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1.016_-_The_Bee

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1.016_-_The_Bee

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SIMILAR TITLES

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   1 Sri Ramakrishna
   1 Sadi: Gulistan
   1 Marcus Aurelius
   1 Manly P Hall
   1 Sri Ramana Maharshi
   1 Sri Ramakrishna

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   10 Emily Dickinson
   7 Marcus Aurelius
   4 Sue Monk Kidd
   4 Dale Carnegie
   4 Charles Dickens
   3 William Shakespeare
   3 William Goldman
   3 Tom Robbins
   3 Terry Pratchett
   3 Saint Bernard of Clairvaux
   3 Rick Yancey
   3 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   3 Laline Paull
   3 John Green
   3 Jim Butcher
   3 George Carlin
   3 Ernest Hemingway
   3 Anonymous
   3 Amit Ray
   3 Albert Einstein

1:Whatever is not of use to the swarm, is not of use to the bee. ~ Marcus Aurelius, the Eternal Wisdom

2:The man of knowledge with-out a good heart is like the bee without honey ~ Sadi: Gulistan, the Eternal Wisdom

3:The frog lives by the side of the fragrant lotus, but it is the bee that gets the honey. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi,

4:An ancient philosopher once said that the bee extracts honey from the pollen of the flower, while from the same source the spider extracts poison. The problem which then confronts us is: are we bees or spiders ? Do we transform the experiences of life into honey, or do we change them into poison ? Do they lift us, or do we eternally rebel against the pricks? Many people become soured by experience, but the wise one takes the honey and builds it into the beehive of his own spiritual nature.    ~ Manly P Hall, The Occult Anatomy Of Man,

5:If a man but once tastes the joy of God, his desire to argue takes wing. The bee, realizing the joy of sipping honey, doesn't buzz about any more. What will vou achieve by quoting from books? The pundits recite verses and do nothing else. What will you gain by merely repeating 'siddhi'? You will not be intoxicated even by gargling with a solution of siddhi. It must go into your stomach; not until then will you be intoxicated. One cannot comprehend what I am saying unless one prays to God in solitude, all by oneself, with a longing heart. ~ Sri Ramakrishna?,

6:The Yogi should always listen to the sound (nada) in the interior of his right ear. This sound, when constantly practiced, will drown every sound (dhvani from outside .... By persisting ... the sound will be heard subtler and subtler. At first, it will be like what is produced by the ocean (jaladhi), the cloud (jimuta), the kettle-drum (bheri), and the water-fall (nirjhara) . ... A little later it will be like the sound produced by a tabor (mardala, or small drum), a big bell (ghanta), and a military drum (kahala); and finally like the sound of the tinkling bell (kinkin), the bamboo-flute (vamsa), the harp (vina) and the bee (bhramara).    ~ Nadabindu-Upanishad, (verses 31-41),

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Like the bee, we should make our industry our amusement. ~ oliver-goldsmith, @wisdomtrove

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

3:In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen! ~ emily-dickinson, @wisdomtrove

4:That which is not good for the bee-hive cannot be good for the bees. ~ marcus-aurelius, @wisdomtrove

5:The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy. ~ emily-dickinson, @wisdomtrove

6:What a kid I got, I told him about the birds and the bee and he told me about the butcher and my wife. ~ rodney-dangerfield, @wisdomtrove

7:This man is the bee's knees, Arthur, he is the wasp's nipples. He is, I would go so far as to say, the entire set of erogenous zones of every major flying insect of the Western world. ~ douglas-adams, @wisdomtrove

8:A soft Sea washed around the House A Sea of Summer Air And rose and fell the magic Planks That sailed without a care — For Captain was the Butterfly For Helmsman was the Bee And an entire universe For the delighted crew. ~ emily-dickinson, @wisdomtrove

9:The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. ~ robert-frost, @wisdomtrove

10:So long as the bee is outside the petals of the lily, and has not tasted the sweetness of its honey, it hovers around the flower emitting the buzzing sound; but when it is inside the flower, it noiselessly drinks the nectar. So long as a man quarrels and disputes about doctrines and dogmas, he has not tasted the nectar of true faith; when he has tasted it, he becomes quiet and full of peace. ~ sri-ramakrishna, @wisdomtrove

11:The Universe is one great kindergarten for man. Everything that exists has brought with it its own peculiar lesson. The mountain teaches stability and grandeur; the ocean immensity and change. Forests, lakes, and rivers, clouds and winds, stars and flowers, stupendous glaciers and crystal snowflakes, - every form of animate or inanimate existence, leaves its impress upon the soul of man. Even the bee and ant have brought their little lessons of industry and economy. ~ orison-swett-marden, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:The Bee Gees no longer exist. ~ Barry Gibb,

2:For me, neither the honey nor the bee ~ Sappho,

3:The honey is sweet, but the Bee stings. ~ George Herbert,

4:The Bee Gees are a fly-by-night sort of group. ~ Barry Gibb,

5:The Honey is sweet, but the Bee has a Sting. ~ Benjamin Franklin,

6:Look on the bee upon the wing 'mong flowers; ~ Philip James Bailey,

7:What is not good for the hive is no good for the bee ~ Marcus Aurelius,

8:No matter where you go, you cannot escape the Bee Gees, ~ David Sedaris,

9:What is not good for the swarm is not good for the bee. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

10:The Bee Gees who are brilliant, I just love great music. ~ Michael Jackson,

11:What does not benefit the hive is no benefit to the bee. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

12:Like the bee, we should make our industry our amusement. ~ Oliver Goldsmith,

13:It's disappointing to have lost - that's the bee's knees of it. ~ Tim Henman,

14:Listen to the Bee Gees and you can learn to be a great writer. ~ Kara DioGuardi,

15:The bee and the serpent often sip from the selfsame flower. ~ Pietro Metastasio,

16:The flower doesn't dream of the bee. It blossoms and the bee comes. ~ Mark Nepo,

17:The flower doesn’t dream of the bee. It blossoms and the bee comes. ~ Mark Nepo,

18:Whatever is not of use to the swarm, is not of use to the bee. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

19:What's the bee in your bonnet? Seems to be some kind of idealism. ~ Robert Musil,

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

21:In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen! ~ Emily Dickinson,

22:That which is not good for the bee-hive, cannot be good for the bee. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

23:That which is not good for the bee-hive cannot be good for the bees. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

24:The wit taught by God to the bee Is withheld from the lion and the wild ass. ~ Rumi,

25:That which is not good for the swarm, neither is it good for the bee. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

26:When the bee to the earth does fall, the butterfly comes back to change all ~ Robin Hobb,

27:The man of knowledge with-out a good heart is like the bee without honey ~ Sadi: Gulistan,

28:When the bee to the earth does fall, the butterfly comes back to change all. ~ Robin Hobb,

29:Like the bee gathering honey from the different flowers, the wise person ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

30:The Sufi saying has it: "God, to the bee, is something which has TWO stings! ~ Idries Shah,

31:We may like the honey without liking the bee, but this will not be ethical! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

32:The bird, the bee, the running child are all the same to the sliding glass door. ~ Demetri Martin,

33:The flowers are full of honey, but only the bee finds out the sweetness. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

34:The bee enclosed and through the amber shown Seems buried in the juice which was his own. ~ Francis Bacon,

35:The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved in amber, so that it seems enshrined in its own nectar. ~ Martial,

36:The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy. ~ Emily Dickