admire The constant talk men of your stamp keep up Of God's will, as they style it; one would swear Man had but merely to uplift his eye, And see the will in question charactered On the heaven's vault. 'T is hardly wise to moot Such topics: doubts are many and faith is weak. I know as much of any will of God As knows some dumb and tortured brute what Man, His stern lord, wills from the perplexing blows That plague him every way; but there, of course, Where least he suffers, longest he remains My case; and for such reasons I plod on, Subdued but not convinced. I know as little Why I deserve to fail, as why I hoped Better things in my youth. I simply know I am no master here, but trained and beaten Into the path I tread; and here I stay, Until some further intimation reach me, Like an obedient drudge. Though I prefer To view the whole thing as a task imposed Which, whether dull or pleasant, must be done Yet, I deny not, there is made provision Of joys which tastes less jaded might affect; Nay, some which please me too, for all my pride Pleasures that once were pains: the iron ring Festering about a slave's neck grows at length Into the flesh it eats. I hate no longer A host of petty vile delights, undreamed of Or spurned before; such now supply the place Of my dead aims: as in the autumn woods Where tall trees used to flourish, from their roots Springs up a fungous brood sickly and pale, Chill mushrooms coloured like a corpse's cheek. Festus. If I interpret well your words, I own It troubles me but little that your aims, Vast in their dawning and most likely grown Extravagantly since, have baffled you. Perchance I am glad; you merit greater praise; Because they are too glorious to be gained, You do not blindly cling to them and die; You fell, but have not sullenly refused To rise, because an angel worsted you In wrestling, though the world holds not your peer; And though too harsh and sudden is the change To yield content as yet, still you pursue The ungracious path as though't were rosv-strewn. 'T is well: and your reward, or soon or late, Will come from him whom no man serves in vain. Paracelsus. Ah, very fine! For my part, I conceive The very pausing from all further toil, Which you find heinous, would become a seal To the sincerity of all my deeds. To be consistent I should die at once; I calculated on no after-life; Yet (how crept in, how fostered, I know not) Here am I with as passionate regret For youth and health and love so vainly lavished, As if their preservation had been first And foremost in my thoughts; and this strange fact Humbled me wondrously, and had due force In rendering me the less averse to follow A certain counsel, a mysterious warning You will not understandbut't was a man With aims not mine and yet pursued like mine, With the same fervour and no more success, Perishing in my sight; who summoned me As I would shun the ghastly fate I saw, To serve my race at once; to wait no longer That God should interfere in my behalf, But to distrust myself, put pride away, And give my gains, imperfect as they were, To men. I have not leisure to explain How, since, a singular series of events Has raised me to the station you behold, Wherein I seem to turn to most account The mere wreck of the past,perhaps receive Some feeble glimmering token that God views And may approve my penance: therefore here You find me, doing most good or least harm. And if folks wonder much and profit little 'T is not my fault; only, I shall rejoice When my part in the farce is shuffled through, And the curtain falls: I must hold out till then. Festus. Till when, dear Aureole? Paracelsus.              Till I'm fairly thrust From my proud eminence. Fortune is fickle And even professors fall: should that arrive, I see no sin in ceding to my bent. You little fancy what rude shocks apprise us We sin; God's intimations rather fail In clearness than in energy: 't were well Did they but indicate the course to take Like that to be forsaken. I would fain Be spared a further sample. Here I stand, And here I stay, be sure, till forced to flit. Festus. Be you but firm on that head! long ere then All I expect will come to pass, I trust: The cloud that wraps you will have disappeared. Meantime, I see small chance of such event: They praise you here as one whose lore, already Divulged, eclipses all the past can show, But whose achievements, marvellous as they be, Are faint anticipations of a glory About to be revealed. When Basil's crowds Dismiss their teacher, I shall be content That he depart. Paracelsus.         This favour at their hands I look for earlier than your view of things Would warrant. Of the crowd you saw to-day, Remove the full half sheer amazement draws, Mere novelty, nought else; and next, the tribe Whose innate blockish dulness just perceives That unless miracles (as seem my works) Be wrought in their behalf, their chance is slight To puzzle the devil; next, the numerous set Who bitterly hate established schools, and help The teacher that oppugns them, till he once Have planted his own doctrine, when the teacher May reckon on their rancour in his turn; Take, too, the sprinkling of sagacious knaves Whose cunning runs not counter to the vogue But seeks, by flattery and crafty nursing, To force my system to a premature Short-lived development. Why swell the list? Each has his end to serve, and his best way Of serving it: remove all these, remains A scantling, a poor dozen at the best, Worthy to look for sympathy and service, And likely to draw profit from my pains. Festus. 'T is no encouraging picture: still these few Redeem their fellows. Once the germ implanted, Its growth, if slow, is sure. Paracelsus.                God grant it so! I would make some amends: but if I fail, The luckless rogues have this excuse to urge, That much is in my method and my manner, My uncouth habits, my impatient spirit, Which hinders of reception and result My doctrine: much to say, small skill to speak! These old aims suffered not a looking-off Though for an instant; therefore, only when I thus renounced them and resolved to reap Some present fruitto teach mankind some truth So dearly purchasedonly then I found Such teaching was an art requiring cares And qualities peculiar to itself: That to possess was one thingto display Another. With renown first in my thoughts, Or popular praise, I had soon discovered it: One grows but little apt to learn these things. Festus. If it be so, which nowise I believe, There needs no waiting fuller dispensation To leave a labour of so little use. Why not throw up the irksome charge at once? Paracelsus. A task, a task!         But wherefore hide the whole Extent of degradation, once engaged In the confessing vein? Despite of all My fine talk of obedience and repugnance, Docility and what not, 't is yet to learn If when the task shall really be performed, My inclination free to choose once more, I shall do aught but slightly modify The nature of the hated task I quit. In plain words, I am spoiled; my life still tends As first it tended; I am broken and trained To my old habits: they are part of me. I know, and none so well, my darling ends Are proved impossible: no less, no less, Even now what humours me, fond fool, as when Their faint ghosts sit with me and flatter me And send me back content to my dull round? How can I change this soul?this apparatus Constructed solely for their purposes, So well adapted to their every want, To search out and discover, prove and perfect; This intricate machine whose most minute And meanest motions have their charm to me Though to none elsean aptitude I seize, An object I perceive, a use, a meaning, A property, a fitness, I explain And I alone:how can I change my soul? And this wronged body, worthless save when tasked Under that soul's dominionused to care For its bright master's cares and quite subdue Its proper cravingsnot to ail nor pine So he but prosperwhither drag this poor Tried patient body? God! how I essayed To live like that mad poet, for a while, To love alone; and how I felt too warped And twisted and deformed! What should I do, Even tho'released from drudgery, but return Faint, as you see, and halting, blind and sore, To my old life and die as I began? I cannot feed on beauty for the sake Of beauty only, nor can drink in balm From lovely objects for their loveliness; My nature cannot lose her first imprint; I still must hoard and heap and class all truths With one ulterior purpose: I must know! Would God translate me to his throne, believe That I should only listen to his word To further my own aim! For other men, Beauty is prodigally strewn around, And I were happy could I quench as they This mad and thriveless longing, and content me With beauty for itself alone: alas, I have addressed a frock of heavy mail Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights; And now the forest-creatures fly from me, The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no more. Best follow, dreaming that ere night arrive, I shall o'ertake the company and ride Glittering as they! Festus.           I think I apprehend What you would say: if you, in truth, design To enter once more on the life thus left, Seek not to hide that all this consciousness Of failure is assumed! Paracelsus.            My friend, my friend, I toil, you listen; I explain, perhaps You understand: there our communion ends. Have you learnt nothing from to-day's discourse? When we would thoroughly know the sick man's state We feel awhile the fluttering pulse, press soft The hot brow, look upon the languid eye, And thence divine the rest. Must I lay bare My heart, hideous and beating, or tear up My vitals for your gaze, ere you will deem Enough made known? You! who are you, forsooth? That is the crowning operation claimed By the arch-demonstratorheaven the hall, And earth the audience. Let Aprile and you Secure good places: 't will be worth the while. Festus. Are you mad, Aureole? What can I have said To call for this? I judged from your own words. Paracelsus. Oh, doubtless! A sick wretch describes the ape That mocks him from the bed-foot, and all gravely You thither turn at once: or he recounts The perilous journey he has late performed, And you are puzzled much how that could be! You find me here, half stupid and half mad; It makes no part of my delight to search Into these matters, much less undergo Another's scrutiny; but so it chances That I am led to trust my state to you: And the event is, you combine, contrast And ponder on my foolish words as though They thoroughly conveyed all hidden here Here, loathsome with despair and hate and rage! Is there no fear, no shrinking and no shame? Will you guess nothing? will you spare me nothing? Must I go deeper? Ay or no? Festus.                Dear friend . . .                Paracelsus. True: I am brutal't is a part of it; The plague's signyou are not a lazar-haunter, How should you know? Well then, you think it strange I should profess to have failed utterly, And yet propose an ultimate return To courses void of hope: and this, because You know not what temptation is, nor how 'T is like to ply men in the sickliest part. You are to understand that we who make Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end: There is not one sharp volley shot at us, Which 'scaped with life, though hurt, we slacken pace And gather by the wayside herbs and roots To staunch our wounds, secure from further harm: We are assailed to life's extremest verge. It will be well indeed if I return, A harmless busy fool, to my old ways! I would forget hints of another fate, Significant enough, which silent hours Have lately scared me with. Festus.                Another! and what?                Paracelsus. After all, Festus, you say well: I am A man yet: I need never humble me. I would have beensomething, I know not what; But though I cannot soar, I do not crawl. There are worse portions than this one of mine. You say well! Festus.        Ah!        Paracelsus.          And deeper degradation! If the mean stimulants of vulgar praise, If vanity should become the chosen food Of a sunk mind, should stifle even the wish To find its early aspirations true, Should teach it to breathe falsehood like life-breath An atmosphere of craft and trick and lies; Should make it proud to emulate, surpass Base natures in the practices which woke Its most indignant loathing once . . . No, no! Utter damnation is reserved for hell! I had immortal feelings; such shall never Be wholly quenched: no, no!                My friend, you wear A melancholy face, and certain't is There's little cheer in all this dismal work. But was it my desire to set abroach Such memories and forebodings? I foresaw Where they would drive. 'T were better we discuss News from Lucerne or Zurich; ask and tell Of Egypt's flaring sky or Spain's cork-groves. Festus. I have thought: trust me, this mood will pass away! I know you and the lofty spirit you bear, And easily ravel out a clue to all. These are the trials meet for such as you, Nor must you hope exemption: to be mortal Is to be plied with trials manifold. Look round! The obstacles which kept the rest From your ambition, have been spurned by you; Their fears, their doubts, the chains that bind themall, Were flax before your resolute soul, which nought Avails to awe save these delusions bred From its own strength, its selfsame strength disguised, Mocking itself. Be brave, dear Aureole! Since The rabbit has his shade to frighten him, The fawn a rustling bough, mortals their cares, And higher natures yet would slight and laugh At these entangling fantasies, as you At trammels of a weaker intellect, Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts! I know you. Paracelsus.      And I know you, dearest Festus! And how you love unworthily; and how All admiration renders blind. Festus.                You hold That admiration blinds? Paracelsus.             Ay and alas!             Festus. Nought blinds you less than admiration, friend! Whether it be that all love renders wise In its degree; from love which blends with love Heart answering heartto love which spends itself In silent mad idolatry of some Pre-eminent mortal, some great soul of souls, Which ne'er will know how well it is adored. I say, such love is never blind; but rather Alive to every the minutest spot Which mars its object, and which hate (supposed So vigilant and searching) dreams not of. Love broods on such: what then? When first perceived Is there no sweet strife to forget, to change, To overflush those blemishes with all The glow of general goodness they disturb? To make those very defects an endless source Of new affection grown from hopes and fears? And, when all fails, is there no gallant stand Made even for much proved weak? no shrinking-back Lest, since all love assimilates the soul To what it loves, it should at length become Almost a rival of its idol? Trust me, If there be fiends who seek to work our hurt, To ruin and drag down earth's mightiest spirits Even at God's foot, 't will be from such as love, Their zeal will gather most to serve their cause; And least from those who hate, who most essay By contumely and scorn to blot the light Which forces entrance even to their hearts: For thence will our defender tear the veil And show within each heart, as in a shrine, The giant image of perfection, grown In hate's despite, whose calumnies were spawned In the untroubled presence of its eyes. True admiration blinds not; nor am I So blind. I call your sin exceptional; It springs from one whose life has passed the bounds Prescribed to life. Compound that fault with God! I speak of men; to common men like me The weakness you reveal endears you more, Like the far traces of decay in suns. I bid you have good cheer! Paracelsus.               Proeclare! Optime! Think of a quiet mountain-cloistered priest Instructing Paracelsus! yet't is so. Come, I will show you where my merit lies. 'T is in the advance of individual minds That the slow crowd should ground their expectation Eventually to follow; as the sea Waits ages in its bed till some one wave Out of the multitudinous mass, extends The empire of the whole, some feet perhaps, Over the strip of sand which could confine Its fellows so long time: thenceforth the rest, Even to the meanest, hurry in at once, And so much is clear gained. I shall be glad If all my labours, failing of aught else, Suffice to make such inroad and procure A wider range for thought: nay, they do this; For, whatsoe'er my notions of true knowledge And a legitimate success, may be, I am not blind to my undoubted rank When classed with others: I precede my age: And whoso wills is very free to mount These labours as a platform whence his own May have a prosperous outset. But, alas! My followersthey are noisy as you heard; But, for intelligence, the best of them So clumsily wield the weapons I supply And they extol, that I begin to doubt Whether their own rude clubs and pebble-stones Would not do better service than my arms Thus vilely swayedif error will not fall Sooner before the old awkward batterings Than my more subtle warfare, not half learned. Festus. I would supply that art, then, or withhold New arms until you teach their mystery. Paracelsus. Content you, 't is my wish; I have recourse To the simplest training. Day by day I seek To wake the mood, the spirit which alone Can make those arms of any use to men. Of course they are for swaggering forth at once Graced with Ulysses' bow, Achilles' shield Flash on us, all in armour, thou Achilles! Make our hearts dance to thy resounding step! A proper sight to scare the crows away! Festus. Pity you choose not then some other method Of coming at your point. The marvellous art At length established in the world bids fair To remedy all hindrances like these: Trust to Frobenius' press the precious lore Obscured by uncouth manner, or unfit For raw beginners; let his types secure A deathless monument to after-time; Meanwhile wait confidently and enjoy The ultimate effect: sooner or later You shall be all-revealed. Paracelsus.               The old dull question In a new form; no more. Thus: I possess Two sorts of knowledge; one,vast, shadowy, Hints of the unbounded aim I once pursued: The other consists of many secrets, caught While bent on nobler prize,perhaps a few Prime principles which may conduct to much: These last I offer to my followers here. Now, bid me chronicle the first of these, My ancient study, and in effect you bid Revert to the wild courses just abjured: I must go find them scattered through the world. Then, for the principles, they are so simple (Being chiefly of the overturning sort), That one time is as proper to propound them As any otherto-morrow at my class, Or half a century hence embalmed in print. For if mankind intend to learn at all, They must begin by giving faith to them And acting on them: and I do not see But that my lectures serve indifferent well: No doubt these dogmas fall not to the earth, For all their novelty and rugged setting. I think my class will not forget the day I let them know the gods of Israel, Atius, Oribasius, Galen, Rhasis, Serapion, Avicenna, Averres, Were blocks! Festus.       And that reminds me, I heard something About your waywardness: you burned their books, It seems, instead of answering those sages. Paracelsus. And who said that? Festus.          Some I met yesternight With OEcolampadius. As you know, the purpose Of this short stay at Basil was to learn His pleasure touching certain missives sent For our Zuinglius and himself. 'T was he Apprised me that the famous teacher here Was my old friend. Paracelsus.          Ah, I forgot: you went . . .          Festus. From Zurich with advices for the ear Of Luther, now at Wittenberg(you know, I make no doubt, the differences of late With Carolostadius)and returning sought Basil and . . . Paracelsus.         I remember. Here's a case, now, Will teach you why I answer not, but burn The books you mention. Pray, does Luther dream His arguments convince by their own force The crowds that own his doctrine? No, indeed! His plain denial of established points Ages had sanctified and men supposed Could never be oppugned while earth was under And heaven above thempoints which chance or time Affected notdid more than the array Of argument which followed. Boldly deny! There is much breath-stopping, hair-stiffening Awhile; then, amazed glances, mute awaiting The thunderbolt which does not come: and next, Reproachful wonder and inquiry: those Who else had never stirred, are able now To find the rest out for themselves, perhaps To outstrip him who set the whole at work, As never will my wise class its instructor. And you saw Luther? Festus.           'T is a wondrous soul!           Paracelsus. True: the so-heavy chain which galled mankind Is shattered, and the noblest of us all Must bow to the deliverernay, the worker Of our own projectwe who long before Had burst our trammels, but forgot the crowd, We should have taught, still groaned beneath the load: This he has done and nobly. Speed that may! Whatever be my chance or my mischance, What benefits mankind must glad me too; And men seem made, though not as I believed, For something better than the times produce. Witness these gangs of peasants your new lights From Suabia have possessed, whom Mnzer leads, And whom the duke, the landgrave and the elector Will calm in blood! Well, well; 't is not my world! Festus. Hark! Paracelsus.    'T is the melancholy wind astir Within the trees; the embers too are grey: Morn must be near. Festus.          Best ope the casement: see, The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars, Is blank and motionless: how peaceful sleep The tree-tops altogether! Like an asp, The wind slips whispering from bough to bough. Paracelsus. Ay; you would gaze on a wind-shaken tree By the hour, nor count time lost. Festus.                  So you shall gaze: Those happy times will come again. Paracelsus.                   Gone, gone, Those pleasant times! Does not the moaning wind Seem to bewail that we have gained such gains And bartered sleep for them? Festus.                It is our trust That there is yet another world to mend All error and mischance. Paracelsus.              Another world! And why this world, this common world, to be A make-shift, a mere foil, how fair soever, To some fine life to come? Man must be fed With angels' food, forsooth; and some few traces Of a diviner nature which look out Through his corporeal baseness, warrant him In a supreme contempt of all provision For his inferior tastessome straggling marks Which constitute his essence, just as truly As here and there a gem would constitute The rock, their barren bed, one diamond. But were it sowere man all mindhe gains A station little enviable. From God Down to the lowest spirit ministrant, Intelligence exists which casts our mind Into immeasurable shade. No, no: Love, hope, fear, faiththese make humanity; These are its sign and note and character, And these I have lost!gone, shut from me for ever, Like a dead friend safe from unkindness more! See, morn at length. The heavy darkness seems Diluted, grey and clear without the stars; The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves as if Some snake, that weighed them down all night, let go His hold; and from the East, fuller and fuller Day, like a mighty river, flowing in; But clouded, wintry, desolate and cold. Yet see how that broad prickly star-shaped plant, Half-down in the crevice, spreads its woolly leaves All thick and glistering with diamond dew. And you depart for Einsiedeln this day, And we have spent all night in talk like this! If you would have me better for your love, Revert no more to these sad themes. Festus.                    One favour, And I have done. I leave you, deeply moved; Unwilling to have fared so well, the while My friend has changed so sorely. If this mood Shall pass away, if light once more arise Where all is darkness now, if you see fit To hope and trust again, and strive again, You will remembernot our love alone But that my faith in God's desire that man Should trust on his support, (as I must think You trusted) is obscured and dim through you: For you are thus, and this is no reward. Will you not call me to your side, dear Aureole? ~ Robert Browning, Paracelsus - Part III - Paracelsus ,

1135:BOOK THE FIRST The Creation of the World Of bodies chang'd to various forms, I sing: Ye Gods, from whom these miracles did spring, Inspire my numbers with coelestial heat; 'Till I my long laborious work compleat: And add perpetual tenour to my rhimes, Deduc'd from Nature's birth, to Caesar's times. Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball, And Heav'n's high canopy, that covers all, One was the face of Nature; if a face: Rather a rude and indigested mass: A lifeless lump, unfashion'd, and unfram'd, Of jarring seeds; and justly Chaos nam'd. No sun was lighted up, the world to view; No moon did yet her blunted horns renew: Nor yet was Earth suspended in the sky, Nor pois'd, did on her own foundations lye: Nor seas about the shores their arms had thrown; But earth, and air, and water, were in one. Thus air was void of light, and earth unstable, And water's dark abyss unnavigable. No certain form on any was imprest; All were confus'd, and each disturb'd the rest. For hot and cold were in one body fixt; And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixt. But God, or Nature, while they thus contend, To these intestine discords put an end: Then earth from air, and seas from earth were driv'n, And grosser air sunk from aetherial Heav'n. Thus disembroil'd, they take their proper place; The next of kin, contiguously embrace; And foes are sunder'd, by a larger space. The force of fire ascended first on high, And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky: Then air succeeds, in lightness next to fire; Whose atoms from unactive earth retire. Earth sinks beneath, and draws a num'rous throng Of pondrous, thick, unwieldy seeds along. About her coasts, unruly waters roar; And rising, on a ridge, insult the shore. Thus when the God, whatever God was he, Had form'd the whole, and made the parts agree, That no unequal portions might be found, He moulded Earth into a spacious round: Then with a breath, he gave the winds to blow; And bad the congregated waters flow. He adds the running springs, and standing lakes; And bounding banks for winding rivers makes. Some part, in Earth are swallow'd up, the most In ample oceans, disembogu'd, are lost. He shades the woods, the vallies he restrains With rocky mountains, and extends the plains. And as five zones th' aetherial regions bind, Five, correspondent, are to Earth assign'd: The sun with rays, directly darting down, Fires all beneath, and fries the middle zone: The two beneath the distant poles, complain Of endless winter, and perpetual rain. Betwixt th' extreams, two happier climates hold The temper that partakes of hot, and cold. The fields of liquid air, inclosing all, Surround the compass of this earthly ball: The lighter parts lye next the fires above; The grosser near the watry surface move: Thick clouds are spread, and storms engender there, And thunder's voice, which wretched mortals fear, And winds that on their wings cold winter bear. Nor were those blustring brethren left at large, On seas, and shores, their fury to discharge: Bound as they are, and circumscrib'd in place, They rend the world, resistless, where they pass; And mighty marks of mischief leave behind; Such is the rage of their tempestuous kind. First Eurus to the rising morn is sent (The regions of the balmy continent); And Eastern realms, where early Persians run, To greet the blest appearance of the sun. Westward, the wanton Zephyr wings his flight; Pleas'd with the remnants of departing light: Fierce Boreas, with his off-spring, issues forth T' invade the frozen waggon of the North. While frowning Auster seeks the Southern sphere; And rots, with endless rain, th' unwholsom year. High o'er the clouds, and empty realms of wind, The God a clearer space for Heav'n design'd; Where fields of light, and liquid aether flow; Purg'd from the pondrous dregs of Earth below. Scarce had the Pow'r distinguish'd these, when streight The stars, no longer overlaid with weight, Exert their heads, from underneath the mass; And upward shoot, and kindle as they pass, And with diffusive light adorn their heav'nly place. Then, every void of Nature to supply, With forms of Gods he fills the vacant sky: New herds of beasts he sends, the plains to share: New colonies of birds, to people air: And to their oozy beds, the finny fish repair. A creature of a more exalted kind Was wanting yet, and then was Man design'd: Conscious of thought, of more capacious breast, For empire form'd, and fit to rule the rest: Whether with particles of heav'nly fire The God of Nature did his soul inspire, Or Earth, but new divided from the sky, And, pliant, still retain'd th' aetherial energy: Which wise Prometheus temper'd into paste, And, mixt with living streams, the godlike image cast. Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother tend, Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies. From such rude principles our form began; And earth was metamorphos'd into Man. The Golden Age The golden age was first; when Man yet new, No rule but uncorrupted reason knew: And, with a native bent, did good pursue. Unforc'd by punishment, un-aw'd by fear, His words were simple, and his soul sincere; Needless was written law, where none opprest: The law of Man was written in his breast: No suppliant crowds before the judge appear'd, No court erected yet, nor cause was heard: But all was safe, for conscience was their guard. The mountain-trees in distant prospect please, E're yet the pine descended to the seas: E're sails were spread, new oceans to explore: And happy mortals, unconcern'd for more, Confin'd their wishes to their native shore. No walls were yet; nor fence, nor mote, nor mound, Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound: Nor swords were forg'd; but void of care and crime, The soft creation slept away their time. The teeming Earth, yet guiltless of the plough, And unprovok'd, did fruitful stores allow: Content with food, which Nature freely bred, On wildings and on strawberries they fed; Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest, And falling acorns furnish'd out a feast. The flow'rs unsown, in fields and meadows reign'd: And Western winds immortal spring maintain'd. In following years, the bearded corn ensu'd From Earth unask'd, nor was that Earth renew'd. From veins of vallies, milk and nectar broke; And honey sweating through the pores of oak. The Silver Age But when good Saturn, banish'd from above, Was driv'n to Hell, the world was under Jove. Succeeding times a silver age behold, Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold. Then summer, autumn, winter did appear: And spring was but a season of the year. The sun his annual course obliquely made, Good days contracted, and enlarg'd the bad. Then air with sultry heats began to glow; The wings of winds were clogg'd with ice and snow; And shivering mortals, into houses driv'n, Sought shelter from th' inclemency of Heav'n. Those houses, then, were caves, or homely sheds; With twining oziers fenc'd; and moss their beds. Then ploughs, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke, And oxen labour'd first beneath the yoke. The Brazen Age To this came next in course, the brazen age: A warlike offspring, prompt to bloody rage, Not impious yet... The Iron Age Hard steel succeeded then: And stubborn as the metal, were the men. Truth, modesty, and shame, the world forsook: Fraud, avarice, and force, their places took. Then sails were spread, to every wind that blew. Raw were the sailors, and the depths were new: Trees, rudely hollow'd, did the waves sustain; E're ships in triumph plough'd the watry plain. Then land-marks limited to each his right: For all before was common as the light. Nor was the ground alone requir'd to bear Her annual income to the crooked share, But greedy mortals, rummaging her store, Digg'd from her entrails first the precious oar; Which next to Hell, the prudent Gods had laid; And that alluring ill, to sight display'd. Thus cursed steel, and more accursed gold, Gave mischief birth, and made that mischief bold: And double death did wretched Man invade, By steel assaulted, and by gold betray'd, Now (brandish'd weapons glittering in their hands) Mankind is broken loose from moral bands; No rights of hospitality remain: The guest, by him who harbour'd him, is slain, The son-in-law pursues the father's life; The wife her husb and murders, he the wife. The step-dame poyson for the son prepares; The son inquires into his father's years. Faith flies, and piety in exile mourns; And justice, here opprest, to Heav'n returns. The Giants' War Nor were the Gods themselves more safe above; Against beleaguer'd Heav'n the giants move. Hills pil'd on hills, on mountains mountains lie, To make their mad approaches to the skie. 'Till Jove, no longer patient, took his time T' avenge with thunder their audacious crime: Red light'ning plaid along the firmament, And their demolish'd works to pieces rent. Sing'd with the flames, and with the bolts transfixt, With native Earth, their blood the monsters mixt; The blood, indu'd with animating heat, Did in th' impregnant Earth new sons beget: They, like the seed from which they sprung, accurst, Against the Gods immortal hatred nurst, An impious, arrogant, and cruel brood; Expressing their original from blood. Which when the king of Gods beheld from high (Withal revolving in his memory, What he himself had found on Earth of late, Lycaon's guilt, and his inhumane treat), He sigh'd; nor longer with his pity strove; But kindled to a wrath becoming Jove: Then call'd a general council of the Gods; Who summon'd, issue from their blest abodes, And fill th' assembly with a shining train. A way there is, in Heav'n's expanded plain, Which, when the skies are clear, is seen below, And mortals, by the name of Milky, know. The ground-work is of stars; through which the road Lyes open to the Thunderer's abode: The Gods of greater nations dwell around, And, on the right and left, the palace bound; The commons where they can: the nobler sort With winding-doors wide open, front the court. This place, as far as Earth with Heav'n may vie, I dare to call the Louvre of the skie. When all were plac'd, in seats distinctly known, And he, their father, had assum'd the throne, Upon his iv'ry sceptre first he leant, Then shook his head, that shook the firmament: Air, Earth, and seas, obey'd th' almighty nod; And, with a gen'ral fear, confess'd the God. At length, with indignation, thus he broke His awful silence, and the Pow'rs bespoke. I was not more concern'd in that debate Of empire, when our universal state Was put to hazard, and the giant race Our captive skies were ready to imbrace: For tho' the foe was fierce, the seeds of all Rebellion, sprung from one original; Now, wheresoever ambient waters glide, All are corrupt, and all must be destroy'd. Let me this holy protestation make, By Hell, and Hell's inviolable lake, I try'd whatever in the godhead lay: But gangren'd members must be lopt away, Before the nobler parts are tainted to decay. There dwells below, a race of demi-gods, Of nymphs in waters, and of fawns in woods: Who, tho' not worthy yet, in Heav'n to live, Let 'em, at least, enjoy that Earth we give. Can these be thought securely lodg'd below, When I my self, who no superior know, I, who have Heav'n and Earth at my command, Have been attempted by Lycaon's hand? At this a murmur through the synod went, And with one voice they vote his punishment. Thus, when conspiring traytors dar'd to doom The fall of Caesar, and in him of Rome, The nations trembled with a pious fear; All anxious for their earthly Thunderer: Nor was their care, o Caesar, less esteem'd By thee, than that of Heav'n for Jove was deem'd: Who with his hand, and voice, did first restrain Their murmurs, then resum'd his speech again. The Gods to silence were compos'd, and sate With reverence, due to his superior state. Cancel your pious cares; already he Has paid his debt to justice, and to me. Yet what his crimes, and what my judgments were, Remains for me thus briefly to declare. The clamours of this vile degenerate age, The cries of orphans, and th' oppressor's rage, Had reach'd the stars: I will descend, said I, In hope to prove this loud complaint a lye. Disguis'd in humane shape, I travell'd round The world, and more than what I heard, I found. O'er Maenalus I took my steepy way, By caverns infamous for beasts of prey: Then cross'd Cyllene, and the piny shade More infamous, by curst Lycaon made: Dark night had cover'd Heaven, and Earth, before I enter'd his unhospitable door. Just at my entrance, I display'd the sign That somewhat was approaching of divine. The prostrate people pray; the tyrant grins; And, adding prophanation to his sins, I'll try, said he, and if a God appear, To prove his deity shall cost him dear. 'Twas late; the graceless wretch my death prepares, When I shou'd soundly sleep, opprest with cares: This dire experiment he chose, to prove If I were mortal, or undoubted Jove: But first he had resolv'd to taste my pow'r; Not long before, but in a luckless hour, Some legates, sent from the Molossian state, Were on a peaceful errand come to treat: Of these he murders one, he boils the flesh; And lays the mangled morsels in a dish: Some part he roasts; then serves it up, so drest, And bids me welcome to this humane feast. Mov'd with disdain, the table I o'er-turn'd; And with avenging flames, the palace burn'd. The tyrant in a fright, for shelter gains The neighb'ring fields, and scours along the plains. Howling he fled, and fain he wou'd have spoke; But humane voice his brutal tongue forsook. About his lips the gather'd foam he churns, And, breathing slaughters, still with rage he burns, But on the bleating flock his fury turns. His mantle, now his hide, with rugged hairs Cleaves to his back; a famish'd face he bears; His arms descend, his shoulders sink away To multiply his legs for chase of prey. He grows a wolf, his hoariness remains, And the same rage in other members reigns. His eyes still sparkle in a narr'wer space: His jaws retain the grin, and violence of his face This was a single ruin, but not one Deserves so just a punishment alone. Mankind's a monster, and th' ungodly times Confed'rate into guilt, are sworn to crimes. All are alike involv'd in ill, and all Must by the same relentless fury fall. Thus ended he; the greater Gods assent; By clamours urging his severe intent; The less fill up the cry for punishment. Yet still with pity they remember Man; And mourn as much as heav'nly spirits can. They ask, when those were lost of humane birth, What he wou'd do with all this waste of Earth: If his dispeopl'd world he would resign To beasts, a mute, and more ignoble line; Neglected altars must no longer smoke, If none were left to worship, and invoke. To whom the Father of the Gods reply'd, Lay that unnecessary fear aside: Mine be the care, new people to provide. I will from wondrous principles ordain A race unlike the first, and try my skill again. Already had he toss'd the flaming brand; And roll'd the thunder in his spacious hand; Preparing to discharge on seas and land: But stopt, for fear, thus violently driv'n, The sparks should catch his axle-tree of Heav'n. Remembring in the fates, a time when fire Shou'd to the battlements of Heaven aspire, And all his blazing worlds above shou'd burn; And all th' inferior globe to cinders turn. His dire artill'ry thus dismist, he bent His thoughts to some securer punishment: Concludes to pour a watry deluge down; And what he durst not burn, resolves to drown. The northern breath, that freezes floods, he binds; With all the race of cloud-dispelling winds: The south he loos'd, who night and horror brings; And foggs are shaken from his flaggy wings. From his divided beard two streams he pours, His head, and rheumy eyes distill in show'rs, With rain his robe, and heavy mantle flow: And lazy mists are lowring on his brow; Still as he swept along, with his clench'd fist He squeez'd the clouds, th' imprison'd clouds resist: The skies, from pole to pole, with peals resound; And show'rs inlarg'd, come pouring on the ground. Then, clad in colours of a various dye, Junonian Iris breeds a new supply To feed the clouds: impetuous rain descends; The bearded corn beneath the burden bends: Defrauded clowns deplore their perish'd grain; And the long labours of the year are vain. Nor from his patrimonial Heaven alone Is Jove content to pour his vengeance down; Aid from his brother of the seas he craves, To help him with auxiliary waves. The watry tyrant calls his brooks and floods, Who rowl from mossie caves (their moist abodes); And with perpetual urns his palace fill: To whom in brief, he thus imparts his will. Small exhortation needs; your pow'rs employ: And this bad world, so Jove requires, destroy. Let loose the reins to all your watry store: Bear down the damms, and open ev'ry door. The floods, by Nature enemies to land, And proudly swelling with their new command, Remove the living stones, that stopt their way, And gushing from their source, augment the sea. Then, with his mace, their monarch struck the ground; With inward trembling Earth receiv'd the wound; And rising streams a ready passage found. Th' expanded waters gather on the plain: They float the fields, and over-top the grain; Then rushing onwards, with a sweepy sway, Bear flocks, and folds, and lab'ring hinds away. Nor safe their dwellings were, for, sap'd by floods, Their houses fell upon their houshold Gods. The solid piles, too strongly built to fall, High o'er their heads, behold a watry wall: Now seas and Earth were in confusion lost; A world of waters, and without a coast. One climbs a cliff; one in his boat is born: And ploughs above, where late he sow'd his corn. Others o'er chimney-tops and turrets row, And drop their anchors on the meads below: Or downward driv'n, they bruise the tender vine, Or tost aloft, are knock'd against a pine. And where of late the kids had cropt the grass, The monsters of the deep now take their place. Insulting Nereids on the cities ride, And wond'ring dolphins o'er the palace glide. On leaves, and masts of mighty oaks they brouze; And their broad fins entangle in the boughs. The frighted wolf now swims amongst the sheep; The yellow lion wanders in the deep: His rapid force no longer helps the boar: The stag swims faster, than he ran before. The fowls, long beating on their wings in vain, Despair of land, and drop into the main. Now hills, and vales no more distinction know; And levell'd Nature lies oppress'd below. The most of mortals perish in the flood: The small remainder dies for want of food. A mountain of stupendous height there stands Betwixt th' Athenian and Boeotian lands, The bound of fruitful fields, while fields they were, But then a field of waters did appear: Parnassus is its name; whose forky rise Mounts thro' the clouds, and mates the lofty skies. High on the summit of this dubious cliff, Deucalion wafting, moor'd his little skiff. He with his wife were only left behind Of perish'd Man; they two were human kind. The mountain nymphs, and Themis they adore, And from her oracles relief implore. The most upright of mortal men was he; The most sincere, and holy woman, she. When Jupiter, surveying Earth from high, Beheld it in a lake of water lie, That where so many millions lately liv'd, But two, the best of either sex, surviv'd; He loos'd the northern wind; fierce Boreas flies To puff away the clouds, and purge the skies: Serenely, while he blows, the vapours driv'n, Discover Heav'n to Earth, and Earth to Heav'n. The billows fall, while Neptune lays his mace On the rough sea, and smooths its furrow'd face. Already Triton, at his call, appears Above the waves; a Tyrian robe he wears; And in his hand a crooked trumpet bears. The soveraign bids him peaceful sounds inspire, And give the waves the signal to retire. His wri then shell he takes; whose narrow vent Grows by degrees into a large extent, Then gives it breath; the blast with doubling sound, Runs the wide circuit of the world around: The sun first heard it, in his early east, And met the rattling ecchos in the west. The waters, listning to the trumpet's roar, Obey the summons, and forsake the shore. A thin circumference of land appears; And Earth, but not at once, her visage rears, And peeps upon the seas from upper grounds; The streams, but just contain'd within their bounds, By slow degrees into their channels crawl; And Earth increases, as the waters fall. In longer time the tops of trees appear, Which mud on their dishonour'd branches bear. At length the world was all restor'd to view; But desolate, and of a sickly hue: Nature beheld her self, and stood aghast, A dismal desart, and a silent waste. Which when Deucalion, with a piteous look Beheld, he wept, and thus to Pyrrha spoke: Oh wife, oh sister, oh of all thy kind The best, and only creature left behind, By kindred, love, and now by dangers joyn'd; Of multitudes, who breath'd the common air, We two remain; a species in a pair: The rest the seas have swallow'd; nor have we Ev'n of this wretched life a certainty. The clouds are still above; and, while I speak, A second deluge o'er our heads may break. Shou'd I be snatcht from hence, and thou remain, Without relief, or partner of thy pain, How cou'dst thou such a wretched life sustain? Shou'd I be left, and thou be lost, the sea That bury'd her I lov'd, shou'd bury me. Oh cou'd our father his old arts inspire, And make me heir of his informing fire, That so I might abolisht Man retrieve, And perisht people in new souls might live. But Heav'n is pleas'd, nor ought we to complain, That we, th' examples of mankind, remain. He said; the careful couple joyn their tears: And then invoke the Gods, with pious prayers. Thus, in devotion having eas'd their grief, From sacred oracles they seek relief; And to Cephysus' brook their way pursue: The stream was troubled, but the ford they knew; With living waters, in the fountain bred, They sprinkle first their garments, and their head, Then took the way, which to the temple led. The roofs were all defil'd with moss, and mire, The desart altars void of solemn fire. Before the gradual, prostrate they ador'd; The pavement kiss'd; and thus the saint implor'd. O righteous Themis, if the Pow'rs above By pray'rs are bent to pity, and to love; If humane miseries can move their mind; If yet they can forgive, and yet be kind; Tell how we may restore, by second birth, Mankind, and people desolated Earth. Then thus the gracious Goddess, nodding, said; Depart, and with your vestments veil your head: And stooping lowly down, with losen'd zones, Throw each behind your backs, your mighty mother's bones. Amaz'd the pair, and mute with wonder stand, 'Till Pyrrha first refus'd the dire command. Forbid it Heav'n, said she, that I shou'd tear Those holy reliques from the sepulcher. They ponder'd the mysterious words again, For some new sense; and long they sought in vain: At length Deucalion clear'd his cloudy brow, And said, the dark Aenigma will allow A meaning, which, if well I understand, From sacrilege will free the God's command: This Earth our mighty mother is, the stones In her capacious body, are her bones: These we must cast behind. With hope, and fear, The woman did the new solution hear: The man diffides in his own augury, And doubts the Gods; yet both resolve to try. Descending from the mount, they first unbind Their vests, and veil'd, they cast the stones behind: The stones (a miracle to mortal view, But long tradition makes it pass for true) Did first the rigour of their kind expel, And suppled into softness, as they fell; Then swell'd, and swelling, by degrees grew warm; And took the rudiments of human form. Imperfect shapes: in marble such are seen, When the rude chizzel does the man begin; While yet the roughness of the stone remains, Without the rising muscles, and the veins. The sappy parts, and next resembling juice, Were turn'd to moisture, for the body's use: Supplying humours, blood, and nourishment; The rest, too solid to receive a bent, Converts to bones; and what was once a vein, Its former name and Nature did retain. By help of pow'r divine, in little space, What the man threw, assum'd a manly face; And what the wife, renew'd the female race. Hence we derive our nature; born to bear Laborious life; and harden'd into care. The rest of animals, from teeming Earth Produc'd, in various forms receiv'd their birth. The native moisture, in its close retreat, Digested by the sun's aetherial heat, As in a kindly womb, began to breed: Then swell'd, and quicken'd by the vital seed. And some in less, and some in longer space, Were ripen'd into form, and took a sev'ral face. Thus when the Nile from Pharian fields is fled, And seeks, with ebbing tides, his ancient bed, The fat manure with heav'nly fire is warm'd; And crusted creatures, as in wombs, are form'd; These, when they turn the glebe, the peasants find; Some rude, and yet unfinish'd in their kind: Short of their limbs, a lame imperfect birth: One half alive; and one of lifeless earth. For heat, and moisture, when in bodies join'd, The temper that results from either kind Conception makes; and fighting 'till they mix, Their mingled atoms in each other fix. Thus Nature's hand the genial bed prepares With friendly discord, and with fruitful wars. From hence the surface of the ground, with mud And slime besmear'd (the faeces of the flood), Receiv'd the rays of Heav'n: and sucking in The seeds of heat, new creatures did begin: Some were of sev'ral sorts produc'd before, But of new monsters, Earth created more. Unwillingly, but yet she brought to light Thee, Python too, the wondring world to fright, And the new nations, with so dire a sight: So monstrous was his bulk, so large a space Did his vast body, and long train embrace. Whom Phoebus basking on a bank espy'd; E're now the God his arrows had not try'd But on the trembling deer, or mountain goat; At this new quarry he prepares to shoot. Though ev'ry shaft took place, he spent the store Of his full quiver; and 'twas long before Th' expiring serpent wallow'd in his gore. Then, to preserve the fame of such a deed, For Python slain, he Pythian games decred. Where noble youths for mastership shou'd strive, To quoit, to run, and steeds, and chariots drive. The prize was fame: in witness of renown An oaken garl and did the victor crown. The laurel was not yet for triumphs born; But every green alike by Phoebus worn, Did, with promiscuous grace, his flowing locks adorn. The Transformation of Daphne into a Lawrel The first and fairest of his loves, was she Whom not blind fortune, but the dire decree Of angry Cupid forc'd him to desire: Daphne her name, and Peneus was her sire. Swell'd with the pride, that new success attends, He sees the stripling, while his bow he bends, And thus insults him: Thou lascivious boy, Are arms like these for children to employ? Know, such atchievements are my proper claim; Due to my vigour, and unerring aim: Resistless are my shafts, and Python late In such a feather'd death, has found his fate. Take up the torch (and lay my weapons by), With that the feeble souls of lovers fry. To whom the son of Venus thus reply'd, Phoebus, thy shafts are sure on all beside, But mine of Phoebus, mine the fame shall be Of all thy conquests, when I conquer thee. He said, and soaring, swiftly wing'd his flight: Nor stopt but on Parnassus' airy height. Two diff'rent shafts he from his quiver draws; One to repel desire, and one to cause. One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold: To bribe the love, and make the lover bold: One blunt, and tipt with lead, whose base allay Provokes disdain, and drives desire away. The blunted bolt against the nymph he drest: But with the sharp transfixt Apollo's breast. Th' enamour'd deity pursues the chace; The scornful damsel shuns his loath'd embrace: In hunting beasts of prey, her youth employs; And Phoebe rivals in her rural joys. With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare; And with a fillet binds her flowing hair. By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains, And still her vow'd virginity maintains. Impatient of a yoke, the name of bride She shuns, and hates the joys, she never try'd. On wilds, and woods, she fixes her desire: Nor knows what youth, and kindly love, inspire. Her father chides her oft: Thou ow'st, says he, A husb and to thy self, a son to me. She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed: She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head. Then casting round his neck her tender arms, Sooths him with blandishments, and filial charms: Give me, my Lord, she said, to live, and die, A spotless maid, without the marriage tye. 'Tis but a small request; I beg no more Than what Diana's father gave before. The good old sire was soften'd to consent; But said her wish wou'd prove her punishment: For so much youth, and so much beauty join'd, Oppos'd the state, which her desires design'd. The God of light, aspiring to her bed, Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed; And is, by his own oracles, mis-led. And as in empty fields the stubble burns, Or nightly travellers, when day returns, Their useless torches on dry hedges throw, That catch the flames, and kindle all the row; So burns the God, consuming in desire, And feeding in his breast a fruitless fire: Her well-turn'd neck he view'd (her neck was bare) And on her shoulders her dishevel'd hair; Oh were it comb'd, said he, with what a grace Wou'd every waving curl become her face! He view'd her eyes, like heav'nly lamps that shone, He view'd her lips, too sweet to view alone, Her taper fingers, and her panting breast; He praises all he sees, and for the rest Believes the beauties yet unseen are best: Swift as the wind, the damsel fled away, Nor did for these alluring speeches stay: Stay Nymph, he cry'd, I follow, not a foe. Thus from the lyon trips the trembling doe; Thus from the wolf the frighten'd lamb removes, And, from pursuing faulcons, fearful doves; Thou shunn'st a God, and shunn'st a God, that loves. Ah, lest some thorn shou'd pierce thy tender foot, Or thou shou'dst fall in flying my pursuit! To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline; Abate thy speed, and I will bate of mine. Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly; Nor basely born, nor shepherd's swain am I. Perhaps thou know'st not my superior state; And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate. Me Claros, Delphi, Tenedos obey; These hands the Patareian scepter sway. The King of Gods begot me: what shall be, Or is, or ever was, in Fate, I see. Mine is th' invention of the charming lyre; Sweet notes, and heav'nly numbers, I inspire. Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart; But ah! more deadly his, who pierc'd my heart. Med'cine is mine; what herbs and simples grow In fields, and forrests, all their pow'rs I know; And am the great physician call'd, below. Alas that fields and forrests can afford. No remedies to heal their love-sick lord! To cure the pains of love, no plant avails: And his own physick, the physician falls. She heard not half; so furiously she flies; And on her ear th' imperfect accent dies, Fear gave her wings; and as she fled, the wind Increasing, spread her flowing hair behind; And left her legs and thighs expos'd to view: Which made the God more eager to pursue. The God was young, and was too hotly bent To lose his time in empty compliment: But led by love, and fir'd with such a sight, Impetuously pursu'd his near delight. As when th' impatient greyhound slipt from far, Bounds o'er the glebe to course the fearful hare, She in her speed does all her safety lay; And he with double speed pursues the prey; O'er-runs her at the sitting turn, and licks His chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix: She scapes, and for the neighb'ring covert strives, And gaining shelter, doubts if yet she lives: If little things with great we may compare, Such was the God, and such the flying fair, She urg'd by fear, her feet did swiftly move, But he more swiftly, who was urg'd by love. He gathers ground upon her in the chace: Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace; And just is fast'ning on the wish'd embrace. The nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright, Spent with the labour of so long a flight; And now despairing, cast a mournful look Upon the streams of her paternal brook; Oh help, she cry'd, in this extreamest need! If water Gods are deities indeed: Gape Earth, and this unhappy wretch intomb; Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come. Scarce had she finish'd, when her feet she found Benumb'd with cold, and fasten'd to the ground: A filmy rind about her body grows; Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs: The nymph is all into a lawrel gone; The smoothness of her skin remains alone. Yet Phoebus loves her still, and casting round Her bole, his arms, some little warmth he found. The tree still panted in th' unfinish'd part: Not wholly vegetive, and heav'd her heart. He fixt his lips upon the trembling rind; It swerv'd aside, and his embrace declin'd. To whom the God, Because thou canst not be My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree: Be thou the prize of honour, and renown; The deathless poet, and the poem, crown. Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn, And, after poets, be by victors worn. Thou shalt returning Caesar's triumph grace; When pomps shall in a long procession pass. Wreath'd on the posts before his palace wait; And be the sacred guardian of the gate. Secure from thunder, and unharm'd by Jove, Unfading as th' immortal Pow'rs above: And as the locks of Phoebus are unshorn, So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn. The grateful tree was pleas'd with what he said; And shook the shady honours of her head. The Transformation of Io into a Heyfer An ancient forest in Thessalia grows; Which Tempe's pleasing valley does inclose: Through this the rapid Peneus take his course; From Pindus rolling with impetuous force; Mists from the river's mighty fall arise: And deadly damps inclose the cloudy skies: Perpetual fogs are hanging o'er the wood; And sounds of waters deaf the neighbourhood. Deep, in a rocky cave, he makes abode (A mansion proper for a mourning God). Here he gives audience; issuing out decrees To rivers, his dependant deities. On this occasion hither they resort; To pay their homage, and to make their court. All doubtful, whether to congratulate His daughter's honour, or lament her fate. Sperchaeus, crown'd with poplar, first appears; Then old Apidanus came crown'd with years: Enipeus turbulent, Amphrysos tame; And Aeas last with lagging waters came. Then, of his kindred brooks, a num'rous throng Condole his loss; and bring their urns along. Not one was wanting of the wat'ry train, That fill'd his flood, or mingled with the main: But Inachus, who in his cave, alone, Wept not another's losses, but his own, For his dear Io, whether stray'd, or dead, To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed. He sought her through the world; but sought in vain; And no where finding, rather fear'd her slain. Her, just returning from her father's brook, Jove had beheld, with a desiring look: And, Oh fair daughter of the flood, he said, Worthy alone of Jove's imperial bed, Happy whoever shall those charms possess; The king of Gods (nor is thy lover less) Invites thee to yon cooler shades; to shun The scorching rays of the meridian sun. Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the grove Alone, without a guide; thy guide is Jove. No puny Pow'r, but he whose high comm and Is unconfin'd, who rules the seas and land; And tempers thunder in his awful hand, Oh fly not: for she fled from his embrace O'er Lerna's pastures: he pursu'd the chace Along the shades of the Lyrcaean plain; At length the God, who never asks in vain, Involv'd with vapours, imitating night, Both Air, and Earth; and then suppress'd her flight, And mingling force with love, enjoy'd the full delight. Mean-time the jealous Juno, from on high, Survey'd the fruitful fields of Arcady; And wonder'd that the mist shou'd over-run The face of day-light, and obscure the sun. No nat'ral cause she found, from brooks, or bogs, Or marshy lowlands, to produce the fogs; Then round the skies she sought for Jupiter, Her faithless husband; but no Jove was there: Suspecting now the worst, Or I, she said, Am much mistaken, or am much betray'd. With fury she precipitates her flight: Dispels the shadows of dissembled night; And to the day restores his native light. Th' Almighty Leacher, careful to prevent The consequence, foreseeing her descent, Transforms his mistress in a trice; and now In Io's place appears a lovely cow. So sleek her skin, so faultless was her make, Ev'n Juno did unwilling pleasure take To see so fair a rival of her love; And what she was, and whence, enquir'd of Jove: Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree? The God, half caught, was forc'd upon a lye: And said she sprung from Earth. She took the word, And begg'd the beauteous heyfer of her lord. What should he do? 'twas equal shame to Jove Or to relinquish, or betray his love: Yet to refuse so slight a gift, wou'd be But more t' increase his consort's jealousie: Thus fear, and love, by turns, his heart assail'd; And stronger love had sure, at length, prevail'd: But some faint hope remain'd, his jealous queen Had not the mistress through the heyfer seen. The cautious Goddess, of her gift possest, Yet harbour'd anxious thoughts within her breast; As she who knew the falshood of her Jove; And justly fear'd some new relapse of love. Which to prevent, and to secure her care, To trusty Argus she commits the fair. The head of Argus (as with stars the skies) Was compass'd round, and wore an hundred eyes. But two by turns their lids in slumber steep; The rest on duty still their station keep; Nor cou'd the total constellation sleep. Thus, ever present, to his eyes, and mind, His charge was still before him, tho' behind. In fields he suffer'd her to feed by Day, But when the setting sun to night gave way, The captive cow he summon'd with a call; And drove her back, and ty'd her to the stall. On leaves of trees, and bitter herbs she fed, Heav'n was her canopy, bare earth her bed: So hardly lodg'd, and to digest her food, She drank from troubled streams, defil'd with mud. Her woeful story fain she wou'd have told, With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold. Her head to her ungentle keeper bow'd, She strove to speak, she spoke not, but she low'd: Affrighted with the noise, she look'd around, And seem'd t' inquire the author of the sound. Once on the banks where often she had play'd (Her father's banks), she came, and there survey'd Her alter'd visage, and her branching head; And starting, from her self she wou'd have fled. Her fellow nymphs, familiar to her eyes, Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise. Ev'n Inachus himself was ignorant; And in his daughter, did his daughter want. She follow'd where her fellows went, as she Were still a partner of the company: They stroak her neck; the gentle heyfer stands, And her neck offers to their stroaking hands. Her father gave her grass; the grass she took; And lick'd his palms, and cast a piteous look; And in the language of her eyes, she spoke. She wou'd have told her name, and ask'd relief, But wanting words, in tears she tells her grief. Which, with her foot she makes him understand; And prints the name of Io in the sand. Ah wretched me! her mournful father cry'd; She, with a sigh, to wretched me reply'd: About her milk-white neck, his arms he threw; And wept, and then these tender words ensue. And art thou she, whom I have sought around The world, and have at length so sadly found? So found, is worse than lost: with mutual words Thou answer'st not, no voice thy tongue affords: But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast; And speech deny'd, by lowing is express'd. Unknowing, I prepar'd thy bridal bed; With empty hopes of happy issue fed. But now the husb and of a herd must be Thy mate, and bell'wing sons thy progeny. Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief: But now my God-head but extends my grief: Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see, And makes me curse my immortality! More had he said, but fearful of her stay, The starry guardian drove his charge away, To some fresh pasture; on a hilly height He sate himself, and kept her still in sight. The Eyes of Argus transform'd into a Peacock's Train Now Jove no longer cou'd her suff'rings bear; But call'd in haste his airy messenger, The son of Maia, with severe decree To kill the keeper, and to set her free. With all his harness soon the God was sped, His flying hat was fastned on his head, Wings on his heels were hung, and in his hand He holds the vertue of the snaky wand. The liquid air his moving pinions wound, And, in the moment, shoot him on the ground. Before he came in sight, the crafty God His wings dismiss'd, but still retain'd his rod: That sleep-procuring wand wise Hermes took, But made it seem to sight a sherpherd's hook. With this, he did a herd of goats controul; Which by the way he met, and slily stole. Clad like a country swain, he pip'd, and sung; And playing, drove his jolly troop along. With pleasure, Argus the musician heeds; But wonders much at those new vocal reeds. And whosoe'er thou art, my friend, said he, Up hither drive thy goats, and play by me: This hill has browz for them, and shade for thee. The God, who was with ease induc'd to climb, Began discourse to pass away the time; And still betwixt, his tuneful pipe he plies; And watch'd his hour, to close the keeper's eyes. With much ado, he partly kept awake; Not suff'ring all his eyes repose to take: And ask'd the stranger, who did reeds invent, And whence began so rare an instrument? The Transformation of Syrinx into Reeds Then Hermes thus: A nymph of late there was Whose heav'nly form her fellows did surpass. The pride and joy of fair Arcadia's plains, Belov'd by deities, ador'd by swains: Syrinx her name, by Sylvans oft pursu'd, As oft she did the lustful Gods delude: The rural, and the woodl and Pow'rs disdain'd; With Cynthia hunted, and her rites maintain'd: Like Phoebe clad, even Phoebe's self she seems, So tall, so streight, such well-proportion'd limbs: The nicest eye did no distinction know, But that the goddess bore a golden bow: Distinguish'd thus, the sight she cheated too. Descending from Lycaeus, Pan admires The matchless nymph, and burns with new desires. A crown of pine upon his head he wore; And thus began her pity to implore. But e'er he thus began, she took her flight So swift, she was already out of sight. Nor stay'd to hear the courtship of the God; But bent her course to Ladon's gentle flood: There by the river stopt, and tir'd before; Relief from water nymphs her pray'rs implore. Now while the lustful God, with speedy pace, Just thought to strain her in a strict embrace, He fill'd his arms with reeds, new rising on the place. And while he sighs, his ill success to find, The tender canes were shaken by the wind; And breath'd a mournful air, unheard before; That much surprizing Pan, yet pleas'd him more. Admiring this new musick, Thou, he said, Who canst not be the partner of my bed, At least shall be the confort of my mind: And often, often to my lips be joyn'd. He form'd the reeds, proportion'd as they are, Unequal in their length, and wax'd with care, They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair. While Hermes pip'd, and sung, and told his tale, The keeper's winking eyes began to fail, And drowsie slumber on the lids to creep; 'Till all the watchman was at length asleep. Then soon the God his voice, and song supprest; And with his pow'rful rod confirm'd his rest: Without delay his crooked faulchion drew, And at one fatal stroke the keeper slew. Down from the rock fell the dissever'd head, Opening its eyes in death; and falling, bled; And mark'd the passage with a crimson trail: Thus Argus lies in pieces, cold, and pale; And all his hundred eyes, with all their light, Are clos'd at once, in one perpetual night. These Juno takes, that they no more may fail, And spreads them in her peacock's gaudy tail. Impatient to revenge her injur'd bed, She wreaks her anger on her rival's head; With Furies frights her from her native home; And drives her gadding, round the world to roam: Nor ceas'd her madness, and her flight, before She touch'd the limits of the Pharian shore. At length, arriving on the banks of Nile, Wearied with length of ways, and worn with toil, She laid her down; and leaning on her knees, Invok'd the cause of all her miseries: And cast her languishing regards above, For help from Heav'n, and her ungrateful Jove. She sigh'd, she wept, she low'd; 'twas all she cou'd; And with unkindness seem'd to tax the God. Last, with an humble pray'r, she beg'd repose, Or death at least, to finish all her woes. Jove heard her vows, and with a flatt'ring look, In her behalf to jealous Juno spoke, He cast his arms about her neck, and said, Dame, rest secure; no more thy nuptial bed This nymph shall violate; by Styx I swear, And every oath that binds the Thunderer. The Goddess was appeas'd; and at the word Was Io to her former shape restor'd. The rugged hair began to fall away; The sweetness of her eyes did only stay, Tho' not so large; her crooked horns decrease; The wideness of her jaws and nostrils cease: Her hoofs to hands return, in little space: The five long taper fingers take their place, And nothing of the heyfer now is seen, Beside the native whiteness of the skin. Erected on her feet she walks again: And two the duty of the four sustain. She tries her tongue; her silence softly breaks, And fears her former lowings when she speaks: A Goddess now, through all th' Aegyptian State: And serv'd by priests, who in white linnen wait. Her son was Epaphus, at length believ'd The son of Jove, and as a God receiv'd; With sacrifice ador'd, and publick pray'rs, He common temples with his mother shares. Equal in years, and rival in renown With Epaphus, the youthful Phaeton Like honour claims; and boasts his sire the sun. His haughty looks, and his assuming air, The son of Isis could no longer bear: Thou tak'st thy mother's word too far, said he, And hast usurp'd thy boasted pedigree. Go, base pretender to a borrow'd name. Thus tax'd, he blush'd with anger, and with shame; But shame repress'd his rage: the daunted youth Soon seeks his mother, and enquires the truth: Mother, said he, this infamy was thrown By Epaphus on you, and me your son. He spoke in publick, told it to my face; Nor durst I vindicate the dire disgrace: Even I, the bold, the sensible of wrong, Restrain'd by shame, was forc'd to hold my tongue. To hear an open slander, is a curse: But not to find an answer, is a worse. If I am Heav'n-begot, assert your son By some sure sign; and make my father known, To right my honour, and redeem your own. He said, and saying cast his arms about Her neck, and beg'd her to resolve the doubt. 'Tis hard to judge if Clymene were mov'd More by his pray'r, whom she so dearly lov'd, Or more with fury fir'd, to find her name Traduc'd, and made the sport of common fame. She stretch'd her arms to Heav'n, and fix'd her eyes On that fair planet that adorns the skies; Now by those beams, said she, whose holy fires Consume my breast, and kindle my desires; By him, who sees us both, and clears our sight, By him, the publick minister of light, I swear that Sun begot thee; if I lye, Let him his chearful influence deny: Let him no more this perjur'd creature see; And shine on all the world but only me. If still you doubt your mother's innocence, His eastern mansion is not far from hence; With little pains you to his Leve go, And from himself your parentage may know. With joy th' ambitious youth his mother heard, And eager, for the journey soon prepar'd. He longs the world beneath him to survey; To guide the chariot; and to give the day: From Meroe's burning sands he bends his course, Nor less in India feels his father's force: His travel urging, till he came in sight; And saw the palace by the purple light. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE FIRST ,

1136:BOOK THE ELEVENTH The Death of Orpheus Here, while the Thracian bard's enchanting strain Sooths beasts, and woods, and all the listn'ing plain, The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad, In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad, Warbling in air perceiv'd his lovely lay, And from a rising ground beheld him play. When one, the wildest, with dishevel'd hair, That loosely stream'd, and ruffled in the air; Soon as her frantick eye the lyrist spy'd, See, see! the hater of our sex, she cry'd. Then at his face her missive javelin sent, Which whiz'd along, and brusht him as it went; But the soft wreathes of ivy twisted round, Prevent a deep impression of the wound. Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone, Which, by the sound subdu'd as soon as thrown, Falls at his feet, and with a seeming sense Implores his pardon for its late offence. But now their frantick rage unbounded grows, Turns all to madness, and no measure knows: Yet this the charms of musick might subdue, But that, with all its charms, is conquer'd too; In louder strains their hideous yellings rise, And squeaking horn-pipes eccho thro' the skies, Which, in hoarse consort with the drum, confound The moving lyre, and ev'ry gentle sound: Then 'twas the deafen'd stones flew on with speed, And saw, unsooth'd, their tuneful poet bleed. The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew, Now, by the female mob's more furious rage, Are driv'n, and forc'd to quit the shady stage. Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail, Nor can his song against their wrath prevail: They flock, like birds, when in a clustring flight, By day they chase the boding fowl of night. So crowded amphitheatres survey The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey. Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine, For sacred rites of mild religion made, Are flung promiscuous at the poet's head. Those clods of earth or flints discharge, and these Hurl prickly branches sliver'd from the trees. And, lest their passion shou'd be unsupply'd, The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spy'd Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke, The fallow'd field with slow advances broke; Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil, Procuring food with long laborious toil. These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near, Quitted their tools, and fled, possest with fear. Long spades, and rakes of mighty size were found, Carelesly left upon the broken ground. With these the furious lunaticks engage, And first the lab'ring oxen feel their rage; Then to the poet they return with speed, Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed: In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain He tries, before, his never-failing strain. And, from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound Fierce tygers, and insensate rocks cou'd wound, Ah Gods! how moving was the mournful sight! To see the fleeting soul now take its flight. Thee the soft warblers of the feather'd kind Bewail'd; for thee thy savage audience pin'd; Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led, Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead; And drooping trees their leafy glories shed. Naids and Dryads with dishevel'd hair Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear; Nor cou'd the river-Gods conceal their moan, But with new floods of tears augment their own. His mangled limbs lay scatter'd all around, His head, and harp a better fortune found; In Hebrus' streams they gently roul'd along, And sooth'd the waters with a mournful song. Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire, A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre; The hollows banks in solemn consort mourn, And the sad strain in ecchoing groans return. Now with the current to the sea they glide, Born by the billows of the briny tide; And driv'n where waves round rocky Lesbos roar, They strand, and lodge upon Methymna's shore. But here, when landed on the foreign soil, A venom'd snake, the product of the isle Attempts the head, and sacred locks embru'd With clotted gore, and still fresh-dropping blood. Phoebus, at last, his kind protection gives, And from the fact the greedy monster drives: Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone, Still grinning ghastly, tho' transform'd to stone. His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore, And knows the places it had seen before: Among the shadows of the pious train He finds Eurydice, and loves again; With pleasure views the beauteous phantom's charms, And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms. There side by side they unmolested walk, Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk; Aft or before the bard securely goes, And, without danger, can review his spouse. The Thracian Women transform'd to Trees Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong, Of Orpheus murder'd, on the madding throng, Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand Fix'd by the roots along the conscious land. Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran To wreak their malice on the guiltless man, Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound, Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground. And, as the fowler with his subtle gins, His feather'd captives by the feet entwines, That flutt'ring pant, and struggle to get loose, Yet only closer draw the fatal noose; So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain To quit the place, they but encreas'd their pain. They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controul'd; The root, tho' pliant, toughly keeps its hold. In vain their toes and feet they look to find, For ev'n their shapely legs are cloath'd with rind. One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke, And finds the flesh transform'd to solid oak; Another, with surprize, and grief distrest, Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast. A rugged bark their softer neck invades, Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades; At once they seem, and are, a real grove, With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above. The Fable of Midas Nor this suffic'd; the God's disgust remains, And he resolves to quit their hated plains; The vineyards of Tymole ingross his care, And, with a better choir, he fixes there; Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll'd, Then undistinguish'd for its sands of gold. The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng, Come to salute their God, and jovial danc'd along. Silenus only miss'd; for while he reel'd, Feeble with age, and wine, about the field, The hoary drunkard had forgot his way, And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey; Who to king Midas drag the captive God, While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod. Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore, And knew the rites of Bacchus long before. He, when he saw his venerable guest, In honour of the God ordain'd a feast. Ten days in course, with each continu'd night, Were spent in genial mirth, and brisk delight: Then on th' eleventh, when with brighter ray Phosphor had chac'd the fading stars away, The king thro' Lydia's fields young Bacchus sought, And to the God his foster-father brought. Pleas'd with the welcome sight, he bids him soon But name his wish, and swears to grant the boon. A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow'd On him whose choice so little judgment show'd. Give me, says he (nor thought he ask'd too much), That with my body whatsoe'er I touch, Chang'd from the nature which it held of old, May be converted into yellow gold. He had his wish; but yet the God repin'd, To think the fool no better wish could find. But the brave king departed from the place, With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face: Nor could contain, but, as he took his way, Impatient longs to make the first essay. Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew, The twig strait glitter'd with a golden hue: He takes a stone, the stone was turn'd to gold; A clod he touches, and the crumbling mold Acknowledg'd soon the great transforming pow'r, In weight and substance like a mass of ore. He pluck'd the corn, and strait his grasp appears Fill'd with a bending tuft of golden ears. An apple next he takes, and seems to hold The bright Hesperian vegetable gold. His hand he careless on a pillar lays. With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze: And while he washes, as the servants pour, His touch converts the stream to Danae's show'r. To see these miracles so finely wrought, Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought. The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board, Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord; Whose pow'rful hands the bread no sooner hold, But its whole substance is transform'd to gold: Up to his mouth he lifts the sav'ry meat, Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat: His patron's noble juice of purple hue, Touch'd by his lips, a gilded cordial grew; Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold, It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold. The rich poor fool, confounded with surprize, Starving in all his various plenty lies: Sick of his wish, he now detests the pow'r, For which he ask'd so earnestly before; Amidst his gold with pinching famine curst; And justly tortur'd with an equal thirst. At last his shining arms to Heav'n he rears, And in distress, for refuge, flies to pray'rs. O father Bacchus, I have sinn'd, he cry'd, And foolishly thy gracious gift apply'd; Thy pity now, repenting, I implore; Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more. The hungry wretch, his folly thus confest, Touch'd the kind deity's good-natur'd breast; The gentle God annull'd his first decree, And from the cruel compact set him free. But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm, And to dilute the relicks of the charm, He bids him seek the stream that cuts the land Nigh where the tow'rs of Lydian Sardis stand; Then trace the river to the fountain head, And meet it rising from its rocky bed; There, as the bubling tide pours forth amain, To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain. The king instructed to the fount retires, But with the golden charm the stream inspires: For while this quality the man forsakes, An equal pow'r the limpid water takes; Informs with veins of gold the neighb'ring land, And glides along a bed of golden sand. Now loathing wealth, th' occasion of his woes, Far in the woods he sought a calm repose; In caves and grottos, where the nymphs resort, And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court. Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind! But his condition alter'd not his mind. For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow, And from his cliffs surveys the seas below, In his descent, by Sardis bounded here, By the small confines of Hypaepa there, Pan to the nymphs his frolick ditties play'd, Tuning his reeds beneath the chequer'd shade. The nymphs are pleas'd, the boasting sylvan plays, And speaks with slight of great Apollo's lays. Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still Accepts the tryal with unequal skill. The venerable judge was seated high On his own hill, that seem'd to touch the sky. Above the whisp'ring trees his head he rears, From their encumbring boughs to free his ears; A wreath of oak alone his temples bound, The pendant acorns loosely dangled round. In me your judge, says he, there's no delay: Then bids the goatherd God begin, and play. Pan tun'd the pipe, and with his rural song Pleas'd the low taste of all the vulgar throng; Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please, Midas was there, and Midas judg'd with these. The mountain sire with grave deportment now To Phoebus turns his venerable brow: And, as he turns, with him the listning wood In the same posture of attention stood. The God his own Parnassian laurel crown'd, And in a wreath his golden tresses bound, Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground. High on the left his iv'ry lute he rais'd, The lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring jewels, blaz'd In his right hand he nicely held the quill, His easy posture spoke a master's skill. The strings he touch'd with more than human art, Which pleas'd the judge's ear, and sooth'd his heart; Who soon judiciously the palm decreed, And to the lute postpon'd the squeaking reed. All, with applause, the rightful sentence heard, Midas alone dissatisfy'd appear'd; To him unjustly giv'n the judgment seems, For Pan's barbarick notes he most esteems. The lyrick God, who thought his untun'd ear Deserv'd but ill a human form to wear, Of that deprives him, and supplies the place With some more fit, and of an ampler space: Fix'd on his noddle an unseemly pair, Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair; Without a total change from what he was, Still in the man preserves the simple ass. He, to conceal the scandal of the deed, A purple turbant folds about his head; Veils the reproach from publick view, and fears The laughing world would spy his monstrous ears. One trusty barber-slave, that us'd to dress His master's hair, when leng then'd to excess, The mighty secret knew, but knew alone, And, tho' impatient, durst not make it known. Restless, at last, a private place he found, Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground; In a low whisper he reveal'd the case, And cover'd in the earth, and silent left the place. In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous crop From the confided furrow sprouted up; Which, high advancing with the ripening year, Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care: For then the rustling blades, and whisp'ring wind, To tell th' important secret, both combin'd. The Building of Troy Phoebus, with full revenge, from Tmolus flies, Darts thro' the air, and cleaves the liquid skies; Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the plains Where great Laomedon sole monarch reigns; Where, built between the two projecting strands, To Panomphaean Jove an altar stands. Here first aspiring thoughts the king employ, To found the lofty tow'rs of future Troy. The work, from schemes magnificent begun, At vast expence was slowly carry'd on: Which Phoebus seeing, with the trident God Who rules the swelling surges with his nod, Assuming each a mortal shape, combine At a set price to finish his design. The work was built; the king their price denies, And his injustice backs with perjuries. This Neptune cou'd not brook, but drove the main, A mighty deluge, o'er the Phrygian plain: 'Twas all a sea; the waters of the deep From ev'ry vale the copious harvest sweep; The briny billows overflow the soil, Ravage the fields, and mock the plowman's toil. Nor this appeas'd the God's revengeful mind, For still a greater plague remains behind; A huge sea-monster lodges on the sands, And the king's daughter for his prey demands. To him that sav'd the damsel, was decreed A set of horses of the Sun's fine breed: But when Alcides from the rock unty'd The trembling fair, the ransom was deny'd. He, in revenge, the new-built walls attack'd, And the twice-perjur'd city bravely sack'd. Telamon aided, and in justice shar'd Part of the plunder as his due reward: The princess, rescu'd late, with all her charms, Hesione, was yielded to his arms; For Peleus, with a Goddess-bride, was more Proud of his spouse, than of his birth before: Grandsons to Jove there might be more than one, But he the Goddess had enjoy'd alone. The Story of Thetis and Peleus For Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said, Fair Goddess of the waves, consent to wed, And take some spritely lover to your bed. A son you'll have, the terror of the field, To whom in fame, and pow'r his sire shall yield. Jove, who ador'd the nymph with boundless love, Did from his breast the dangerous flame remove. He knew the Fates, nor car'd to raise up one, Whose fame and greatness should eclipse his own, On happy Peleus he bestow'd her charms, And bless'd his grandson in the Goddess' arms: A silent creek Thessalia's coast can show; Two arms project, and shape it like a bow; 'Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide Does scarce the yellow-gravell'd bottom hide; For the quick eye may thro' the liquid wave A firm unweedy level beach perceive. A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows, Whose boughs, tho' thick, a beauteous grot disclose; The well-wrought fabrick, to discerning eyes, Rather by art than Nature seems to rise. A bridled dolphin oft fair Thetis bore To this her lov'd retreat, her fav'rite shore. Here Peleus seiz'd her, slumbring while she lay, And urg'd his suit with all that love could say: But when he found her obstinately coy, Resolv'd to force her, and comm and the joy; The nymph, o'erpowr'd, to art for succour flies And various shapes the eager youth surprize: A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain, His hands the fleeting substance still detain: A branchy tree high in the air she grew; About its bark his nimble arms he threw: A tyger next she glares with flaming eyes; The frighten'd lover quits his hold, and flies: The sea-Gods he with sacred rites adores, Then a libation on the ocean pours; While the fat entrails crackle in the fire, And sheets of smoak in sweet perfume aspire; 'Till Proteus rising from his oozy bed, Thus to the poor desponding lover said: No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ, For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy. You must once more th' unwary nymph surprize, As in her cooly grot she slumbring lies; Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands, And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands. Still hold her under ev'ry different shape, 'Till tir'd she tries no longer to escape. Thus he: then sunk beneath the glassy flood, And broken accents flutter'd, where he stood. Bright Sol had almost now his journey done, And down the steepy western convex run; When the fair Nereid left the briny wave, And, as she us'd, retreated to her cave. He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose, And into various shapes her body throws: She went to move her arms, and found 'em ty'd; Then with a sigh, Some God assists ye, cry'd, And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side. About her waiste his longing arms he flung, From which embrace the great Achilles sprung. The Transformation of Daedalion Peleus unmix'd felicity enjoy'd (Blest in a valiant son, and virtuous bride), 'Till Fortune did in blood his hands imbrue, And his own brother by curst chance he slew: Then driv'n from Thessaly, his native clime, Trachinia first gave shelter to his crime; Where peaceful Ceyx mildly fill'd the throne, And like his sire, the morning planet, shone; But now, unlike himself, bedew'd with tears, Mourning a brother lost, his brow appears. First to the town with travel spent, and care, Peleus, and his small company repair: His herds, and flocks the while at leisure feed, On the rich pasture of a neighb'ring mead. The prince before the royal presence brought, Shew'd by the suppliant olive what he sought; Then tells his name, and race, and country right, But hides th' unhappy reason of his flight. He begs the king some little town to give, Where they may safe his faithful vassals live. Ceyx reply'd: To all my bounty flows, A hospitable realm your suit has chose. Your glorious race, and far-resounding fame, And grandsire Jove, peculiar favours claim. All you can wish, I grant; entreaties spare; My kingdom (would 'twere worth the sharing) share. Tears stop'd his speech: astonish'd Peleus pleads To know the cause from whence his grief proceeds. The prince reply'd: There's none of ye but deems This hawk was ever such as now it seems; Know 'twas a heroe once, Daedalion nam'd, For warlike deeds, and haughty valour fam'd; Like me to that bright luminary born, Who wakes Aurora, and brings on the morn. His fierceness still remains, and love of blood, Now dread of birds, and tyrant of the wood. My make was softer, peace my greatest care; But this my brother wholly bent on war; Late nations fear'd, and routed armies fled That force, which now the tim'rous pigeons dread. A daughter he possess'd, divinely fair, And scarcely yet had seen her fifteenth year; Young Chione: a thousand rivals strove To win the maid, and teach her how to love. Phoebus, and Mercury by chance one day From Delphi, and Cyllene past this way; Together they the virgin saw: desire At once warm'd both their breasts with am'rous fire. Phoebus resolv'd to wait 'till close of day; But Mercury's hot love brook'd no delay; With his entrancing rod the maid he charms, And unresisted revels in her arms. 'Twas night, and Phoebus in a beldam's dress, To the late rifled beauty got access. Her time compleat nine circling moons had run; To either God she bore a lovely son: To Mercury Autolycus she brought, Who turn'd to thefts and tricks his subtle thought; Possess'd he was of all his father's slight, At will made white look black, and black look white. Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire, The Muses lov'd, and finely struck the lyre, And made his voice, and touch in harmony conspire. In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth, The love of Gods, and royal father's worth, And Jove among your ancestors rehearse! Could blessings such as these e'er prove a curse? To her they did, who with audacious pride, Vain of her own, Diana's charms decry'd. Her taunts the Goddess with resentment fill; My face you like not, you shall try my skill. She said; and strait her vengeful bow she strung, And sent a shaft that pierc'd her guilty tongue: The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries; In the red stream her soul reluctant flies. With sorrow wild I ran to her relief, And try'd to moderate my brother's grief. He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat, Loudly laments, and hears me not intreat. When on the fun'ral pile he saw her laid, Thrice he to rush into the flames assay'd, Thrice with officious care by us was stay'd. Now, mad with grief, away he fled amain, Like a stung heifer that resents the pain, And bellowing wildly bounds along the plain. O'er the most rugged ways so fast he ran, He seem'd a bird already, not a man: He left us breathless all behind; and now In quest of death had gain'd Parnassus' brow: But when from thence headlong himself he threw, He fell not, but with airy pinions flew. Phoebus in pity chang'd him to a fowl, Whose crooked beak and claws the birds controul, Little of bulk, but of a warlike soul. A hawk become, the feather'd race's foe, He tries to case his own by other's woe. A Wolf turn'd into Marble While they astonish'd heard the king relate These wonders of his hapless brother's fate; The prince's herdsman at the court arrives, And fresh surprize to all the audience gives. O Peleus, Peleus! dreadful news I bear, He said; and trembled as he spoke for fear. The worst, affrighted Peleus bid him tell, Whilst Ceyx too grew pale with friendly zeal. Thus he began: When Sol mid-heav'n had gain'd, And half his way was past, and half remain'd, I to the level shore my cattle drove, And let them freely in the meadows rove. Some stretch'd at length admire the watry plain, Some crop'd the herb, some wanton swam the main. A temple stands of antique make hard by, Where no gilt domes, nor marble lure the eye; Unpolish'd rafters bear its lowly height, Hid by a grove, as ancient, from the sight. Here Nereus, and the Nereids they adore; I learnt it from the man who thither bore His net, to dry it on the sunny shore. Adjoyns a lake, inclos'd with willows round, Where swelling waves have overflow'd the mound, And, muddy, stagnate on the lower ground. From thence a russling noise increasing flies, Strikes the still shore; and frights us with surprize, Strait a huge wolf rush'd from the marshy wood, His jaws besmear'd with mingled foam, and blood, Tho' equally by hunger urg'd, and rage, His appetite he minds not to asswage; Nought that he meets, his rabid fury spares, But the whole herd with mad disorder tears. Some of our men who strove to drive him thence, Torn by his teeth, have dy'd in their defence. The echoing lakes, the sea, and fields, and shore, Impurpled blush with streams of reeking gore. Delay is loss, nor have we time for thought; While yet some few remain alive, we ought To seize our arms, and with confederate force Try if we so can stop his bloody course. But Peleus car'd not for his ruin'd herd; His crime he call'd to mind, and thence inferr'd, That Psamathe's revenge this havock made, In sacrifice to murder'd Phocus' shade. The king commands his servants to their arms; Resolv'd to go; but the loud noise alarms His lovely queen, who from her chamber flew, And her half-plaited hair behind her threw: About his neck she hung with loving fears, And now with words, and now with pleading tears, Intreated that he'd send his men alone, And stay himself, to save two lives in one. Then Peleus: Your just fears, o queen, forget; Too much the offer leaves me in your debt. No arms against the monster I shall bear, But the sea nymphs appease with humble pray'r. The citadel's high turrets pierce the sky, Which home-bound vessels, glad, from far descry; This they ascend, and thence with sorrow ken The mangled heifers lye, and bleeding men; Th' inexorable ravager they view, With blood discolour'd, still the rest pursue: There Peleus pray'd submissive tow'rds the sea, And deprecates the ire of injur'd Psamathe. But deaf to all his pray'rs the nymph remain'd, 'Till Thetis for her spouse the boon obtain'd. Pleas'd with the luxury, the furious beast, Unstop'd, continues still his bloody feast: While yet upon a sturdy bull he flew, Chang'd by the nymph, a marble block he grew. No longer dreadful now the wolf appears, Bury'd in stone, and vanish'd like their fears. Yet still the Fates unhappy Peleus vex'd; To the Magnesian shore he wanders next. Acastus there, who rul'd the peaceful clime, Grants his request, and expiates his crime. The Story of Ceyx and Alcyone These prodigies affect the pious prince, But more perplex'd with those that happen'd since, He purposes to seek the Clarian God, Avoiding Delphi, his more fam'd abode, Since Phlegyan robbers made unsafe the road. Yet could he not from her he lov'd so well, The fatal voyage, he resolv'd, conceal; But when she saw her lord prepar'd to part, A deadly cold ran shiv'ring to her heart; Her faded cheeks are chang'd to boxen hue, And in her eyes the tears are ever new. She thrice essay'd to speak; her accents hung, And falt'ring dy'd unfinish'd on her tongue, And vanish'd into sighs: with long delay Her voice return'd, and found the wonted way. Tell me, my lord, she said, what fault unknown Thy once belov'd Alcyone has done? Whither, ah, whither, is thy kindness gone! Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his wife, And unconcern'd forsake the sweets of life? What can thy mind to this long journey move? Or need'st thou absence to renew thy love? Yet, if thou go'st by land, tho' grief possess My soul ev'n then, my fears will be the less. But ah! be warn'd to shun the watry way, The face is frightful of the stormy sea: For late I saw a-drift disjointed planks, And empty tombs erected on the banks. Nor let false hopes to trust betray thy mind, Because my sire in caves constrains the wind, Can with a breath their clam'rous rage appease, They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas: Not so; for once indulg'd, they sweep the main; Deaf to the call, or hearing, hear in vain; But bent on mischief bear the waves before, And not content with seas, insult the shore, When ocean, air, and Earth, at once ingage, And rooted forests fly before their rage: At once the clashing clouds to battel move, And lightnings run across the fields above: I know them well, and mark'd their rude comport, While yet a child within my father's court: In times of tempest they comm and alone, And he but sits precarious on the throne: The more I know, the more my fears augment; And fears are oft prophetick of th' event. But if not fears, or reasons will prevail, If Fate has fix'd thee obstinate to sail, Go not without thy wife, but let me bear My part of danger with an equal share, And present, what I suffer only fear: Then o'er the bounding billows shall we fly, Secure to live together, or to die. These reasons mov'd her warlike husband's heart, But still he held his purpose to depart: For as he lov'd her equal to his life, He would not to the seas expose his wife; Nor could be wrought his voyage to refrain, But sought by arguments to sooth her pain: Nor these avail'd; at length he lights on one, With which so difficult a cause he won: My love, so short an absence cease to fear, For by my father's holy flame I swear, Before two moons their orb with light adorn, If Heav'n allow me life, I will return. This promise of so short a stay prevails; He soon equips the ship, supplies the sails, And gives the word to launch; she trembling views This pomp of death, and parting tears renews: Last with a kiss, she took a long farewel, Sigh'd with a sad presage, and swooning fell: While Ceyx seeks delays, the lusty crew, Rais'd on their banks, their oars in order drew To their broad breasts, the ship with fury flew. The queen recover'd, rears her humid eyes, And first her husb and on the poop espies, Shaking his hand at distance on the main; She took the sign, and shook her hand again. Still as the ground recedes, contracts her view With sharpen'd sight, 'till she no longer knew The much-lov'd face; that comfort lost supplies With less, and with the galley feeds her eyes; The galley born from view by rising gales, She follow'd with her sight the flying sails: When ev'n the flying sails were seen no more, Forsaken of all sight she left the shore. Then on her bridal bed her body throws, And sought in sleep her wearied eyes to close: Her husband's pillow, and the widow'd part Which once he press'd, renew'd the former smart. And now a breeze from shoar began to blow, The sailors ship their oars, and cease to row; Then hoist their yards a-trip, and all their sails Let fall, to court the wind, and catch the gales: By this the vessel half her course had run, Both shoars were lost to sight, when at the close Of day a stiffer gale at east arose: The sea grew white, the rouling waves from far, Like heralds, first denounce the watry war. This seen, the master soon began to cry, Strike, strike the top-sail; let the main-sheet fly, And furl your sails: the winds repel the sound, And in the speaker's mouth the speech is drown'd. Yet of their own accord, as danger taught Each in his way, officiously they wrought; Some stow their oars, or stop the leaky sides, Another bolder, yet the yard bestrides, And folds the sails; a fourth with labour laves Th' intruding seas, and waves ejects on waves. In this confusion while their work they ply, The winds augment the winter of the sky, And wage intestine wars; the suff'ring seas Are toss'd, and mingled, as their tyrants please. The master would command, but in despair Of safety, stands amaz'd with stupid care, Nor what to bid, or what forbid he knows, Th' ungovern'd tempest to such fury grows: Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill; With such a concourse comes the flood of ill; The cries of men are mix'd with rattling shrowds; Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds: At once from east to west, from pole to pole, The forky lightnings flash, the roaring thunders roul. Now waves on waves ascending scale the skies, And in the fires above the water fries: When yellow sands are sifted from below, The glittering billows give a golden show: And when the fouler bottom spews the black The Stygian dye the tainted waters take: Then frothy white appear the flatted seas, And change their colour, changing their disease, Like various fits the Trachin vessel finds, And now sublime, she rides upon the winds; As from a lofty summit looks from high, And from the clouds beholds the nether sky; Now from the depth of Hell they lift their sight, And at a distance see superior light; The lashing billows make a loud report, And beat her sides, as batt'ring rams a fort: Or as a lion bounding in his way, With force augmented, bears against his prey, Sidelong to seize; or unapal'd with fear, Springs on the toils, and rushes on the spear: So seas impell'd by winds, with added pow'r Assault the sides, and o'er the hatches tow'r. The planks (their pitchy cov'ring wash'd away) Now yield; and now a yawning breach display: The roaring waters with a hostile tide Rush through the ruins of her gaping side. Mean-time in sheets of rain the sky descends, And ocean swell'd with waters upwards tends; One rising, falling one, the Heav'ns and sea Meet at their confines, in the middle way: The sails are drunk with show'rs, and drop with rain, Sweet waters mingle with the briny main. No star appears to lend his friendly light; Darkness, and tempest make a double night; But flashing fires disclose the deep by turns, And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns. Now all the waves their scatter'd force unite, And as a soldier foremost in the fight, Makes way for others, and an host alone Still presses on, and urging gains the town; So while th' invading billows come a-breast, The hero tenth advanc'd before the rest, Sweeps all before him with impetuous sway, And from the walls descends upon the prey; Part following enter, part remain without, With envy hear their fellows' conqu'ring shout, And mount on others' backs, in hopes to share The city, thus become the seat of war. An universal cry resounds aloud, The sailors run in heaps, a helpless crowd; Art fails, and courage falls, no succour near; As many waves, as many deaths appear. One weeps, and yet despairs of late relief; One cannot weep, his fears congeal his grief, But stupid, with dry eyes expects his fate: One with loud shrieks laments his lost estate, And calls those happy whom their fun'rals wait. This wretch with pray'rs and vows the Gods implores, And ev'n the skies he cannot see, adores. That other on his friends his thoughts bestows, His careful father, and his faithful spouse. The covetous worldling in his anxious mind, Thinks only on the wealth he left behind. All Ceyx his Alcyone employs, For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys: His wife he wishes, and would still be near, Not her with him, but wishes him with her: Now with last looks he seeks his native shoar, Which Fate has destin'd him to see no more; He sought, but in the dark tempestuous night He knew not whither to direct his sight. So whirl the seas, such darkness blinds the sky, That the black night receives a deeper dye. The giddy ship ran round; the tempest tore Her mast, and over-board the rudder bore. One billow mounts, and with a scornful brow, Proud of her conquest gain'd, insults the waves below; Nor lighter falls, than if some giant tore Pindus and Athos with the freight they bore, And toss'd on seas; press'd with the pond'rous blow, Down sinks the ship within th' abyss below: Down with the vessel sink into the main The many, never more to rise again. Some few on scatter'd planks, with fruitless care, Lay hold, and swim; but while they swim, despair. Ev'n he who late a scepter did command, Now grasps a floating fragment in his hand; And while he struggles on the stormy main, Invokes his father, and his wife's, in vain. But yet his consort is his greatest care, Alcyone he names amidst his pray'r; Names as a charm against the waves and wind; Most in his mouth, and ever in his mind. Tir'd with his toil, all hopes of safety past, From pray'rs to wishes he descends at last; That his dead body, wafted to the sands, Might have its burial from her friendly hands, As oft as he can catch a gulp of air, And peep above the seas, he names the fair; And ev'n when plung'd beneath, on her he raves, Murm'ring Alcyone below the waves: At last a falling billow stops his breath, Breaks o'er his head, and whelms him underneath. That night, his heav'nly form obscur'd with tears, And since he was forbid to leave the skies, He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes. Mean-time Alcyone (his fate unknown) Computes how many nights he had been gone. Observes the waining moon with hourly view, Numbers her age, and wishes for a new; Against the promis'd time provides with care, And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear: And for her self employs another loom, New-dress'd to meet her lord returning home, Flatt'ring her heart with joys, that never were to come: She fum'd the temples with an od'rous flame, And oft before the sacred altars came, To pray for him, who was an empty name. All Pow'rs implor'd, but far above the rest To Juno she her pious vows address'd, Her much-lov'd lord from perils to protect, And safe o'er seas his voyage to direct: Then pray'd, that she might still possess his heart, And no pretending rival share a part; This last petition heard of all her pray'r, The rest, dispers'd by winds, were lost in air. But she, the Goddess of the nuptial bed, Tir'd with her vain devotions for the dead, Resolv'd the tainted hand should be repell'd, Which incense offer'd, and her altar held: Then Iris thus bespoke: Thou faithful maid, By whom thy queen's commands are well convey'd, Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the God Who rules the night by visions with a nod, Prepare a dream, in figure, and in form Resembling him, who perish'd in the storm; This form before Alcyone present, To make her certain of the sad event. Indu'd with robes of various hue she flies, And flying draws an arch (a segment of the skies): Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep Descends, to search the silent house of sleep. The House of Sleep Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode, Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God; Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun, Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon; But lazy vapours round the region fly, Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky: No crowing cock does there his wings display, Nor with his horny bill provoke the day; Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese, Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace; Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh, Nor trees with tempests rock'd, nor human cry; But safe repose without an air of breath Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death. An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow Arising upwards from the rock below, The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps, And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps. Around its entry nodding poppies grow, And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow; Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains, And passing, sheds it on the silent plains: No door there was th' unguarded house to keep, On creaking hinges turn'd, to break his sleep. But in the gloomy court was rais'd a bed, Stuff'd with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted: Black was the cov'ring too, where lay the God, And slept supine, his limbs display'd abroad: About his head fantastick visions fly, Which various images of things supply, And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more, Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore. The virgin ent'ring bright, indulg'd the day To the brown cave, and brush'd the dreams away: The God disturb'd with this new glare of light, Cast sudden on his face, unseal'd his sight, And rais'd his tardy head, which sunk again, And sinking, on his bosom knock'd his chin; At length shook off himself, and ask'd the dame, (And asking yawn'd) for what intent she came. To whom the Goddess thus: O sacred rest, Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the Pow'rs the best! O peace of mind, repairer of decay, Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day, Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away! Adorn a dream, expressing human form, The shape of him who suffer'd in the storm, And send it flitting to the Trachin court, The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report: Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand, Who begs a vain relief at Juno's hand. She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep, Unable to support the fumes of sleep; But fled, returning by the way she went, And swerv'd along her bow with swift ascent. The God, uneasy 'till he slept again, Resolv'd at once to rid himself of pain; And, tho' against his custom, call'd aloud, Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd: Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express'd The shape of man, and imitated best; The walk, the words, the gesture could supply, The habit mimick, and the mein bely; Plays well, but all his action is confin'd, Extending not beyond our human kind. Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes, And dreadful images, and monster shapes: This demon, Icelos, in Heav'n's high hall The Gods have nam'd; but men Phobetor call. A third is Phantasus, whose actions roul On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul; Earth, fruits, and flow'rs he represents in dreams, And solid rocks unmov'd, and running streams. These three to kings, and chiefs their scenes display, The rest before th' ignoble commons play. Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatch'd; Which done, the lazy monarch, over-watch'd, Down from his propping elbow drops his head, Dissolv'd in sleep, and shrinks within his bed. Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepar'd, So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard. To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade, Thro' air his momentary journey made: Then lays aside the steerage of his wings, Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king's; And pale, as death, despoil'd of his array, Into the queen's apartment takes his way, And stands before the bed at dawn of day: Unmov'd his eyes, and wet his beard appears; And shedding vain, but seeming real tears; The briny waters dropping from his hairs. Then staring on her with a ghastly look, And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke. Know'st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife? Or are my features perish'd with my life? Look once again, and for thy husb and lost, Lo all that's left of him, thy husband's ghost! Thy vows for my return were all in vain, The stormy south o'ertook us in the main, And never shalt thou see thy living lord again. Bear witness, Heav'n, I call'd on thee in death, And while I call'd, a billow stop'd my breath. Think not, that flying fame reports my fate; I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate. Rise, wretched widow, rise; nor undeplor'd Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford; But rise, prepar'd in black, to mourn thy perish'd lord. Thus said the player-God; and adding art Of voice and gesture, so perform'd his part, She thought (so like her love the shade appears) That Ceyx spake the words, and Ceyx shed the tears; She groan'd, her inward soul with grief opprest, She sigh'd, she wept, and sleeping beat her breast; Then stretch'd her arms t' embrace his body bare; Her clasping arms inclose but empty air: At this, not yet awake, she cry'd, O stay; One is our fate, and common is our way! So dreadful was the dream, so loud she spoke, That starting sudden up, the slumber broke: Then cast her eyes around, in hope to view Her vanish'd lord, and find the vision true: For now the maids, who waited her commands, Ran in with lighted tapers in their hands. Tir'd with the search, not finding what she seeks, With cruel blows she pounds her blubber'd cheeks; Then from her beaten breast the linnen tare, And cut the golden caul that bound her hair. Her nurse demands the cause; with louder cries She prosecutes her griefs, and thus replies. No more Alcyone; she suffer'd death With her lov'd lord, when Ceyx lost his breath: No flatt'ry, no false comfort, give me none, My shipwreck'd Ceyx is for ever gone: I saw, I saw him manifest in view, His voice, his figure, and his gestures knew: His lustre lost, and ev'ry living grace, Yet I retain'd the features of his face; Tho' with pale cheeks, wet beard, and dropping hair, None but my Ceyx could appear so fair: I would have strain'd him with a strict embrace, But thro' my arms he slipt, and vanish'd from the place: There, ev'n just there he stood; and as she spoke, Where last the spectre was she cast her look: Fain would she hope, and gaz'd upon the ground, If any printed footsteps might be found. Then sigh'd, and said: This I too well foreknew, And my prophetick fears presag'd too true: 'Twas what I begg'd, when with a bleeding heart I took my leave, and suffer'd thee to part; Or I to go along, or thou to stay, Never, ah never to divide our way! Happier for me, that all our hours assign'd Together we had liv'd; ev'n not in death disjoin'd! So had my Ceyx still been living here, Or with my Ceyx I had perish'd there: Now I die absent, in the vast profound; And me, without my self, the seas have drown'd. The storms were not so cruel: should I strive To leng then life, and such a grief survive; But neither will I strive, nor wretched thee In death forsake, but keep thee company. If not one common sepulchre contains Our bodies, or one urn our last remains, Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join, Their names remember'd in one common line. No farther voice her mighty grief affords, For sighs come rushing in betwixt her words, And stop'd her tongue; but what her tongue deny'd, Soft tears, and groans, and dumb complaints supply'd. 'Twas morning; to the port she takes her way, And stands upon the margin of the sea: That place, that very spot of ground she sought, Or thither by her destiny was brought, Where last he stood: and while she sadly said, 'Twas here he left me, lingring here delay'd His parting kiss, and there his anchors weigh'd. Thus speaking, while her thoughts past actions trace, And call to mind, admonish'd by the place, Sharp at her utmost ken she cast her eyes, And somewhat floating from afar descries: It seems a corps a-drift to distant sight, But at a distance who could judge aright? It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew, That what before she but surmis'd, was true: A corps it was, but whose it was, unknown, Yet mov'd, howe'er, she made the cause her own. Took the bad omen of a shipwreck'd man, As for a stranger wept, and thus began. Poor wretch, on stormy seas to lose thy life, Unhappy thou, but more thy widow'd wife; At this she paus'd: for now the flowing tide Had brought the body nearer to the side: The more she looks, the more her fears increase, At nearer sight; and she's her self the less: Now driv'n ashore, and at her feet it lies, She knows too much in knowing whom she sees: Her husband's corps; at this she loudly shrieks, 'Tis he, 'tis he, she cries, and tears her cheeks, Her hair, and vest; and stooping to the sands, About his neck she cast her trembling hands. And is it thus, o dearer than my life, Thus, thus return'st thou to thy longing wife! She said, and to the neighbouring mole she strode, (Rais'd there to break th' incursions of the flood). Headlong from hence to plunge her self she springs, But shoots along, supported on her wings; A bird new-made, about the banks she plies, Not far from shore, and short excursions tries; Nor seeks in air her humble flight to raise, Content to skim the surface of the seas: Her bill tho' slender, sends a creaking noise, And imitates a lamentable voice. Now lighting where the bloodless body lies, She with a fun'ral note renews her cries: At all her stretch, her little wings she spread, And with her feather'd arms embrac'd the dead: Then flick'ring to his palid lips, she strove To print a kiss, the last essay of love. Whether the vital touch reviv'd the dead, Or that the moving waters rais'd his head To meet the kiss, the vulgar doubt alone; For sure a present miracle was shown. The Gods their shapes to winter-birds translate, But both obnoxious to their former fate. Their conjugal affection still is ty'd, And still the mournful race is multiply'd: They bill, they tread; Alcyone compress'd, Sev'n days sits brooding on her floating nest: A wintry queen: her sire at length is kind, Calms ev'ry storm, and hushes ev'ry wind; Prepares his empire for his daughter's ease, And for his hatching nephews smooths the seas. Aesacus transform'd into a Cormorant These some old man sees wanton in the air, And praises the unhappy constant pair. Then to his friend the long-neck'd corm'rant shows, The former tale reviving others' woes: That sable bird, he cries, which cuts the flood With slender legs, was once of royal blood; His ancestors from mighty Tros proceed, The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede (Whose beauty tempted Jove to steal the boy), And Priam, hapless prince! who fell with Troy: Himself was Hector's brother, and (had Fate But giv'n this hopeful youth a longer date) Perhaps had rival'd warlike Hector's worth, Tho' on the mother's side of meaner birth; Fair Alyxothoe, a country maid, Bare Aesacus by stealth in Ida's shade. He fled the noisy town, and pompous court, Lov'd the lone hills, and simple rural sport. And seldom to the city would resort. Yet he no rustick clownishness profest, Nor was soft love a stranger to his breast: The youth had long the nymph Hesperie woo'd, Oft thro' the thicket, or the mead pursu'd: Her haply on her father's bank he spy'd, While fearless she her silver tresses dry'd; Away she fled: not stags with half such speed, Before the prowling wolf, scud o'er the mead; Not ducks, when they the safer flood forsake, Pursu'd by hawks, so swift regain the lake. As fast he follow'd in the hot career; Desire the lover wing'd, the virgin fear. A snake unseen now pierc'd her heedless foot; Quick thro' the veins the venom'd juices shoot: She fell, and 'scap'd by death his fierce pursuit; Her lifeless body, frighted, he embrac'd, And cry'd, Not this I dreaded, but thy haste: O had my love been less, or less thy fear! The victory, thus bought, is far too dear. Accursed snake! yet I more curs'd than he! He gave the wound; the cause was given by me. Yet none shall say, that unreveng'd you dy'd. He spoke; then climb'd a cliff's o'er-hanging side, And, resolute, leap'd on the foaming tide. Tethys receiv'd him gently on the wave; The death he sought deny'd, and feathers gave. Debarr'd the surest remedy of grief, And forc'd to live, he curst th' unask'd relief. Then on his airy pinions upward flies, And at a second fall successless tries; The downy plume a quick descent denies. Enrag'd, he often dives beneath the wave, And there in vain expects to find a grave. His ceaseless sorrow for th' unhappy maid, Meager'd his look, and on his spirits prey'd. Still near the sounding deep he lives; his name From frequent diving and emerging came. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE ELEVENTH ,

1137:BOOK THE FOURTH The Story of Alcithoe and her Sisters Yet still Alcithoe perverse remains, And Bacchus still, and all his rites, disdains. Too rash, and madly bold, she bids him prove Himself a God, nor owns the son of Jove. Her sisters too unanimous agree, Faithful associates in impiety. Be this a solemn feast, the priest had said; Be, with each mistress, unemploy'd each maid. With skins of beasts your tender limbs enclose, And with an ivy-crown adorn your brows, The leafy Thyrsus high in triumph bear, And give your locks to wanton in the air. These rites profan'd, the holy seer foreshow'd A mourning people, and a vengeful God. Matrons and pious wives obedience show, Distaffs, and wooll, half spun, away they throw: Then incense burn, and, Bacchus, thee adore, Or lov'st thou Nyseus, or Lyaeus more? O! doubly got, O! doubly born, they sung, Thou mighty Bromius, hail, from light'ning sprung! Hail, Thyon, Eleleus! each name is thine: Or, listen parent of the genial vine! Iachus! Evan! loudly they repeat, And not one Grecian attri bute forget, Which to thy praise, great Deity, belong, Stil'd justly Liber in the Roman song. Eternity of youth is thine! enjoy Years roul'd on years, yet still a blooming boy. In Heav'n thou shin'st with a superior grace; Conceal thy horns, and 'tis a virgin's face. Thou taught'st the tawny Indian to obey, And Ganges, smoothly flowing, own'd thy sway. Lycurgus, Pentheus, equally profane, By thy just vengeance equally were slain. By thee the Tuscans, who conspir'd to keep Thee captive, plung'd, and cut with finns the deep. With painted reins, all-glitt'ring from afar, The spotted lynxes proudly draw thy car. Around, the Bacchae, and the satyrs throng; Behind, Silenus, drunk, lags slow along: On his dull ass he nods from side to side, Forbears to fall, yet half forgets to ride. Still at thy near approach, applauses loud Are heard, with yellings of the female crowd. Timbrels, and boxen pipes, with mingled cries, Swell up in sounds confus'd, and rend the skies. Come, Bacchus, come propitious, all implore, And act thy sacred orgies o'er and o'er. But Mineus' daughters, while these rites were pay'd, At home, impertinently busie, stay'd. Their wicked tasks they ply with various art, And thro' the loom the sliding shuttle dart; Or at the fire to comb the wooll they stand, Or twirl the spindle with a dext'rous hand. Guilty themselves, they force the guiltless in; Their maids, who share the labour, share the sin. At last one sister cries, who nimbly knew To draw nice threads, and winde the finest clue, While others idly rove, and Gods revere, Their fancy'd Gods! they know not who, or where; Let us, whom Pallas taught her better arts, Still working, cheer with mirthful chat our hearts, And to deceive the time, let me prevail With each by turns to tell some antique tale. She said: her sisters lik'd the humour well, And smiling, bad her the first story tell. But she a-while profoundly seem'd to muse, Perplex'd amid variety to chuse: And knew not, whether she should first relate The poor Dircetis, and her wond'rous fate. The Palestines believe it to a man, And show the lake, in which her scales began. Or if she rather should the daughter sing, Who in the hoary verge of life took wing; Who soar'd from Earth, and dwelt in tow'rs on high, And now a dove she flits along the sky. Or how lewd Nais, when her lust was cloy'd, To fishes turn'd the youths, she had enjoy'd, By pow'rful verse, and herbs; effect most strange! At last the changer shar'd herself the change. Or how the tree, which once white berries bore, Still crimson bears, since stain'd with crimson gore. The tree was new; she likes it, and begins To tell the tale, and as she tells, she spins. The Story of Pyramus and Thisbe In Babylon, where first her queen, for state Rais'd walls of brick magnificently great, Liv'd Pyramus, and Thisbe, lovely pair! He found no eastern youth his equal there, And she beyond the fairest nymph was fair. A closer neighbourhood was never known, Tho' two the houses, yet the roof was one. Acquaintance grew, th' acquaintance they improve To friendship, friendship ripen'd into love: Love had been crown'd, but impotently mad, What parents could not hinder, they forbad. For with fierce flames young Pyramus still burn'd, And grateful Thisbe flames as fierce return'd. Aloud in words their thoughts they dare not break, But silent stand; and silent looks can speak. The fire of love the more it is supprest, The more it glows, and rages in the breast. When the division-wall was built, a chink Was left, the cement unobserv'd to shrink. So slight the cranny, that it still had been For centuries unclos'd, because unseen. But oh! what thing so small, so secret lies, Which scapes, if form'd for love, a lover's eyes? Ev'n in this narrow chink they quickly found A friendly passage for a trackless sound. Safely they told their sorrows, and their joys, In whisper'd murmurs, and a dying noise, By turns to catch each other's breath they strove, And suck'd in all the balmy breeze of love. Oft as on diff'rent sides they stood, they cry'd, Malicious wall, thus lovers to divide! Suppose, thou should'st a-while to us give place To lock, and fasten in a close embrace: But if too much to grant so sweet a bliss, Indulge at least the pleasure of a kiss. We scorn ingratitude: to thee, we know, This safe conveyance of our minds we owe. Thus they their vain petition did renew 'Till night, and then they softly sigh'd adieu. But first they strove to kiss, and that was all; Their kisses dy'd untasted on the wall. Soon as the morn had o'er the stars prevail'd, And warm'd by Phoebus, flow'rs their dews exhal'd, The lovers to their well-known place return, Alike they suffer, and alike they mourn. At last their parents they resolve to cheat (If to deceive in love be call'd deceit), To steal by night from home, and thence unknown To seek the fields, and quit th' unfaithful town. But, to prevent their wand'ring in the dark, They both agree to fix upon a mark; A mark, that could not their designs expose: The tomb of Ninus was the mark they chose. There they might rest secure beneath the shade, Which boughs, with snowy fruit encumber'd, made: A wide-spread mulberry its rise had took Just on the margin of a gurgling brook. Impatient for the friendly dusk they stay; And chide the slowness of departing day; In western seas down sunk at last the light, From western seas up-rose the shades of night. The loving Thisbe ev'n prevents the hour, With cautious silence she unlocks the door, And veils her face, and marching thro' the gloom Swiftly arrives at th' assignation-tomb. For still the fearful sex can fearless prove; Boldly they act, if spirited by love. When lo! a lioness rush'd o'er the plain, Grimly besmear'd with blood of oxen slain: And what to the dire sight new horrors brought, To slake her thirst the neighb'ring spring she sought. Which, by the moon, when trembling Thisbe spies, Wing'd with her fear, swift, as the wind, she flies; And in a cave recovers from her fright, But drop'd her veil, confounded in her flight. When sated with repeated draughts, again The queen of beasts scour'd back along the plain, She found the veil, and mouthing it all o'er, With bloody jaws the lifeless prey she tore. The youth, who could not cheat his guards so soon, Late came, and noted by the glimm'ring moon Some savage feet, new printed on the ground, His cheeks turn'd pale, his limbs no vigour found; But when, advancing on, the veil he spied Distain'd with blood, and ghastly torn, he cried, One night shall death to two young lovers give, But she deserv'd unnumber'd years to live! 'Tis I am guilty, I have thee betray'd, Who came not early, as my charming maid. Whatever slew thee, I the cause remain, I nam'd, and fix'd the place where thou wast slain. Ye lions from your neighb'ring dens repair, Pity the wretch, this impious body tear! But cowards thus for death can idly cry; The brave still have it in their pow'r to die. Then to th' appointed tree he hastes away, The veil first gather'd, tho' all rent it lay: The veil all rent yet still it self endears, He kist, and kissing, wash'd it with his tears. Tho' rich (he cry'd) with many a precious stain, Still from my blood a deeper tincture gain. Then in his breast his shining sword he drown'd, And fell supine, extended on the ground. As out again the blade lie dying drew, Out spun the blood, and streaming upwards flew. So if a conduit-pipe e'er burst you saw, Swift spring the gushing waters thro' the flaw: Then spouting in a bow, they rise on high, And a new fountain plays amid the sky. The berries, stain'd with blood, began to show A dark complexion, and forgot their snow; While fatten'd with the flowing gore, the root Was doom'd for ever to a purple fruit. Mean-time poor Thisbe fear'd, so long she stay'd, Her lover might suspect a perjur'd maid. Her fright scarce o'er, she strove the youth to find With ardent eyes, which spoke an ardent mind. Already in his arms, she hears him sigh At her destruction, which was once so nigh. The tomb, the tree, but not the fruit she knew, The fruit she doubted for its alter'd hue. Still as she doubts, her eyes a body found Quiv'ring in death, and gasping on the ground. She started back, the red her cheeks forsook, And ev'ry nerve with thrilling horrors shook. So trembles the smooth surface of the seas, If brush'd o'er gently with a rising breeze. But when her view her bleeding love confest, She shriek'd, she tore her hair, she beat her breast. She rais'd the body, and embrac'd it round, And bath'd with tears unfeign'd the gaping wound. Then her warm lips to the cold face apply'd, And is it thus, ah! thus we meet, she cry'd! My Pyramus! whence sprung thy cruel fate? My Pyramus!- ah! speak, ere 'tis too late. I, thy own Thisbe, but one word implore, One word thy Thisbe never ask'd before. At Thisbe's name, awak'd, he open'd wide His dying eyes; with dying eyes he try'd On her to dwell, but clos'd them slow, and dy'd. The fatal cause was now at last explor'd, Her veil she knew, and saw his sheathless sword: From thy own hand thy ruin thou hast found, She said, but love first taught that hand to wound, Ev'n I for thee as bold a hand can show, And love, which shall as true direct the blow. I will against the woman's weakness strive, And never thee, lamented youth, survive. The world may say, I caus'd, alas! thy death, But saw thee breathless, and resign'd my breath. Fate, tho' it conquers, shall no triumph gain, Fate, that divides us, still divides in vain. Now, both our cruel parents, hear my pray'r; My pray'r to offer for us both I dare; Oh! see our ashes in one urn confin'd, Whom love at first, and fate at last has join'd. The bliss, you envy'd, is not our request; Lovers, when dead, may sure together rest. Thou, tree, where now one lifeless lump is laid, Ere-long o'er two shalt cast a friendly shade. Still let our loves from thee be understood, Still witness in thy purple fruit our blood. She spoke, and in her bosom plung'd the sword, All warm and reeking from its slaughter'd lord. The pray'r, which dying Thisbe had preferr'd, Both Gods, and parents, with compassion heard. The whiteness of the mulberry soon fled, And rip'ning, sadden'd in a dusky red: While both their parents their lost children mourn, And mix their ashes in one golden urn. Thus did the melancholy tale conclude, And a short, silent interval ensu'd. The next in birth unloos'd her artful tongue, And drew attentive all the sister-throng. The Story of Leucothoe and the Sun The Sun, the source of light, by beauty's pow'r Once am'rous grew; then hear the Sun's amour. Venus, and Mars, with his far-piercing eyes This God first spy'd; this God first all things spies. Stung at the sight, and swift on mischief bent, To haughty Juno's shapeless son he went: The Goddess, and her God gallant betray'd, And told the cuckold, where their pranks were play'd. Poor Vulcan soon desir'd to hear no more, He drop'd his hammer, and he shook all o'er: Then courage takes, and full of vengeful ire He heaves the bellows, and blows fierce the fire: From liquid brass, tho' sure, yet subtile snares He forms, and next a wond'rous net prepares, Drawn with such curious art, so nicely sly, Unseen the mashes cheat the searching eye. Not half so thin their webs the spiders weave, Which the most wary, buzzing prey deceive. These chains, obedient to the touch, he spread In secret foldings o'er the conscious bed: The conscious bed again was quickly prest By the fond pair, in lawless raptures blest. Mars wonder'd at his Cytherea's charms, More fast than ever lock'd within her arms. While Vulcan th' iv'ry doors unbarr'd with care, Then call'd the Gods to view the sportive pair: The Gods throng'd in, and saw in open day, Where Mars, and beauty's queen, all naked, lay. O! shameful sight, if shameful that we name, Which Gods with envy view'd, and could not blame; But, for the pleasure, wish'd to bear the shame. Each Deity, with laughter tir'd, departs, Yet all still laugh'd at Vulcan in their hearts. Thro' Heav'n the news of this surprizal run, But Venus did not thus forget the Sun. He, who stol'n transports idly had betray'd, By a betrayer was in kind repay'd. What now avails, great God, thy piercing blaze, That youth, and beauty, and those golden rays? Thou, who can'st warm this universe alone, Feel'st now a warmth more pow'rful than thy own: And those bright eyes, which all things should survey, Know not from fair Leucothoe to stray. The lamp of light, for human good design'd, Is to one virgin niggardly confin'd. Sometimes too early rise thy eastern beams, Sometimes too late they set in western streams: 'Tis then her beauty thy swift course delays, And gives to winter skies long summer days. Now in thy face thy love-sick mind appears, And spreads thro' impious nations empty fears: For when thy beamless head is wrapt in night, Poor mortals tremble in despair of light. 'Tis not the moon, that o'er thee casts a veil 'Tis love alone, which makes thy looks so pale. Leucothoe is grown thy only care, Not Phaeton's fair mother now is fair. The youthful Rhodos moves no tender thought, And beauteous Porsa is at last forgot. Fond Clytie, scorn'd, yet lov'd, and sought thy bed, Ev'n then thy heart for other virgins bled. Leucothoe has all thy soul possest, And chas'd each rival passion from thy breast. To this bright nymph Eurynome gave birth In the blest confines of the spicy Earth. Excelling others, she herself beheld By her own blooming daughter far excell'd. The sire was Orchamus, whose vast command, The sev'nth from Belus, rul'd the Persian Land. Deep in cool vales, beneath th' Hesperian sky, For the Sun's fiery steeds the pastures lye. Ambrosia there they eat, and thence they gain New vigour, and their daily toils sustain. While thus on heav'nly food the coursers fed, And night, around, her gloomy empire spread, The God assum'd the mother's shape and air, And pass'd, unheeded, to his darling fair. Close by a lamp, with maids encompass'd round, The royal spinster, full employ'd, he found: Then cry'd, A-while from work, my daughter, rest; And, like a mother, scarce her lips he prest. Servants retire!- nor secrets dare to hear, Intrusted only to a daughter's ear. They swift obey'd: not one, suspicious, thought The secret, which their mistress would be taught. Then he: since now no witnesses are near, Behold! the God, who guides the various year! The world's vast eye, of light the source serene, Who all things sees, by whom are all things seen. Believe me, nymph! (for I the truth have show'd) Thy charms have pow'r to charm so great a God. Confus'd, she heard him his soft passion tell, And on the floor, untwirl'd, the spindle fell: Still from the sweet confusion some new grace Blush'd out by stealth, and languish'd in her face. The lover, now inflam'd, himself put on, And out at once the God, all-radiant, shone. The virgin startled at his alter'd form, Too weak to bear a God's impetuous storm: No more against the dazling youth she strove, But silent yielded, and indulg'd his love. This Clytie knew, and knew she was undone, Whose soul was fix'd, and doated on the Sun. She rag'd to think on her neglected charms, And Phoebus, panting in another's arms. With envious madness fir'd, she flies in haste, And tells the king, his daughter was unchaste. The king, incens'd to hear his honour stain'd, No more the father nor the man retain'd. In vain she stretch'd her arms, and turn'd her eyes To her lov'd God, th' enlightner of the skies. In vain she own'd it was a crime, yet still It was a crime not acted by her will. The brutal sire stood deaf to ev'ry pray'r, And deep in Earth entomb'd alive the fair. What Phoebus could do, was by Phoebus done: Full on her grave with pointed beams he shone: To pointed beams the gaping Earth gave way; Had the nymph eyes, her eyes had seen the day, But lifeless now, yet lovely still, she lay. Not more the God wept, when the world was fir'd, And in the wreck his blooming boy expir'd. The vital flame he strives to light again, And warm the frozen blood in ev'ry vein: But since resistless Fates deny'd that pow'r, On the cold nymph he rain'd a nectar show'r. Ah! undeserving thus (he said) to die, Yet still in odours thou shalt reach the sky. The body soon dissolv'd, and all around Perfum'd with heav'nly fragrancies the ground, A sacrifice for Gods up-rose from thence, A sweet, delightful tree of frankincense. The Transformation of Clytie Tho' guilty Clytie thus the sun betray'd, By too much passion she was guilty made. Excess of love begot excess of grief, Grief fondly bad her hence to hope relief. But angry Phoebus hears, unmov'd, her sighs, And scornful from her loath'd embraces flies. All day, all night, in trackless wilds, alone She pin'd, and taught the list'ning rocks her moan. On the bare earth she lies, her bosom bare, Loose her attire, dishevel'd is her hair. Nine times the morn unbarr'd the gates of light, As oft were spread th' alternate shades of night, So long no sustenance the mourner knew, Unless she drunk her tears, or suck'd the dew. She turn'd about, but rose not from the ground, Turn'd to the Sun, still as he roul'd his round: On his bright face hung her desiring eyes, 'Till fix'd to Earth, she strove in vain to rise. Her looks their paleness in a flow'r retain'd, But here, and there, some purple streaks they gain'd. Still the lov'd object the fond leafs pursue, Still move their root, the moving Sun to view, And in the Heliotrope the nymph is true. The sisters heard these wonders with surprise, But part receiv'd them as romantick lies; And pertly rally'd, that they could not see In Pow'rs divine so vast an energy. Part own'd, true Gods such miracles might do, But own'd not Bacchus, one among the true. At last a common, just request they make, And beg Alcithoe her turn to take. I will (she said) and please you, if I can. Then shot her shuttle swift, and thus began. The fate of Daphnis is a fate too known, Whom an enamour'd nymph transform'd to stone, Because she fear'd another nymph might see The lovely youth, and love as much as she: So strange the madness is of jealousie! Nor shall I tell, what changes Scython made, And how he walk'd a man, or tripp'd a maid. You too would peevish frown, and patience want To hear, how Celmis grew an adamant. He once was dear to Jove, and saw of old Jove, when a child; but what he saw, he told. Crocus, and Smilax may be turn'd to flow'rs, And the Curetes spring from bounteous show'rs; I pass a hundred legends stale, as these, And with sweet novelty your taste will please. The Story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs, And what the secret cause, shall here be shown; The cause is secret, but th' effect is known. The Naids nurst an infant heretofore, That Cytherea once to Hermes bore: From both th' illustrious authors of his race The child was nam'd, nor was it hard to trace Both the bright parents thro' the infant's face. When fifteen years in Ida's cool retreat The boy had told, he left his native seat, And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil: The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil, With eager steps the Lycian fields he crost, A river here he view'd so lovely bright, It shew'd the bottom in a fairer light, Nor kept a sand conceal'd from human sight. The stream produc'd nor slimy ooze, nor weeds, Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds; But dealt enriching moisture all around, The fruitful banks with chearful verdure crown'd, And kept the spring eternal on the ground. A nymph presides, not practis'd in the chace, Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race; Of all the blue-ey'd daughters of the main, The only stranger to Diana's train: Her sisters often, as 'tis said, wou'd cry, "Fie Salmacis: what, always idle! fie. Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize, And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease." Nor quiver she nor arrows e'er wou'd seize, Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease. But oft would ba the her in the chrystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limpid streams she views her face, And drest her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she now repos'd her limbs, Now gather'd flow'rs that grew about her streams, And then by chance was gathering, as he stood To view the boy, and long'd for what she view'd. Fain wou'd she meet the youth with hasty feet, She fain wou'd meet him, but refus'd to meet Before her looks were set with nicest care, And well deserv'd to be reputed fair. "Bright youth," she cries, "whom all thy features prove A God, and, if a God, the God of love; But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast, Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest: But oh how blest! how more than blest thy bride, Ally'd in bliss, if any yet ally'd. If so, let mine the stoln enjoyments be; If not, behold a willing bride in me." The boy knew nought of love, and toucht with shame, He strove, and blusht, but still the blush became: In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose; The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows, And such the moon, when all her silver white Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light. The nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss, A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss: And now prepares to take the lovely boy Between her arms. He, innocently coy, Replies, "Or leave me to my self alone, You rude uncivil nymph, or I'll be gone." "Fair stranger then," says she, "it shall be so"; And, for she fear'd his threats, she feign'd to go: But hid within a covert's neighbouring green, She kept him still in sight, herself unseen. The boy now fancies all the danger o'er, And innocently sports about the shore, Playful and wanton to the stream he trips, And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips. The coolness pleas'd him, and with eager haste His airy garments on the banks he cast; His godlike features, and his heav'nly hue, And all his beauties were expos'd to view. His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies, While hotter passions in her bosom rise, Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes. She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms, And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his charms. Now all undrest upon the banks he stood, And clapt his sides, and leapt into the flood: His lovely limbs the silver waves divide, His limbs appear more lovely through the tide; As lillies shut within a chrystal case, Receive a glossy lustre from the glass. He's mine, he's all my own, the Naid cries, And flings off all, and after him she flies. And now she fastens on him as he swims, And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs. The more the boy resisted, and was coy, The more she clipt, and kist the strugling boy. So when the wrigling snake is snatcht on high In Eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky, Around the foe his twirling tail he flings, And twists her legs, and wriths about her wings. The restless boy still obstinately strove To free himself, and still refus'd her love. Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs intwin'd, "And why, coy youth," she cries, "why thus unkind! Oh may the Gods thus keep us ever join'd! Oh may we never, never part again!" So pray'd the nymph, nor did she pray in vain: For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest, Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast; 'Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run Together, and incorporate in one: Last in one face are both their faces join'd, As when the stock and grafted twig combin'd Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind: Both bodies in a single body mix, A single body with a double sex. The boy, thus lost in woman, now survey'd The river's guilty stream, and thus he pray'd. (He pray'd, but wonder'd at his softer tone, Surpriz'd to hear a voice but half his own.) You parent-Gods, whose heav'nly names I bear, Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my pray'r; Oh grant, that whomsoe'er these streams contain, If man he enter'd, he may rise again Supple, unsinew'd, and but half a man! The heav'nly parents answer'd from on high, Their two-shap'd son, the double votary Then gave a secret virtue to the flood, And ting'd its source to make his wishes good. Alcithoe and her Sisters transform'd to Bats But Mineus' daughters still their tasks pursue, To wickedness most obstinately true: At Bacchus still they laugh, when all around, Unseen, the timbrels hoarse were heard to sound. Saffron and myrrh their fragrant odours shed, And now the present deity they dread. Strange to relate! Here ivy first was seen, Along the distaff crept the wond'rous green. Then sudden-springing vines began to bloom, And the soft tendrils curl'd around the loom: While purple clusters, dangling from on high, Ting'd the wrought purple with a second die. Now from the skies was shot a doubtful light, The day declining to the bounds of night. The fabrick's firm foundations shake all o'er, False tigers rage, and figur'd lions roar. Torches, aloft, seem blazing in the air, And angry flashes of red light'nings glare. To dark recesses, the dire sight to shun, Swift the pale sisters in confusion run. Their arms were lost in pinions, as they fled, And subtle films each slender limb o'er-spread. Their alter'd forms their senses soon reveal'd; Their forms, how alter'd, darkness still conceal'd. Close to the roof each, wond'ring, upwards springs, Born on unknown, transparent, plumeless wings. They strove for words; their little bodies found No words, but murmur'd in a fainting sound. In towns, not woods, the sooty bats delight, And, never, 'till the dusk, begin their flight; 'Till Vesper rises with his ev'ning flame; From whom the Romans have deriv'd their name. The Transformation of Ino and Melicerta to Sea-Gods The pow'r of Bacchus now o'er Thebes had flown: With awful rev'rence soon the God they own. Proud Ino, all around the wonder tells, And on her nephew deity still dwells. Of num'rous sisters, she alone yet knew No grief, but grief, which she from sisters drew. Imperial Juno saw her with disdain, Vain in her offspring, in her consort vain, Who rul'd the trembling Thebans with a nod, But saw her vainest in her foster-God. Could then (she cry'd) a bastard-boy have pow'r To make a mother her own son devour? Could he the Tuscan crew to fishes change, And now three sisters damn to forms so strange? Yet shall the wife of Jove find no relief? Shall she, still unreveng'd, disclose her grief? Have I the mighty freedom to complain? Is that my pow'r? is that to ease my pain? A foe has taught me vengeance; and who ought To scorn that vengeance, which a foe has taught? What sure destruction frantick rage can throw, The gaping wounds of slaughter'd Pentheus show. Why should not Ino, fir'd with madness, stray, Like her mad sisters her own kindred slay? Why, she not follow, where they lead the way? Down a steep, yawning cave, where yews display'd In arches meet, and lend a baleful shade, Thro' silent labyrinths a passage lies To mournful regions, and infernal skies. Here Styx exhales its noisome clouds, and here, The fun'ral rites once paid, all souls appear. Stiff cold, and horror with a ghastly face And staring eyes, infest the dreary place. Ghosts, new-arriv'd, and strangers to these plains, Know not the palace, where grim Pluto reigns. They journey doubtful, nor the road can tell, Which leads to the metropolis of Hell. A thousand avenues those tow'rs command, A thousand gates for ever open stand. As all the rivers, disembogu'd, find room For all their waters in old Ocean's womb: So this vast city worlds of shades receives, And space for millions still of worlds she leaves. Th' unbody'd spectres freely rove, and show Whate'er they lov'd on Earth, they love below. The lawyers still, or right, or wrong, support, The courtiers smoothly glide to Pluto's court. Still airy heroes thoughts of glory fire, Still the dead poet strings his deathless lyre, And lovers still with fancy'd darts expire. The Queen of Heaven, to gratify her hate, And sooth immortal wrath, forgets her state. Down from the realms of day, to realms of night, The Goddess swift precipitates her flight. At Hell arriv'd, the noise Hell's porter heard, Th' enormous dog his triple head up-rear'd: Thrice from three grizly throats he howl'd profound, Then suppliant couch'd, and stretch'd along the ground. The trembling threshold, which Saturnia prest, The weight of such divinity confest. Before a lofty, adamantine gate, Which clos'd a tow'r of brass, the Furies sate: Mis-shapen forms, tremendous to the sight, Th' implacable foul daughters of the night. A sounding whip each bloody sister shakes, Or from her tresses combs the curling snakes. But now great Juno's majesty was known; Thro' the thick gloom, all heav'nly bright, she shone: The hideous monsters their obedience show'd, And rising from their seats, submissive bow'd. This is the place of woe, here groan the dead; Huge Tityus o'er nine acres here is spread. Fruitful for pain th' immortal liver breeds, Still grows, and still th' insatiate vulture feeds. Poor Tantalus to taste the water tries, But from his lips the faithless water flies: Then thinks the bending tree he can command, The tree starts backwards, and eludes his hand. The labour too of Sisyphus is vain, Up the steep mount he heaves the stone with pain, Down from the summet rouls the stone again. The Belides their leaky vessels still Are ever filling, and yet never fill: Doom'd to this punishment for blood they shed, For bridegrooms slaughter'd in the bridal bed. Stretch'd on the rolling wheel Ixion lies; Himself he follows, and himself he flies. Ixion, tortur'd, Juno sternly ey'd, Then turn'd, and toiling Sisyphus espy'd: And why (she said) so wretched is the fate Of him, whose brother proudly reigns in state? Yet still my altars unador'd have been By Athamas, and his presumptuous queen. What caus'd her hate, the Goddess thus confest, What caus'd her journey now was more than guest. That hate, relentless, its revenge did want, And that revenge the Furies soon could grant: They could the glory of proud Thebes efface, And hide in ruin the Cadmean race. For this she largely promises, entreats, And to intreaties adds imperial threats. Then fell Tisiphone with rage was stung, And from her mouth th' untwisted serpents flung. To gain this trifling boon, there is no need (She cry'd) in formal speeches to proceed. Whatever thou command'st to do, is done; Believe it finish'd, tho' not yet begun. But from these melancholly seats repair To happier mansions, and to purer air. She spoke: the Goddess, darting upwards, flies, And joyous re-ascends her native skies: Nor enter'd there, till 'round her Iris threw Ambrosial sweets, and pour'd celestial dew. The faithful Fury, guiltless of delays, With cruel haste the dire comm and obeys. Girt in a bloody gown, a torch she shakes, And round her neck twines speckled wreaths of snakes. Fear, and dismay, and agonizing pain, With frantick rage, compleat her loveless train. To Thebes her flight she sped, and Hell forsook; At her approach the Theban turrets shook: The sun shrunk back, thick clouds the day o'er-cast, And springing greens were wither'd as she past. Now, dismal yellings heard, strange spectres seen, Confound as much the monarch as the queen. In vain to quit the palace they prepar'd, Tisiphone was there, and kept the ward. She wide extended her unfriendly arms, And all the Fury lavish'd all her harms. Part of her tresses loudly hiss, and part Spread poyson, as their forky tongues they dart. Then from her middle locks two snakes she drew, Whose merit from superior mischief grew: Th' envenom'd ruin, thrown with spiteful care, Clung to the bosoms of the hapless pair. The hapless pair soon with wild thoughts were fir'd, And madness, by a thousand ways inspir'd. 'Tis true, th' unwounded body still was sound, But 'twas the soul which felt the deadly wound. Nor did th' unsated monster here give o'er, But dealt of plagues a fresh, unnumber'd store. Each baneful juice too well she understood, Foam, churn'd by Cerberus, and Hydra's blood. Hot hemlock, and cold aconite she chose, Delighted in variety of woes. Whatever can untune th' harmonious soul, And its mild, reas'ning faculties controul, Give false ideas, raise desires profane, And whirl in eddies the tumultuous brain, Mix'd with curs'd art, she direfully around Thro' all their nerves diffus'd the sad compound. Then toss'd her torch in circles still the same, Improv'd their rage, and added flame to flame. The grinning Fury her own conquest spy'd, And to her rueful shades return'd with pride, And threw th' exhausted, useless snakes aside. Now Athamas cries out, his reason fled, Here, fellow-hunters, let the toils be spread. I saw a lioness, in quest of food, With her two young, run roaring in this wood. Again the fancy'd savages were seen, As thro' his palace still he chac'd his queen; Then tore Learchus from her breast: the child Stretch'd little arms, and on its father smil'd: A father now no more, who now begun Around his head to whirl his giddy son, And, quite insensible to Nature's call, The helpless infant flung against the wall. The same mad poyson in the mother wrought, Young Melicerta in her arms she caught, And with disorder'd tresses, howling, flies, O! Bacchus, Evoe, Bacchus! loud she cries. The name of Bacchus Juno laugh'd to hear, And said, Thy foster-God has cost thee dear. A rock there stood, whose side the beating waves Had long consum'd, and hollow'd into caves. The head shot forwards in a bending steep, And cast a dreadful covert o'er the deep. The wretched Ino, on destruction bent, Climb'd up the cliff; such strength her fury lent: Thence with her guiltless boy, who wept in vain, At one bold spring she plung'd into the main. Her neice's fate touch'd Cytherea's breast, And in soft sounds she Neptune thus addrest: Great God of waters, whose extended sway Is next to his, whom Heav'n and Earth obey: Let not the suit of Venus thee displease, Pity the floaters on th' Ionian seas. Encrease thy Subject-Gods, nor yet disdain To add my kindred to that glorious train. If from the sea I may such honours claim, If 'tis desert, that from the sea I came, As Grecian poets artfully have sung, And in the name confest, from whence I sprung. Pleas'd Neptune nodded his assent, and free Both soon became from frail mortality. He gave them form, and majesty divine, And bad them glide along the foamy brine. For Melicerta is Palaemon known, And Ino once, Leucothoe is grown. The Transformation of the Theban Matrons The Theban matrons their lov'd queen pursu'd, And tracing to the rock, her footsteps view'd. Too certain of her fate, they rend the skies With piteous shrieks, and lamentable cries. All beat their breasts, and Juno all upbraid, Who still remember'd a deluded maid: Who, still revengeful for one stol'n embrace, Thus wreak'd her hate on the Cadmean race. This Juno heard: And shall such elfs, she cry'd, Dispute my justice, or my pow'r deride? You too shall feel my wrath not idly spent; A Goddess never for insults was meant. She, who lov'd most, and who most lov'd had been, Said, Not the waves shall part me from my queen. She strove to plunge into the roaring flood; Fix'd to the stone, a stone her self she stood. This, on her breast would fain her blows repeat, Her stiffen'd hands refus'd her breast to beat. That, stretch'd her arms unto the seas; in vain Her arms she labour'd to unstretch again. To tear her comely locks another try'd, Both comely locks, and fingers petryfi'd. Part thus; but Juno with a softer mind Part doom'd to mix among the feather'd kind. Transform'd, the name of Theban birds they keep, And skim the surface of that fatal deep. Cadmus and his Queen transform'd to Serpents Mean-time, the wretched Cadmus mourns, nor knows, That they who mortal fell, immortal rose. With a long series of new ills opprest, He droops, and all the man forsakes his breast. Strange prodigies confound his frighted eyes; From the fair city, which he rais'd, he flies: As if misfortune not pursu'd his race, But only hung o'er that devoted place. Resolv'd by sea to seek some distant land, At last he safely gain'd th' Illyrian strand. Chearless himself, his consort still he chears, Hoary, and loaden'd both with woes and years. Then to recount past sorrows they begin, And trace them to the gloomy origin. That serpent sure was hallow'd, Cadmus cry'd, Which once my spear transfix'd with foolish pride; When the big teeth, a seed before unknown, By me along the wond'ring glebe were sown, And sprouting armies by themselves o'erthrown. If thence the wrath of Heav'n on me is bent, May Heav'n conclude it with one sad event; To an extended serpent change the man: And while he spoke, the wish'd-for change began. His skin with sea-green spots was vary'd 'round, And on his belly prone he prest the ground. He glitter'd soon with many a golden scale, And his shrunk legs clos'd in a spiry tail. Arms yet remain'd, remaining arms he spread To his lov'd wife, and human tears yet shed. Come, my Harmonia, come, thy face recline Down to my face; still touch, what still is mine. O! let these hands, while hands, be gently prest, While yet the serpent has not all possest. More he had spoke, but strove to speak in vain, The forky tongue refus'd to tell his pain, And learn'd in hissings only to complain. Then shriek'd Harmonia, Stay, my Cadmus, stay, Glide not in such a monstrous shape away! Destruction, like impetuous waves, rouls on. Where are thy feet, thy legs, thy shoulders gone? Chang'd is thy visage, chang'd is all thy frame; Cadmus is only Cadmus now in name. Ye Gods, my Cadmus to himself restore, Or me like him transform; I ask no more. The husband-serpent show'd he still had thought, With wonted fondness an embrace he sought; Play'd 'round her neck in many a harmless twist, And lick'd that bosom, which, a man, he kist. The lookers-on (for lookers-on there were) Shock'd at the sight, half-dy'd away with fear. The transformation was again renew'd, And, like the husband, chang'd the wife they view'd. Both, serpents now, with fold involv'd in fold, To the next covert amicably roul'd. There curl'd they lie, or wave along the green, Fearless see men, by men are fearless seen, Still mild, and conscious what they once have been. The Story of Perseus Yet tho' this harsh, inglorious fate they found, Each in the deathless grandson liv'd renown'd. Thro' conquer'd India Bacchus nobly rode, And Greece with temples hail'd the conqu'ring God. In Argos only proud Acrisius reign'd, Who all the consecrated rites profan'd. Audacious wretch! thus Bacchus to deny, And the great Thunderer's great son defie! Nor him alone: thy daughter vainly strove, Brave Perseus of celestial stem to prove, And her self pregnant by a golden Jove. Yet this was true, and truth in time prevails; Acrisius now his unbelief bewails. His former thought, an impious thought he found, And both the heroe, and the God were own'd. He saw, already one in Heav'n was plac'd, And one with more than mortal triumphs grac'd, The victor Perseus with the Gorgon-head, O'er Libyan sands his airy journey sped. The gory drops distill'd, as swift he flew, And from each drop envenom'd serpents grew, The mischiefs brooded on the barren plains, And still th' unhappy fruitfulness remains. Atlas transform'd to a Mountain Thence Perseus, like a cloud, by storms was driv'n, Thro' all th' expanse beneath the cope of Heaven. The jarring winds unable to controul, He saw the southern, and the northern pole: And eastward thrice, and westward thrice was whirl'd, And from the skies survey'd the nether world. But when grey ev'ning show'd the verge of night, He fear'd in darkness to pursue his flight. He pois'd his pinions, and forgot to soar, And sinking, clos'd them on th' Hesperian shore: Then beg'd to rest, 'till Lucifer begun To wake the morn, the morn to wake the sun. Here Atlas reign'd, of more than human size, And in his kingdom the world's limit lies. Here Titan bids his weary'd coursers sleep, And cools the burning axle in the deep. The mighty monarch, uncontrol'd, alone, His sceptre sways: no neighb'ring states are known. A thousand flocks on shady mountains fed, A thousand herds o'er grassy plains were spread. Here wond'rous trees their shining stores unfold, Their shining stores too wond'rous to be told, Their leafs, their branches, and their apples, gold. Then Perseus the gigantick prince addrest, Humbly implor'd a hospitable rest. If bold exploits thy admiration fire, He said, I fancy, mine thou wilt admire. Or if the glory of a race can move, Not mean my glory, for I spring from Jove. At this confession Atlas ghastly star'd, Mindful of what an oracle declar'd, That the dark womb of Time conceal'd a day, Which should, disclos'd, the bloomy gold betray: All should at once be ravish'd from his eyes, And Jove's own progeny enjoy the prize. For this, the fruit he loftily immur'd, And a fierce dragon the strait pass secur'd. For this, all strangers he forbad to land, And drove them from th' inhospitable strand. To Perseus then: Fly quickly, fly this coast, Nor falsly dare thy acts and race to boast. In vain the heroe for one night entreats, Threat'ning he storms, and next adds force to threats. By strength not Perseus could himself defend, For who in strength with Atlas could contend? But since short rest to me thou wilt not give, A gift of endless rest from me receive, He said, and backward turn'd, no more conceal'd The present, and Medusa's head reveal'd. Soon the high Atlas a high mountain stood, His locks, and beard became a leafy wood. His hands, and shoulders, into ridges went, The summit-head still crown'd the steep ascent. His bones a solid, rocky hardness gain'd: He, thus immensely grown (as fate ordain'd), The stars, the Heav'ns, and all the Gods sustain'd. Andromeda rescu'd from the Sea Monster Now Aeolus had with strong chains confin'd, And deep imprison'd e'vry blust'ring wind, The rising Phospher with a purple light Did sluggish mortals to new toils invite. His feet again the valiant Perseus plumes, And his keen sabre in his hand resumes: Then nobly spurns the ground, and upwards springs, And cuts the liquid air with sounding wings. O'er various seas, and various lands he past, 'Till Aethiopia's shore appear'd at last. Andromeda was there, doom'd to attone By her own ruin follies not her own: And if injustice in a God can be, Such was the Libyan God's unjust decree. Chain'd to a rock she stood; young Perseus stay'd His rapid flight, to view the beauteous maid. So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine, She seem'd a statue by a hand divine, Had not the wind her waving tresses show'd, And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flow'd. Her faultless form the heroe's bosom fires; The more he looks, the more he still admires. Th' admirer almost had forgot to fly, And swift descended, flutt'ring from on high. O! Virgin, worthy no such chains to prove, But pleasing chains in the soft folds of love; Thy country, and thy name (he said) disclose, And give a true rehearsal of thy woes. A quick reply her bashfulness refus'd, To the free converse of a man unus'd. Her rising blushes had concealment found From her spread hands, but that her hands were bound. She acted to her full extent of pow'r, And bath'd her face with a fresh, silent show'r. But by degrees in innocence grown bold, Her name, her country, and her birth she told: And how she suffer'd for her mother's pride, Who with the Nereids once in beauty vy'd. Part yet untold, the seas began to roar, And mounting billows tumbled to the shore. Above the waves a monster rais'd his head, His body o'er the deep was widely spread: Onward he flounc'd; aloud the virgin cries; Each parent to her shrieks in shrieks replies: But she had deepest cause to rend the skies. Weeping, to her they cling; no sign appears Of help, they only lend their helpless tears. Too long you vent your sorrows, Perseus said, Short is the hour, and swift the time of aid, In me the son of thund'ring Jove behold, Got in a kindly show'r of fruitful gold. Medusa's snaky head is now my prey, And thro' the clouds I boldly wing my way. If such desert be worthy of esteem, And, if your daughter I from death redeem, Shall she be mine? Shall it not then be thought, A bride, so lovely, was too cheaply bought? For her my arms I willingly employ, If I may beauties, which I save, enjoy. The parents eagerly the terms embrace: For who would slight such terms in such a case? Nor her alone they promise, but beside, The dowry of a kingdom with the bride. As well-rigg'd gallies, which slaves, sweating, row, With their sharp beaks the whiten'd ocean plough; So when the monster mov'd, still at his back The furrow'd waters left a foamy track. Now to the rock he was advanc'd so nigh, Whirl'd from a sling a stone the space would fly. Then bounding, upwards the brave Perseus sprung, And in mid air on hov'ring pinions hung. His shadow quickly floated on the main; The monster could not his wild rage restrain, But at the floating shadow leap'd in vain. As when Jove's bird, a speckl'd serpent spies, Which in the shine of Phoebus basking lies, Unseen, he souses down, and bears away, Truss'd from behind, the vainly-hissing prey. To writh his neck the labour nought avails, Too deep th' imperial talons pierce his scales. Thus the wing'd heroe now descends, now soars, And at his pleasure the vast monster gores. Full in his back, swift stooping from above, The crooked sabre to its hilt he drove. The monster rag'd, impatient of the pain, First bounded high, and then sunk low again. Now, like a savage boar, when chaf'd with wounds, And bay'd with opening mouths of hungry hounds, He on the foe turns with collected might, Who still eludes him with an airy flight; And wheeling round, the scaly armour tries Of his thick sides; his thinner tall now plies: 'Till from repeated strokes out gush'd a flood, And the waves redden'd with the streaming blood. At last the dropping wings, befoam'd all o'er, With flaggy heaviness their master bore: A rock he spy'd, whose humble head was low, Bare at an ebb, but cover'd at a flow. A ridgy hold, he, thither flying, gain'd, And with one hand his bending weight sustain'd; With th' other, vig'rous blows he dealt around, And the home-thrusts the expiring monster own'd. In deaf'ning shouts the glad applauses rise, And peal on peal runs ratling thro' the skies. The saviour-youth the royal pair confess, And with heav'd hands their daughter's bridegroom bless. The beauteous bride moves on, now loos'd from chains, The cause, and sweet reward of all the heroe's pains, Mean-time, on shore triumphant Perseus stood, And purg'd his hands, smear'd with the monster's blood: Then in the windings of a sandy bed Compos'd Medusa's execrable head. But to prevent the roughness, leafs he threw, And young, green twigs, which soft in waters grew, There soft, and full of sap; but here, when lay'd, Touch'd by the head, that softness soon decay'd. The wonted flexibility quite gone, The tender scyons harden'd into stone. Fresh, juicy twigs, surpriz'd, the Nereids brought, Fresh, juicy twigs the same contagion caught. The nymphs the petrifying seeds still keep, And propagate the wonder thro' the deep. The pliant sprays of coral yet declare Their stiff'ning Nature, when expos'd to air. Those sprays, which did, like bending osiers, move, Snatch'd from their element, obdurate prove, And shrubs beneath the waves, grow stones above. The great immortals grateful Perseus prais'd, And to three Pow'rs three turfy altars rais'd. To Hermes this; and that he did assign To Pallas: the mid honours, Jove, were thine, He hastes for Pallas a white cow to cull, A calf for Hermes, but for Jove a bull. Then seiz'd the prize of his victorious fight, Andromeda, and claim'd the nuptial rite. Andromeda alone he greatly sought, The dowry kingdom was not worth his thought. Pleas'd Hymen now his golden torch displays; With rich oblations fragrant altars blaze, Sweet wreaths of choicest flow'rs are hung on high, And cloudless pleasure smiles in ev'ry eye. The melting musick melting thoughts inspires, And warbling songsters aid the warbling lyres. The palace opens wide in pompous state, And by his peers surrounded, Cepheus sate. A feast was serv'd, fit for a king to give, And fit for God-like heroes to receive. The banquet ended, the gay, chearful bowl Mov'd round, and brighten'd, and enlarg'd each soul. Then Perseus ask'd, what customs there obtain'd, And by what laws the people were restrain'd. Which told; the teller a like freedom takes, And to the warrior his petition makes, To know, what arts had won Medusa's snakes. The Story of Medusa's Head The heroe with his just request complies, Shows, how a vale beneath cold Atlas lies, Where, with aspiring mountains fenc'd around, He the two daughters of old Phorcus found. Fate had one common eye to both assign'd, Each saw by turns, and each by turns was blind. But while one strove to lend her sister sight, He stretch'd his hand, and stole their mutual light, And left both eyeless, both involv'd in night. Thro' devious wilds, and trackless woods he past, And at the Gorgon-seats arriv'd at last: But as he journey'd, pensive he survey'd, What wasteful havock dire Medusa made. Here, stood still breathing statues, men before; There, rampant lions seem'd in stone to roar. Nor did he, yet affrighted, quit the field, But in the mirror of his polish'd shield Reflected saw Medusa slumbers take, And not one serpent by good chance awake. Then backward an unerring blow he sped, And from her body lop'd at once her head. The gore prolifick prov'd; with sudden force Sprung Pegasus, and wing'd his airy course. The Heav'n-born warrior faithfully went on, And told the num'rous dangers which he run. What subject seas, what lands he had in view, And nigh what stars th' advent'rous heroe flew. At last he silent sate; the list'ning throng Sigh'd at the pause of his delightful tongue. Some beg'd to know, why this alone should wear, Of all the sisters, such destructive hair. Great Perseus then: With me you shall prevail, Worth the relation, to relate a tale. Medusa once had charms; to gain her love A rival crowd of envious lovers strove. They, who have seen her, own, they ne'er did trace More moving features in a sweeter face. Yet above all, her length of hair, they own, In golden ringlets wav'd, and graceful shone. Her Neptune saw, and with such beauties fir'd, Resolv'd to compass, what his soul desir'd. In chaste Minerva's fane, he, lustful, stay'd, And seiz'd, and rifled the young, blushing maid. The bashful Goddess turn'd her eyes away, Nor durst such bold impurity survey; But on the ravish'd virgin vengeance takes, Her shining hair is chang'd to hissing snakes. These in her Aegis Pallas joys to bear, The hissing snakes her foes more sure ensnare, Than they did lovers once, when shining hair. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE FOURTH ,

1138:The Witch Of Hebron A Rabbinical Legend Part I. From morn until the setting of the sun The rabbi Joseph on his knees had prayed, And, as he rose with spirit meek and strong, An Indian page his presence sought, and bowed Before him, saying that a lady lay Sick unto death, tormented grievously, Who begged the comfort of his holy prayers. The rabbi, ever to the call of grief Open as day, arose; and girding straight His robe about him, with the page went forth; Who swiftly led him deep into the woods That hung, heap over heap, like broken clouds On Hebron’s southern terraces; when lo! Across a glade a stately pile he saw, With gleaming front, and many-pillared porch Fretted with sculptured vinage, flowers and fruit, And carven figures wrought with wondrous art As by some Phidian hand. But interposed For a wide space in front, and belting all The splendid structure with a finer grace, A glowing garden smiled; its breezes bore Airs as from paradise, so rich the scent That breathed from shrubs and flowers; and fair the growths Of higher verdure, gemm’d with silver blooms, Which glassed themselves in fountains gleaming light Each like a shield of pearl. Within the halls Strange splendour met the rabbi’s careless eyes, Halls wonderful in their magnificance, With pictured walls, and columns gleaming white Like Carmel’s snow, or blue-veined as with life; 222 Through corridors he passed with tissues hung Inwrought with threaded gold by Sidon’s art, Or rich as sunset clouds with Tyrian dye; Past lofty chambers, where the gorgeous gleam Of jewels, and the stainèd radiance Of golden lamps, showed many a treasure rare Of Indian and Armenian workmanship Which might have seemed a wonder of the world: And trains of servitors of every clime, Greeks, Persians, Indians, Ethiopians, In richest raiment thronged the spacious halls. The page led on, the rabbi following close, And reached a still and distant chamber, where In more than orient pomp, and dazzling all The else-unrivalled splendour of the rest, A queenly woman lay; so beautiful, That though upon her moon-bright visage, pain And langour like eclipsing shadows gloomed, The rabbi’s aged heart with tremor thrilled; Then o’er her face a hectic colour passed, Only to leave that pallor which portends The nearness of the tomb. From youth to age The rabbi Joseph still had sought in herbs And minerals the virtues they possess, And now of his medicaments he chose What seemed most needful in her sore estate; “Alas, not these,” the dying woman said, “A malady like mine thou canst not cure, ’Tis fatal as the funeral march of Time! But that I might at length discharge my mind Of a dread secret, that hath been to me An ever-haunting and most ghostly fear, Darkening my whole life like an ominous cloud And which must end it ere the morning come, Therefore did I entreat thy presence here.” The rabbi answered, “If indeed it stand Within my power to serve thee, speak at once 223 All that thy heart would say. But if ’tis vain, If this thy sin hath any mortal taint, Forbear, O woman, to acquaint my soul With aught that could thenceforth with horror chase The memory of a man of Israel.” “I am,” she said “the daughter of thy friend Rabbi Ben Bachai—be his memory blest! Once at thy side a laughing child I played; I married with an Arab Prince, a man Of lofty lineage, one of Ishmael’s race; Not great in gear. Behold’st thou this abode? Did ever yet the tent-born Arab build Thus for his pride or pleasure? See’st thou These riches? An no! Such were ne’er amassed By the grey desert’s wild and wandering son; Deadly the game by which I won them all! And with a burning bitterness at best Have I enjoyed them! And how gladly now Would I, too late, forego them all, to mend My broken peace with a repentant heed In abject poverty!” She ceased, and lay Calm in her loveliness, with dreamy looks Roaming, perhaps, in thought the fateful past; Then suddenly her beauteous countenance grew Bedimm’d and drear, then dark with mortal pangs, While fierce convulsions shook her tortured frame, And from her foaming lips such words o’erran, That rabbi Joseph sank upon his knees, And bowed his head a space in horror down While ardent, pitying prayers for her great woe Rose from his soul; when, lo! The woman’s face Was cloudless as a summer heaven! The late Dark brow was bright, the late pale cheek suffused With roseate bloom; and, wondrous more than all, Here weary eyes were changed to splendours now That shot electric influence, and her lips Were full and crimson, curled with stormy pride. The doubting rabbi stood in wild amaze To see the dying woman bold and fierce 224 In bright audacity of passion’s power. “These are the common changes,” then she said, “Of the fell ailment, that with torments strange, Which search my deepest life, is tearing up The dark foundations of my mortal state, And sinking all its structures, hour by hour, Into the dust of death. For nothing now Is left me but to meet my nearing doom As best I may in silent suffering.” Then as he heard her words and saw her face, The rabbi in his wisdom knew some strong Indwelling evil spirit troubled her, And straighway for an unction sent, wherewith The famous ancestor whose name he bore, Herod the Great’s chief hakim, had expelled The daemon haunter of the dying king. With this he touched her forehead and her eyes And all her finger-tips. Forthwith he made Within a consecrated crucible A fire of citron-wood and cinnamon; Then splashed the flames with incense, mingling all With the strong influence of fervent prayer; And, as the smoke arose, he bowed her head Into its coils, that so she might inhale Its salutary odour—till the fiend That dwelt within her should be exorcised. Her face once more grew pale with pain; she writhed In burning torment, uttering many words Of most unhallowed meaning! Yet her eyes Were fixed the while, and motionless her lips! Whereby the rabbi certainly perceived ’Twas not the woman of herself that spake, But the dread spirit that possessed her soul, And thus it cried aloud. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 225 Part II. “WHY am I here, in this my last resort, Perturbed with incense and anointings? Why Compelled to listen to the sound of prayers That smite me through as with the fire of God? O pain, pain, pain! Is not this chamber full Of the implacable stern punishers? Full of avenging angels, holding each A scourge of thunder in his potent hand, Ready to lighten forth! And then, thus armed, For ever chase and wound us as we fly! Nor end with this—but, in each wound they make, Pour venom sweltered from that tree As-gard, Whose deadly shadow in its blackness falls Over the lake of everlasting doom! “Five hundred years ago, I, who thus speak, Was an Egyptian of the splendid court Of Ptolemy Philadelphus. To the top Of mountainous power, though roughened with unrest, And girt with dangers as with thunder-clouds, Had I resolved by all resorts to climb; By truth and falsehood, right and wrong alike; And I did climb! Then firmly built in power Second alone to my imperial lord’s, I crowned with its impunity my lust Of beauty, sowing broadcast everywhere Such sensual baits wide round me, as should lure Through pleasure, or through interest entrap, The fairest daughters of the land, and lo! Their lustrous eyes surcharged with passionate light The chambers of my harem! But at length Wearied of these, though sweet, I set my heart On riches, heaped to such a fabulous sum As never one man’s hoard in all the world Might match; and to acquire them, steeped my life In every public, every private wrong, In lies, frauds, secret murders; till at last A favoured minion I had trusted most, And highest raised, unveiled before the king The dark abysmal badness of my life; But dearly did he rue it; nor till then Guessed I how deadly grateful was revenge! 226 I stole into his chamber as he slept, And with a sword, whose double edge for hours I had whetted for the purpose of the deed, There staked him through the midriff to his bed. I fled; but first I sent, as oft before, A present to the household of the man Who had in secret my betrayer bribed. Twas scented wine, and rich Damascus cakes; On these he feasted, and fell sudden down, Rolling and panting in his dying pangs, A poisoned desert dog! “But I had fled. A swift ship bore me, which my forecast long Had kept prepared against such need as this. Over the waves three days she proudly rode; Then came a mighty storm, and trampled all Her masted bravery flat, and still drove on The wave-swept ruin towards a reefy shore! Meanwhile amongst the terror-stricken crew An ominous murmur went from mouth to mouth; They grouped themselves in councils, and, ere long, Grew loud and furious with surmises wild, And maniac menaces, all aimed at me! My fugitive head it was at which so loud The thunder bellowed! The wild-shrieking winds And roaring waters held in vengeful chase Me only! Me! Whose signal crimes alone Had brought on us this anger of the gods! And thus reproaching me with glaring eyes, They would have seized and slain me, but I sprang Back from amongst them, and, outstriking, stabbed With sudden blow their leader to the heart; Then, with my poniard scaring off the rest, Leaped from the deck, and swimming reached the shore, From which, in savage triumph, I beheld The battered ship, with all her howling crew, Heel, and go down, amid the whelming waves. “Inland my course now lay for many days, O’er barren hills and glens, whose herbless scopes Never grew luminous with a water gleam, 227 Or heard the pleasant bubble of a brook, For vast around the Afric desert stretched. Starving and sun-scorched and afire with thirst, I wandered ever on, until I came To where, amid the dun and level waste, In frightful loneliness, a mouldered group Of ancient tombs stood ghostly. Here at last, Utterly spent, in my despair I lay Down on the burning sand, to gasp and die! When from among the stones a withered man, Old-seeming as the desert where he lived, Came and stood by me, saying ‘get thee up! Not much have I to give, but these at least I offer to thy need, water and bread.’ “Then I arose and followed to his cell,— A dismal cell, that seemed itself a tomb, So lightless was it, and so foul with damp, And at its entrance there were skulls and bones. Long and deep drank I of the hermit’s draught, And munched full greedily the hermit’s bread; But with the strength which thence my frame derived, Fierce rage devoured me, and I cursed my fate! Whereat the withered creature laughed in scorn, And mocked me with the malice of his eyes, That sometimes, like a snake’s, shrank small, and then Enlarging blazed as with infernal fire! Then, on a sudden, with an oath that seemed To wake a stir in the grey musty tombs, As if their silence shuddered, he averred That he could life me once more to the height Of all my wishes—nay, even higher, but On one condition only. Dared I swear, By the dread angel of the second death, I would be wholly his, both body and soul, After a hundred years? “Why should I not? I answered, quivering with a stormy haste, A rampart unreluctance! For so great Was still my fury against all mankind, And my desire of pomp and riches yet 228 So monstrous, that I felt I could have drunk Blood, fire, or worse, to wear again the power That fortune, working through my enemies’ hands, Had stript away from me. So, word by word, I swore the oath as he repeated it; Nor much it moved me, in my eagerness, To feel a damp and earthy odour break Out of each tomb, from which there darkling rose At every word a hissing as of snakes; And yet the fell of hair upon my scalp Rose bristling under a cold creeping thrill: But I failed not, I swore the dread oath through, And then the tombs grew silent as their dead. But through my veins a feeling of strong youth Coursed bold along, and summered in my heart, Till there before him in my pride I stood In stately strength, and swift as is the wind, Magnificant as a desert-nurtured steed Of princeliest pedigree, with nostrils wide Dilated, and with eyes effusing flame. ‘Begone,’ he said, ’and live thy hundred years Of splendour, power, pleasure, ease.’ His voice Sighed off into the distance. He was gone: Only a single raven, far aloft, Was beating outwards with its sable wings; The tombs had vanished, and the desert grey Merged its whole circle with the bending sky. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part III. “OUT of these wilds to Egypt I returned: Men thought that I had perished with the ship, And no one knew me now, because my face And form were greatly changed,—from passing fair To fairer yet; from manly, to a pile So nobly built, that in all eyes I seemed Beauteous as Thammuz! And my heart was changed; Ambition wilder than a leopard’s thirst 229 For blood of roe, or flying hart, possessed My spirit, like the madness of a god! But this I yet even in its fiercest strain Could curb and guide with sovereign strength of will. From small beginnings onward still I worked, Stepping as up a stair from rival head To rival head,—from high to higher still, Unto the loftiest post that might be held Under the Ptolemies; and meantime paid Each old unsettled score, defeating those Who erst had worked against me, sweeping them Out of all posts, all places; for though time And change had wide dispersed them through the land, The sleuth-hounds of my vengeance found them out! Which things not being in a corner done, What wonder was it that all Egypt now, From end to end, even like a shaken hive, Buzzed as disturbed with my portentous fame? “And what to me were secret enemies? Had I not also spies, who could pin down A whisper in the dark and keep it there? Could dash a covert frown by the same means An open charge had challenged? Hence my name Became a sound that struck through every heart Ineffable dismay! And yet behold There more I trampled on mankind, the more Did fawning flatterers praise me as I swept Like a magnificant meteor through the land! The more I hurled the mighty from their seats, And triumphed o’er them prostrate in the dust, The human hounds that licked my master hand But multiplied the more! And still I strode From bad to worse, corrupting as I went, Making the lowly ones more abject yet; Awing as with a thunder-bearing hand The high and affluent; while I bound the strong To basest service, even with chains of gold. All hated, cursed and feared me, for in vain Daggers were levelled at my brazen heart— They glanced, and slew some minion at my side Poison was harmless as a heifer’s milk When I had sipped it with my lips of scorn; 230 All that paraded pomp and smiling power Could draw against me from the envious hearts Of men in will as wicked as myself I challenged, I encountered, and o’erthrew! “But, after many years, exhaustion sere Spread through the branches of my tree of life; My forces flagged, my senses more and more Were blunted, and incapable of joy; The splendours of my rank availed me not; A poverty as naked as a slave’s Peered from them mockingly. The pride of power That glowed so strong within me in my youth Was now like something dying at my heart. To cheat or stimulate my jaded taste, Feasts, choice or sumptuous, were devised in vain; there was disfavour, there was fraud within, Like that which filled the fair-appearing rind Of those delusive apples that of old Grew on the Dead Sea shore. “And yet, though thus All that gave pleasure to my younger life Was withering from my path like summer grass, I still had one intense sensation, which Grew ever keener as my years increased— A hatred of mankind; to pamper which I gloated, with a burning in my soul, Over their degradation; and like one Merry with wine, I revelled day by day In scattering baits that should corrupt them more: The covetous I sharpened into thieves, Urged the vindictive, hardened the malign, Whetted the ruffian with self-interest, And flung him then, a burning brand, abroad. And the decadence of the state in which My fortunes had recast me, served me well. Excess reeled shameless in the court itself, Or, staggering thence, was rivalled by the wild Mad looseness of the crowd. Down to its death The old Greek dynasty was sinking fast; Waste and pale want, extortion, meanness, fraud— 231 These, welling outwards from the throne itself, Spread through the land. “But now there seized my soul A new ambition—from his feeble throne To hurl the king, and mount thereon myself! To this end still I lured him into ill, And daily wove around him cunning snares, That reached and trammelled too his fawning court; And all went well, the end at last was near, But in my triumph one thing I forgot— My name was measured. At a banquet held In the king’s chamber, lo! A guest appeared, Chief of a Bactrian tribe, who tendered gold To pay for some great wrong his desert horde Had done our caravans; his age, men said, Was wonderful; his craft more wondrous still; For this his fame had spread through many lands, And the dark seekers of forbidden lore Knew his decrepit wretch to be their lord. “The first glance that I met of his weird eye Had sent into my soul a fearful doubt That I had seen that cramp-shrunk withered form And strange bright eye in some forgotten past. But at the dry croak of his raven voice Remembrance wok; I knew that I beheld The old man of the tombs: I saw, and fell Into the outer darkness of despair. The day that was to close my dread account Was come at last. The long triumphant feast Of life had ended in a funeral treat. I was to die—to suffer with the damned The hideous torments of the second death! The days, weeks, months of a whole hundred years Seemed crushed into a thought, and burning out In that brief period which was left me now. “Stung with fierce horror, shame, and hate I fled; I seized my sword, to plunge its ready point Into my maddened heart, but on my arm I felt a strong forbidding grasp! I turned; 232 The withered visage of the Bactrian met My loathing eyes; I struggled to be free From the shrunk wretch in vain; his spidery hands Were strong as fetters of Ephesian brass, And all my strength, though now with madness strung, Was as a child’s to his. He calmly smiled: ‘Forbear, thou fool! Am I not Sammael? Whom to resist is vain, and from whom yet Has never mercy flowed; for what to me Are feelings which thou knowest even in men Are found the most in fools. But wide around A prince of lies I reign. ’Tis I that fill the Persian palaces with lust and wrong, Till like the darkling heads of sewers they flow With a corruption that in fretting thence Taints all the region round with rankest ill; ’Tis I that clot the Bactrian sand with blood; And now I come to fling the brands of war Through all this people, this most ill-mixed mob, Where Afric’s savage hordes meet treacherous Greeks, And swarming Asia’s luxury-wasted sons. This land throughout shall be a deluge soon Of blood and fire, till ruin stalk alone, A grisly spectre, in its grass-grown marts.’ The fiery eyes within his withered face Glowed like live coals, as he triumphant spake, And his strange voice, erewhile so thin and dry, Came as if bellowed from the vaults of doom. Prone fell I, powerless to move or speak; And now he was about to plunge me down Ten thousand times ten thousand fathoms deep Through the earth’s crust, and through the slimy beds Of nether ocean—down! Still down, below The darkling roots of all this upper world Into the regions of the courts of hell! “To stamp me downward to the convict dead His heel was raised, when suddenly I heard Him heave a groan of superhuman pain, So deep twas drawn! And as he groaned, I saw A mighty downburst of celestial light 233 Enwrap his shrivelled form from head to foot, As with a robe within whose venomous folds He writhed in torment. Then above him stood A shining shape, unspeakably sublime, And gazed upon him! One of the high sons Of Paradise, who still keep watch and ward O’er Israel’s progeny, where’er dispersed; And now they fought for me with arms that filled The air wide round with flashes and swift gleams Of dazzling light; full soon the Evil One Fell conquered. Then forth sprang he from the ground And with dark curses wrapped him in a cloud That moved aloft, low thundering as it went. “And then the shining son of paradise Came where I lay and spoke, his glorious face Severe with wrath, and yet divinely fair— ‘O Child of Guilt! Should vengeance not be wrought On thee as well? On Sammael’s willing slave?’ I clasped his radiant knees—I wept—I groaned— I beat my bosom in my wild distress. At last the sacred Presence, who had held The blow suspended still, spoke thus: ‘Thou’rt spared; From no weak pity, but because thou art Descended from the line of Israel: For that cause spared;—yet must thou at my hand Find some meet punishment.’ And as he spake, He laid his hand with a life-crushing weight Upon my forehead—and I fell, as dead! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part IV. “AWAKING as from sleep, I bounded up, Stung with a feeling of enormous strength, Though yet half wild with horror. Onward then Ramping I went, out through the palace gates, Down the long streets, and into the highways, Forth to the wilds, amazed at my own speed! 234 And now afar, in long-drawn line appeared A caravan upon its outward way Over the desert of Pentapolis. And strange the instinct seemed that urged me then to rush amongst them—and devour: for I Was fierce with hunger, and inflamed with thirst. “Amidst a laggard company I leaped That rested yet beside a cooling spring; One of those clear springs that, like giant pearls, Inlay the burning borders of the grey Enormous desert. All at once they rose! Some fled, some threw themselves amongst the brakes, Some seized their swords and lances; this to see Filled me at once with a mysterious rage And savage joy! The sternness of their looks, Their fearful cries, the gleaming of their spears Seemed to insult me, and I rushed on them. Then sudden spasms of pain searched deep my side, Wherein a fell lance quivered. On I rushed; I roared a roar that startled e’en myself, So loud and hoarse and terrible its tone, Then bounding, irresistible it seemed As some huge fragment from a crag dislodged, Against the puny wretch that sent the lance, Instantly tore him, as he were a kid, All into gory shreds! The others fled At sight of this, nor would I chase them then, All wearied by my flight. Besides, the well Was gleaming in its coolness by me there. “And as I stooped to quench my parching thirst, Behold, reversed within the water clear, The semblance of a monstrous lion stood! I saw his shaggy mane, I saw his red And glaring eyeballs rolling in amaze, His rough and grinning lips, his long sharp fangs All foul with gore and hung with strings of flesh! I shrank away in horrible dismay. But as the sun each moment fiercer grew, I soon returned to stoop and slake my thirst. Again was that tremendous presence there Standing reversed, as erewhile, in the clear 235 And gleaming mirror of the smiling well! The horrid truth smote like a rush of fire Upon my brain! The dreadful thing I saw Was my own shadow! I was a wild beast.” “They did not fable, then, who held that oft The guilty dead are punished in the shapes Of beasts, if brutal were their lives as men.” “Long lapped I the cool lymph, while still my tongue Made drip for drip against the monstrous one, Which, as in ugly mockery, from below Seemed to lap up against it. But though thirst Was quenched at length, what was there might appease The baffled misery of my fated soul? The thought that I no more was human, ran Like scorpion venom through my mighty frame; Fiercely I bounded, tearing up the sands, That, like a drab mist, coursed me as I went Out on my homeless track. I made my fangs Meet in my flesh, trusting to find in pain Some respite from the anguish of regret. From morn to night, from night to morn, I fled, Chased by the memory of my lost estate; Then, worn and bleeding, in the burning sands I lay down, as to die. In vain!—in vain! The savage vigour of my lion-life Might yield alone to the long tract of time. “From hill to valley rushing after prey, With whirlwind speed, was now my daily wont, For all things fled before me—all things shrank In mortal terror at my shaggy front. Sometimes I sought those close-fenced villages, Wherein the desert-dwellers hide their swart And naked bodies from the scorching heats, Hoping that I might perish by their shafts. And often was I wounded—often bore Their poisoned arrows in my burning flesh— But still I lived. “The tenor of my life 236 Was always this—the solitary state Of a wild beast of prey, that hunted down The antelope, the boar, the goat, the gorged Their quivering flesh, and lapped their steaming blood; Then slept till hunger, or the hunter’s cry, Roused him again to battle or to slay, To flight, pursuit, blood, stratagem, and wounds. And to make this rude life more hideous yet, I still retained a consciousness of all The nobler habits of my eariler time, And had a keen sense of what most had moved My nature as a man, and knew besides That this my punishment was fixed by One Too mighty to be questioned, and too just One tittle of its measure to remit. “How long this haggard course of life went on I might not even guess, for I had lost The human faculty that measures time. But still from night to night I found myself Roaming the desert, howling at the moon, Whose cold light always, as she poured it down, Awoke a drear distemper in my brain: But much I shunned the sunblaze, which at once Inflamed me, and revealed my dread approach. “Homelessly roaming thus for evermore, The tempests beat on my unsheltered bulk, In those bleak seasons when the drenching rains Drove into covert all those gentler beasts That were my natural prey. I swinkt beneath The furnace heats of the midsummer sun, When even the palm of the oasis stood All withered, like a weed: and for how long, Yet knew not. “Thus the sun and moon arose Through an interminable tract of time, And yet though sense was dim, the view of all My human life was ever at my beck, Nay, opened out before me of itself Plain as the pictures in a wizard’s glass! 237 I saw again the trains that round my car Streamed countless, saw its pageants and its pomps, Its faces fair and passionate, and felt Lie’s eager pleasures, even its noble pangs! Then in the anguish of my goaded heart Would I roll howling in the burning sand. “At length this life of horror seemed to near Its fated bourn. The slow but sure approach Of old decay was felt in every limb And every function of my lion frame. My massive strength seemed spent, my speed was gone, The antelope escaped me! Wearily I sought a mountain cavern, shut from day By savage draperies of tangled briers, And only dragged my tardy bulk abroad When hunger urged. It chanced on such a day I sprange amid a herd of buffaloes And tore their leader down, who bellowing fell. When, lo! The chief of those that drove them came Against me, and I turned my rage on him: But though the long lapse of so many years Of ever-grinding wretchedness had dulled My memory, I felt that I had seen His withered visage twice before; and straight A shuddering awe subdued me, and I crouched Beneath him in the dust. My lust of blood, My ruthless joy at sight of mortal pain, Within me died, and if in human speech I might have told the wild desire that filled My being, I had prayed him once for all To crush me out of life, and to consign My misery to the pit of final death! But when, all hopeless, I again looked up, The tawney presence of the desert chief Was gone, and I beheld the shining son Of paradise, from whose majestic brow There flashed the lightings of a wrath divine. Yea, twas the angel that with Sammael Had fought for me in Egypt; and once more He laid his crushing had upon my front; And earth and sky, and all that in them is, 238 Became to me a darkness, swimming blank In the Eternal, round that point where now My body lay, stretched dead upon the sand. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part V. “AGAIN I lived—again I felt. But now The winds of heaven seemed under me, and I Was sweeping, like the spirit of a storm That bellowed round me, in its murky glooms, All heaving with a motion wide and swift That seemed yet mightier than the darkling swells Of ocean, wrestling with a midnight gale! The wild winds tossed me; I was drenched throughout With heavy moisture, and at intervals Amid the ragged gaps of moving cloud, Methought I caught dim glimpses of the sun Hanging aloft, as if in drear eclipse; But as my senses cleared, I saw my limbs Were clothed with plumage; and long-taloned claws Were closing eagerly with fierce desire And sudden hunger after blood and prey! An impulse to pursue and to destroy Both on the earth and in the air, ran quick Out from my heart and shivered in my wings; And as a thing more central yet, I felt Pregnant within me, throned o’er all, a lone And sullen, yet majestic, glow of pride. “’Twas plain that I, who had aforetime been Crushed out of human being into that Of a wild beast, had thence again passed on Into the nature of some mighty thing That now swept sailing on wide van-like wings, Amid the whirls of an aërial gloom, That out extending in one mighty cope Hung heaving, like a black tent-roof, o’er all The floor of Africa. 239 “Still on I swept, And still as far as my keen vision went, That now was gifted with a power that seemed To pierce all space, I saw the vapours roll In dreadful continuous of black And shapeless masses, by the winds convulsed; But soon in the remotest distance came A change: the clouds were touched with sunny light, And, as I nearer drew, I saw them dash, Like the wild surges of an uproused sea Of molten gold, against the marble sides Of lofty mountains, which, though far below My flight, yet pierced up through them all, and stood With splintered cones and monster-snouted crags, Immovable as fate. Beneath me, lo! The grandeur of the kingdom of the air Was circling in its magnitude! It was A dread magnificence of which before I might not even dream. I saw its quick And subtle interchange of forms and hues, Saw its black reservoirs of densest rain, Its awful forges of the thunderstorm. “At last, as onward still I swept, above A milky mass of vapour far outspread, Behold, reflected in its quiet gleam, I saw an image that swept on with me, Reversed as was the lion’s in the well, With van-like wings, with eyeballs seething fire, With taloned claws, and cruel down-bent beak,— The mightiest eagle that had ever sailed The seas of space since Adam named the first! “My fated soul had passed into the form Of that huge eagle which swept shadowed there. Cold horror thrilled me! I was once again Imprisoned in the being of a brute, In the base being of a nature yet Inferior by what infinite descent To that poor remnant of intelligence Which still kept with me,—like a put-back soul Burningly conscious of its powers foregone, 240 Its inborn sovreignty of kind, and yet So latent, self-less; once again to live A life of carnage, and to sail abroad A terror to all birds and gentle beasts That heard the stormy rushings of my wings! A royal bird indeed, who lived alone In the great stillness of the mighty hills, Or in the highest heavens. “But in truth Not much for many seasons had I need To search for prey, for countless hosts of men, Forth mustering over all the face of earth, Cast the quick gleam of arms o’er trampled leagues Of golden corn, and as they onward marched They left behind them seas of raging fire, In whose red surges cities thronged with men And happy hamlets, homes of health and peace, That rang erewhile with rural thankfulness, Were whelmed in one wide doom; or in their strength Confronted upon some set field of fight, Their sullen masses charged with dreadful roar That far out-yelled the fiercest yells of beasts, And with brute madness rushed on wounds and death; Or else about fenced cities they would pitch Their crowded camps, and leaguer them for years, Sowing the fields about them with a slime Of carnage, till their growths were plagues alone. What is the ravage made by brutes on brutes To that man makes on man? “With mingled pain And joy I saw the wondrous ways of men, (For ever when I hungered, close at hand, Some fresh slain man lay smoking in his gore) And though the instincts of the eagle’s life Were fierce within me, yet I felt myself Cast in a lot more capable of joy; Safe from pursuit, from famine, and from wounds. Some solaces, though few and far between, Were added to me; and I argued thence, In the dark musings of my eagle heart, 241 That not for ever was my soul condemned To suffer in the body of a brute; For though remembrance of the towering crimes And matchless lusts, that filled my whole career Of human life, worked in me evermore, No longer did they shed about my life So venomous a blight. Nay, I could think How often I had looked with longing eyes Up at the clear Egyptian heavens, and watched The wings that cleft them, envying every bird That, soaring in the sunshine, seemed to be Exempt from all the grovelling cares of men. I thought how once, when with my hunting train I pierced that region round the cataracts, I watched an eagle as it rose aloft Into the lovely blue, and wished to change My being with it as it floated on, So inaccessible to hate or hurt, So peaceful, at a height in heaven so safe; And then it passed away through gorgeous clouds Against the sunset, through the feathered flags Of royal purple edged with burning gold. “These fields of space were my dominion now; Motion alone within a world so rich Was something noble: but to move at will, Upward or forward, or in circles vast, Through boundless spaces with a rushing speed No living thing might rival, and to see The glory of the everlasting hills Beneath me, and the myriad-peopled plains, Broad rivers, and the towery towns that sate Beside their spacious mouths, with out beyond The lonely strength of the resounding seas— This liberty began to move my sense As something godlike; and in moving made A sure impression that kept graining still Into the texture of my brute estate— Yea, graining in through all its fleshy lusts And savage wonts. “Hence ever more and more 242 The temper of a better spirit grew Within me, as from inkling roots, and moved E’en like an embryon in its moist recess: A sensibility to beauteous things As now I saw them in the heavens displayed, And in the bright luxuriance of the earth; Some power of just comparison, some sense Of how a man would rank them, could he see Those earthly grandeurs from the sovreign height Whence I beheld them. And with this a wish To commune even with the human race, And pour the loftier wonders of my life Into their ears, through a rich-worded song Whose golden periods in mellow flow Should witch all ears that heard them—ev’n old men s, Ev’n jaded monarchs; not to speak of theirs, Those spirit-lovely ones—yea, moons of love, That rise at first in the Circassian hills— And they should tingle all like tiny shells Of roseate whiteness to its perfect chords. “One day amid the mountains of the moon, Behold a sudden storm had gatherd up Out of my view, hid by a neighbouring height, But which, thence wheeling with terrific force, Wide tossed me with its gusts—aloft, and then Downward as far; then whirlingly about, Ev’n like a withered leaf. My strength of wing Availed me nought, so mightily it raged; Then suddenly, in the dim distance, lo! I saw, as from the storm’s Plutonian heart, A mass of white-hot light come writing forth, And then the figure of a withered man Seemed dropping headlong through the lurid clouds; While full within the radiant light, again The conquering son of paradise appeared, Upon whose brow divine I yet might trace Some sing of wrath. Onward the vision rushed, Orbed in white light. I felt a stifling heat, One cruel blasting pang, and headlong then Fell earthward—dead; a plumb descending mass. 243 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part VI. “WITHIN a rustic chamber, dark and low, Thronged with wild-looking men and women strange, I seemed to waken. Inwardly I felt No briskness of existence, but a sense Of languor rather, or revival slow: And evermore the men and women came And gazed upon me, shouting in amaze, Then would they whirl about the room in dance, Abandoned to their barbarous delight. “I turned mine eyes about the low-roofed room, Half fearing and half hoping I might see The mighty angel that now ruled my life; They thought I needed air, and I was borne to a low casement. Like a picture lay The world without. On all sides wide around Nothing but mountains, feathered to their tops With a dense growth of pines, and valleys filled With a cold darkness that was lit alone By the broad flashes of the furious streams That leaped in thunder our of marble gaps! Dull vapours, like a canopy of smoke, Did so obscure the sun, that I had thought The scene that now I saw was not of earth, But for a golden flush that now and then Would touch the highest ranges. What I was I knew not, but I felt my former wants, And oft I made vain efforts to expand The wings I had no longer, and sail off, And through those sullen vapours—up, and up— Into the mighty silence of the blue. “The day was fading, and a blare of horns, With many voices and much trampling noise, Heard from without, aroused me; and, ere long, Women rushed in, each bearing some rich robe Or some gay bauble, wherewithal they next 244 Arrayed me to their taste; and then they held A mirror up before me, and I saw My soul had this time passed into the form Of a fair damsel. She, whose form I now Re-animated, was—so learned I soon— The only child of a Circassian chief, Who had been long regarded by her house As its chief treasure, for her beauty rare; Reserved for him, no matter whence he came, Whose hand could dip into the longest purse. But envy lurks in the Circassian hills As elsewhere, and a dose of opium, Administered by one who had been long The rival beauty of a neighbouring tribe, Had served to quash a bargain quite complete Save in the final payment of the gold, Which had been even offered and told down, And only not accepted, through some old Delaying ceremony of the tribe; And in this luckless circumstances, twas plain That both my admirable parents saw The unkindest turn of all. “On all hands forth Had scouts been sent to summon the whole tribe To attend my obsequies, and then forthwith Exterminate our ancient enemies Through all their tents—such was the fierce resolve. But while these things were pending, lo! The light Had broken like a new morn from the eyes Of the dead beauty; on her cheeks had dawned A roseate colour; from her moistening lips Low murmurs, too, had broken; whereupon My parents in exulting hope transformed The funeral to a general tribal feast, And loaded me with all the ancient gauds And ornaments they held. The Persian, too, Had been invited to renew his suit, And carry me at once beyond the reach Of future opium doses. “Soon he came 245 Galloping back to bear me to the arms Of his long-bearded lord. He paid the price; My worthy parents took a fond farewell Of me, with tears declaring me to be The life-light of their eyes, their rose of joy,— Then stretched their palms out for the stranger’s gold, And hurried off to count it o’er again— The dear recovered treasure they so late Had mourned as lost for ever. On that night I was packed neatly on a camel’s back Beside a precious case of porcelain pipes, And carried Persia-ward, by stages safe, From the Circassian mountains. “At the court I soon became the favourite of the king; Lived sumptuously, but in perpetual fear: For all my luxury and gold and gems, I envied the poor slaves who swept the floors. I was the favourite of my Persian lord For one whole month, perhaps a little more, And then I learned my place was to be filled; And though I loathed him, as we loathe some cold And reptile creature, yet I could not bear To see a newer rival take my place, For I was beautiful, and therefore vain: So, that I might regain his favour past, I now arrayed myself in airy robes, While scarfs of purple like an orient queen’s Barred them with brilliant tints, and gold and pearls Confined the wavelets of my sunny hair. “The harem all applauded, and there seemed Even in his own dull eyes almost a flash As of extorted joy, but this became At the next moment a malignant scowl, Which had its dark cause in such thoughts as these: ‘What! Did so soft and ignorant a thing Hope to enchant again a man so wise As he was—he! The paragon of kings! By floating in before him like a swan, A little better feathered than before?’ 246 And then he waved the harem ladies forth, And with him kept only a Nubian girl, Whom he thought dull, and altogether his: A conclave of those strange demoniac dwarfs Who from their secret dens and crypts would come On given signals forth, was summoned in: Wizard-like beings, with enormous heads, Splay-feet, and monstrous spider-fingered hands. Nor was the council long; I on that night Was to be poisoned with a pomegranate. Then stole the Nubian girl away, and brought Me word of all; yet her news moved me not, So sure I felt that this was not my doom; Or moved me only to prepare for flight With the poor Nubian girl. Unseen I came To my own chamber, where I packed my goods; And whence, unseen by all, we swiftly fled. ’Twas plain and patent to my inmost self That in this last change I had always been Regenerating more and more; for though I had a love of mischief in my head, At heart I was not bad, and they who knew Me closely, or at least the woman sort, Loved me,—nay, served me, as the Nubian did. And now, as no one else might sell me,—lo! I sold myself, and found myself installed Queen of a rude baboon-like Afric king. “Then I was captive to a Bedouin sheik, Was sold in the slave-mart of Astrachan, And carried thence to India, to be crowned A rajahpoot’s sultana; from which state Flying at length, I fell into a worse, Being pounced on by a Turkoman horse-stealer. At Alexandra I became the slave Of a harsh Roman matron, who was wont To flog and famish me to make me good, And when I owned myself converted, then She flogged and famished me the more, to make My goodness lasting; and I finally Fell stabbed in Cairo—slaughtered by a slave. 247 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part VII. “AFTER some short and intermediate terms Of transmigration, all in female forms, In which, through kindly offices performed, It seemed the temper of my spirit much Had humanized, and in the last of which Twas mine to die for once a natural death, Again I had some deep-down hold on being, Dim as an oyster’s in its ocean-bed; Then came a sense of light and air, of space, Of hunger, comfort, warmth, of sight and sound I caught at length the drift of speech, and knew That all who came to see me and admire Called me Ben Bachai’s daughter. “Dark indeed, But lovely as a starry night I grew, A maid, the glory of her father’s house, Her mother’s dovelet, filling all her wonts With tenderness and joy. Still as I grew, By strange degrees the memory of all That I had been came back upon my mind To fill it with wild sorrow and dismay; To know I was a cheat, nor wholly what I seemed to my fond parents—that I was But half their daughter, and the rest a fiend, With a fiend’s destiny,—ah! This, I say, Would smite me even in dreams with icy pangs Or wordless woe, yea, even while I slept So innocently as it seemed, and so Securely happy in the arms of love!” As this was said, the Rabbi looked, and saw That now again the woman seemed to speak As of herself, and not as heretofore With moveless lips, and prisoned voice, that came As from some dark duality within. 248 Her looks had changed, too, with the voice, and now Again she lay, a queen-like creature, racked With mortal sufferings, who, when these grew less, Or for a time remitted, even thus Took up her tale again. “At length upgrown To womanhood, by some mysterious pact Existing twixt my father’s house and that Of an Arabian prince time out of mind, I was now wedded ere I wished, and he, My husband, finally had come to claim And bear me from my home, that happiest home Which I should know no more: a man most fair To look upon, but void of force, in truth The weakling of a worn-out line, who yet (What merit in a prince!) Was not depraved, Not wicked, not the mendicant of lust, But mild, and even affectionate and just. My dowry was immense, and flushed with this The prince had summoned from his vassal tribe Five hundred horse, all spearmen, to escort And guard us desert-ward. And as we went These ever and anon, at signal given, Would whirl around us like a thunder-cloud Wind-torn, and shooting instant shafts of fire! And thus we roamed about the Arabian wastes, Pitching our camp amid the fairest spots. Beneath an awning oft I lay, and gazed Out at the cloudless ether, where it wrapt The silent hills, like to a conscious power Big with the soul of an eternal past. “But long this life might last not, for the prince Sickened and died;—died poor, his wealth and mine Having been squandered on the hungry horde That wont to prance about us; who ere long, Divining my extremity, grew loud And urgent for rewards, till on a day, By concert as it seemed, the tribe entire Came fiercely round me, all demanding gifts, Gifts that I had not; as they nearer pressed, 249 Wearing his way among them, lo! I saw The old man of the tombs! The Bactrian sage! With signs of awe they made him room to pass; He fixed me with his shrunk and serpent eyes, Waved off the abject Arabs, and then asked ‘Why art thou poor? With needs so great upon thee? I offer thee long life and wealth and power.’ “I turned to him and said: ‘Should I not know, By all the past, the nature of thy gifts? Shows and delusions, evil, sin-stained all, And terminating in eternal loss.’ ‘Well, take it as thou wilt,’ he said; ‘my gifts Are not so weighed by all.’ And saying this He went his way, while I retired within My lonely tent to weep. “Next day the tribes Again assembled, and with threats and cries, And insults loud, they raised a passion in me. My blood arose: I chid them angrily, Called them all things but men, till they, alarmed, Fell back in sullen silence for a while, Crouching like tigers ready for a spring. Humbled, perplexed, and frightened, I returned Into my tent, and there within its folds Stood the weird Bactrian with his snaky eyes, And wiry voice that questioned as before: ‘Why art thou poor? Why dost thou suffer wrong, With all this petty baseness brattling round? Am I not here to help thee? I, thy one Sole friend—not empty, but with ample means. Behold the secrets of the inner earth! There, down among the rock-roots of the hills, What seest thou there? Look, as I point, even those Strange miscreations, as they seem to thee, Are demoniac moilers that obey Such arts as I possess; the gnomish brood Of Demogorgon. See them how they moil Amid those diamonds shafts and reefs of gold Embedded in the oldest drifts of time, And in the mire that was the first crude floor 250 And blind extension of the infant earth: Why art thou poor, then, when such slaves as they Might work for thee, and glut thy need with all The matchless values which are there enwombed, Serving thee always as they now serve me? Nor these alone: turn thou thy looks aloft, And watch the stars as they go swimming past. Behold their vastness, each a world,’ he said; ‘The secrets of all these, too, thou shalt know, The spirits of all these shall be thy slaves, If thou wilt swear as erst amid the tombs.’ “The woe of desolation wrapped me round, The joy to know all mysteries tempted me, And with a shudder that shook me to the soul I swore, as erst I swore amid the tombs. “As on my hand he placed a signet-ring, Suddenly loud the desert winds arose, And blew with mighty stress among the tents; And instantly aloft the thunder ran, A mighty issue of miraculous light Burst shaft-like forward, smiting him in twain, Or so it seemed, down through the solid earth. In vain I shrunk into a dim recess; Before me stood the son of paradise. Then leapt the soul to life within my heart— Leapt into life with fear, and pain, and woe— Anger and sadness both were on his brow. “‘Could’st thou no trial bear—all but redeemed; Could’st thou not rest content? A rabbi’s child! Enjoy as best thou may this ill-won power Over the darker agencies of time, And bide the end, which end is punishment But the more terrible, the more delayed; Yet know this also, thou shalt thus no more Be punished in a body built of clay.’ He vanished, leaving me to sharp remorse, And harrowed with the thought of his grieved look. ‘And yet no power in heaven or hell,’ I said, ‘May now annul my deed.’ 251 “And not one day Of joy has brought to me my ‘ill-won power.’ I built vast palaces in quiet view Of ancient cities, or by famous streams; I filled my halls with men and women fair, And with these pages of a beauty rare Like striplings kidnapped from some skirt of heaven; Yet sorrowful of countenance withal, As knowing that their mortal doom is joined With mine irrevocably, that with me ’Tis theirs to own these shows of time, with me To live—with me to die. And as, ’tis said, A hunted roe will evermore beat round Towards whence he started first, I felt at length An ardent longing for my native place; That spot in all the earth where only I, In tasting of it, had divined the worth And Sabbath quality of household peace. Then coming hither, thus constrained, I pitched My dwelling here, even this thou seest; built fair, And filled with splendours such as never yet Under one roof-tree on this earth were stored. See yon surpassing lustres! Could this orb Show such? From Mars came that; from Venus this; And yonder mass of sun-bright glory, that From Mercury came, whence came these viols, too, Instinct with fervent music such as ne’er From earthly instruments might thrill abroad.” Then seizing one of them, even as she spake, Over its chords she moved her ivory hand, And instantly the palace domes throughout Rang resonant, as every hall and crypt Were pulsing music from a thousand shells That still ran confluent with a mellow slide And intercourse of cadence: sweet, and yet Most mournful and most weird, and oft intoned With a wild wilfulness of power that worked For madness more than joy. “Even such, ” she said “Are the delights with which I most converse In the dark loneness of my fated soul, 252 For all is show, not substance. All I hold But darkens more the certainty I have Of wrath to come, from which no change of place, No earthly power, no power of heaven nor hell, May shield me now. I see it shadowing forth Even like a coming night, in whose dark folds My soul would ask to hide itself in vain. And now I go to meet the angel’s face; I will not claim my hundred years of pride, I trample underneath my feet the gift For which I sold my soul; I will not touch The ring of Sammael, nor use his power To stay the torments that devour my life; Misery, shame, remorse, and dread are mine; Yet shall the angel see repentent eyes, And know at last I could one trial bear; Too late, too late.” As thus the woman spake, Her brow grew dark, and suddenly she shrieked In her great agony. “Oh pray for me! Pray, rabbi! For the daughter of thy friend! The hour is coming, nay, the hour is come!” There was a rustle as of wings aloft, A sudden flicker in the lights below, And she, who until now seemed speaking, sank Back on her pillow and in silence lay Beautiful in the marble calm of death. The rabbi gazed on her, and thought the while Of those far times, when, as a child, her grace Had filled with pleasantness her father’s house. Then to her servants gave in charge the corpse, And forth he paced, much musing as he went. At length he turned to gaze once more upon The silent house of death. Can such things be? All had evanished like a morning mist! Only the woods that hung like clouds about The steeps of Hebron, in the whitening dawn Lay dark against the sky! Only a pool Gleamed flat before him, where it seemed erewhile The splendid palace had adorned the view! 253 Perplexed in mind, the rabbi turned again And hurried homeward, muttering as he went: Was it a vision? Can such marvels be? But what in truth are all things, even those That seem most solid—dust and air at last ~ Charles Harpur,

1139:ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child. SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como. HELEN    Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.    'T is long since thou and I have met;    And yet methinks it were unkind    Those moments to forget.    Come, sit by me. I see thee stand    By this lone lake, in this far land,    Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,    Thy sweet voice to each tone of even    United, and thine eyes replying    To the hues of yon fair heaven.      Come, gentle friend! wilt sit by me?    And be as thou wert wont to be    Ere we were disunited?    None doth behold us now; the power    That led us forth at this lone hour    Will be but ill requited    If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come,    And talk of our abandoned home!    Remember, this is Italy,    And we are exiles. Talk with me    Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,    Barren and dark although they be,    Were dearer than these chestnut woods;    Those heathy paths, that inland stream,    And the blue mountains, shapes which seem    Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream;    Which that we have abandoned now,    Weighs on the heart like that remorse    Which altered friendship leaves. I seek    No more our youthful intercourse.    That cannot be! Rosalind, speak,    Speak to me! Leave me not! When morn did come,    When evening fell upon our common home,    When for one hour we parted,do not frown;    I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken;    But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token    Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,    Turn, as 't were but the memory of me,    And not my scornd self who prayed to thee! ROSALIND    Is it a dream, or do I see      And hear frail Helen? I would flee    Thy tainting touch; but former years    Arise, and bring forbidden tears;    And my o'erburdened memory    Seeks yet its lost repose in thee.    I share thy crime. I cannot choose    But weep for thee; mine own strange grief    But seldom stoops to such relief;    Nor ever did I love thee less,    Though mourning o'er thy wickedness    Even with a sister's woe. I knew    What to the evil world is due,    And therefore sternly did refuse    To link me with the infamy    Of one so lost as Helen. Now,    Bewildered by my dire despair,    Wondering I blush, and weep that thou    Shouldst love me stillthou only!There,    Let us sit on that gray stone    Till our mournful talk be done. HELEN    Alas! not there; I cannot bear    The murmur of this lake to hear.    A sound from there, Rosalind dear,    Which never yet I heard elsewhere    But in our native land, recurs,    Even here where now we meet. It stirs    Too much of suffocating sorrow!    In the dell of yon dark chestnut wood    Is a stone seat, a solitude    Less like our own. The ghost of peace    Will not desert this spot. To-morrow,    If thy kind feelings should not cease,    We may sit here. ROSALIND             Thou lead, my sweet,    And I will follow. HENRY              'T is Fenici's seat    Where you are going? This is not the way,    Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow    Close to the little river. HELEN                  Yes, I know;    I was bewildered. Kiss me and be gay,    Dear boy; why do you sob? HENRY                 I do not know;    But it might break any one's heart to see      You and the lady cry so bitterly. HELEN    It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home,    Henry, and play with Lilla till I come.    We only cried with joy to see each other;    We are quite merry now. Good night.                      The boy    Lifted a sudden look upon his mother,    And, in the gleam of forced and hollow joy    Which lightened o'er her face, laughed with the glee    Of light and unsuspecting infancy,    And whispered in her ear, 'Bring home with you    That sweet strange lady-friend.' Then off he flew,    But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning smile,    Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while,    Hiding her face, stood weeping silently.    In silence then they took the way    Beneath the forest's solitude.    It was a vast and antique wood,    Through which they took their way;    And the gray shades of evening    O'er that green wilderness did fling    Still deeper solitude.    Pursuing still the path that wound    The vast and knotted trees around,    Through which slow shades were wandering,    To a deep lawny dell they came,    To a stone seat beside a spring,    O'er which the columned wood did frame    A roofless temple, like the fane    Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain,    Man's early race once knelt beneath      The overhanging deity.    O'er this fair fountain hung the sky,    Now spangled with rare stars. The snake,    The pale snake, that with eager breath    Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake,    Is beaming with many a mingled hue,    Shed from yon dome's eternal blue,    When he floats on that dark and lucid flood    In the light of his own loveliness;    And the birds, that in the fountain dip    Their plumes, with fearless fellowship    Above and round him wheel and hover.    The fitful wind is heard to stir    One solitary leaf on high;    The chirping of the grasshopper    Fills every pause. There is emotion    In all that dwells at noontide here;    Then through the intricate wild wood    A maze of life and light and motion    Is woven. But there is stillness now    Gloom, and the trance of Nature now.    The snake is in his cave asleep;    The birds are on the branches dreaming;    Only the shadows creep;    Only the glow-worm is gleaming;    Only the owls and the nightingales    Wake in this dell when daylight fails,    And gray shades gather in the woods;    And the owls have all fled far away    In a merrier glen to hoot and play,    For the moon is veiled and sleeping now.    The accustomed nightingale still broods    On her accustomed bough,    But she is mute; for her false mate    Has fled and left her desolate.    This silent spot tradition old    Had peopled with the spectral dead.    For the roots of the speaker's hair felt cold    And stiff, as with tremulous lips he told    That a hellish shape at midnight led    The ghost of a youth with hoary hair,    And sate on the seat beside him there,    Till a naked child came wandering by,    When the fiend would change to a lady fair!    A fearful tale! the truth was worse;    For here a sister and a brother    Had solemnized a monstrous curse,    Meeting in this fair solitude;    For beneath yon very sky,    Had they resigned to one another      Body and soul. The multitude,    Tracking them to the secret wood,    Tore limb from limb their innocent child,    And stabbed and trampled on its mother;    But the youth, for God's most holy grace,    A priest saved to burn in the market-place.    Duly at evening Helen came    To this lone silent spot,    From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow    So much of sympathy to borrow    As soothed her own dark lot.    Duly each evening from her home,    With her fair child would Helen come    To sit upon that antique seat,    While the hues of day were pale;    And the bright boy beside her feet    Now lay, lifting at intervals    His broad blue eyes on her;    Now, where some sudden impulse calls,    Following. He was a gentle boy    And in all gentle sorts took joy.    Oft in a dry leaf for a boat,    With a small feather for a sail,    His fancy on that spring would float,    If some invisible breeze might stir    Its marble calm; and Helen smiled    Through tears of awe on the gay child,    To think that a boy as fair as he,    In years which never more may be,    By that same fount, in that same wood,    The like sweet fancies had pursued;    And that a mother, lost like her,    Had mournfully sate watching him.    Then all the scene was wont to swim    Through the mist of a burning tear.    For many months had Helen known    This scene; and now she thither turned    Her footsteps, not alone.    The friend whose falsehood she had mourned    Sate with her on that seat of stone.    Silent they sate; for evening,    And the power its glimpses bring,    Had with one awful shadow quelled    The passion of their grief. They sate    With linkd hands, for unrepelled    Had Helen taken Rosalind's.    Like the autumn wind, when it unbinds    The tangled locks of the nightshade's hair    Which is twined in the sultry summer air    Round the walls of an outworn sepulchre,      Did the voice of Helen, sad and sweet,    And the sound of her heart that ever beat    As with sighs and words she breathed on her,    Unbind the knots of her friend's despair,    Till her thoughts were free to float and flow;    And from her laboring bosom now,    Like the bursting of a prisoned flame,    The voice of a long-pent sorrow came. ROSALIND    I saw the dark earth fall upon    The coffin; and I saw the stone    Laid over him whom this cold breast    Had pillowed to his nightly rest!    Thou knowest not, thou canst not know    My agony. Oh! I could not weep.    The sources whence such blessings flow    Were not to be approached by me!    But I could smile, and I could sleep,    Though with a self-accusing heart.    In morning's light, in evening's gloom,    I watchedand would not thence depart    My husband's unlamented tomb.    My children knew their sire was gone;    But when I told them, 'He is dead,'    They laughed aloud in frantic glee,    They clapped their hands and leaped about,    Answering each other's ecstasy    With many a prank and merry shout.    But I sate silent and alone,    Wrapped in the mock of mourning weed.    They laughed, for he was dead; but I    Sate with a hard and tearless eye,    And with a heart which would deny    The secret joy it could not quell,    Low muttering o'er his loathd name;    Till from that self-contention came    Remorse where sin was none; a hell    Which in pure spirits should not dwell.    I 'll tell thee truth. He was a man    Hard, selfish, loving only gold,    Yet full of guile; his pale eyes ran      With tears which each some falsehood told,    And oft his smooth and bridled tongue    Would give the lie to his flushing cheek;    He was a coward to the strong;    He was a tyrant to the weak,    On whom his vengeance he would wreak;    For scorn, whose arrows search the heart,    From many a stranger's eye would dart,    And on his memory cling, and follow    His soul to its home so cold and hollow.    He was a tyrant to the weak,    And we were such, alas the day!    Oft, when my little ones at play    Were in youth's natural lightness gay,    Or if they listened to some tale    Of travellers, or of fairyland,    When the light from the wood-fire's dying brand    Flashed on their faces,if they heard    Or thought they heard upon the stair    His footstep, the suspended word    Died on my lips; we all grew pale;    The babe at my bosom was hushed with fear    If it thought it heard its father near;    And my two wild boys would near my knee    Cling, cowed and cowering fearfully.    I 'll tell thee truth: I loved another.    His name in my ear was ever ringing,    His form to my brain was ever clinging;    Yet, if some stranger breathed that name,    My lips turned white, and my heart beat fast.    My nights were once haunted by dreams of flame,    My days were dim in the shadow cast    By the memory of the same!    Day and night, day and night,    He was my breath and life and light,    For three short years, which soon were passed.    On the fourth, my gentle mother    Led me to the shrine, to be    His sworn bride eternally.    And now we stood on the altar stair,    When my father came from a distant land,    And with a loud and fearful cry    Rushed between us suddenly.    I saw the stream of his thin gray hair,    I saw his lean and lifted hand,    And heard his wordsand live! O God!    Wherefore do I live?'Hold, hold!'    He cried, 'I tell thee 't is her brother!    Thy mother, boy, beneath the sod    Of yon churchyard rests in her shroud so cold;    I am now weak, and pale, and old;    We were once dear to one another,    I and that corpse! Thou art our child!'    Then with a laugh both long and wild    The youth upon the pavement fell.    They found him dead! All looked on me,    The spasms of my despair to see;    But I was calm. I went away;    I was clammy-cold like clay.    I did not weep; I did not speak;    But day by day, week after week,    I walked about like a corpse alive.    Alas! sweet friend, you must believe    This heart is stoneit did not break.    My father lived a little while,    But all might see that he was dying,    He smiled with such a woful smile.    When he was in the churchyard lying    Among the worms, we grew quite poor,    So that no one would give us bread;      My mother looked at me, and said    Faint words of cheer, which only meant    That she could die and be content;    So I went forth from the same church door    To another husband's bed.    And this was he who died at last,    When weeks and months and years had passed,    Through which I firmly did fulfil    My duties, a devoted wife,    With the stern step of vanquished will    Walking beneath the night of life,    Whose hours extinguished, like slow rain    Falling forever, pain by pain,    The very hope of death's dear rest;    Which, since the heart within my breast    Of natural life was dispossessed,    Its strange sustainer there had been.    When flowers were dead, and grass was green    Upon my mother's gravethat mother    Whom to outlive, and cheer, and make    My wan eyes glitter for her sake,    Was my vowed task, the single care    Which once gave life to my despair    When she was a thing that did not stir,    And the crawling worms were cradling her    To a sleep more deep and so more sweet    Than a baby's rocked on its nurse's knee,    I lived; a living pulse then beat    Beneath my heart that awakened me.    What was this pulse so warm and free?    Alas! I knew it could not be    My own dull blood. 'T was like a thought    Of liquid love, that spread and wrought    Under my bosom and in my brain,    And crept with the blood through every vein,    And hour by hour, day after day,    The wonder could not charm away    But laid in sleep my wakeful pain,    Until I knew it was a child,    And then I wept. For long, long years    These frozen eyes had shed no tears;    But now't was the season fair and mild    When April has wept itself to May;    I sate through the sweet sunny day    By my window bowered round with leaves,    And down my cheeks the quick tears ran    Like twinkling rain-drops from the eaves,    When warm spring showers are passing o'er.    O Helen, none can ever tell    The joy it was to weep once more!    I wept to think how hard it were    To kill my babe, and take from it    The sense of light, and the warm air,    And my own fond and tender care,    And love and smiles; ere I knew yet    That these for it might, as for me,    Be the masks of a grinning mockery.    And haply, I would dream, 't were sweet    To feed it from my faded breast,    Or mark my own heart's restless beat      And watch the growing soul beneath    Dawn in faint smiles; and hear its breath,    Half interrupted by calm sighs,    And search the depth of its fair eyes    For long departed memories!    And so I lived till that sweet load    Was lightened. Darkly forward flowed    The stream of years, and on it bore    Two shapes of gladness to my sight;    Two other babes, delightful more,    In my lost soul's abandoned night,    Than their own country ships may be    Sailing towards wrecked mariners    Who cling to the rock of a wintry sea.    For each, as it came, brought soothing tears;    And a loosening warmth, as each one lay    Sucking the sullen milk away,    About my frozen heart did play,    And weaned it, oh, how painfully    As they themselves were weaned each one    From that sweet foodeven from the thirst    Of death, and nothingness, and rest,    Strange inmate of a living breast,    Which all that I had undergone    Of grief and shame, since she who first    The gates of that dark refuge closed    Came to my sight, and almost burst    The seal of that Lethean spring    But these fair shadows interposed.    For all delights are shadows now!    And from my brain to my dull brow    The heavy tears gather and flow.    I cannot speakoh, let me weep!    The tears which fell from her wan eyes    Glimmered among the moonlight dew.    Her deep hard sobs and heavy sighs    Their echoes in the darkness threw.    When she grew calm, she thus did keep    The tenor of her tale:                 He died;      I know not how; he was not old,    If age be numbered by its years;    But he was bowed and bent with fears,    Pale with the quenchless thirst of gold,    Which, like fierce fever, left him weak;    And his strait lip and bloated cheek    Were warped in spasms by hollow sneers;    And selfish cares with barren plough,    Not age, had lined his narrow brow,    And foul and cruel thoughts, which feed    Upon the withering life within,    Like vipers on some poisonous weed.    Whether his ill were death or sin    None knew, until he died indeed,    And then men owned they were the same.    Seven days within my chamber lay    That corse, and my babes made holiday.    At last, I told them what is death.    The eldest, with a kind of shame,    Came to my knees with silent breath,      And sate awe-stricken at my feet;    And soon the others left their play,    And sate there too. It is unmeet    To shed on the brief flower of youth    The withering knowledge of the grave.    From me remorse then wrung that truth.    I could not bear the joy which gave    Too just a response to mine own.    In vain. I dared not feign a groan;    And in their artless looks I saw,      Between the mists of fear and awe,    That my own thought was theirs; and they    Expressed it not in words, but said,    Each in its heart, how every day    Will pass in happy work and play,    Now he is dead and gone away!    After the funeral all our kin    Assembled, and the will was read.    My friend, I tell thee, even the dead    Have strength, their putrid shrouds within,    To blast and torture. Those who live    Still fear the living, but a corse    Is merciless, and Power doth give    To such pale tyrants half the spoil    He rends from those who groan and toil,    Because they blush not with remorse    Among their crawling worms. Behold,    I have no child! my tale grows old    With grief, and staggers; let it reach    The limits of my feeble speech,    And languidly at length recline    On the brink of its own grave and mine.    Thou knowest what a thing is Poverty    Among the fallen on evil days.    'T is Crime, and Fear, and Infamy,    And houseless Want in frozen ways    Wandering ungarmented, and Pain,    And, worse than all, that inward stain,    Foul Self-contempt, which drowns in sneers    Youth's starlight smile, and makes its tears    First like hot gall, then dry forever!    And well thou knowest a mother never    Could doom her children to this ill,    And well he knew the same. The will    Imported that, if e'er again    I sought my children to behold,    Or in my birthplace did remain    Beyond three days, whose hours were told,    They should inherit nought; and he,    To whom next came their patrimony,    A sallow lawyer, cruel and cold,    Aye watched me, as the will was read,    With eyes askance, which sought to see    The secrets of my agony;    And with close lips and anxious brow    Stood canvassing still to and fro    The chance of my resolve, and all    The dead man's caution just did call;    For in that killing lie 't was said    'She is adulterous, and doth hold    In secret that the Christian creed    Is false, and therefore is much need    That I should have a care to save    My children from eternal fire.'    Friend, he was sheltered by the grave,    And therefore dared to be a liar!    In truth, the Indian on the pyre    Of her dead husband, half consumed,    As well might there be false as I    To those abhorred embraces doomed,    Far worse than fire's brief agony.    As to the Christian creed, if true    Or false, I never questioned it;    I took it as the vulgar do;    Nor my vexed soul had leisure yet    To doubt the things men say, or deem    That they are other than they seem.    All present who those crimes did hear,    In feigned or actual scorn and fear,    Men, women, children, slunk away,    Whispering with self-contented pride    Which half suspects its own base lie.    I spoke to none, nor did abide,    But silently I went my way,    Nor noticed I where joyously    Sate my two younger babes at play    In the courtyard through which I passed;    But went with footsteps firm and fast    Till I came to the brink of the ocean green,    And there, a woman with gray hairs,    Who had my mother's servant been,    Kneeling, with many tears and prayers,    Made me accept a purse of gold,    Half of the earnings she had kept    To refuge her when weak and old.    With woe, which never sleeps or slept,    I wander now. 'T is a vain thought    But on yon Alp, whose snowy head    'Mid the azure air is islanded,    (We see ito'er the flood of cloud,    Which sunrise from its eastern caves    Drives, wrinkling into golden waves,    Hung with its precipices proud    From that gray stone where first we met)    Therenow who knows the dead feel nought?    Should be my grave; for he who yet    Is my soul's soul once said: ''T were sweet    'Mid stars and lightnings to abide,    And winds, and lulling snows that beat    With their soft flakes the mountain wide,    Where weary meteor lamps repose,    And languid storms their pinions close,    And all things strong and bright and pure,    And ever during, aye endure.    Who knows, if one were buried there,    But these things might our spirits make,    Amid the all-surrounding air,    Their own eternity partake?'    Then 't was a wild and playful saying    At which I laughed or seemed to laugh.    They were his wordsnow heed my praying,    And let them be my epitaph.    Thy memory for a term may be    My monument. Wilt remember me?    I know thou wilt; and canst forgive,    Whilst in this erring world to live    My soul disdained not, that I thought    Its lying forms were worthy aught,    And much less thee. HELEN              Oh, speak not so!    But come to me and pour thy woe    Into this heart, full though it be,    Aye overflowing with its own.    I thought that grief had severed me    From all beside who weep and groan,    Its likeness upon earth to be    Its express image; but thou art    More wretched. Sweet, we will not part    Henceforth, if death be not division;    If so, the dead feel no contrition.    But wilt thou hear, since last we parted,    All that has left me broken-hearted? ROSALIND    Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn    Of their thin beams by that delusive morn    Which sinks again in darkness, like the light    Of early love, soon lost in total night. HELEN    Alas! Italian winds are mild,    But my bosom is coldwintry cold;    When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves,    Soft music, my poor brain is wild,    And I am weak like a nursling child,    Though my soul with grief is gray and old. ROSALIND    Weep not at thine own words, though they must make    Me weep. What is thy tale? HELEN                  I fear 't will shake    Thy gentle heart with tears. Thou well    Rememberest when we met no more;    And, though I dwelt with Lionel,    That friendless caution pierced me sore    With grief; a wound my spirit bore    Indignantlybut when he died,    With him lay dead both hope and pride.    Alas! all hope is buried now.    But then men dreamed the aged earth    Was laboring in that mighty birth    Which many a poet and a sage    Has aye foreseenthe happy age    When truth and love shall dwell below    Among the works and ways of men;    Which on this world not power but will    Even now is wanting to fulfil.    Among mankind what thence befell    Of strife, how vain, is known too well;    When Liberty's dear pan fell    'Mid murderous howls. To Lionel,    Though of great wealth and lineage high,    Yet through those dungeon walls there came    Thy thrilling light, O Liberty!    And as the meteor's midnight flame    Startles the dreamer, sun-like truth    Flashed on his visionary youth,    And filled him, not with love, but faith,    And hope, and courage mute in death;    For love and life in him were twins,    Born at one birth. In every other    First life, then love, its course begins,    Though they be children of one mother;    And so through this dark world they fleet    Divided, till in death they meet;    But he loved all things ever. Then    He passed amid the strife of men,    And stood at the throne of armd power    Pleading for a world of woe.    Secure as one on a rock-built tower    O'er the wrecks which the surge trails to and fro,    'Mid the passions wild of humankind    He stood, like a spirit calming them;    For, it was said, his words could bind    Like music the lulled crowd, and stem    That torrent of unquiet dream    Which mortals truth and reason deem,    But is revenge and fear and pride.    Joyous he was; and hope and peace    On all who heard him did abide,    Raining like dew from his sweet talk,    As where the evening star may walk    Along the brink of the gloomy seas,    Liquid mists of splendor quiver.    His very gestures touched to tears    The unpersuaded tyrant, never    So moved before; his presence stung    The torturers with their victim's pain,    And none knew how; and through their ears    The subtle witchcraft of his tongue    Unlocked the hearts of those who keep    Gold, the world's bond of slavery.    Men wondered, and some sneered to see    One sow what he could never reap;    For he is rich, they said, and young,    And might drink from the depths of luxury.    If he seeks fame, fame never crowned    The champion of a trampled creed;      If he seeks power, power is enthroned    'Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed    Which hungry wolves with praise and spoil    Those who would sit near power must toil;    And such, there sitting, all may see.    What seeks he? All that others seek    He casts away, like a vile weed    Which the sea casts unreturningly.    That poor and hungry men should break    The laws which wreak them toil and scorn    We understand; but Lionel,    We know, is rich and nobly born.    So wondered they; yet all men loved    Young Lionel, though few approved;    All but the priests, whose hatred fell    Like the unseen blight of a smiling day,    The withering honey-dew which clings    Under the bright green buds of May    Whilst they unfold their emerald wings;    For he made verses wild and queer    On the strange creeds priests hold so dear    Because they bring them land and gold.    Of devils and saints and all such gear    He made tales which whoso heard or read    Would laugh till he were almost dead.    So this grew a proverb: 'Don't get old    Till Lionel's Banquet in Hell you hear,    And then you will laugh yourself young again.'    So the priests hated him, and he    Repaid their hate with cheerful glee.    Ah, smiles and joyance quickly died,    For public hope grew pale and dim    In an altered time and tide,    And in its wasting withered him,    As a summer flower that blows too soon    Droops in the smile of the waning moon,    When it scatters through an April night    The frozen dews of wrinkling blight.    None now hoped more. Gray Power was seated    Safely on her ancestral throne;    And Faith, the Python, undefeated    Even to its blood-stained steps dragged on    Her foul and wounded train; and men    Were trampled and deceived again,    And words and shows again could bind    The wailing tribes of humankind    In scorn and famine. Fire and blood    Raged round the raging multitude,    To fields remote by tyrants sent    To be the scornd instrument    With which they drag from mines of gore    The chains their slaves yet ever wore;    And in the streets men met each other,    And by old altars and in halls,    And smiled again at festivals.    But each man found in his heart's brother    Cold cheer; for all, though half deceived,    The outworn creeds again believed,    And the same round anew began    Which the weary world yet ever ran.    Many then wept, not tears, but gall,    Within their hearts, like drops which fall    Wasting the fountain-stone away.    And in that dark and evil day    Did all desires and thoughts that claim    Men's careambition, friendship, fame,    Love, hope, though hope was now despair    Indue the colors of this change,    As from the all-surrounding air    The earth takes hues obscure and strange,    When storm and earthquake linger there.    And so, my friend, it then befell    To many,most to Lionel,    Whose hope was like the life of youth    Within him, and when dead became    A spirit of unresting flame,    Which goaded him in his distress    Over the world's vast wilderness.    Three years he left his native land,    And on the fourth, when he returned,    None knew him; he was stricken deep    With some disease of mind, and turned    Into aught unlike Lionel.    On himon whom, did he pause in sleep,    Serenest smiles were wont to keep,    And, did he wake, a wingd band    Of bright Persuasions, which had fed    On his sweet lips and liquid eyes,    Kept their swift pinions half outspread    To do on men his least command    On him, whom once 't was paradise    Even to behold, now misery lay.    In his own heart 't was merciless    To all things else none may express    Its innocence and tenderness.    'T was said that he had refuge sought    In love from his unquiet thought    In distant lands, and been deceived    By some strange show; for there were found,    Blotted with tearsas those relieved    By their own words are wont to do    These mournful verses on the ground,    By all who read them blotted too.    'How am I changed! my hopes were once like fire;     I loved, and I believed that life was love.    How am I lost! on wings of swift desire     Among Heaven's winds my spirit once did move.    I slept, and silver dreams did aye inspire     My liquid sleep; I woke, and did approve    All Nature to my heart, and thought to make    A paradise of earth for one sweet sake.    'I love, but I believe in love no more.     I feel desire, but hope not. Oh, from sleep    Most vainly must my weary brain implore     Its long lost flattery now! I wake to weep,    And sit through the long day gnawing the core     Of my bitter heart, and, like a miser, keep    Since none in what I feel take pain or pleasure    To my own soul its self-consuming treasure.'    He dwelt beside me near the sea;    And oft in evening did we meet,    When the waves, beneath the starlight, flee    O'er the yellow sands with silver feet,    And talked. Our talk was sad and sweet,    Till slowly from his mien there passed    The desolation which it spoke;    And smilesas when the lightning's blast    Has parched some heaven-delighting oak,    The next spring shows leaves pale and rare,    But like flowers delicate and fair,    On its rent boughsagain arrayed    His countenance in tender light;    His words grew subtle fire, which made    The air his hearers breathed delight;    His motions, like the winds, were free,    Which bend the bright grass gracefully,    Then fade away in circlets faint;    And wingd Hopeon which upborne    His soul seemed hovering in his eyes,    Like some bright spirit newly born    Floating amid the sunny skies    Sprang forth from his rent heart anew.    Yet o'er his talk, and looks, and mien,    Tempering their loveliness too keen,    Past woe its shadow backward threw;    Till, like an exhalation spread    From flowers half drunk with evening dew,    They did become infectioussweet    And subtle mists of sense and thought,    Which wrapped us soon, when we might meet,    Almost from our own looks and aught    The wild world holds. And so his mind    Was healed, while mine grew sick with fear;    For ever now his health declined,    Like some frail bark which cannot bear    The impulse of an altered wind,    Though prosperous; and my heart grew full,    'Mid its new joy, of a new care;    For his cheek became, not pale, but fair,    As rose-o'ershadowed lilies are;    And soon his deep and sunny hair,    In this alone less beautiful,    Like grass in tombs grew wild and rare.    The blood in his translucent veins    Beat, not like animal life, but love    Seemed now its sullen springs to move,    When life had failed, and all its pains;    And sudden sleep would seize him oft    Like death, so calm,but that a tear,    His pointed eye-lashes between,    Would gather in the light serene    Of smiles whose lustre bright and soft    Beneath lay undulating there.    His breath was like inconstant flame    As eagerly it went and came;    And I hung o'er him in his sleep,    Till, like an image in the lake    Which rains disturb, my tears would break    The shadow of that slumber deep.    Then he would bid me not to weep,    And say, with flattery false yet sweet,    That death and he could never meet,    If I would never part with him.    And so we loved, and did unite    All that in us was yet divided;    For when he said, that many a rite,    By men to bind but once provided,    Could not be shared by him and me,    Or they would kill him in their glee,    I shuddered, and then laughing said    'We will have rites our faith to bind,    But our church shall be the starry night,    Our altar the grassy earth outspread,    And our priest the muttering wind.'    'T was sunset as I spoke. One star    Had scarce burst forth, when from afar    The ministers of misrule sent    Seized upon Lionel, and bore    His chained limbs to a dreary tower,    In the midst of a city vast and wide.    For he, they said, from his mind had bent    Against their gods keen blasphemy,    For which, though his soul must roasted be    In hell's red lakes immortally,    Yet even on earth must he abide    The vengeance of their slaves: a trial,    I think, men call it. What avail    Are prayers and tears, which chase denial    From the fierce savage nursed in hate?    What the knit soul that pleading and pale    Makes wan the quivering cheek which late    It painted with its own delight?    We were divided. As I could,    I stilled the tingling of my blood,    And followed him in their despite,    As a widow follows, pale and wild,    The murderers and corse of her only child;    And when we came to the prison door,    And I prayed to share his dungeon floor    With prayers which rarely have been spurned,    And when men drove me forth, and I    Stared with blank frenzy on the sky,    A farewell look of love he turned,    Half calming me; then gazed awhile,    As if through that black and massy pile,    And through the crowd around him there,    And through the dense and murky air,    And the thronged streets, he did espy    What poets know and prophesy;    And said, with voice that made them shiver    And clung like music in my brain,    And which the mute walls spoke again    Prolonging it with deepened strain    'Fear not the tyrants shall rule forever,    Or the priests of the bloody faith;    They stand on the brink of that mighty river,    Whose waves they have tainted with death;    It is fed from the depths of a thousand dells,    Around them it foams, and rages, and swells,    And their swords and their sceptres I floating see,    Like wrecks, in the surge of eternity.'    I dwelt beside the prison gate;    And the strange crowd that out and in    Passed, some, no doubt, with mine own fate,    Might have fretted me with its ceaseless din,    But the fever of care was louder within.    Soon but too late, in penitence    Or fear, his foes released him thence.    I saw his thin and languid form,    As leaning on the jailor's arm,    Whose hardened eyes grew moist the while    To meet his mute and faded smile    And hear his words of kind farewell,    He tottered forth from his damp cell.    Many had never wept before,    From whom fast tears then gushed and fell;    Many will relent no more,    Who sobbed like infants then; ay, all    Who thronged the prison's stony hall,    The rulers or the slaves of law,    Felt with a new surprise and awe    That they were human, till strong shame    Made them again become the same.    The prison bloodhounds, huge and grim,    From human looks the infection caught,    And fondly crouched and fawned on him;    And men have heard the prisoners say,    Who in their rotting dungeons lay,    That from that hour, throughout one day,    The fierce despair and hate which kept    Their trampled bosoms almost slept,    Where, like twin vultures, they hung feeding    On each heart's wound, wide torn and bleeding,    Because their jailors' rule, they thought,    Grew merciful, like a parent's sway.    I know not how, but we were free;    And Lionel sate alone with me,    As the carriage drove through the streets apace;    And we looked upon each other's face;    And the blood in our fingers intertwined      Ran like the thoughts of a single mind,    As the swift emotions went and came    Through the veins of each united frame.    So through the long, long streets we passed    Of the million-peopled City vast;    Which is that desert, where each one    Seeks his mate yet is alone,    Beloved and sought and mourned of none;    Until the clear blue sky was seen,    And the grassy meadows bright and green.    And then I sunk in his embrace    Enclosing there a mighty space    Of love; and so we travelled on    By woods, and fields of yellow flowers,    And towns, and villages, and towers,    Day after day of happy hours.    It was the azure time of June,    When the skies are deep in the stainless noon,    And the warm and fitful breezes shake    The fresh green leaves of the hedge-row briar;    And there were odors then to make    The very breath we did respire    A liquid element, whereon    Our spirits, like delighted things    That walk the air on subtle wings,    Floated and mingled far away    'Mid the warm winds of the sunny day.    And when the evening star came forth    Above the curve of the new bent moon,    And light and sound ebbed from the earth,    Like the tide of the full and the weary sea    To the depths of its own tranquillity,    Our natures to its own repose    Did the earth's breathless sleep attune;    Like flowers, which on each other close    Their languid leaves when daylight's gone,    We lay, till new emotions came,    Which seemed to make each mortal frame    One soul of interwoven flame,    A life in life, a second birth    In worlds diviner far than earth;    Which, like two strains of harmony    That mingle in the silent sky,    Then slowly disunite, passed by    And left the tenderness of tears,    A soft oblivion of all fears,    A sweet sleep:so we travelled on    Till we came to the home of Lionel,    Among the mountains wild and lone,    Beside the hoary western sea,    Which near the verge of the echoing shore    The massy forest shadowed o'er.    The ancient steward with hair all hoar,    As we alighted, wept to see    His master changed so fearfully;    And the old man's sobs did waken me    From my dream of unremaining gladness;    The truth flashed o'er me like quick madness    When I looked, and saw that there was death    On Lionel. Yet day by day    He lived, till fear grew hope and faith,    And in my soul I dared to say,    Nothing so bright can pass away;    Death is dark, and foul, and dull,    But he isoh, how beautiful!    Yet day by day he grew more weak,    And his sweet voice, when he might speak,    Which ne'er was loud, became more low;    And the light which flashed through his waxen cheek    Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which flow    From sunset o'er the Alpine snow;    And death seemed not like death in him,    For the spirit of life o'er every limb    Lingered, a mist of sense and thought.    When the summer wind faint odors brought    From mountain flowers, even as it passed,    His cheek would change, as the noonday sea    Which the dying breeze sweeps fitfully.    If but a cloud the sky o'ercast,    You might see his color come and go,    And the softest strain of music made    Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade    Amid the dew of his tender eyes;    And the breath, with intermitting flow,    Made his pale lips quiver and part.    You might hear the beatings of his heart,    Quick but not strong; and with my tresses    When oft he playfully would bind    In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses    His neck, and win me so to mingle      In the sweet depth of woven caresses,    And our faint limbs were intertwined,    Alas! the unquiet life did tingle    From mine own heart through every vein,    Like a captive in dreams of liberty,    Who beats the walls of his stony cell.    But his, it seemed already free,    Like the shadow of fire surrounding me!    On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell    That spirit as it passed, till soon    As a frail cloud wandering o'er the moon,    Beneath its light invisible,    Is seen when it folds its gray wings again    To alight on midnight's dusky plain    I lived and saw, and the gathering soul    Passed from beneath that strong control,    And I fell on a life which was sick with fear    Of all the woe that now I bear.    Amid a bloomless myrtle wood,    On a green and sea-girt promontory    Not far from where we dwelt, there stood,    In record of a sweet sad story,    An altar and a temple bright    Circled by steps, and o'er the gate    Was sculptured, 'To Fidelity;'    And in the shrine an image sate    All veiled; but there was seen the light    Of smiles which faintly could express    A mingled pain and tenderness    Through that ethereal drapery.    The left hand held the head, the right    Beyond the veil, beneath the skin,    You might see the nerves quivering within    Was forcing the point of a barbd dart    Into its side-convulsing heart.    An unskilled hand, yet one informed    With genius, had the marble warmed    With that pathetic life. This tale    It told: A dog had from the sea,    When the tide was raging fearfully,      Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale,    Then died beside her on the sand,    And she that temple thence had planned;    But it was Lionel's own hand    Had wrought the image. Each new moon    That lady did, in this lone fane,    The rites of a religion sweet    Whose god was in her heart and brain.    The seasons' loveliest flowers were strewn    On the marble floor beneath her feet,    And she brought crowns of sea-buds white    Whose odor is so sweet and faint,    And weeds, like branching chrysolite,    Woven in devices fine and quaint;    And tears from her brown eyes did stain    The altar; need but look upon    That dying statue, fair and wan,    If tears should cease, to weep again;    And rare Arabian odors came,    Through the myrtle copses, steaming thence    From the hissing frankincense,    Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam,    Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome    That ivory dome, whose azure night    With golden stars, like heaven, was bright    O'er the split cedar's pointed flame;    And the lady's harp would kindle there    The melody of an old air,    Softer than sleep; the villagers    Mixed their religion up with hers,    And, as they listened round, shed tears.    One eve he led me to this fane.    Daylight on its last purple cloud    Was lingering gray, and soon her strain    The nightingale began; now loud,    Climbing in circles the windless sky,    Now dying music; suddenly    'T is scattered in a thousand notes;    And now to the hushed ear it floats    Like field-smells known in infancy,    Then, failing, soothes the air again.    We sate within that temple lone,    Pavilioned round with Parian stone;    His mother's harp stood near, and oft    I had awakened music soft    Amid its wires; the nightingale    Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale.    'Now drain the cup,' said Lionel,    'Which the poet-bird has crowned so well    With the wine of her bright and liquid song!    Heard'st thou not sweet words among    That heaven-resounding minstrelsy?    Heard'st thou not that those who die    Awake in a world of ecstasy?    That love, when limbs are interwoven,    And sleep, when the night of life is cloven,    And thought, to the world's dim boundaries clinging,    And music, when one beloved is singing,    Is death? Let us drain right joyously    The cup which the sweet bird fills for me.'    He paused, and to my lips he bent    His own; like spirit his words went    Through all my limbs with the speed of fire;    And his keen eyes, glittering through mine,    Filled me with the flame divine    Which in their orbs was burning far,    Like the light of an unmeasured star    In the sky of midnight dark and deep;    Yes, 't was his soul that did inspire    Sounds which my skill could ne'er awaken;    And first, I felt my fingers sweep    The harp, and a long quivering cry    Burst from my lips in symphony;    The dusk and solid air was shaken,    As swift and swifter the notes came    From my touch, that wandered like quick flame,    And from my bosom, laboring    With some unutterable thing.    The awful sound of my own voice made    My faint lips tremble; in some mood      Of wordless thought Lionel stood    So pale, that even beside his cheek    The snowy column from its shade    Caught whiteness; yet his countenance,    Raised upward, burned with radiance    Of spirit-piercing joy whose light,    Like the moon struggling through the night    Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break    With beams that might not be confined.    I paused, but soon his gestures kindled    New power, as by the moving wind    The waves are lifted; and my song    To low soft notes now changed and dwindled,    And, from the twinkling wires among,    My languid fingers drew and flung    Circles of life-dissolving sound,    Yet faint; in ary rings they bound    My Lionel, who, as every strain    Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien    Sunk with the sound relaxedly;      And slowly now he turned to me,    As slowly faded from his face    That awful joy; with look serene    He was soon drawn to my embrace,    And my wild song then died away    In murmurs; words I dare not say    We mixed, and on his lips mine fed    Till they methought felt still and cold.    'What is it with thee, love?' I said;    No word, no look, no motion! yes,    There was a change, but spare to guess,    Nor let that moment's hope be told.    I looked,and knew that he was dead;    And fell, as the eagle on the plain    Falls when life deserts her brain,    And the mortal lightning is veiled again.    Oh, that I were now dead! but such    Did they not, love, demand too much,    Those dying murmurs?he forbade.    Oh, that I once again were mad!    And yet, dear Rosalind, not so,    For I would live to share thy woe.    Sweet boy! did I forget thee too?    Alas, we know not what we do    When we speak words.               No memory more    Is in my mind of that sea-shore.    Madness came on me, and a troop    Of misty shapes did seem to sit    Beside me, on a vessel's poop,    And the clear north wind was driving it.    Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange flowers,    And the stars methought grew unlike ours,    And the azure sky and the stormless sea    Made me believe that I had died    And waked in a world which was to me    Drear hell, though heaven to all beside.    Then a dead sleep fell on my mind,    Whilst animal life many long years    Had rescued from a chasm of tears;    And, when I woke, I wept to find        That the same lady, bright and wise,    With silver locks and quick brown eyes,    The mother of my Lionel,    Had tended me in my distress,    And died some months before. Nor less    Wonder, but far more peace and joy,    Brought in that hour my lovely boy.    For through that trance my soul had well    The impress of thy being kept;    And if I waked or if I slept,    No doubt, though memory faithless be,    Thy image ever dwelt on me;    And thus, O Lionel, like thee    Is our sweet child. 'T is sure most strange    I knew not of so great a change    As that which gave him birth, who now    Is all the solace of my woe.    That Lionel great wealth had left    By will to me, and that of all    The ready lies of law bereft        My child and me,might well befall.    But let me think not of the scorn    Which from the meanest I have borne,    When, for my child's belovd sake,    I mixed with slaves, to vindicate    The very laws themselves do make;    Let me not say scorn is my fate,    Lest I be proud, suffering the same    With those who live in deathless fame.    She ceased.'Lo, where red morning through the woods    Is burning o'er the dew!' said Rosalind.    And with these words they rose, and towards the flood    Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves, now wind    With equal steps and fingers intertwined.    Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore    Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses    Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies    And with their shadows the clear depths below,    And where a little terrace from its bowers    Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon flowers    Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er    The liquid marble of the windless lake;    And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar    Under the leaves which their green garments make,    They come. 'T is Helen's home, and clean and white,    Like one which tyrants spare on our own land    In some such solitude; its casements bright    Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun,    And even within 't was scarce like Italy.    And when she saw how all things there were planned    As in an English home, dim memory    Disturbed poor Rosalind; she stood as one    Whose mind is where his body cannot be,    Till Helen led her where her child yet slept,    And said, 'Observe, that brow was Lionel's,    Those lips were his, and so he ever kept    One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it.    You cannot see his eyesthey are two wells    Of liquid love. Let us not wake him yet.'    But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept    A shower of burning tears which fell upon    His face, and so his opening lashes shone    With tears unlike his own, as he did leap    In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.    So Rosalind and Helen lived together    Thenceforthchanged in all else, yet friends again,    Such as they were, when o'er the mountain heather    They wandered in their youth through sun and rain.    And after many years, for human things    Change even like the ocean and the wind,    Her daughter was restored to Rosalind,    And in their circle thence some visitings    Of joy 'mid their new calm would intervene.    A lovely child she was, of looks serene,    And motions which o'er things indifferent shed    The grace and gentleness from whence they came.    And Helen's boy grew with her, and they fed    From the same flowers of thought, until each mind    Like springs which mingle in one flood became;    And in their union soon their parents saw    The shadow of the peace denied to them.    And Rosalindfor when the living stem    Is cankered in its heart, the tree must fall    Died ere her time; and with deep grief and awe    The pale survivors followed her remains    Beyond the region of dissolving rains,    Up the cold mountain she was wont to call    Her tomb; and on Chiavenna's precipice    They raised a pyramid of lasting ice,    Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun,    Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun,    The last, when it had sunk; and through the night    The charioteers of Arctos wheeld round    Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's home,    Whose sad inhabitants each year would come,    With willing steps climbing that rugged height,    And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound    With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime's despite,    Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light;    Such flowers as in the wintry memory bloom    Of one friend left adorned that frozen tomb.    Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould,    Whose sufferings too were less, death slowlier led    Into the peace of his dominion cold.    She died among her kindred, being old.    And know, that if love die not in the dead    As in the living, none of mortal kind    Are blessed as now Helen and Rosalind. Begun at Marlow, 1817 (summer); already in the press, March, 1818; finished at the Baths of Lucca, August, 1818; published with other poems, as the title-piece of a slender volume, by C. & J. Ollier, London, 1819 (spring). Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'Rosalind and Helen was begun at Marlow, and thrown aside -- till I found it; and, at my request, it was completed. Shelley had no care for any of his poems that did not emanate from the depths of his mind and develop some high or abstruse truth. When he does touch on human life and the human heart, no pictures can be more faithful, more delicate, more subtle, or more pathetic. He never mentioned Love but he shed a grace borrowed from his own nature, that scarcely any other poet has bestowed, on that passion. When he spoke of it as the law of life, which inasmuch as we rebel against we err and injure ourselves and others, he promulgated that which he considered an irrefragable truth. In his eyes it was the essence of our being, and all woe and pain arose from the war made against it by selfishness, or insensibility, or mistake. By reverting in his mind to this first principle, he discovered the source of many emotions, and could disclose the secrets of all hearts; and his delineations of passion and emotion touch the finest chords of our nature. Rosalind and Helen was finished during the summer of 1818, while we were at the baths of Lucca.'    ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Rosalind and Helen - a Modern Eclogue ,

1140: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 ,

1141:Gareth And Lynette The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away. 'How he went down,' said Gareth, 'as a false knight Or evil king before my lance if lance Were mine to use--O senseless cataract, Bearing all down in thy precipitancy-And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows And mine is living blood: thou dost His will, The Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know, Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall Linger with vacillating obedience, Prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to-Since the good mother holds me still a child! Good mother is bad mother unto me! A worse were better; yet no worse would I. Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force To weary her ears with one continuous prayer, Until she let me fly discaged to sweep In ever-highering eagle-circles up To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop Down upon all things base, and dash them dead, A knight of Arthur, working out his will, To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came With Modred hither in the summertime, Asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight. Modred for want of worthier was the judge. Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said, "Thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he-Though Modred biting his thin lips was mute, For he is alway sullen: what care I?' And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair Asked, 'Mother, though ye count me still the child, Sweet mother, do ye love the child?' She laughed, 'Thou art but a wild-goose to question it.' 'Then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said, 'Being a goose and rather tame than wild, 107 Hear the child's story.' 'Yea, my well-beloved, An 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.' And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes, 'Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine Was finer gold than any goose can lay; For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. And there was ever haunting round the palm A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw The splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought "An I could climb and lay my hand upon it, Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings." But ever when he reached a hand to climb, One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught And stayed him, "Climb not lest thou break thy neck, I charge thee by my love," and so the boy, Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck, But brake his very heart in pining for it, And past away.' To whom the mother said, 'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed, And handed down the golden treasure to him.' And Gareth answered her with kindling eyes, 'Gold?' said I gold?--ay then, why he, or she, Or whosoe'er it was, or half the world Had ventured--HAD the thing I spake of been Mere gold--but this was all of that true steel, Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur, And lightnings played about it in the storm, And all the little fowl were flurried at it, And there were cries and clashings in the nest, That sent him from his senses: let me go.' Then Bellicent bemoaned herself and said, 'Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth Lies like a log, and all but smouldered out! For ever since when traitor to the King 108 He fought against him in the Barons' war, And Arthur gave him back his territory, His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable, No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows. And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall, Albeit neither loved with that full love I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love: Stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird, And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang Of wrenched or broken limb--an often chance In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns; So make thy manhood mightier day by day; Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year, Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness I know not thee, myself, nor anything. Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.' Then Gareth, 'An ye hold me yet for child, Hear yet once more the story of the child. For, mother, there was once a King, like ours. The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable, Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed-But to be won by force--and many men Desired her; one good lack, no man desired. And these were the conditions of the King: That save he won the first by force, he needs Must wed that other, whom no man desired, A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile, That evermore she longed to hide herself, Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye-Yea--some she cleaved to, but they died of her. And one--they called her Fame; and one,--O Mother, How can ye keep me tethered to you--Shame. Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King, 109 Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King-Else, wherefore born?' To whom the mother said 'Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, Or will not deem him, wholly proven King-Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King, When I was frequent with him in my youth, And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him No more than he, himself; but felt him mine, Of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leave Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King? Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son.' And Gareth answered quickly, 'Not an hour, So that ye yield me--I will walk through fire, Mother, to gain it--your full leave to go. Not proven, who swept the dust of ruined Rome From off the threshold of the realm, and crushed The Idolaters, and made the people free? Who should be King save him who makes us free?' So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain To break him from the intent to which he grew, Found her son's will unwaveringly one, She answered craftily, 'Will ye walk through fire? Who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke. Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof, Before thou ask the King to make thee knight, Of thine obedience and thy love to me, Thy mother,--I demand. And Gareth cried, 'A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. Nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!' But slowly spake the mother looking at him, 'Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall, And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves, 110 And those that hand the dish across the bar. Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone. And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.' For so the Queen believed that when her son Beheld his only way to glory lead Low down through villain kitchen-vassalage, Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud To pass thereby; so should he rest with her, Closed in her castle from the sound of arms. Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, 'The thrall in person may be free in soul, And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, And since thou art my mother, must obey. I therefore yield me freely to thy will; For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves; Nor tell my name to any--no, not the King.' Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eye Full of the wistful fear that he would go, And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned, Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, When wakened by the wind which with full voice Swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn, He rose, and out of slumber calling two That still had tended on him from his birth, Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. The three were clad like tillers of the soil. Southward they set their faces. The birds made Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green, And the live green had kindled into flowers, For it was past the time of Easterday. So, when their feet were planted on the plain That broadened toward the base of Camelot, Far off they saw the silver-misty morn Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount, That rose between the forest and the field. 111 At times the summit of the high city flashed; At times the spires and turrets half-way down Pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone Only, that opened on the field below: Anon, the whole fair city had disappeared. Then those who went with Gareth were amazed, One crying, 'Let us go no further, lord. Here is a city of Enchanters, built By fairy Kings.' The second echoed him, 'Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home To Northward, that this King is not the King, But only changeling out of Fairyland, Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery And Merlin's glamour.' Then the first again, 'Lord, there is no such city anywhere, But all a vision.' Gareth answered them With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes, To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea; So pushed them all unwilling toward the gate. And there was no gate like it under heaven. For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, The Lady of the Lake stood: all her dress Wept from her sides as water flowing away; But like the cross her great and goodly arms Stretched under the cornice and upheld: And drops of water fell from either hand; And down from one a sword was hung, from one A censer, either worn with wind and storm; And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish; And in the space to left of her, and right, Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done, New things and old co-twisted, as if Time Were nothing, so inveterately, that men Were giddy gazing there; and over all High on the top were those three Queens, the friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need. 112 Then those with Gareth for so long a space Stared at the figures, that at last it seemed The dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings Began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called To Gareth, 'Lord, the gateway is alive.' And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes So long, that even to him they seemed to move. Out of the city a blast of music pealed. Back from the gate started the three, to whom From out thereunder came an ancient man, Long-bearded, saying, 'Who be ye, my sons?' Then Gareth, 'We be tillers of the soil, Who leaving share in furrow come to see The glories of our King: but these, my men, (Your city moved so weirdly in the mist) Doubt if the King be King at all, or come From Fairyland; and whether this be built By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens; Or whether there be any city at all, Or all a vision: and this music now Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.' Then that old Seer made answer playing on him And saying, 'Son, I have seen the good ship sail Keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens, And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: And here is truth; but an it please thee not, Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King And Fairy Queens have built the city, son; They came from out a sacred mountain-cleft Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand, And built it to the music of their harps. And, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son, For there is nothing in it as it seems Saving the King; though some there be that hold The King a shadow, and the city real: Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become A thrall to his enchantments, for the King 113 Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame A man should not be bound by, yet the which No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear, Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide Without, among the cattle of the field. For an ye heard a music, like enow They are building still, seeing the city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built for ever.' Gareth spake Angered, 'Old master, reverence thine own beard That looks as white as utter truth, and seems Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall! Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been To thee fair-spoken?' But the Seer replied, 'Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards? "Confusion, and illusion, and relation, Elusion, and occasion, and evasion"? I mock thee not but as thou mockest me, And all that see thee, for thou art not who Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art. And now thou goest up to mock the King, Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.' Unmockingly the mocker ending here Turned to the right, and past along the plain; Whom Gareth looking after said, 'My men, Our one white lie sits like a little ghost Here on the threshold of our enterprise. Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I: Well, we will make amends.' With all good cheer He spake and laughed, then entered with his twain Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces And stately, rich in emblem and the work Of ancient kings who did their days in stone; Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court, Knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere 114 At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven. And ever and anon a knight would pass Outward, or inward to the hall: his arms Clashed; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear. And out of bower and casement shyly glanced Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love; And all about a healthful people stept As in the presence of a gracious king. Then into hall Gareth ascending heard A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall The splendour of the presence of the King Throned, and delivering doom--and looked no more-But felt his young heart hammering in his ears, And thought, 'For this half-shadow of a lie The truthful King will doom me when I speak.' Yet pressing on, though all in fear to find Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one Nor other, but in all the listening eyes Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne, Clear honour shining like the dewy star Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure Affection, and the light of victory, And glory gained, and evermore to gain. Then came a widow crying to the King, 'A boon, Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft From my dead lord a field with violence: For howsoe'er at first he proffered gold, Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes, We yielded not; and then he reft us of it Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.' Said Arthur, 'Whether would ye? gold or field?' To whom the woman weeping, 'Nay, my lord, The field was pleasant in my husband's eye.' And Arthur, 'Have thy pleasant field again, And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof, According to the years. No boon is here, But justice, so thy say be proven true. 115 Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did Would shape himself a right!' And while she past, Came yet another widow crying to him, 'A boon, Sir King! Thine enemy, King, am I. With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord, A knight of Uther in the Barons' war, When Lot and many another rose and fought Against thee, saying thou wert basely born. I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught. Yet lo! my husband's brother had my son Thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead; And standeth seized of that inheritance Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son. So though I scarce can ask it thee for hate, Grant me some knight to do the battle for me, Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.' Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him, 'A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I. Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.' Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried, 'A boon, Sir King! even that thou grant her none, This railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall-None; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.' But Arthur, 'We sit King, to help the wronged Through all our realm. The woman loves her lord. Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates! The kings of old had doomed thee to the flames, Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead, And Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence-Lest that rough humour of the kings of old Return upon me! Thou that art her kin, Go likewise; lay him low and slay him not, But bring him here, that I may judge the right, According to the justice of the King: Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King Who lived and died for men, the man shall die.' 116 Then came in hall the messenger of Mark, A name of evil savour in the land, The Cornish king. In either hand he bore What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines A field of charlock in the sudden sun Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold, Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt, Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king, Was even upon his way to Camelot; For having heard that Arthur of his grace Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight, And, for himself was of the greater state, Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord Would yield him this large honour all the more; So prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold, In token of true heart and felty. Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. An oak-tree smouldered there. 'The goodly knight! What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?' For, midway down the side of that long hall A stately pile,--whereof along the front, Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank, There ran a treble range of stony shields,-Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth. And under every shield a knight was named: For this was Arthur's custom in his hall; When some good knight had done one noble deed, His arms were carven only; but if twain His arms were blazoned also; but if none, The shield was blank and bare without a sign Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw The shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright, And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur cried To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 'More like are we to reave him of his crown Than make him knight because men call him king. The kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands From war among themselves, but left them kings; Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, 117 Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled Among us, and they sit within our hall. But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king, As Mark would sully the low state of churl: And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold, Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes, Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead, Silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots, Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings-No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied-Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!' And many another suppliant crying came With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, And evermore a knight would ride away. Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, Approached between them toward the King, and asked, 'A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed), For see ye not how weak and hungerworn I seem--leaning on these? grant me to serve For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. Hereafter I will fight.' To him the King, 'A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon! But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.' He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself Root-bitten by white lichen, 'Lo ye now! This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where, God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, However that might chance! but an he work, Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.' 118 Then Lancelot standing near, 'Sir Seneschal, Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds; A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know: Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine, High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands Large, fair and fine!--Some young lad's mystery-But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace, Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.' Then Kay, 'What murmurest thou of mystery? Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish? Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery! Tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth! Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day Undo thee not--and leave my man to me.' So Gareth all for glory underwent The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage; Ate with young lads his portion by the door, And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves. And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly, But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not, Would hustle and harry him, and labour him Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood, Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himself With all obedience to the King, and wrought All kind of service with a noble ease That graced the lowliest act in doing it. And when the thralls had talk among themselves, And one would praise the love that linkt the King And Lancelot--how the King had saved his life In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's-For Lancelot was the first in Tournament, But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field-Gareth was glad. Or if some other told, How once the wandering forester at dawn, Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, 119 On Caer-Eryri's highest found the King, A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, 'He passes to the Isle Avilion, He passes and is healed and cannot die'-Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul, Then would he whistle rapid as any lark, Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud That first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him. Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way Through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held All in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. Or when the thralls had sport among themselves, So there were any trial of mastery, He, by two yards in casting bar or stone Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust, So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go, Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights Clash like the coming and retiring wave, And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. So for a month he wrought among the thralls; But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen, Repentant of the word she made him swear, And saddening in her childless castle, sent, Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon, Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow. This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot With whom he used to play at tourney once, When both were children, and in lonely haunts Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, And each at either dash from either end-Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy. He laughed; he sprang. 'Out of the smoke, at once I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee-These news be mine, none other's--nay, the King's-- 120 Descend into the city:' whereon he sought The King alone, and found, and told him all. 'I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tilt For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I. Make me thy knight--in secret! let my name Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring Like flame from ashes.' Here the King's calm eye Fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him, 'Son, the good mother let me know thee here, And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine. Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, And uttermost obedience to the King.' Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees, 'My King, for hardihood I can promise thee. For uttermost obedience make demand Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, No mellow master of the meats and drinks! And as for love, God wot, I love not yet, But love I shall, God willing.' And the King 'Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he, Our noblest brother, and our truest man, And one with me in all, he needs must know.' 'Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know, Thy noblest and thy truest!' And the King-'But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you? Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed, Than to be noised of.' Merrily Gareth asked, 121 'Have I not earned my cake in baking of it? Let be my name until I make my name! My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.' So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, 'I have given him the first quest: he is not proven. Look therefore when he calls for this in hall, Thou get to horse and follow him far away. Cover the lions on thy shield, and see Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.' Then that same day there past into the hall A damsel of high lineage, and a brow May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom, Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower; She into hall past with her page and cried, 'O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset By bandits, everyone that owns a tower The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there? Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king, Till even the lonest hold were all as free From cursd bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth From that best blood it is a sin to spill.' 'Comfort thyself,' said Arthur. 'I nor mine Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore, The wastest moorland of our realm shall be Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. What is thy name? thy need?' 'My name?' she said-'Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight To combat for my sister, Lyonors, A lady of high lineage, of great lands, And comely, yea, and comelier than myself. She lives in Castle Perilous: a river Runs in three loops about her living-place; 122 And o'er it are three passings, and three knights Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth And of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed In her own castle, and so besieges her To break her will, and make her wed with him: And but delays his purport till thou send To do the battle with him, thy chief man Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow, Then wed, with glory: but she will not wed Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.' Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked, 'Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four, Who be they? What the fashion of the men?' 'They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, The fashion of that old knight-errantry Who ride abroad, and do but what they will; Courteous or bestial from the moment, such As have nor law nor king; and three of these Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day, Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star, Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black, A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. He names himself the Night and oftener Death, And wears a helmet mounted with a skull, And bears a skeleton figured on his arms, To show that who may slay or scape the three, Slain by himself, shall enter endless night. And all these four be fools, but mighty men, And therefore am I come for Lancelot.' Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose, A head with kindling eyes above the throng, 'A boon, Sir King--this quest!' then--for he marked Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull-'Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I, And I can topple over a hundred such. 123 Thy promise, King,' and Arthur glancing at him, Brought down a momentary brow. 'Rough, sudden, And pardonable, worthy to be knight-Go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed. But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm, 'Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight, And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.' Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned, Fled down the lane of access to the King, Took horse, descended the slope street, and past The weird white gate, and paused without, beside The field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.' Now two great entries opened from the hall, At one end one, that gave upon a range Of level pavement where the King would pace At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood; And down from this a lordly stairway sloped Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers; And out by this main doorway past the King. But one was counter to the hearth, and rose High that the highest-crested helm could ride Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled The damsel in her wrath, and on to this Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, A warhorse of the best, and near it stood The two that out of north had followed him: This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, And from it like a fuel-smothered fire, That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those Dull-coated things, that making slide apart Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly. So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms. Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain 124 Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest The people, while from out of kitchen came The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked Lustier than any, and whom they could but love, Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried, 'God bless the King, and all his fellowship!' And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode Down the slope street, and past without the gate. So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named, His owner, but remembers all, and growls Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used To harry and hustle. 'Bound upon a quest With horse and arms--the King hath past his time-My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again, For an your fire be low ye kindle mine! Will there be dawn in West and eve in East? Begone!--my knave!--belike and like enow Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth So shook his wits they wander in his prime-Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice, Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave. Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me, Till peacocked up with Lancelot's noticing. Well--I will after my loud knave, and learn Whether he know me for his master yet. Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire-Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, Into the smoke again.' But Lancelot said, 'Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King, For that did never he whereon ye rail, But ever meekly served the King in thee? Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great 125 And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.' 'Tut, tell not me,' said Kay, 'ye are overfine To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:' Then mounted, on through silent faces rode Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate. But by the field of tourney lingering yet Muttered the damsel, 'Wherefore did the King Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least He might have yielded to me one of those Who tilt for lady's love and glory here, Rather than--O sweet heaven! O fie upon him-His kitchen-knave.' To whom Sir Gareth drew (And there were none but few goodlier than he) Shining in arms, 'Damsel, the quest is mine. Lead, and I follow.' She thereat, as one That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt, And deems it carrion of some woodland thing, Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'Hence! Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. And look who comes behind,' for there was Kay. 'Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay. We lack thee by the hearth.' And Gareth to him, 'Master no more! too well I know thee, ay-The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall.' 'Have at thee then,' said Kay: they shocked, and Kay Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, 'Lead, and I follow,' and fast away she fled. But after sod and shingle ceased to fly Behind her, and the heart of her good horse Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat, Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke. 'What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship? Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more Or love thee better, that by some device 126 Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!-Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!--to me Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.' 'Damsel,' Sir Gareth answered gently, 'say Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, I leave not till I finish this fair quest, Or die therefore.' 'Ay, wilt thou finish it? Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks! The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it. But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave, And then by such a one that thou for all The kitchen brewis that was ever supt Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.' 'I shall assay,' said Gareth with a smile That maddened her, and away she flashed again Down the long avenues of a boundless wood, And Gareth following was again beknaved. 'Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way Where Arthur's men are set along the wood; The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves: If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet, Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine? Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.' So till the dusk that followed evensong Rode on the two, reviler and reviled; Then after one long slope was mounted, saw, Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink To westward--in the deeps whereof a mere, Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts Ascended, and there brake a servingman Flying from out of the black wood, and crying, 'They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.' Then Gareth, 'Bound am I to right the wronged, 127 But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.' And when the damsel spake contemptuously, 'Lead, and I follow,' Gareth cried again, 'Follow, I lead!' so down among the pines He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere, And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed, Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, A stone about his neck to drown him in it. Three with good blows he quieted, but three Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone From off his neck, then in the mere beside Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere. Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend. 'Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs To hate me, for my wont hath ever been To catch my thief, and then like vermin here Drown him, and with a stone about his neck; And under this wan water many of them Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, And rise, and flickering in a grimly light Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood. And fain would I reward thee worshipfully. What guerdon will ye?' Gareth sharply spake, 'None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed, In uttermost obedience to the King. But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?' Whereat the Baron saying, 'I well believe You be of Arthur's Table,' a light laugh Broke from Lynette, 'Ay, truly of a truth, And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave!-But deem not I accept thee aught the more, Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit Down on a rout of craven foresters. A thresher with his flail had scattered them. Nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still. But an this lord will yield us harbourage, 128 Well.' So she spake. A league beyond the wood, All in a full-fair manor and a rich, His towers where that day a feast had been Held in high hall, and many a viand left, And many a costly cate, received the three. And there they placed a peacock in his pride Before the damsel, and the Baron set Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 'Meseems, that here is much discourtesy, Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side. Hear me--this morn I stood in Arthur's hall, And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night-The last a monster unsubduable Of any save of him for whom I called-Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave, "The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I." Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, "Go therefore," and so gives the quest to him-Him--here--a villain fitter to stick swine Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong, Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.' Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord Now looked at one and now at other, left The damsel by the peacock in his pride, And, seating Gareth at another board, Sat down beside him, ate and then began. 'Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not, Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, And whether she be mad, or else the King, Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke, For strong thou art and goodly therewithal, And saver of my life; and therefore now, For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back 129 To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail, The saver of my life.' And Gareth said, 'Full pardon, but I follow up the quest, Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.' So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, 'Lead, and I follow.' Haughtily she replied. 'I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour. Lion and stout have isled together, knave, In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool? For hard by here is one will overthrow And slay thee: then will I to court again, And shame the King for only yielding me My champion from the ashes of his hearth.' To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously, 'Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay Among the ashes and wedded the King's son.' Then to the shore of one of those long loops Wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came. Rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc Took at a leap; and on the further side Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue, Save that the dome was purple, and above, Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. And therebefore the lawless warrior paced Unarmed, and calling, 'Damsel, is this he, The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall? For whom we let thee pass.' 'Nay, nay,' she said, 'Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn 130 Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself: See that he fall not on thee suddenly, And slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.' Then at his call, 'O daughters of the Dawn, And servants of the Morning-Star, approach, Arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls In gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet In dewy grasses glistened; and the hair All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. These armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield Blue also, and thereon the morning star. And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight, Who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought, Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly, The gay pavilion and the naked feet, His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. Then she that watched him, 'Wherefore stare ye so? Thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time: Flee down the valley before he get to horse. Who will cry shame? Thou art not knight but knave.' Said Gareth, 'Damsel, whether knave or knight, Far liefer had I fight a score of times Than hear thee so missay me and revile. Fair words were best for him who fights for thee; But truly foul are better, for they send That strength of anger through mine arms, I know That I shall overthrow him.' And he that bore The star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge, 'A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me! Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn. For this were shame to do him further wrong Than set him on his feet, and take his horse And arms, and so return him to the King. 131 Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave. Avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave To ride with such a lady.' 'Dog, thou liest. I spring from loftier lineage than thine own.' He spake; and all at fiery speed the two Shocked on the central bridge, and either spear Bent but not brake, and either knight at once, Hurled as a stone from out of a catapult Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, Fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew, And Gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand He drave his enemy backward down the bridge, The damsel crying, 'Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!' Till Gareth's shield was cloven; but one stroke Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground. Then cried the fallen, 'Take not my life: I yield.' And Gareth, 'So this damsel ask it of me Good--I accord it easily as a grace.' She reddening, 'Insolent scullion: I of thee? I bound to thee for any favour asked!' 'Then he shall die.' And Gareth there unlaced His helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked, 'Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay One nobler than thyself.' 'Damsel, thy charge Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, Thy life is thine at her command. Arise And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. Thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou, Lead, and I follow.' And fast away she fled. Then when he came upon her, spake, 'Methought, Knave, when I watched thee striking on the bridge The savour of thy kitchen came upon me A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed: I scent it twenty-fold.' And then she sang, 132 '"O morning star" (not that tall felon there Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness Or some device, hast foully overthrown), "O morning star that smilest in the blue, O star, my morning dream hath proven true, Smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me." 'But thou begone, take counsel, and away, For hard by here is one that guards a ford-The second brother in their fool's parable-Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. Care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.' To whom Sir Gareth answered, laughingly, 'Parables? Hear a parable of the knave. When I was kitchen-knave among the rest Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates Owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat, "Guard it," and there was none to meddle with it. And such a coat art thou, and thee the King Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, To worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave-The knave that doth thee service as full knight Is all as good, meseems, as any knight Toward thy sister's freeing.' 'Ay, Sir Knave! Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight, Being but knave, I hate thee all the more.' 'Fair damsel, you should worship me the more, That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies.' 'Ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.' So when they touched the second river-loop, Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail Burnished to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, That blows a globe of after arrowlets, Ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield, All sun; and Gareth's eyes had flying blots 133 Before them when he turned from watching him. He from beyond the roaring shallow roared, 'What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?' And she athwart the shallow shrilled again, 'Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.' 'Ugh!' cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red And cipher face of rounded foolishness, Pushed horse across the foamings of the ford, Whom Gareth met midstream: no room was there For lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight Had fear he might be shamed; but as the Sun Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth, The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream Descended, and the Sun was washed away. Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford; So drew him home; but he that fought no more, As being all bone-battered on the rock, Yielded; and Gareth sent him to the King, 'Myself when I return will plead for thee.' 'Lead, and I follow.' Quietly she led. 'Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?' 'Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here. There lies a ridge of slate across the ford; His horse thereon stumbled--ay, for I saw it. '"O Sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave, Hast overthrown through mere unhappiness), "O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, O moon, that layest all to sleep again, Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." What knowest thou of lovesong or of love? Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born, Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,-'"O dewy flowers that open to the sun, O dewy flowers that close when day is done, Blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 134 'What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike, To garnish meats with? hath not our good King Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, A foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round The pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head? Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. '"O birds, that warble to the morning sky, O birds that warble as the day goes by, Sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle, Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth May-music growing with the growing light, Their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, Larding and basting. See thou have not now Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly. There stands the third fool of their allegory.' For there beyond a bridge of treble bow, All in a rose-red from the west, and all Naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight, That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. And Gareth, 'Wherefore waits the madman there Naked in open dayshine?' 'Nay,' she cried, 'Not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave His armour off him, these will turn the blade.' Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge, 'O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain The damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried, 'No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven With all disaster unto thine and thee! For both thy younger brethren have gone down Before this youth; and so wilt thou, Sir Star; Art thou not old?' 135 'Old, damsel, old and hard, Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.' Said Gareth, 'Old, and over-bold in brag! But that same strength which threw the Morning Star Can throw the Evening.' Then that other blew A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 'Approach and arm me!' With slow steps from out An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, And armed him in old arms, and brought a helm With but a drying evergreen for crest, And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even Half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone. But when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow, They madly hurled together on the bridge; And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew, There met him drawn, and overthrew him again, But up like fire he started: and as oft As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees, So many a time he vaulted up again; Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart, Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, Laboured within him, for he seemed as one That all in later, sadder age begins To war against ill uses of a life, But these from all his life arise, and cry, 'Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!' He half despairs; so Gareth seemed to strike Vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while, 'Well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, O good knight-knave-O knave, as noble as any of all the knights-Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied-Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round-His arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin-Strike--strike--the wind will never change again.' And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote, And hewed great pieces of his armour off him, But lashed in vain against the hardened skin, And could not wholly bring him under, more Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge, 136 The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever; till at length Sir Gareth's brand Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. 'I have thee now;' but forth that other sprang, And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms Around him, till he felt, despite his mail, Strangled, but straining even his uttermost Cast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridge Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, 'Lead, and I follow.' But the damsel said, 'I lead no longer; ride thou at my side; Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves. '"O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, O rainbow with three colours after rain, Shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me." 'Sir,--and, good faith, I fain had added--Knight, But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,-Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, Missaid thee; noble I am; and thought the King Scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend, For thou hast ever answered courteously, And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave, Hast mazed my wit: I marvel what thou art.' 'Damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame, Saving that you mistrusted our good King Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say; Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth! I hold He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets His heart be stirred with any foolish heat At any gentle damsel's waywardness. Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me: And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, Hath force to quell me.' 137 Nigh upon that hour When the lone hern forgets his melancholy, Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams Of goodly supper in the distant pool, Then turned the noble damsel smiling at him, And told him of a cavern hard at hand, Where bread and baken meats and good red wine Of Southland, which the Lady Lyonors Had sent her coming champion, waited him. Anon they past a narrow comb wherein Where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues. 'Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here, Whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock The war of Time against the soul of man. And yon four fools have sucked their allegory From these damp walls, and taken but the form. Know ye not these?' and Gareth lookt and read-In letters like to those the vexillary Hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt-'PHOSPHORUS,' then 'MERIDIES'--'HESPERUS'-'NOX'--'MORS,' beneath five figures, armd men, Slab after slab, their faces forward all, And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair, For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 'Follow the faces, and we find it. Look, Who comes behind?' For one--delayed at first Through helping back the dislocated Kay To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced, The damsel's headlong error through the wood-Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops-His blue shield-lions covered--softly drew Behind the twain, and when he saw the star Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried, 'Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend.' And Gareth crying pricked against the cry; But when they closed--in a moment--at one touch Of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world-- 138 Went sliding down so easily, and fell, That when he found the grass within his hands He laughed; the laughter jarred upon Lynette: Harshly she asked him, 'Shamed and overthrown, And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave, Why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?' 'Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, And victor of the bridges and the ford, And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom I know not, all through mere unhappiness-Device and sorcery and unhappiness-Out, sword; we are thrown!' And Lancelot answered, 'Prince, O Gareth--through the mere unhappiness Of one who came to help thee, not to harm, Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, As on the day when Arthur knighted him.' Then Gareth, 'Thou--Lancelot!--thine the hand That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast Thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance-Had sent thee down before a lesser spear, Shamed had I been, and sad--O Lancelot--thou!' Whereat the maiden, petulant, 'Lancelot, Why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now Come ye, not called? I gloried in my knave, Who being still rebuked, would answer still Courteous as any knight--but now, if knight, The marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked, And only wondering wherefore played upon: And doubtful whether I and mine be scorned. Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall, In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool, I hate thee and for ever.' And Lancelot said, 'Blessd be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise To call him shamed, who is but overthrown? Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time. Victor from vanquished issues at the last, 139 And overthrower from being overthrown. With sword we have not striven; and thy good horse And thou are weary; yet not less I felt Thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine. Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed, And thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes, And when reviled, hast answered graciously, And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round!' And then when turning to Lynette he told The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 'Ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks And forage for the horse, and flint for fire. But all about it flies a honeysuckle. Seek, till we find.' And when they sought and found, Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life Past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed. 'Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou. Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him As any mother? Ay, but such a one As all day long hath rated at her child, And vext his day, but blesses him asleep-Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle In the hushed night, as if the world were one Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness! O Lancelot, Lancelot'--and she clapt her hands-'Full merry am I to find my goodly knave Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, Else yon black felon had not let me pass, To bring thee back to do the battle with him. Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first; Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave Miss the full flower of this accomplishment.' Said Lancelot, 'Peradventure he, you name, May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, Not to be spurred, loving the battle as well As he that rides him.' 'Lancelot-like,' she said, 140 'Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all.' And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield; 'Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears Are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar! Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!-Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you. O noble Lancelot, from my hold on these Streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. Hence: let us go.' Silent the silent field They traversed. Arthur's harp though summer-wan, In counter motion to the clouds, allured The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. A star shot: 'Lo,' said Gareth, 'the foe falls!' An owl whoopt: 'Hark the victor pealing there!' Suddenly she that rode upon his left Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying, 'Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight: I curse the tongue that all through yesterday Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done; Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow In having flung the three: I see thee maimed, Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth.' 'And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know. You cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice, Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery Appal me from the quest.' 'Nay, Prince,' she cried, 'God wot, I never looked upon the face, Seeing he never rides abroad by day; But watched him have I like a phantom pass Chilling the night: nor have I heard the voice. Always he made his mouthpiece of a page Who came and went, and still reported him As closing in himself the strength of ten, And when his anger tare him, massacring 141 Man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe! Some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh, Monster! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first, The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield.' Said Gareth laughing, 'An he fight for this, Belike he wins it as the better man: Thus--and not else!' But Lancelot on him urged All the devisings of their chivalry When one might meet a mightier than himself; How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield, And so fill up the gap where force might fail With skill and fineness. Instant were his words. Then Gareth, 'Here be rules. I know but one-To dash against mine enemy and win. Yet have I seen thee victor in the joust, And seen thy way.' 'Heaven help thee,' sighed Lynette. Then for a space, and under cloud that grew To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode In converse till she made her palfrey halt, Lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'There.' And all the three were silent seeing, pitched Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, A huge pavilion like a mountain peak Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, Black, with black banner, and a long black horn Beside it hanging; which Sir Gareth graspt, And so, before the two could hinder him, Sent all his heart and breath through all the horn. Echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon Came lights and lights, and once again he blew; Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down And muffled voices heard, and shadows past; Till high above him, circled with her maids, The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, Beautiful among lights, and waving to him White hands, and courtesy; but when the Prince Three times had blown--after long hush--at last-- 142 The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, Through those black foldings, that which housed therein. High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms, With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death, And crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps-In the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced The monster, and then paused, and spake no word. But Gareth spake and all indignantly, 'Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten, Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given, But must, to make the terror of thee more, Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod, Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers As if for pity?' But he spake no word; Which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned; The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept, As doomed to be the bride of Night and Death; Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm; And even Sir Lancelot through his warm blood felt Ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast. At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neighed, And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him. Then those that did not blink the terror, saw That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose. But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull. Half fell to right and half to left and lay. Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm As throughly as the skull; and out from this Issued the bright face of a blooming boy Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'Knight, Slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it, To make a horror all about the house, And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. They never dreamed the passes would be past.' Answered Sir Gareth graciously to one Not many a moon his younger, 'My fair child, What madness made thee challenge the chief knight Of Arthur's hall?' 'Fair Sir, they bad me do it. They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend, 143 They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream, They never dreamed the passes could be past.' Then sprang the happier day from underground; And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance And revel and song, made merry over Death, As being after all their foolish fears And horrors only proven a blooming boy. So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest. And he that told the tale in older times Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, But he, that told it later, says Lynette. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

1142:class:Classics BOOK THE THIRTEENTH The Speeches of Ajax and Ulysses The chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the field: To these the master of the seven-fold shield Upstarted fierce: and kindled with disdain. Eager to speak, unable to contain His boiling rage, he rowl'd his eyes around The shore, and Graecian gallies hall'd a-ground. Then stretching out his hands, O Jove, he cry'd, Must then our cause before the fleet be try'd? And dares Ulysses for the prize contend, In sight of what he durst not once defend? But basely fled that memorable day, When I from Hector's hands redeem'd the flaming prey. So much 'tis safer at the noisie bar With words to flourish, than ingage in war. By diff'rent methods we maintain our right, Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight. In bloody fields I labour to be great; His arms are a smooth tongue, and soft deceit: Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see, The sun, and day are witnesses for me. Let him who fights unseen, relate his own, And vouch the silent stars, and conscious moon. Great is the prize demanded, I confess, But such an abject rival makes it less; That gift, those honours, he but hop'd to gain, Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain: Losing he wins, because his name will be Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me. Were my known valour question'd, yet my blood Without that plea wou'd make my title good: My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ'd With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy'd; And who before with Jason sent from Greece, In the first ship brought home the golden fleece. Great Telamon from Aeacus derives His birth (th' inquisitor of guilty lives In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son This thief is thought, rouls up the restless heavy stone), Just Aeacus, the king of Gods above Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove. Nor shou'd I seek advantage from my line, Unless (Achilles) it was mix'd with thine: As next of kin, Achilles' arms I claim; This fellow wou'd ingraft a foreign name Upon our stock, and the Sisyphian seed By fraud, and theft asserts his father's breed: Then must I lose these arms, because I came To fight uncall'd, a voluntary name, Nor shunn'd the cause, but offer'd you my aid? While he long lurking was to war betray'd: Forc'd to the field he came, but in the reer; And feign'd distraction to conceal his fear: 'Till one more cunning caught him in the snare (Ill for himself); and dragg'd him into war. Now let a hero's arms a coward vest, And he who shunn'd all honours, gain the best: And let me stand excluded from my right, Robb'd of my kinsman's arms, who first appear'd in fight, Better for us, at home had he remain'd, Had it been true the madness which he feign'd, Or so believ'd; the less had been our shame, The less his counsell'd crime, which brands the Grecian name; Nor Philoctetes had been left inclos'd In a bare isle, to wants and pains expos'd, Where to the rocks, with solitary groans, His suff'rings, and our baseness he bemoans: And wishes (so may Heav'n his wish fulfill) The due reward to him, who caus'd his ill. Now he, with us to Troy's destruction sworn, Our brother of the war, by whom are born Alcides' arrows, pent in narrow bounds, With cold and hunger pinch'd, and pain'd with wounds, To find him food and cloathing, must employ Against the birds the shafts due to the fate of Troy. Yet still he lives, and lives from treason free, Because he left Ulysses' company; Poor Palamede might wish, so void of aid, Rather to have been left, than so to death betray'd. The coward bore the man immortal spight, Who sham'd him out of madness into fight: Nor daring otherwise to vent his hate, Accus'd him first of treason to the state; And then for proof produc'd the golden store, Himself had hidden in his tent before: Thus of two champions he depriv'd our host, By exile one, and one by treason lost. Thus fights Ulysses, thus his fame extends, A formidable man, but to his friends: Great, for what greatness is in words, and sound, Ev'n faithful Nestor less in both is found: But that he might without a rival reign, He left this faithful Nestor on the plain; Forsook his friend ev'n at his utmost need, Who tir'd, and tardy with his wounded steed, Cry'd out for aid, and call'd him by his name; But cowardice has neither ears nor shame; Thus fled the good old man, bereft of aid, And, for as much as lay in him, betray'd: That this is not a fable forg'd by me, Like one of his, an Ulyssean lie, I vouch ev'n Diomede, who tho' his friend, Cannot that act excuse, much less defend: He call'd him back aloud, and tax'd his fear; And sure enough he heard, but durst not hear. The Gods with equal eyes on mortal look, He justly was forsaken, who forsook: Wanted that succour, he refus'd to lend, Found ev'ry fellow such another friend: No wonder, if he roar'd that all might hear; His elocution was increas'd by fear: I heard, I ran, I found him out of breath, Pale, trembling, and half dead with fear of death. Though he had judg'd himself by his own laws, And stood condemn'd, I help'd the common cause: With my broad buckler hid him from the foe (Ev'n the shield trembled as he lay below); And from impending Fate the coward freed: Good Heav'n forgive me for so bad a deed! If still he will persist, and urge the strife, First let him give me back his forfeit life: Let him return to that opprobrious field; Again creep under my protecting shield: Let him lie wounded, let the foe be near, And let his quiv'ring heart confess his fear; There put him in the very jaws of Fate; And let him plead his cause in that estate: And yet when snatch'd from death, when from below My lifted shield I loos'd, and let him go; Good Heav'ns, how light he rose, with what a bound He sprung from earth, forgetful of his wound; How fresh, how eager then his feet to ply; Who had not strength to stand, had speed to fly! Hector came on, and brought the Gods along; Fear seiz'd alike the feeble, and the strong: Each Greek was an Ulysses; such a dread Th' approach, and ev'n the sound of Hector bred: Him, flesh'd with slaughter, and with conquest crown'd, I met, and over-turn'd him to the ground; When after, matchless as he deem'd in might, He challeng'd all our host to single fight; All eyes were fix'd on me: the lots were thrown; But for your champion I was wish'd alone: Your vows were heard; we fought, and neither yield; Yet I return'd unvanquish'd from the field. With Jove to friend, th' insulting Trojan came, And menac'd us with force, our fleet with flame. Was it the strength of this tongue-valiant lord, In that black hour, that sav'd you from the sword? Or was my breast expos'd alone, to brave A thousand swords, a thousand ships to save? The hopes of your return! And can you yield, For a sav'd fleet, less than a single shield? Think it no boast, o Grecians, if I deem These arms want Ajax, more than Ajax them: Or, I with them an equal honour share; They honour'd to be worn, and I to wear. Will he compare my courage with his sleight? As well he may compare the day with night. Night is indeed the province of his reign: Yet all his dark exploits no more contain Than a spy taken, and a sleeper slain; A priest made pris'ner, Pallas made a prey: But none of all these actions done by day: Nor ought of these was done, and Diomede away. If on such petty merits you confer So vast a prize, let each his portion share; Make a just dividend; and if not all, The greater part to Diomede will fall. But why for Ithacus such arms as those, Who naked, and by night invades his foes? The glitt'ring helm by moonlight will proclaim The latent robber, and prevent his game: Nor cou'd he hold his tott'ring head upright Beneath that morion, or sustain the weight; Nor that right arm cou'd toss the beamy lance; Much less the left that ampler shield advance; Pond'rous with precious weight, and rough with cost Of the round world in rising gold emboss'd. That orb would ill become his hand to wield, And look as for the gold he stole the shield; Which, shou'd your error on the wretch bestow, It would not frighten, but allure the foe: Why asks he, what avails him not in fight, And wou'd but cumber, and retard his flight, In which his only excellence is plac'd? You give him death, that intercept his haste. Add, that his own is yet a maiden-shield, Nor the least dint has suffer'd in the field, Guiltless of fight: mine batter'd, hew'd, and bor'd, Worn out of service, must forsake his lord, What farther need of words our right to scan? My arguments are deeds, let action speak the man. Since from a champion's arms the strife arose, Go cast the glorious prize amid the foes; Then send us to redeem both arms, and shield, And let him wear, who wins 'em in the field. He said: a murmur from a multitude, Or somewhat like a stifled shout, ensu'd: 'Till from his seat arose Laertes' son, Look'd down a while, and paus'd, e'er he begun; Then, to th' expecting audience, rais'd his look, And not without prepar'd attention spoke: Soft was his tone, and sober was his face; Action his words, and words his action grace. If Heav'n, my lords, had heard our common pray'r, These arms had caus'd no quarrel for an heir; Still great Achilles had his own possess'd, And we with great Achilles had been bless'd; But since hard Fate, and Heav'n's severe decree, Have ravish'd him away from you, and me (At this he sigh'd, and wip'd his eyes, and drew, Or seem'd to draw, some drops of kindly dew), Who better can succeed Achilles lost, Than he, who gave Achilles to your hoast? This only I request, that neither he May gain, by being what he seems to be, A stupid thing; nor I may lose the prize, By having sense, which Heav'n to him denies: Since great or small, the talent I enjoy'd Was ever in the common cause employ'd; Nor let my wit, and wonted eloquence, Which often has been us'd in your defense, And in my own, this only time be brought To bear against my self, and deem'd a fault. Make not a crime, where Nature made it none; For ev'ry man may freely use his own. The deeds of long-descended ancestors Are but by grace of imputation ours, Theirs in effect; but since he draws his line From Jove, and seems to plead a right divine; From Jove, like him, I claim my pedigree, And am descended in the same degree: My sire Laertes was Arcesius' heir, Arcesius was the son of Jupiter: No parricide, no banish'd man, is known In all my line: let him excuse his own. Hermes ennobles too my mother's side, By both my parents to the Gods ally'd. But not because that on the female part My blood is better, dare I claim desert, Or that my sire from parricide is free; But judge by merit betwixt him, and me: The prize be to the best; provided yet That Ajax for a while his kin forget, And his great sire, and greater uncle's name, To fortifie by them his feeble claim: Be kindred and relation laid aside, And honour's cause by laws of honour try'd: For if he plead proximity of blood; That empty title is with ease withstood. Peleus, the hero's sire, more nigh than he, And Pyrrhus, his undoubted progeny, Inherit first these trophies of the field; To Scyros, or to Pthia, send the shield: And Teucer has an uncle's right; yet he Waves his pretensions, nor contends with me. Then since the cause on pure desert is plac'd, Whence shall I take my rise, what reckon last? I not presume on ev'ry act to dwell, But take these few, in order as they fell. Thetis, who knew the Fates, apply'd her care To keep Achilles in disguise from war; And 'till the threatning influence was past, A woman's habit on the hero cast: All eyes were cozen'd by the borrow'd vest, And Ajax (never wiser than the rest) Found no Pelides there: at length I came With proffer'd wares to this pretended dame; She, not discover'd by her mien, or voice, Betray'd her manhood by her manly choice; And while on female toys her fellows look, Grasp'd in her warlike hand, a javelin shook; Whom, by this act reveal'd, I thus bespoke: O Goddess-born! resist not Heav'n's decree, The fall of Ilium is reserv'd for thee; Then seiz'd him, and produc'd in open light, Sent blushing to the field the fatal knight. Mine then are all his actions of the war; Great Telephus was conquer'd by my spear, And after cur'd: to me the Thebans owe, Lesbos, and Tenedos, their overthrow; Syros and Cylla: not on all to dwell, By me Lyrnesus, and strong Chrysa fell: And since I sent the man who Hector slew, To me the noble Hector's death is due: Those arms I put into his living hand, Those arms, Pelides dead, I now demand. When Greece was injur'd in the Spartan prince, And met at Aulis to avenge th' offence, 'Twas a dead calm, or adverse blasts, that reign'd, And in the port the wind-bound fleet detain'd: Bad signs were seen, and oracles severe Were daily thunder'd in our gen'ral's ear; That by his daughter's blood we must appease Diana's kindled wrath, and free the seas. Affection, int'rest, fame, his heart assail'd: But soon the father o'er the king prevail'd: Bold, on himself he took the pious crime, As angry with the Gods, as they with him. No subject cou'd sustain their sov'reign's look, 'Till this hard enterprize I undertook: I only durst th' imperial pow'r controul, And undermin'd the parent in his soul; Forc'd him t' exert the king for common good, And pay our ransom with his daughter's blood. Never was cause more difficult to plead, Than where the judge against himself decreed: Yet this I won by dint of argument; The wrongs his injur'd brother underwent, And his own office, sham'd him to consent. 'Tis harder yet to move the mother's mind, And to this heavy task was I design'd: Reasons against her love I knew were vain; I circumvented whom I could not gain: Had Ajax been employ'd, our slacken'd sails Had still at Aulis waited happy gales. Arriv'd at Troy, your choice was fix'd on me, A fearless envoy, fit for a bold embassy: Secure, I enter'd through the hostile court, Glitt'ring with steel, and crowded with resort: There, in the midst of arms, I plead our cause, Urge the foul rape, and violated laws; Accuse the foes, as authors of the strife, Reproach the ravisher, demand the wife. Priam, Antenor, and the wiser few, I mov'd; but Paris, and his lawless crew Scarce held their hands, and lifted swords; but stood In act to quench their impious thirst of blood: This Menelaus knows; expos'd to share With me the rough preludium of the war. Endless it were to tell, what I have done, In arms, or council, since the siege begun: The first encounter's past, the foe repell'd, They skulk'd within the town, we kept the field. War seem'd asleep for nine long years; at length Both sides resolv'd to push, we try'd our strength Now what did Ajax, while our arms took breath, Vers'd only in the gross mechanick trade of death? If you require my deeds, with ambush'd arms I trapp'd the foe, or tir'd with false alarms; Secur'd the ships, drew lines along the plain, The fainting chear'd, chastis'd the rebel-train, Provided forage, our spent arms renew'd; Employ'd at home, or sent abroad, the common cause pursu'd. The king, deluded in a dream by Jove, Despair'd to take the town, and order'd to remove. What subject durst arraign the Pow'r supream, Producing Jove to justifie his dream? Ajax might wish the soldiers to retain From shameful flight, but wishes were in vain: As wanting of effect had been his words, Such as of course his thundring tongue affords. But did this boaster threaten, did he pray, Or by his own example urge their stay? None, none of these: but ran himself away. I saw him run, and was asham'd to see; Who ply'd his feet so fast to get aboard, as he? Then speeding through the place, I made a stand, And loudly cry'd, O base degenerate band, To leave a town already in your hand! After so long expence of blood, for fame, To bring home nothing, but perpetual shame! These words, or what I have forgotten since (For grief inspir'd me then with eloquence), Reduc'd their minds; they leave the crowded port, And to their late forsaken camp resort: Dismay'd the council met: this man was there, But mute, and not recover'd of his fear: Thersites tax'd the king, and loudly rail'd, But his wide opening mouth with blows I seal'd. Then, rising, I excite their souls to fame, And kindle sleeping virtue into flame. From thence, whatever he perform'd in fight Is justly mine, who drew him back from flight. Which of the Grecian chiefs consorts with thee? But Diomede desires my company, And still communicates his praise with me. As guided by a God, secure he goes, Arm'd with my fellowship, amid the foes: And sure no little merit I may boast, Whom such a man selects from such an hoast; Unforc'd by lots I went without affright, To dare with him the dangers of the night: On the same errand sent, we met the spy Of Hector, double-tongu'd, and us'd to lie; Him I dispatch'd, but not 'till undermin'd, I drew him first to tell, what treach'rous Troy design'd: My task perform'd, with praise I had retir'd, But not content with this, to greater praise aspir'd: Invaded Rhesus, and his Thracian crew, And him, and his, in their own strength I slew; Return'd a victor, all my vows compleat, With the king's chariot, in his royal seat: Refuse me now his arms, whose fiery steeds Were promis'd to the spy for his nocturnal deeds: Yet let dull Ajax bear away my right, When all his days out-balance this one night. Nor fought I darkling still: the sun beheld With slaughter'd Lycians when I strew'd the field: You saw, and counted as I pass'd along, Alastor, Chromius, Ceranos the strong, Alcander, Prytanis, and Halius, Noemon, Charopes, and Ennomus; Coon, Chersidamas; and five beside, Men of obscure descent, but courage try'd: All these this hand laid breathless on the ground; Nor want I proofs of many a manly wound: All honest, all before: believe not me; Words may deceive, but credit what you see. At this he bar'd his breast, and show'd his scars, As of a furrow'd field, well plow'd with wars; Nor is this part unexercis'd, said he; That gyant-bulk of his from wounds is free: Safe in his shield he fears no foe to try, And better manages his blood, than I: But this avails me not; our boaster strove Not with our foes alone, but partial Jove, To save the fleet: this I confess is true (Nor will I take from any man his due): But thus assuming all, he robs from you. Some part of honour to your share will fall, He did the best indeed, but did not all. Patroclus in Achilles' arms, and thought The chief he seem'd, with equal ardour fought; Preserv'd the fleet, repell'd the raging fire, And forc'd the fearful Trojans to retire. But Ajax boasts, that he was only thought A match for Hector, who the combat sought: Sure he forgets the king, the chiefs, and me: All were as eager for the fight, as he: He but the ninth, and not by publick voice, Or ours preferr'd, was only Fortune's choice: They fought; nor can our hero boast th' event, For Hector from the field unwounded went. Why am I forc'd to name that fatal day, That snatch'd the prop and pride of Greece away? I saw Pelides sink, with pious grief, And ran in vain, alas! to his relief; For the brave soul was fled: full of my friend I rush'd amid the war, his relicks to defend: Nor ceas'd my toil, 'till I redeem'd the prey, And, loaded with Achilles, march'd away: Those arms, which on these shoulders then I bore, 'Tis just you to these shoulders should restore. You see I want not nerves, who cou'd sustain The pond'rous ruins of so great a man: Or if in others equal force you find, None is endu'd with a more grateful mind. Did Thetis then, ambitious in her care, These arms thus labour'd for her son prepare; That Ajax after him the heav'nly gift shou'd wear! For that dull soul to stare with stupid eyes, On the learn'd unintelligible prize! What are to him the sculptures of the shield, Heav'n's planets, Earth, and Ocean's watry field? The Pleiads, Hyads; less, and greater Bear, Undipp'd in seas; Orion's angry star; Two diff'ring cities, grav'd on either hand; Would he wear arms he cannot understand? Beside, what wise objections he prepares Against my late accession to the wars? Does not the fool perceive his argument Is with more force against Achilles bent? For if dissembling be so great a crime, The fault is common, and the same in him: And if he taxes both of long delay, My guilt is less, who sooner came away. His pious mother, anxious for his life, Detain'd her son; and me, my pious wife. To them the blossoms of our youth were due, Our riper manhood we reserv'd for you. But grant me guilty, 'tis not much my care, When with so great a man my guilt I share: My wit to war the matchless hero brought, But by this fool I never had been caught. Nor need I wonder, that on me he threw Such foul aspersions, when he spares not you: If Palamede unjustly fell by me, Your honour suffer'd in th' unjust decree: I but accus'd, you doom'd: and yet he dy'd, Convinc'd of treason, and was fairly try'd: You heard not he was false; your eyes beheld The traytor manifest; the bribe reveal'd. That Philoctetes is on Lemnos left, Wounded, forlorn, of human aid bereft, Is not my crime, or not my crime alone; Defend your justice, for the fact's your own: 'Tis true, th' advice was mine; that staying there He might his weary limbs with rest repair, From a long voyage free, and from a longer war. He took the counsl, and he lives at least; Th' event declares I counsell'd for the best: Though faith is all in ministers of state; For who can promise to be fortunate? Now since his arrows are the Fate of Troy, Do not my wit, or weak address, employ; Send Ajax there, with his persuasive sense, To mollifie the man, and draw him thence: But Xanthus shall run backward; Ida stand A leafless mountain; and the Grecian band Shall fight for Troy; if, when my councils fail, The wit of heavy Ajax can prevail. Hard Philoctetes, exercise thy spleen Against thy fellows, and the king of men; Curse my devoted head, above the rest, And wish in arms to meet me breast to breast: Yet I the dang'rous task will undertake, And either die my self, or bring thee back. Nor doubt the same success, as when before The Phrygian prophet to these tents I bore, Surpriz'd by night, and forc'd him to declare In what was plac'd the fortune of the war, Heav'n's dark decrees, and answers to display, And how to take the town, and where the secret lay: Yet this I compass'd, and from Troy convey'd The fatal image of their guardian-maid; That work was mine; for Pallas, though our friend, Yet while she was in Troy, did Troy defend. Now what has Ajax done, or what design'd? A noisie nothing, and an empty wind. If he be what he promises in show, Why was I sent, and why fear'd he to go? Our boasting champion thought the task not light To pass the guards, commit himself to night; Not only through a hostile town to pass, But scale, with steep ascent, the sacred place; With wand'ring steps to search the cittadel, And from the priests their patroness to steal: Then through surrounding foes to force my way, And bear in triumph home the heavn'ly prey; Which had I not, Ajax in vain had held, Before that monst'rous bulk, his sev'nfold shield. That night to conquer Troy I might be said, When Troy was liable to conquest made. Why point'st thou to my partner of the war? Tydides had indeed a worthy share In all my toil, and praise; but when thy might Our ships protected, did'st thou singly fight? All join'd, and thou of many wert but one; I ask'd no friend, nor had, but him alone: Who, had he not been well assur'd, that art, And conduct were of war the better part, And more avail'd than strength, my valiant friend Had urg'd a better right, than Ajax can pretend: As good at least Eurypilus may claim, And the more mod'rate Ajax of the name: The Cretan king, and his brave charioteer, And Menelaus bold with sword, and spear: All these had been my rivals in the shield, And yet all these to my pretensions yield. Thy boist'rous hands are then of use, when I With this directing head those hands apply. Brawn without brain is thine: my prudent care Foresees, provides, administers the war: Thy province is to fight; but when shall be The time to fight, the king consults with me: No dram of judgment with thy force is join'd: Thy body is of profit, and my mind. By how much more the ship her safety owes To him who steers, than him that only rows; By how much more the captain merits praise, Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys; By so much greater is my worth than thine, Who canst but execute, what I design. What gain'st thou, brutal man, if I confess Thy strength superior, when thy wit is less? Mind is the man: I claim my whole desert, From the mind's vigour, and th' immortal part. But you, o Grecian chiefs, reward my care, Be grateful to your watchman of the war: For all my labours in so long a space, Sure I may plead a title to your grace: Enter the town, I then unbarr'd the gates, When I remov'd their tutelary Fates. By all our common hopes, if hopes they be Which I have now reduc'd to certainty; By falling Troy, by yonder tott'ring tow'rs, And by their taken Gods, which now are ours; Or if there yet a farther task remains, To be perform'd by prudence, or by pains; If yet some desp'rate action rests behind, That asks high conduct, and a dauntless mind; If ought be wanting to the Trojan doom, Which none but I can manage, and o'ercome, Award, those arms I ask, by your decree: Or give to this, what you refuse to me. He ceas'd: and ceasing with respect he bow'd, And with his hand at once the fatal statue show'd. Heav'n, air and ocean rung, with loud applause, And by the gen'ral vote he gain'd his cause. Thus conduct won the prize, when courage fail'd, And eloquence o'er brutal force prevail'd. The Death of Ajax He who cou'd often, and alone, withstand The foe, the fire, and Jove's own partial hand, Now cannot his unmaster'd grief sustain, But yields to rage, to madness, and disdain; Then snatching out his fauchion, Thou, said he, Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to thee. O often try'd, and ever-trusty sword, Now do thy last kind office to thy lord: 'Tis Ajax who requests thy aid, to show None but himself, himself cou'd overthrow: He said, and with so good a will to die, Did to his breast the fatal point apply, It found his heart, a way 'till then unknown, Where never weapon enter'd, but his own. No hands cou'd force it thence, so fix'd it stood, 'Till out it rush'd, expell'd by streams of spouting blood. The fruitful blood produc'd a flow'r, which grew On a green stem; and of a purple hue: Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew: Inscrib'd in both, the letters are the same, But those express the grief, and these the name. The Story of Polyxena and Hecuba The victor with full sails for Lemnos stood (Once stain'd by matrons with their husbands' blood), Thence great Alcides' fatal shafts to bear, Assign'd to Philoctetes' secret care. These with their guardian to the Greeks convey'd, Their ten years' toil with wish'd success repaid. With Troy old Priam falls: his queen survives; 'Till all her woes compleat, transform'd she grieves In borrow'd sounds, nor with an human face, Barking tremendous o'er the plains of Thrace. Still Ilium's flames their pointed columns raise, And the red Hellespont reflects the blaze. Shed on Jove's altar are the poor remains Of blood, which trickl'd from old Priam's veins. Cassandra lifts her hands to Heav'n in vain, Drag'd by her sacred hair; the trembling train Of matrons to their burning temples fly: There to their Gods for kind protection cry; And to their statues cling 'till forc'd away, The victor Greeks bear off th' invidious prey. From those high tow'rs Astyanax is thrown, Whence he was wont with pleasure to look down. When oft his mother with a fond delight Pointed to view his father's rage in fight, To win renown, and guard his country's right. The winds now call to sea; brisk northern gales Sing in the shrowds, and court the spreading sails. Farewel, dear Troy, the captive matrons cry; Yes, we must leave our long-lov'd native sky. Then prostrate on the shore they kiss the sand, And quit the smoking ruines of the land. Last Hecuba on board, sad sight! appears; Found weeping o'er her children's sepulchres: Drag'd by Ulysses from her slaughter'd sons, Whilst yet she graspt their tombs, and kist their mouldring bones. Yet Hector's ashes from his urn she bore, And in her bosom the sad relique wore: Then scatter'd on his tomb her hoary hairs, A poor oblation mingled with her tears. Oppos'd to Ilium lye the Thracian plains, Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns. King Priam to his care commits his son, Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun. A wise precaution! had not gold, consign'd For the child's use, debauch'd the tyrant's mind. When sinking Troy to its last period drew, With impious hands his royal charge he slew; Then in the sea the lifeless coarse is thrown; As with the body he the guilt could drown. The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore, 'Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor. Here the wide-op'ning Earth to sudden view Disclos'd Achilles, great as when he drew The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain, As when he sought Briseis to regain; When stern debate, and rash injurious strife Unsheath'd his sword, to reach Atrides' life. And will ye go? he said. Is then the name Of the once great Achilles lost to fame? Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue In vain for honours to my Manes due. For this just end, Polyxena I doom With victim-rites to grace my slighted tomb. The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey'd, And to the tomb led the devoted maid Snatch'd from her mother, who with pious care Cherish'd this last relief of her despair. Superior to her sex, the fearless maid, Approach'd the altar, and around survey'd The cruel rites, and consecrated knife, Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life, Then as with stern amaze intent he stood, "Now strike," she said; "now spill my genr'ous blood; Deep in my breast, or throat, your dagger sheath, Whilst thus I stand prepar'd to meet my death. For life on terms of slav'ry I despise: Yet sure no God approves this sacrifice. O cou'd I but conceal this dire event From my sad mother, I should dye content. Yet should she not with tears my death deplore, Since her own wretched life demands them more. But let not the rude touch of man pollute A virgin-victim; 'tis a modest suit. It best will please, whoe'er demands my blood, That I untainted reach the Stygian flood. Yet let one short, last, dying prayer be heard; To Priam's daughter pay this last regard; 'Tis Priam's daughter, not a captive, sues; Do not the rites of sepulture refuse. To my afflicted mother, I implore, Free without ransom my dead corpse restore: Nor barter me for gain, when I am cold; But be her tears the price, if I am sold: Time was she could have ransom'd me with gold". Thus as she pray'd, one common shower of tears Burst forth, and stream'd from ev'ry eye but hers. Ev'n the priest wept, and with a rude remorse Plung'd in her heart the steel's resistless force. Her slacken'd limbs sunk gently to the ground, Dauntless her looks, unalter'd by the wound. And as she fell, she strove with decent pride To hide, what suits a virgin's care to hide. The Trojan matrons the pale corpse receive, And the whole slaughter'd race of Priam grieve, Sad they recount the long disastrous tale; Then with fresh tears, thee, royal maid, bewail; Thy widow'd mother too, who flourish'd late The royal pride of Asia's happier state: A captive lot now to Ulysses born; Whom yet the victor would reject with scorn, Were she not Hector's mother: Hector's fame Scarce can a master for his mother claim! With strict embrace the lifeless coarse she view'd; And her fresh grief that flood of tears renew'd, With which she lately mourn'd so many dead; Tears for her country, sons, and husb and shed. With the thick gushing stream she bath'd the wound; Kiss'd her pale lips; then weltring on the ground, With wonted rage her frantick bosom tore; Sweeping her hair amidst the clotted gore; Whilst her sad accents thus her loss deplore. "Behold a mother's last dear pledge of woe! Yes, 'tis the last I have to suffer now. Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown: Already in thy Fate, I feel my own. 'Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed One should unslaughter'd fall, even thou must bleed: And yet I hop'd thy sex had been thy guard; But neither has thy tender sex been spar'd. The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate Thy brothers fell, urg'd thy untimely fate! The same Achilles, whose destructive rage Laid waste my realms, has robb'd my childless age. When Paris' shafts with Phoebus' certain aid At length had pierc'd this dreaded chief, I said, Secure of future ills, he can no more: But see, he still pursues me as before. With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn; And his yet murd'ring ghost my wretched house must mourn. This tyrant's lust of slaughter I have fed With large supplies from my too-fruitful bed. Troy's tow'rs lye waste; and the wide ruin ends The publick woe; but me fresh woe attends. Troy still survives to me; to none but me; And from its ills I never must be free. I, who so late had power, and wealth, and ease, Bless'd with my husband, and a large encrease, Must now in poverty an exile mourn; Ev'n from the tombs of my dead offspring torn: Giv'n to Penelope, who proud of spoil, Allots me to the loom's ungrateful toil; Points to her dames, and crys with scorning mien: See Hector's mother, and great Priam's queen! And thou, my child, sole hope of all that's lost, Thou now art slain, to sooth this hostile ghost. Yes, my child falls an offering to my foe! Then what am I, who still survive this woe? Say, cruel Gods! for what new scenes of death Must a poor aged wretch prolong this hated breath? Troy fal'n, to whom could Priam happy seem? Yet was he so; and happy must I deem His death; for O! my child, he saw not thine, When he his life did with his Troy resign. Yet sure due obsequies thy tomb might grace; And thou shalt sleep amidst thy kingly race. Alas! my child, such fortune does not wait Our suffering house in this abandon'd state. A foreign grave, and thy poor mother's tears Are all the honours that attend thy herse. All now is lost!- Yet no; one comfort more Of life remains, my much-lov'd Polydore. My youngest hope: here on this coast he lives, Nurs'd by the guardian-king, he still survives. Then let me hasten to the cleansing flood, And wash away these stains of guiltless blood." Streit to the shore her feeble steps repair With limping pace, and torn dishevell'd hair Silver'd with age. "Give me an urn," she cry'd, "To bear back water from this swelling tide": When on the banks her son in ghastly hue Transfix'd with Thracian arrows strikes her view. The matrons shriek'd; her big-swoln grief surpast The pow'r of utterance; she stood aghast; She had nor speech, nor tears to give relief; Excess of woe suppress'd the rising grief. Lifeless as stone, on Earth she fix'd her eyes; And then look'd up to Heav'n with wild surprise. Now she contemplates o'er with sad delight Her son's pale visage; then her aking sight Dwells on his wounds: she varys thus by turns, Wild as the mother-lion, when among The haunts of prey she seeks her ravish'd young: Swift flies the ravisher; she marks his trace, And by the print directs her anxious chase. So Hecuba with mingled grief, and rage Pursues the king, regardless of her age. She greets the murd'rer with dissembled joy Of secret treasure hoarded for her boy. The specious tale th' unwary king betray'd. Fir'd with the hopes of prey: "Give quick," he said With soft enticing speech, "the promis'd store: Whate'er you give, you give to Polydore. Your son, by the immortal Gods I swear, Shall this with all your former bounty share." She stands attentive to his soothing lyes, And darts avenging horrour from her eyes. Then full resentment fires her boyling blood: She springs upon him, 'midst the captive crowd (Her thirst of vengeance want of strength supplies): Fastens her forky fingers in his eyes: Tears out the rooted balls; her rage pursues, And in the hollow orbs her hand imbrews. The Thracians, fir'd, at this inhuman scene, With darts, and stones assail the frantick queen. She snarls, and growls, nor in an human tone; Then bites impatient at the bounding stone; Extends her jaws, as she her voice would raise To keen invectives in her wonted phrase; But barks, and thence the yelping brute betrays. Still a sad monument the place remains, And from this monstrous change its name obtains: Where she, in long remembrance of her ills, With plaintive howlings the wide desart fills. Greeks, Trojans, friends, and foes, and Gods above Her num'rous wrongs to just compassion move. Ev'n Juno's self forgets her ancient hate, And owns, she had deserv'd a milder fate. The Funeral of Memnon Yet bright Aurora, partial as she was To Troy, and those that lov'd the Trojan cause, Nor Troy, nor Hecuba can now bemoan, But weeps a sad misfortune, more her own. Her offspring Memnon, by Achilles slain, She saw extended on the Phrygian plain: She saw, and strait the purple beams, that grace The rosie morning, vanish'd from her face; A deadly pale her wonted bloom invades, And veils the lowring skies with mournful shades. But when his limbs upon the pile were laid, The last kind duty that by friends is paid, His mother to the skies directs her flight, Nor cou'd sustain to view the doleful sight: But frantick, with her loose neglected hair, Hastens to Jove, and falls a suppliant there. O king of Heav'n, o father of the skies, The weeping Goddess passionately cries, Tho' I the meanest of immortals am, And fewest temples celebrate my fame, Yet still a Goddess, I presume to come Within the verge of your etherial dome: Yet still may plead some merit, if my light With purple dawn controuls the Pow'rs of night; If from a female hand that virtue springs, Which to the Gods, and men such pleasure brings. Yet I nor honours seek, nor rites divine, Nor for more altars, or more fanes repine; Oh! that such trifles were the only cause, From whence Aurora's mind its anguish draws! For Memnon lost, my dearest only child, With weightier grief my heavy heart is fill'd; My warrior son! that liv'd but half his time, Nipt in the bud, and blasted in his prime; Who for his uncle early took the field, And by Achilles' fatal spear was kill'd. To whom but Jove shou'd I for succour come? For Jove alone cou'd fix his cruel doom. O sov'reign of the Gods accept my pray'r, Grant my request, and sooth a mother's care; On the deceas'd some solemn boon bestow, To expiate the loss, and ease my woe. Jove, with a nod, comply'd with her desire; Around the body flam'd the fun'ral fire; The pile decreas'd, that lately seem'd so high, And sheets of smoak roll'd upward to the sky: As humid vapours from a marshy bog, Rise by degrees, condensing into fog, That intercept the sun's enliv'ning ray, And with a cloud infect the chearful day. The sooty ashes wafted by the air, Whirl round, and thicken in a body there; Then take a form, which their own heat, and fire With active life, and energy inspire. Its lightness makes it seem to fly, and soon It skims on real wings, that are its own; A real bird, it beats the breezy wind, Mix'd with a thousand sisters of the kind, That, from the same formation newly sprung, Up-born aloft on plumy pinions hung. Thrice round the pile advanc'd the circling throng. Thrice, with their wings, a whizzing consort rung. In the fourth flight their squadron they divide, Rank'd in two diff'rent troops, on either side: Then two, and two, inspir'd with martial rage, From either troop in equal pairs engage. Each combatant with beak, and pounces press'd, In wrathful ire, his adversary's breast; Each falls a victim, to preserve the fame Of that great hero, whence their being came. From him their courage, and their name they take, And, as they liv'd, they dye for Memnon's sake. Punctual to time, with each revolving year, In fresh array the champion birds appear; Again, prepar'd with vengeful minds, they come To bleed, in honour of the souldier's tomb. Therefore in others it appear'd not strange, To grieve for Hecuba's unhappy change: But poor Aurora had enough to do With her own loss, to mind another's woe; Who still in tears, her tender nature shews, Besprinkling all the world with pearly dews. The Voyage of Aeneas Troy thus destroy'd, 'twas still deny'd by Fate, The hopes of Troy should perish with the state. His sire, the son of Cytherea bore, And household-Gods from burning Ilium's shore, The pious prince (a double duty paid) Each sacred bur then thro' the flames convey'd. With young Ascanius, and this only prize, Of heaps of wealth, he from Antandros flies; But struck with horror, left the Thracian shore, Stain'd with the blood of murder'd Polydore. The Delian isle receives the banish'd train, Driv'n by kind gales, and favour'd by the main. Here pious Anius, priest, and monarch reign'd, And either charge, with equal care sustain'd, His subjects rul'd, to Phoebus homage pay'd, His God obeying, and by those obey'd. The priest displays his hospitable gate, And shows the riches of his church, and state The sacred shrubs, which eas'd Latona's pain, The palm, and olive, and the votive fane. Here grateful flames with fuming incense fed, And mingled wine, ambrosial odours shed; Of slaughter'd steers the crackling entrails burn'd: And then the strangers to the court return'd. On beds of tap'stry plac'd aloft, they dine With Ceres' gift, and flowing bowls of wine; When thus Anchises spoke, amidst the feast: Say, mitred monarch, Phoebus' chosen priest, Or (e'er from Troy by cruel Fate expell'd) When first mine eyes these sacred walls beheld, A son, and twice two daughters crown'd thy bliss? Or errs my mem'ry, and I judge amiss? The royal prophet shook his hoary head, With snowy fillets bound, and sighing, said: Thy mem'ry errs not, prince; thou saw'st me then, The happy father of so large a train; Behold me now (such turns of chance befall The race of man!), almost bereft of all. For (ah!) what comfort can my son bestow, What help afford, to mitigate my woe! While far from hence, in Andros' isle he reigns, (From him so nam'd) and there my place sustains. Him Delius praescience gave; the twice-born God A boon more wond'rous on the maids bestow'd. Whate'er they touch'd, he gave them to transmute (A gift past credit, and above their suit) To Ceres, Bacchus, and Minerva's fruit. How great their value, and how rich their use, Whose only touch such treasures could produce! The dire destroyer of the Trojan reign, Fierce Agamemnon, such a prize to gain (A proof we also were design'd by Fate To feel the tempest, that o'erturn'd your state), With force superior, and a ruffian crew, From these weak arms, the helpless virgins drew: And sternly bad them use the grant divine, To keep the fleet in corn, and oil, and wine. Each, as they could, escap'd: two strove to gain Euboea's isle, and two their brother's reign. The soldier follows, and demands the dames; If held by force, immediate war proclaims. Fear conquer'd Nature in their brother's mind, And gave them up to punishment assign'd. Forgive the deed; nor Hector's arm was there, Nor thine, Aeneas, to maintain the war; Whose only force upheld your Ilium's tow'rs, For ten long years, against the Grecian pow'rs. Prepar'd to bind their captive arms in bands, To Heav'n they rear'd their yet unfetter'd hands, Help, Bacchus, author of the gift, they pray'd; The gift's great author gave immediate aid; If such destruction of their human frame By ways so wond'rous, may deserve the name; Nor could I hear, nor can I now relate Exact, the manner of their alter'd state; But this in gen'ral of my loss I knew, Transform'd to doves, on milky plumes they flew, Such as on Ida's mount thy consort's chariot drew. With such discourse, they entertain'd the feast; Then rose from table, and withdrew to rest. The following morn, ere Sol was seen to shine, Th' inquiring Trojans sought the sacred shrine; The mystick Pow'r commands them to explore Their ancient mother, and a kindred shore. Attending to the sea, the gen'rous prince Dismiss'd his guests with rich munificence, In old Anchises' hand a sceptre plac'd, A vest, and quiver young Ascanius grac'd, His sire, a cup; which from th' Aonian coast, Ismenian Therses sent his royal host. Alcon of Myle made what Therses sent, And carv'd thereon this ample argument. A town with sev'n distinguish'd gates was shown, Which spoke its name, and made the city known; Before it, piles, and tombs, and rising flames, The rites of death, and quires of mourning dames, Who bar'd their breasts, and gave their hair to flow, The signs of grief, and marks of publick woe. Their fountains dry'd, the weeping Naiads mourn'd, The trees stood bare, with searing cankers burn'd, No herbage cloath'd the ground, a ragged flock Of goats half-famish'd, lick'd the naked rock, Of manly courage, and with mind serene, Orion's daughters in the town were seen; One heav'd her chest to meet the lifted knife, One plung'd the poyniard thro' the seat of life, Their country's victims; mourns the rescu'd state, The bodies burns, and celebrates their Fate. To save the failure of th' illustrious line, From the pale ashes rose, of form divine, Two gen'rous youths; these, fame Coronae calls, Who join the pomp, and mourn their mother's falls. These burnish'd figures form'd of antique mold, Shone on the brass, with rising sculpture bold; A wreath of gilt Acanthus round the brim was roll'd. Nor less expence the Trojan gifts express'd; A fuming censer for the royal priest, A chalice, and a crown of princely cost, With ruddy gold, and sparkling gems emboss'd. Now hoisting sail, to Crete the Trojans stood, Themselves remembring sprung from Teucer's blood; But Heav'n forbids, and pestilential Jove From noxious skies, the wand'ring navy drove. Her hundred cities left, from Crete they bore, And sought the destin'd land, Ausonia's shore; But toss'd by storms at either Strophas lay, 'Till scar'd by Harpies from the faithless bay. Then passing onward with a prosp'rous wind, Left sly Ulysses' spacious realms behind; Ambracia's state, in former ages known. The strife of Gods, the judge transform'd to stone They saw; for Actian Phoebus since renown'd, Who Caesar's arms with naval conquest crown'd; Next pass'd Dodona, wont of old to boast Her vocal forest; and Chaonia's coast, Where king Molossus' sons on wings aspir'd, And saw secure the harmless fewel fir'd. Now to Phaeacia's happy isle they came, For fertile orchards known to early fame; Epirus past, they next beheld with joy A second Ilium, and fictitious Troy; Here Trojan Helenus the sceptre sway'd, Who show'd their fate and mystick truths display'd. By him confirm'd Sicilia's isle they reach'd, Whose sides to sea three promontories stretch'd, Pachynos to the stormy south is plac'd, On Lilybaeum blows the gentle west, Peloro's cliffs the northern bear survey, Who rolls above, and dreads to touch the sea. By this they steer, and favour'd by the tide, Secure by night in Zancle's harbour ride. Here cruel Scylla guards the rocky shore, And there the waves of loud Charybdis roar: This sucks, and vomits ships, and bodies drown'd; And rav'nous dogs the womb of that surround, In face a virgin; and (if ought be true By bards recorded) once a virgin too. A train of youths in vain desir'd her bed; By sea-nymphs lov'd, to nymphs of seas she fled; The maid to these, with female pride, display'd Their baffled courtship, and their love betray'd. When Galatea thus bespoke the fair (But first she sigh'd), while Scylla comb'd her hair: You, lovely maid, a gen'rous race pursues, Whom safe you may (as now you do) refuse; To me, tho' pow'rful in a num'rous train Of sisters, sprung from Gods, who rule the main, My native seas could scarce a refuge prove, To shun the fury of the Cyclops' love, Tears choak'd her utt'rance here; the pity'ng maid With marble fingers wip'd them off, and said: My dearest Goddess, let thy Scylla know, (For I am faithful) whence these sorrows flow. The maid's intreaties o'er the nymph prevail, Who thus to Scylla tells the mournful tale. The Story of Acis, Polyphemus and Galatea Acis, the lovely youth, whose loss I mourn, From Faunus, and the nymph Symethis born, Was both his parents' pleasure; but, to me Was all that love could make a lover be. The Gods our minds in mutual bands did join: I was his only joy, and he was mine. Now sixteen summers the sweet youth had seen; And doubtful down began to shade his chin: When Polyphemus first disturb'd our joy; And lov'd me fiercely, as I lov'd the boy. Ask not which passion in my soul was high'r, My last aversion, or my first desire: Nor this the greater was, nor that the less; Both were alike, for both were in excess. Thee, Venus, thee both Heav'n, and Earth obey; Immense thy pow'r, and boundless is thy sway. The Cyclops, who defy'd th' aetherial throne, And thought no thunder louder than his own, The terror of the woods, and wilder far Than wolves in plains, or bears in forests are, Th' inhuman host, who made his bloody feasts On mangl'd members of his butcher'd guests, Yet felt the force of love, and fierce desire, And burnt for me, with unrelenting fire. Forgot his caverns, and his woolly care, Assum'd the softness of a lover's air; And comb'd, with teeth of rakes, his rugged hair. Now with a crooked scy the his beard he sleeks; And mows the stubborn stubble of his cheeks: Now in the crystal stream he looks, to try His simagres, and rowls his glaring eye. His cruelty, and thirst of blood are lost; And ships securely sail along the coast. The prophet Telemus (arriv'd by chance Where Aetna's summets to the seas advance, Who mark'd the tracts of every bird that flew, And sure presages from their flying drew) Foretold the Cyclops, that Ulysses' hand In his broad eye shou'd thrust a flaming brand. The giant, with a scornful grin, reply'd, Vain augur, thou hast falsely prophesy'd; Already love his flaming brand has tost; Looking on two fair eyes, my sight I lost, Thus, warn'd in vain, with stalking pace he strode, And stamp'd the margin of the briny flood With heavy steps; and weary, sought agen The cool retirement of his gloomy den. A promontory, sharp'ning by degrees, Ends in a wedge, and overlooks the seas: On either side, below, the water flows; This airy walk the giant lover chose. Here on the midst he sate; his flocks, unled, Their shepherd follow'd, and securely fed. A pine so burly, and of length so vast, That sailing ships requir'd it for a mast, He wielded for a staff, his steps to guide: But laid it by, his whistle while he try'd. A hundred reeds of a prodigious growth, Scarce made a pipe, proportion'd to his mouth: Which when he gave it wind, the rocks around, And watry plains, the dreadful hiss resound. I heard the ruffian-shepherd rudely blow, Where, in a hollow cave, I sat below; On Acis' bosom I my head reclin'd: And still preserve the poem in my mind. Oh lovely Galatea, whiter far Than falling snows, and rising lillies are; More flowry than the meads, as chrystal bright: Erect as alders, and of equal height: More wanton than a kid, more sleek thy skin, Than orient shells, that on the shores are seen, Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade; Pleasing, as winter suns, or summer shade: More grateful to the sight, than goodly plains; And softer to the touch, than down of swans; Or curds new turn'd; and sweeter to the taste Than swelling grapes, that to the vintage haste: More clear than ice, or running streams, that stray Through garden plots, but ah! more swift than they. Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke Than bullocks, unreclaim'd, to bear the yoke, And far more stubborn, than the knotted oak: Like sliding streams, impossible to hold; Like them, fallacious, like their fountains, cold. More warping, than the willow, to decline My warm embrace, more brittle, than the vine; Immovable, and fixt in thy disdain: Tough, as these rocks, and of a harder grain. More violent, than is the rising flood; And the prais'd peacock is not half so proud. Fierce, as the fire, and sharp, as thistles are, And more outragious, than a mother-bear: Deaf, as the billows to the vows I make; And more revengeful, than a trodden snake. In swiftness fleeter, than the flying hind, Or driven tempests, or the driving wind. All other faults, with patience I can bear; But swiftness is the vice I only fear. Yet if you knew me well, you wou'd not shun My love, but to my wish'd embraces run: Wou'd languish in your turn, and court my stay; And much repent of your unwise delay. My palace, in the living rock, is made By Nature's hand; a spacious pleasing shade: Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade. My garden fill'd with fruits you may behold, And grapes in clusters, imitating gold; Some blushing bunches of a purple hue: And these, and those, are all reserv'd for you. Red strawberries, in shades, expecting stand, Proud to be gather'd by so white a hand. Autumnal cornels latter fruit provide; And plumbs, to tempt you, turn their glossy side: Not those of common kinds; but such alone, As in Phaeacian orchards might have grown: Nor chestnuts shall be wanting to your food, Nor garden-fruits, nor wildings of the wood; The laden boughs for you alone shall bear; And yours shall be the product of the year. The flocks you see, are all my own; beside The rest that woods, and winding vallies hide; And those that folded in the caves abide. Ask not the numbers of my growing store; Who knows how many, knows he has no more. Nor will I praise my cattle; trust not me, But judge your self, and pass your own decree: Behold their swelling dugs; the sweepy weight Of ewes, that sink beneath the milky freight; In the warm folds their tender lambkins lye; Apart from kids, that call with human cry. New milk in nut-brown bowls is duely serv'd For daily drink; the rest for cheese reserv'd. Nor are these household dainties all my store: The fields, and forests will afford us more; The deer, the hare, the goat, the savage boar. All sorts of ven'son; and of birds the best; A pair of turtles taken from the nest. I walk'd the mountains, and two cubs I found (Whose dam had left 'em on the naked ground), So like, that no distinction could be seen: So pretty, they were presents for a queen; And so they shall; I took them both away; And keep, to be companions of your play. Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above The waves; nor scorn my presents, and my love. Come, Galatea, come, and view my face; I late beheld it, in the watry glass; And found it lovelier, than I fear'd it was. Survey my towring stature, and my size: Not Jove, the Jove you dream, that rules the skies, Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread: My locks (the plenteous harvest of my head) Hang o'er my manly face; and dangling down, As with a shady grove, my shoulders crown. Nor think, because my limbs and body bear A thick-set underwood of bristling hair, My shape deform'd; what fouler sight can be, Than the bald branches of a leafless tree? Foul is the steed without a flowing mane: And birds, without their feathers, and their train. Wool decks the sheep; and Man receives a grace From bushy limbs, and from a bearded face. My forehead with a single eye is fill'd, Round, as a ball, and ample, as a shield. The glorious lamp of Heav'n, the radiant sun, Is Nature's eye; and she's content with one. Add, that my father sways your seas, and I, Like you, am of the watry family. I make you his, in making you my own; You I adore; and kneel to you alone: Jove, with his fabled thunder, I despise, And only fear the lightning of your eyes. Frown not, fair nymph; yet I cou'd bear to be Disdain'd, if others were disdain'd with me. But to repulse the Cyclops, and prefer The love of Acis (Heav'ns!) I cannot bear. But let the stripling please himself; nay more, Please you, tho' that's the thing I most abhor; The boy shall find, if e'er we cope in fight, These giant limbs, endu'd with giant might. His living bowels from his belly torn, And scatter'd limbs shall on the flood be born: Thy flood, ungrateful nymph; and fate shall find, That way for thee, and Acis to be join'd. For oh! I burn with love, and thy disdain Augments at once my passion, and my pain. Translated Aetna flames within my heart, And thou, inhuman, wilt not ease my smart. Lamenting thus in vain, he rose, and strode With furious paces to the neighb'ring wood: Restless his feet, distracted was his walk; Mad were his motions, and confus'd his talk. Mad, as the vanquish'd bull, when forc'd to yield His lovely mistress, and forsake the field. Thus far unseen I saw: when fatal chance, His looks directing, with a sudden glance, Acis and I were to his sight betray'd; Where, nought suspecting, we securely play'd. From his wide mouth a bellowing cry he cast, I see, I see; but this shall be your last: A roar so loud made Aetna to rebound: And all the Cyclops labour'd in the sound. Affrighted with his monstrous voice, I fled, And in the neighbouring ocean plung'd my head. Poor Acis turn'd his back, and Help, he cry'd, Help, Galatea, help, my parent Gods, And take me dying to your deep abodes. The Cyclops follow'd; but he sent before A rib, which from the living rock he tore: Though but an angle reach'd him of the stone, The mighty fragment was enough alone, To crush all Acis; 'twas too late to save, But what the Fates allow'd to give, I gave: That Acis to his lineage should return; And rowl, among the river Gods, his urn. Straight issu'd from the stone a stream of blood; Which lost the purple, mingling with the flood, Then, like a troubled torrent, it appear'd: The torrent too, in little space, was clear'd. The stone was cleft, and through the yawning chink New reeds arose, on the new river's brink. The rock, from out its hollow womb, disclos'd A sound like water in its course oppos'd, When (wond'rous to behold), full in the flood, Up starts a youth, and navel high he stood. Horns from his temples rise; and either horn Thick wreaths of reeds (his native growth) adorn. Were not his stature taller than before, His bulk augmented, and his beauty more, His colour blue; for Acis he might pass: And Acis chang'd into a stream he was, But mine no more; he rowls along the plains With rapid motion, and his name retains. The Story of Glaucus and Scylla Here ceas'd the nymph; the fair assembly broke, The sea-green Nereids to the waves betook: While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main, Swift to the safer shore returns again. There o'er the sandy margin, unarray'd, With printless footsteps flies the bounding maid; Or in some winding creek's secure retreat She baths her weary limbs, and shuns the noonday's heat. Her Glaucus saw, as o'er the deep he rode, New to the seas, and late receiv'd a God. He saw, and languish'd for the virgin's love; With many an artful blandishment he strove Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove. The more he sues, the more she wings her flight, And nimbly gains a neighb'ring mountain's height. Steep shelving to the margin of the flood, A neighb'ring mountain bare, and woodless stood; Here, by the place secur'd, her steps she stay'd, And, trembling still, her lover's form survey'd. His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appall, And dropping locks that o'er his shoulders fall; She sees his face divine, and manly brow, End in a fish's wreathy tail below: She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind, Whether he comes of God, or monster kind. This Glaucus soon perceiv'd; and, Oh! forbear (His hand supporting on a rock lay near), Forbear, he cry'd, fond maid, this needless fear. Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main, But equal with the watry Gods I reign; Nor Proteus, nor Palaemon me excell, Nor he whose breath inspires the sounding shell. My birth, 'tis true, I owe to mortal race, And I my self but late a mortal was: Ev'n then in seas, and seas alone, I joy'd; The seas my hours, and all my cares employ'd, In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew; Now skilfully the slender line I threw, And silent sat the moving float to view. Not far from shore, there lies a verdant mead, With herbage half, and half with water spread: There, nor the horned heifers browsing stray, Nor shaggy kids, nor wanton lambkins play; There, nor the sounding bees their nectar cull, Nor rural swains their genial chaplets pull, Nor flocks, nor herds, nor mowers haunt the place, To crop the flow'rs, or cut the bushy grass: Thither, sure first of living race came I, And sat by chance, my dropping nets to dry. My scaly prize, in order all display'd, By number on the greensward there I lay'd, My captives, whom or in my nets I took, Or hung unwary on my wily hook. Strange to behold! yet what avails a lye? I saw 'em bite the grass, as I sate by; Then sudden darting o'er the verdant plain, They spread their finns, as in their native main: I paus'd, with wonder struck, while all my prey Left their new master, and regain'd the sea. Amaz'd, within my secret self I sought, What God, what herb the miracle had wrought: But sure no herbs have pow'r like this, I cry'd; And strait I pluck'd some neighb'ring herbs, and try'd. Scarce had I bit, and prov'd the wond'rous taste, When strong convulsions shook my troubled breast; I felt my heart grow fond of something strange, And my whole Nature lab'ring with a change. Restless I grew, and ev'ry place forsook, And still upon the seas I bent my look. Farewel for ever! farewel, land! I said; And plung'd amidst the waves my sinking head. The gentle Pow'rs, who that low empire keep, Receiv'd me as a brother of the deep; To Tethys, and to Ocean old, they pray To purge my mortal earthy parts away. The watry parents to their suit agreed, And thrice nine times a secret charm they read, Then with lustrations purify my limbs, And bid me ba the beneath a hundred streams: A hundred streams from various fountains run, And on my head at once come rushing down. Thus far each passage I remember well, And faithfully thus far the tale I tell; But then oblivion dark, on all my senses fell. Again at length my thought reviving came, When I no longer found my self the same; Then first this sea-green beard I felt to grow, And these large honours on my spreading brow; My long-descending locks the billows sweep, And my broad shoulders cleave the yielding deep; My fishy tail, my arms of azure hue, And ev'ry part divinely chang'd, I view. But what avail these useless honours now? What joys can immortality bestow? What, tho' our Nereids all my form approve? What boots it, while fair Scylla scorns my love? Thus far the God; and more he wou'd have said; When from his presence flew the ruthless maid. Stung with repulse, in such disdainful sort, He seeks Titanian Circe's horrid court. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE THIRTEENTH ,

1143:Obiit Mdcccxxxiii (Entire) Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 414 Forgive what seem’d my sin in me; What seem’d my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. I. I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match? Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch The far-off interest of tears? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, Let darkness keep her raven gloss: Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, ‘Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn.’ II. 415 Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom: And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee. III. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? ‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run; A web is wov’n across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun: ‘And all the phantom, Nature, stands– With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own,– A hollow form with empty hands.’ And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind? 416 IV. To Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark; I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say: O heart, how fares it with thee now, That thou should’st fail from thy desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire, ‘What is it makes me beat so low?’ Something it is which thou hast lost, Some pleasure from thine early years. Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darken’d eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, ‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’ V. I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold: But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. 417 VI. One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’ That ‘Loss is common to the race’– And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe’er thou be, Who pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still’d the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor,–while thy head is bow’d, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought; Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, ‘here to-day,’ Or ‘here to-morrow will he come.’ O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father’s chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking ‘this will please him best,’ She takes a riband or a rose; 418 For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn’d, the curse Had fallen, and her future Lord Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford, Or kill’d in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end? And what to me remains of good? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend. VII. Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp’d no more– Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. VIII. A happy lover who has come To look on her that loves him well, Who ’lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home; 419 He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight: So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber and the street, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there In those deserted walks, may find A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she foster'd up with care; So seems it in my deep regret, O my forsaken heart, with thee And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet. But since it pleased a vanish’d eye, I go to plant it on his tomb, That if it can it there may bloom, Or dying, there at least may die. IX. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur’s loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro’ early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 420 Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love; My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me. X. I hear the noise about thy keel; I hear the bell struck in the night: I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel. Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife, And travell’d men from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands; And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life. So bring him: we have idle dreams: This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies: O to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems To rest beneath the clover sod, That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God; Than if with thee the roaring wells Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp’d in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells. XI. 421 Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro’ the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground: Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold: Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main: Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair: Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep. XII. Lo, as a dove when up she springs To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe, Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsation of her wings; Like her I go; I cannot stay; I leave this mortal ark behind, A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large, And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge, 422 And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend? Is this the end of all my care?’ And circle moaning in the air: ‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’ And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away. XIII. Tears of the widower, when he sees A late-lost form that sleep reveals, And moves his doubtful arms, and feels Her place is empty, fall like these; Which weep a loss for ever new, A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have prest and closed, Silence, till I be silent too. Which weeps the comrade of my choice, An awful thought, a life removed, The human-hearted man I loved, A Spirit, not a breathing voice. Come Time, and teach me, many years, I do not suffer in a dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears; My fancies time to rise on wing, And glance about the approaching sails, As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales, And not the burthen that they bring. XIV. 423 If one should bring me this report, That thou hadst touch’d the land to-day, And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port; And standing, muffled round with woe, Should see thy passengers in rank Come stepping lightly down the plank, And beckoning unto those they know; And if along with these should come The man I held as half-divine; Should strike a sudden hand in mine, And ask a thousand things of home; And And And And I should tell him all my pain, how my life had droop’d of late, he should sorrow o’er my state marvel what possess’d my brain; And I perceived no touch of change, No hint of death in all his frame, But found him all in all the same, I should not feel it to be strange. XV. To-night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skies; The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash’d on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world: And but for fancies, which aver That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass, I scarce could brook the strain and stir 424 That makes the barren branches loud; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire. XVI. What words are these have fall’n from me? Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be? Or doth she only seem to take The touch of change in calm or storm; But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake That holds the shadow of a lark Hung in the shadow of a heaven? Or has the shock, so harshly given, Confused me like the unhappy bark That strikes by night a craggy shelf, And staggers blindly ere she sink? And stunn’d me from my power to think And all my knowledge of myself; And made me that delirious man Whose fancy fuses old and new, And flashes into false and true, And mingles all without a plan? XVII. 425 Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze Compell’d thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas. For I in spirit saw thee move Thro’ circles of the bounding sky, Week after week: the days go by: Come quick, thou bringest all I love. Henceforth, wherever thou may’st roam, My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home. So may whatever tempest mars Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars. So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run. XVIII. ’Tis well; ’tis something; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. ’Tis little; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead. 426 Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing thro’ his lips impart The life that almost dies in me; That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again. XIX. The Danube to the Severn gave The darken’d heart that beat no more; They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills; That salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. The Wye is hush’d nor moved along, And hush’d my deepest grief of all, When fill’d with tears that cannot fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls; My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then. XX. The lesser griefs that may be said, That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead; 427 Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind: ‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to find Another service such as this.’ My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze; For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: But open converse is there none, So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think, ‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’ XXI. I sing to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave, I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak: ‘This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.’ Another answers, ‘Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy.’ A third is wroth: ‘Is this an hour For private sorrow’s barren song, When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power? 428 ‘A time to sicken and to swoon, When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon?’ Behold, ye speak an idle thing: Ye never knew the sacred dust: I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing: And one is glad; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged; And one is sad; her note is changed, Because her brood is stol’n away. XXII. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow: And we with singing cheer’d the way, And, crown’d with all the season lent, From April on to April went, And glad at heart from May to May: But where the path we walk’d began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear’d of man; Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull’d the murmur on thy lip, And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste, And think, that somewhere in the waste 429 The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXIII. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came, Or on to where the pathway leads; And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan: When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood; And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV. And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say? The very source and fount of Day 430 Is dash’d with wandering isles of night. If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never look’d to human eyes Since our first Sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of grief Makes former gladness loom so great? The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief? Or that the past will always win A glory from its being far; And orb into the perfect star We saw not, when we moved therein? XXV. I know that this was Life,–the track Whereon with equal feet we fared; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love: Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him. XXVI. Still onward winds the dreary way; I with it; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love, Whatever fickle tongues may say. 431 And if that eye which watches guilt And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder’d tree, And towers fall’n as soon as built– Oh, if indeed that eye foresee Or see (in Him is no before) In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be, Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That Shadow waiting with the keys, To shroud me from my proper scorn. XXVII. I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. XXVIII. 432 The time draws near the birth of Christ: The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound: Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish’d no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again: But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll’d me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule. XXIX. With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve; Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shower’d largess of delight In dance and song and game and jest? Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, That guard the portals of the house; 433 Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time? They too will die. XXX. With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; A rainy cloud possess’d the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol’d, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all. We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho’ every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang: We ceased: a gentler feeling crept Upon us: surely rest is meet: ‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’ And silence follow’d, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: ‘They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change; ‘Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather’d power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.’ 434 Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born. XXXI. When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary’s house return’d, Was this demanded–if he yearn’d To hear her weeping by his grave? ‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days?’ There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill’d with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown’d The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unreveal’d; He told it not; or something seal’d The lips of that Evangelist. XXXII. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother’s face, And rests upon the Life indeed. 435 All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? XXXIII. O thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach’d a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views; Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro’ form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good: Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine! See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev’n for want of such a type. XXXIV. My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is; This round of green, this orb of flame, 436 Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim. What then were God to such as I? ’Twere hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die; ’Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease. XXXV. Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house, ‘The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:’ Might I not say? ‘Yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive:’ But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Æonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be; And Love would answer with a sigh, ‘The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half-dead to know that I shall die.’ O me, what profits it to put And idle case? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been, Or been in narrowest working shut, 437 Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush’d the grape, And bask’d and batten’d in the woods. XXXVI. Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin; For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, Where truth in closest words shall fail, When truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef. XXXVII. Urania speaks with darken’d brow: ‘Thou pratest here where thou art least; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. ‘Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill.’ And my Melpomene replies, 438 A touch of shame upon her cheek: ‘I am not worthy ev’n to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries; ‘For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues; ‘But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine To dying lips is all he said), ‘I murmur’d, as I came along, Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d; And loiter’d in the master’s field, And darken’d sanctities with song.’ XXXVIII. With weary steps I loiter on, Tho’ always under alter’d skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render’d free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX. Old warder of these buried bones, 439 And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head, To thee too comes the golden hour When flower is feeling after flower; But Sorrow–fixt upon the dead, And darkening the dark graves of men,– What whisper’d from her lying lips? Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, And passes into gloom again. XL. Could we forget the widow’d hour And look on Spirits breathed away, As on a maiden in the day When first she wears her orange-flower! When crown’d with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home, And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes; And doubtful joys the father move, And tears are on the mother’s face, As parting with a long embrace She enters other realms of love; Her office there to rear, to teach, Becoming as is meet and fit A link among the days, to knit The generations each with each; And, doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In those great offices that suit The full-grown energies of heaven. Ay me, the difference I discern! 440 How often shall her old fireside Be cheer’d with tidings of the bride, How often she herself return, And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those that miss’d her most Shall count new things as dear as old: But thou and I have shaken hands, Till growing winters lay me low; My paths are in the fields I know, And thine in undiscover’d lands. XLI. The spirit ere our fatal loss Did ever rise from high to higher; As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, As flies the lighter thro’ the gross. But thou art turn’d to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound Thy changes; here upon the ground, No more partaker of thy change. Deep folly! yet that this could be– That I could wing my will with might To leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee. For tho’ my nature rarely yields To that vague fear implied in death; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, The howlings from forgotten fields; Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor An inner trouble I behold, A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more, 441 Tho’ following with an upward mind The wonders that have come to thee, Thro’ all the secular to-be, But evermore a life behind. XLII. I vex my heart with fancies dim: He still outstript me in the race; It was but unity of place That made me dream I rank’d with him. And so may Place retain us still, And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train To riper growth the mind and will: And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit’s inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows? XLIII. If Sleep and Death be truly one, And every spirit’s folded bloom Thro’ all its intervital gloom In some long trance should slumber on; Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the colour of the flower: So then were nothing lost to man; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began; And love will last as pure and whole 442 As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul. XLIV. How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish’d, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs), May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. XLV. The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that ‘this is I:’ But as he grows he gathers much, And learns the use of ‘I,’ and ‘me,’ And finds ‘I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch.’ So rounds he to a separate mind From whence clear memory may begin, 443 As thro’ the frame that binds him in His isolation grows defined. This use may lie in blood and breath, Which else were fruitless of their due, Had man to learn himself anew Beyond the second birth of Death. XLVI. We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, thorn and flower, Is shadow’d by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looking back. So be it: there no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb, But clear from marge to marge shall bloom The eternal landscape of the past; A lifelong tract of time reveal’d; The fruitful hours of still increase; Days order’d in a wealthy peace, And those five years its richest field. O Love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far; Look also, Love, a brooding star, A rosy warmth from marge to marge. XLVII. That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; 444 And I shall know him when we meet: And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other’s good: What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away, Some landing-place, to clasp and say, ‘Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.’ XLVIII. If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here proposed, Then these were such as men might scorn: Her care is not to part and prove; She takes, when harsher moods remit, What slender shade of doubt may flit, And makes it vassal unto love: And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law, And holds it sin and shame to draw The deepest measure from the chords: Nor dare she trust a larger lay, But rather loosens from the lip Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away. XLIX. From art, from nature, from the schools, Let random influences glance, Like light in many a shiver’d lance 445 That breaks about the dappled pools: The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy’s tenderest eddy wreathe, The slightest air of song shall breathe To make the sullen surface crisp. And look thy look, and go thy way, But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break, The tender-pencil’d shadow play. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, Whose muffled motions blindly drown The bases of my life in tears. L. Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a Fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day. LI. 446 Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame And I be lessen’d in his love? I wrong the grave with fears untrue: Shall love be blamed for want of faith? There must be wisdom with great Death: The dead shall look me thro’ and thro’. Be near us when we climb or fall: Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. LII. I cannot love thee as I ought, For love reflects the thing beloved; My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought. ‘Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’ The Spirit of true love replied; ‘Thou canst not move me from thy side, Nor human frailty do me wrong. ‘What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears? What record? not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue: ‘So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash’d with flecks of sin. Abide: thy wealth is gather’d in, When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’ 447 LIII. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green: And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown, The soil, left barren, scarce had grown The grain by which a man may live? Or, if we held the doctrine sound For life outliving heats of youth, Yet who would preach it as a truth To those that eddy round and round? Hold thou the good: define it well: For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. LIV. Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy’d, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another’s gain. 448 Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last–far off–at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. LV. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world’s altar-stairs That slope thro’ darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. LVI. 449 ‘So careful of the type?’ but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. ‘Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more.’ And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation’s final law– Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek’d against his creed– Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal’d within the iron hills? No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match’d with him. O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil. LVII. Peace; come away: the song of woe Is after all an earthly song: Peace; come away: we do him wrong To sing so wildly: let us go. 450 Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale; But half my life I leave behind: Methinks my friend is richly shrined; But I shall pass; my work will fail. Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look’d with human eyes. I hear it now, and o’er and o’er, Eternal greetings to the dead; And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave,’ said, ‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore. LVIII. In those sad words I took farewell: Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls In vaults and catacombs, they fell; And, falling, idly broke the peace Of hearts that beat from day to day, Half-conscious of their dying clay, And those cold crypts where they shall cease. The high Muse answer’d: ‘Wherefore grieve Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? Abide a little longer here, And thou shalt take a nobler leave.’ LIX. O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me No casual mistress, but a wife, My bosom-friend and half of life; As I confess it needs must be; O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 451 Be sometimes lovely like a bride, And put thy harsher moods aside, If thou wilt have me wise and good. My centred passion cannot move, Nor will it lessen from to-day; But I’ll have leave at times to play As with the creature of my love; And set thee forth, for thou art mine, With so much hope for years to come, That, howsoe’er I know thee, some Could hardly tell what name were thine. LX. He past; a soul of nobler tone: My spirit loved and loves him yet, Like some poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. He mixing with his proper sphere, She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what, And envying all that meet him there. The little village looks forlorn; She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways, In that dark house where she was born. The foolish neighbours come and go, And tease her till the day draws by: At night she weeps, ‘How vain am I! How should he love a thing so low?’ LXI. If, in thy second state sublime, 452 Thy ransom’d reason change replies With all the circle of the wise, The perfect flower of human time; And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly character’d and slight, How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night, How blanch'd with darkness must I grow! Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, Where thy first form was made a man: I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. LXII. Tho’ if an eye that’s downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale, And fading legend of the past; And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy, On some unworthy heart with joy, But lives to wed an equal mind; And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies, Or in the light of deeper eyes Is matter for a flying smile. LXIII. Yet pity for a horse o’er-driven, And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart In its assumptions up to heaven; And I am so much more than these, As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy, 453 And I would set their pains at ease. So mayst thou watch me where I weep, As, unto vaster motions bound, The circuits of thine orbit round A higher height, a deeper deep. LXIV. Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green; Who breaks his birth’s invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state’s decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne; And moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortune’s crowning slope The pillar of a people’s hope, The centre of a world’s desire; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream, The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He play’d at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate; Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labour of his hands, 454 Or in the furrow musing stands; ‘Does my old friend remember me?’ LXV. Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With ‘Love’s too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.’ And in that solace can I sing, Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing: Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends. LXVI. You thought my heart too far diseased; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased. The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost; Whose feet are guided thro’ the land, Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand: He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky; His inner day can never die, 455 His night of loss is always there. LXVII. When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o’er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. LXVIII. When in the down I sink my head, Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath; Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead: I walk as ere I walk’d forlorn, When all our path was fresh with dew, And all the bugle breezes blew Reveillée to the breaking morn. But what is this? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can my dream resolve the doubt: 456 But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth; It is the trouble of my youth That foolish sleep transfers to thee. LXIX. I dream’d there would be Spring no more, That Nature’s ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter’d trifles at the door: I wander’d from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs: I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown: I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs: They call’d me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns: They call’d me fool, they call’d me child: I found an angel of the night; The voice was low, the look was bright; He look’d upon my crown and smiled: He reach’d the glory of a hand, That seem’d to touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief, The words were hard to understand. LXX. I cannot see the features right, When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night; 457 Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker’d faces drive; Dark bulks that tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores; Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll, And thro’ a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still. LXXI. Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance And madness, thou hast forged at last A night-long Present of the Past In which we went thro’ summer France. Hadst thou such credit with the soul? Then bring an opiate trebly strong, Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong That so my pleasure may be whole; While now we talk as once we talk’d Of men and minds, the dust of change, The days that grow to something strange, In walking as of old we walk’d Beside the river’s wooded reach, The fortress, and the mountain ridge, The cataract flashing from the bridge, The breaker breaking on the beach. LXXII. 458 Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white, And lash with storm the streaming pane? Day, when my crown’d estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sicken’d every living bloom, And blurr’d the splendour of the sun; Who usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower; Who might’st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play’d A chequer-work of beam and shade Along the hills, yet look’d the same. As wan, as chill, as wild as now; Day, mark’d as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro’ time, And cancell’d nature’s best: but thou, Lift as thou may’st thy burthen’d brows Thro’ clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner’d sheaf afar, And sow the sky with flying boughs, And up thy vault with roaring sound Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, And hide thy shame beneath the ground. LXXIII. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 459 The fame is quench’d that I foresaw, The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. LXXIV. As sometimes in a dead man’s face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before, Comes out–to some one of his race: So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old. But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee. LXXV. I leave thy praises unexpress’d In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess’d; What practice howsoe’er expert 460 In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert? I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise. Thy leaf has perish’d in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been. So here shall silence guard thy fame; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate’er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. LXXVI. Take wings of fancy, and ascend, And in a moment set thy face Where all the starry heavens of space Are sharpen’d to a needle’s end; Take wings of foresight; lighten thro’ The secular abyss to come, And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb Before the mouldering of a yew; And if the matin songs, that woke The darkness of our planet, last, Thine own shall wither in the vast, Ere half the lifetime of an oak. Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; And what are they when these remain The ruin’d shells of hollow towers? 461 LXXVII. What hope is here for modern rhyme To him, who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshorten’d in the tract of time? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden’s locks; Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find, And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that? My darken’d ways Shall ring with music all the same; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. LXXVIII. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possess’d the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture’s breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind. Who show’d a token of distress? 462 No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? O grief, can grief be changed to less? O last regret, regret can die! No–mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry. LXXIX. ‘More than my brothers are to me,’– Let this not vex thee, noble heart! I know thee of what force thou art To hold the costliest love in fee. But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature’s mint; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For us the same cold streamlet curl’d Thro’ all his eddying coves; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer’d vows, One lesson from one book we learn’d, Ere childhood’s flaxen ringlet turn’d To black and brown on kindred brows. And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich where I was poor, And he supplied my want the more As his unlikeness fitted mine. LXXX. If any vague desire should rise, 463 That holy Death ere Arthur died Had moved me kindly from his side, And dropt the dust on tearless eyes; Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, The grief my loss in him had wrought, A grief as deep as life or thought, But stay’d in peace with God and man. I make a picture in the brain; I hear the sentence that he speaks; He bears the burthen of the weeks But turns his burthen into gain. His credit thus shall set me free; And, influence-rich to soothe and save, Unused example from the grave Reach out dead hands to comfort me. LXXXI. Could I have said while he was here, ‘My love shall now no further range; There cannot come a mellower change, For now is love mature in ear.’ Love, then, had hope of richer store: What end is here to my complaint? This haunting whisper makes me faint, ‘More years had made me love thee more.’ But Death returns an answer sweet: ‘My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain, It might have drawn from after-heat.’ LXXXII. I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; 464 No lower life that earth’s embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith. Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter’d stalks, Or ruin’d chrysalis of one. Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak. LXXXIII. Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year delaying long; Thou doest expectant nature wrong; Delaying long, delay no more. What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons? Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell’s darling blue, Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. O thou, new-year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud And flood a fresher throat with song. 465 LXXXIV. When I contemplate all alone The life that had been thine below, And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown; I see thee sitting crown’d with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, On all the branches of thy blood; Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on, When thou should’st link thy life with one Of mine own house, and boys of thine Had babbled ‘Uncle’ on my knee; But that remorseless iron hour Made cypress of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. I seem to meet their least desire, To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fire. I see myself an honour’d guest, Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk, Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; While now thy prosperous labour fills The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days Descend below the golden hills With promise of a morn as fair; And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of growing powers, To reverence and the silver hair; Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 466 Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; What time mine own might also flee, As link’d with thine in love and fate, And, hovering o’er the dolorous strait To the other shore, involved in thee, Arrive at last the blessed goal, And He that died in Holy Land Would reach us out the shining hand, And take us as a single soul. What reed was that on which I leant? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content. LXXXV. This truth came borne with bier and pall, I felt it, when I sorrow’d most, ’Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all– O true in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief To this which is our common grief, What kind of life is that I lead; And whether trust in things above Be dimm’d of sorrow, or sustain’d; And whether love for him have drain’d My capabilities of love; Your words have virtue such as draws A faithful answer from the breast, Thro’ light reproaches, half exprest, And loyal unto kindly laws. 467 My blood an even tenor kept, Till on mine ear this message falls, That in Vienna’s fatal walls God’s finger touch’d him, and he slept. The great Intelligences fair That range above our mortal state, In circle round the blessed gate, Received and gave him welcome there; And led him thro’ the blissful climes, And show'd him in the fountain fresh All knowledge that the sons of flesh Shall gather in the cycled times. But I remained, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. friendship, equal poised control, heart, with kindliest motion warm, sacred essence, other form, solemn ghost, O crowned soul! Yet none could better know than I, How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, I felt and feel, tho’ left alone, His being working in mine own, The footsteps of his life in mine; A life that all the Muses decked With gifts of grace, that might express All comprehensive tenderness, All-subtilising intellect: And so my passion hath not swerved To works of weakness, but I find 468 An image comforting the mind, And in my grief a strength reserved. Likewise the imaginative woe, That loved to handle spiritual strife, Diffused the shock thro’ all my life, But in the present broke the blow. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. I woo your love: I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had master’d Time; Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears: The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this: But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods, And every pulse of wind and wave Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb, And my prime passion in the grave: My old affection of the tomb, A part of stillness, yearns to speak: ‘Arise, and get thee forth and seek A friendship for the years to come. ‘I watch thee from the quiet shore; Thy spirit up to mine can reach; But in dear words of human speech We two communicate no more.’ 469 And I, ‘Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free? How is it? Canst thou feel for me Some painless sympathy with pain?’ And lightly does the whisper fall; ‘’Tis hard for thee to fathom this; I triumph in conclusive bliss, And that serene result of all.’ So hold I commerce with the dead; Or so methinks the dead would say; Or so shall grief with symbols play And pining life be fancy-fed. Now looking to some settled end, That these things pass, and I shall prove A meeting somewhere, love with love, I crave your pardon, O my friend; If not so fresh, with love as true, I, clasping brother-hands aver I could not, if I would, transfer The whole I felt for him to you. For which be they that hold apart The promise of the golden hours? First love, first friendship, equal powers, That marry with the virgin heart. Still mine, that cannot but deplore, That beats within a lonely place, That yet remembers his embrace, But at his footstep leaps no more, My heart, tho’ widow’d, may not rest Quite in the love of what is gone, But seeks to beat in time with one That warms another living breast. Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 470 Knowing the primrose yet is dear, The primrose of the later year, As not unlike to that of Spring. LXXXVI. Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening over brake and bloom And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below Thro’ all the dewy-tassell’d wood, And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life that feeds thy breath Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly From belt to belt of crimson seas On leagues of odour streaming far, To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper ‘Peace.’ LXXXVII. I past beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gown; I roved at random thro’ the town, And saw the tumult of the halls; And heard one more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake The prophet blazon’d on the panes; And caught one more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars 471 Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt. Another name was on the door: I linger’d; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crash’d the glass and beat the floor; Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labour, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land; When one would aim an arrow fair, But send it slackly from the string; And one would pierce an outer ring, And one an inner, here and there; And last the master-bowman, he, Would cleave the mark. A willing ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear The rapt oration flowing free From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face, And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly wise; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo. LXXXVIII. 472 Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks, O tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet, Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy: And I–my harp would prelude woe– I cannot all command the strings; The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go. LXXXIX. Witch-elms that counterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; And thou, with all thy breadth and height Of foliage, towering sycamore; How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town: He brought an eye for all he saw; He mixt in all our simple sports; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusty purlieus of the law. O joy to him in this retreat, Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark The landscape winking thro’ the heat: O sound to rout the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust that round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 473 O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn: Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung, Or here she brought the harp and flung A ballad to the brightening moon: Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss’d the books to love or hate, Or touch’d the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream; But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For ‘ground in yonder social mill We rub each other’s angles down, ‘And merge’ he said ‘in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man.’ We talk’d: the stream beneath us ran, The wine-flask lying couch’d in moss, Or cool’d within the glooming wave; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fall’n into her father’s grave, And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honied hours. 474 XC. He tasted love with half his mind, Nor ever drank the inviolate spring Where nighest heaven, who first could fling This bitter seed among mankind; That could the dead, whose dying eyes Were closed with wail, resume their life, They would but find in child and wife An iron welcome when they rise: ’Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, To pledge them with a kindly tear, To talk them o’er, to wish them here, To count their memories half divine; But if they came who past away, Behold their brides in other hands; The hard heir strides about their lands, And will not yield them for a day. Yea, tho’ their sons were none of these, Not less the yet-loved sire would make Confusion worse than death, and shake The pillars of domestic peace. Ah dear, but come thou back to me: Whatever change the years have wrought, I find not yet one lonely thought That cries against my wish for thee. XCI. When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March; Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers; The hope of unaccomplish’d years 475 Be large and lucid round thy brow. When summer’s hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat, That ripple round the lonely grange; Come: not in watches of the night, But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, beauteous in thine after form, And like a finer light in light. XCII. If any vision should reveal Thy likeness, I might count it vain As but the canker of the brain; Yea, tho’ it spake and made appeal To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind Of memory murmuring the past. Yea, tho’ it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year; And tho’ the months, revolving near, Should prove the phantom-warning true, They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments, And such refraction of events As often rises ere they rise. XCIII. I shall not see thee. Dare I say No spirit ever brake the band That stays him from the native land 476 Where first he walk’d when claspt in clay? No visual shade of some one lost, But he, the Spirit himself, may come Where all the nerve of sense is numb; Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. O, therefore from thy sightless range With gods in unconjectured bliss, O, from the distance of the abyss Of tenfold-complicated change, Descend, and touch, and enter; hear The wish too strong for words to name; That in this blindness of the frame My Ghost may feel that thine is near. XCIV. How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour’s communion with the dead. In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all. They haunt the silence of the breast, Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest: But when the heart is full of din, And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates, And hear the household jar within. XCV. 477 By night we linger’d on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o’er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn; And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering: not a cricket chirr’d: The brook alone far-off was heard, And on the board the fluttering urn: And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel’d or lit the filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; While now we sang old songs that peal’d From knoll to knoll, where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field. But when those others, one by one, Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light Went out, and I was all alone, A hunger seized my heart; I read Of that glad year which once had been, In those fall’n leaves which kept their green, The noble letters of the dead: And strangely on the silence broke The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love’s dumb cry defying change To test his worth; and strangely spoke The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro’ wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell. So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch’d me from the past, 478 And all at once it seem’d at last The living soul was flash’d on mine, And mine in this was wound, and whirl’d About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world, Æonian music measuring out The steps of Time–the shocks of Chance– The blows of Death. At length my trance Was cancell’d, stricken thro’ with doubt. Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech, Or ev’n for intellect to reach Thro’ memory that which I became: Till now the doubtful dusk reveal’d The knolls once more where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field: And suck’d from out the distant gloom A breeze began to tremble o’er The large leaves of the sycamore, And fluctuate all the still perfume, And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock’d the full-foliaged elms, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung The lilies to and fro, and said ‘The dawn, the dawn,’ and died away; And East and West, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day. XCVI. 479 You say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. I know not: one indeed I knew In many a subtle question versed, Who touch’d a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true: Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gather’d strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them: thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinaï’s peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Altho’ the trumpet blew so loud. XCVII. My love has talk’d with rocks and trees; He finds on misty mountain-ground His own vast shadow glory-crown’d; He sees himself in all he sees. Two partners of a married life– I look’d on these and thought of thee In vastness and in mystery, And of my spirit as of a wife. 480 These two–they dwelt with eye on eye, Their hearts of old have beat in tune, Their meetings made December June, Their every parting was to die. Their love has never past away; The days she never can forget Are earnest that he loves her yet, Whate’er the faithless people say. Her life is lone, he sits apart, He loves her yet, she will not weep, Tho’ rapt in matters dark and deep He seems to slight her simple heart. He He He He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, reads the secret of the star, seems so near and yet so far, looks so cold: she thinks him kind. She keeps the gift of years before, A wither’d violet is her bliss: She knows not what his greatness is, For that, for all, she loves him more. For him she plays, to him she sings Of early faith and plighted vows; She knows but matters of the house, And he, he knows a thousand things. Her faith is fixt and cannot move, She darkly feels him great and wise, She dwells on him with faithful eyes, ‘I cannot understand: I love.’ XCVIII. You leave us: you will see the Rhine, And those fair hills I sail’d below, When I was there with him; and go 481 By summer belts of wheat and vine To where he breathed his latest breath, That City. All her splendour seems No livelier than the wisp that gleams On Lethe in the eyes of Death. Let her great Danube rolling fair Enwind her isles, unmark’d of me: I have not seen, I will not see Vienna; rather dream that there, A treble darkness, Evil haunts The birth, the bridal; friend from friend Is oftener parted, fathers bend Above more graves, a thousand wants Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey By each cold hearth, and sadness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings: And yet myself have heard him say, That not in any mother town With statelier progress to and fro The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown Of lustier leaves; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud With sport and song, in booth and tent, Imperial halls, or open plain; And wheels the circled dance, and breaks The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain. XCIX. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, 482 So thick with lowings of the herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men; Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling red On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past, And woodlands holy to the dead; Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care, And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves; Who wakenest with thy balmy breath To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads more, of death. O wheresoever those may be, Betwixt the slumber of the poles, To-day they count as kindred souls; They know me not, but mourn with me. C. I climb the hill: from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend; No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy wold; Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench’d along the hill And haunted by the wrangling daw; Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 483 To left and right thro’ meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die. CI. Unwatch’d, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star; Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove; Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger’s child; As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. 484 CII. We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky; The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden-walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, ‘Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird In native hazels tassel-hung.’ The other answers, ‘Yea, but here Thy feet have stray’d in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear.’ These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not yield each other way. I turn to go: my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms; They mix in one another’s arms To one pure image of regret. CIII. On that last night before we went From out the doors where I was bred, I dream’d a vision of the dead, Which left my after-morn content. Methought I dwelt within a hall, And maidens with me: distant hills 485 From hidden summits fed with rills A river sliding by the wall. The hall with harp and carol rang. They sang of what is wise and good And graceful. In the centre stood A statue veil’d, to which they sang; And which, tho’ veil’d, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love For ever: then flew in a dove And brought a summons from the sea: And when they learnt that I must go They wept and wail’d, but led the way To where a little shallop lay At anchor in the flood below; And on by many a level mead, And shadowing bluff that made the banks, We glided winding under ranks Of iris, and the golden reed; And still as vaster grew the shore And roll’d the floods in grander space, The maidens gather’d strength and grace And presence, lordlier than before; And I myself, who sat apart And watch’d them, wax’d in every limb; I felt the thews of Anakim, The pulses of a Titan’s heart; As one would sing the death of war, And one would chant the history Of that great race, which is to be, And one the shaping of a star; Until the forward-creeping tides Began to foam, and we to draw From deep to deep, to where we saw A great ship lift her shining sides. 486 The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet us. Up the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck: Whereat those maidens with one mind Bewail’d their lot; I did them wrong: ‘We served thee here’ they said, ‘so long, And wilt thou leave us now behind?’ So rapt I was, they could not win An answer from my lips, but he Replying, ‘Enter likewise ye And go with us:’ they enter’d in. And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steer’d her toward a crimson cloud That landlike slept along the deep. CIV. The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist. A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know. Like strangers’ voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow’d ground. CV. 487 To-night ungather’d let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger’s land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. Our father’s dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone. No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past. But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Thro’ which the spirit breathes no more? Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch’d, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good. CVI. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; 488 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring Ring Ring Ring out old shapes of foul disease; out the narrowing lust of gold; out the thousand wars of old, in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. CVII. It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank 489 Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass; Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev’n as he were by; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate’er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. CVIII. I will not shut me from my kind, And, lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone, Nor feed with sighs a passing wind: What profit lies in barren faith, And vacant yearning, tho’ with might To scale the heaven’s highest height, Or dive below the wells of Death? What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns? 490 And on the depths of death there swims The reflex of a human face. I'll rather take what fruit may be Of sorrow under human skies: ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. CIX. Heart-affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry; The critic clearness of an eye, That saw thro’ all the Muses’ walk; Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man; Impassion’d logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course; High nature amorous of the good, But touch’d with no ascetic gloom; And passion pure in snowy bloom Thro’ all the years of April blood; A love of freedom rarely felt, Of freedom in her regal seat Of England; not the schoolboy heat, The blind hysterics of the Celt; And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unask’d, in thine, And find his comfort in thy face; All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have look’d on: if they look’d in vain, My shame is greater who remain, Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 491 CX. Thy converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years: The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung, The proud was half disarm’d of pride, Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his double tongue. The stern were mild when thou wert by, The flippant put himself to school And heard thee, and the brazen fool Was soften’d, and he knew not why; While I, thy nearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumph was as mine; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art; Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. CXI. The churl in spirit, up or down Along the scale of ranks, thro’ all, To him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown; The churl in spirit, howe’er he veil His want in forms for fashion’s sake, Will let his coltish nature break At seasons thro’ the gilded pale: For who can always act? but he, To whom a thousand memories call, 492 Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seem’d to be, Best seem’d the thing he was, and join’d Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind; Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye, Where God and Nature met in light; And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soil’d with all ignoble use. CXII. High wisdom holds my wisdom less, That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Set light by narrower perfectness. But thou, that fillest all the room Of all my love, art reason why I seem to cast a careless eye On souls, the lesser lords of doom. For what wert thou? some novel power Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracts of calm from tempest made, And world-wide fluctuation sway’d In vassal tides that follow’d thought. 493 CXIII. ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise; Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me, But served the seasons that may rise; For can I doubt, who knew thee keen In intellect, with force and skill To strive, to fashion, to fulfil– I doubt not what thou wouldst have been: life in civic action warm, soul on highest mission sent, potent voice of Parliament, pillar steadfast in the storm, Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming, when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth And roll it in another course, With thousand shocks that come and go, With agonies, with energies, With overthrowings, and with cries, And undulations to and fro. CXIV. Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire: She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain– She cannot fight the fear of death. 494 What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place; She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain; and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child: For she is earthly of the mind, But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. O, friend, who camest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity. CXV. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown’d in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 495 In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. CXVI. Is it, then, regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, and gives and takes The colours of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust In that which made the world so fair. Not all regret: the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone; And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine: Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead; Less yearning for the friendship fled, Than some strong bond which is to be. CXVII. O days and hours, your work is this To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace For fuller gain of after bliss: That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 496 And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue, For every grain of sand that runs, And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns. CXVIII. Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant labouring in his youth; Nor dream of human love and truth, As dying Nature’s earth and lime; But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say, The solid earth whereon we tread In tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man; Who throve and branch’d from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown’d with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter’d with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly 497 The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. CXIX. Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more; the city sleeps; I smell the meadow in the street; I hear a chirp of birds; I see Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light-blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand. CXX. I trust I have not wasted breath: I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries; not in vain, Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; Not only cunning casts in clay: Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto men, At least to me? I would not stay. Let him, the wiser man who springs Hereafter, up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape, But I was born to other things. 498 CXXI. Sad Hesper o’er the buried sun And ready, thou, to die with him, Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done: The team is loosen’d from the wain, The boat is drawn upon the shore; Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken’d in the brain. Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, By thee the world’s great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird; Behind thee comes the greater light: The market boat is on the stream, And voices hail it from the brink; Thou hear’st the village hammer clink, And see’st the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same. CXXII. Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearn’d to burst the folded gloom, To bare the eternal Heavens again, To feel once more, in placid awe, The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about my soul, In all her motion one with law; If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now, And enter in at breast and brow, 499 Till all my blood, a fuller wave, Be quicken’d with a livelier breath, And like an inconsiderate boy, As in the former flash of joy, I slip the thoughts of life and death; And all the breeze of Fancy blows, And every dew-drop paints a bow, The wizard lightnings deeply glow, And every thought breaks out a rose. CXXIII. There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it true; For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell. CXXIV. That which we dare invoke to bless; Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; He, They, One, All; within, without; The Power in darkness whom we guess; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye; Nor thro’ the questions men may try, The petty cobwebs we have spun: 500 If e’er when faith had fall’n asleep, I heard a voice ‘believe no more’ And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the Godless deep; A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason’s colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answer’d ‘I have felt.’ No, like a child in doubt and fear: But that blind clamour made me wise; Then was I as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near; And what I am beheld again What is, and no man understands; And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro’ nature, moulding men. CXXV. Whatever I have said or sung, Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, tho’ there often seem’d to live A contradiction on the tongue, Yet Hope had never lost her youth; She did but look through dimmer eyes; Or Love but play’d with gracious lies, Because he felt so fix’d in truth: And if the song were full of care, He breathed the spirit of the song; And if the words were sweet and strong He set his royal signet there; Abiding with me till I sail To seek thee on the mystic deeps, And this electric force, that keeps 501 A thousand pulses dancing, fail. CXXVI. Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring. Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho’ as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass’d by his faithful guard, And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well. CXXVII. And all is well, tho’ faith and form Be sunder’d in the night of fear; Well roars the storm to those that hear A deeper voice across the storm, Proclaiming social truth shall spread, And justice, ev’n tho’ thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine Should pile her barricades with dead. But ill for him that wears a crown, And him, the lazar, in his rags: They tremble, the sustaining crags; The spires of ice are toppled down, And molten up, and roar in flood; The fortress crashes from on high, The brute earth lightens to the sky, And the great Æon sinks in blood, 502 And compass’d by the fires of Hell; While thou, dear spirit, happy star, O’erlook’st the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well. CXXVIII. The love that rose on stronger wings, Unpalsied when he met with Death, Is comrade of the lesser faith That sees the course of human things. No doubt vast eddies in the flood Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade; Yet O ye mysteries of good, Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, If all your office had to do With old results that look like new; If this were all your mission here, To To To To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, fool the crowd with glorious lies, cleave a creed in sects and cries, change the bearing of a word, To shift an arbitrary power, To cramp the student at his desk, To make old bareness picturesque And tuft with grass a feudal tower; Why then my scorn might well descend On you and yours. I see in part That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil coöperant to an end. CXXIX. 503 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and weal; O loved the most, when most I feel There is a lower and a higher; Known and unknown; human, divine; Sweet human hand and lips and eye; Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; Strange friend, past, present, and to be; Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee. CXXX. Thy voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then? I cannot guess; But tho’ I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less: My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now; Tho’ mix’d with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I have thee still, and I rejoice; I prosper, circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee tho’ I die. CXXXI. 504 O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquer’d years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. _________ O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made 505 As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. But where is she, the bridal flower, That must he made a wife ere noon? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The ‘wilt thou’ answer’d, and again The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain 506 Her sweet ‘I will’ has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign’d, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them–maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days. Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy. 507 But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour’d horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look’d, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew. Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three, And last the dance;–till I retire: Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire: And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapour sail And pass the silent-lighted town, The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at every mountain head, And o’er the friths that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills; And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall; And breaking let the splendour fall To spangle all the happy shores By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, 508 A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds, And, moved thro’ life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge; under whose command Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book; No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer’d, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God, That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,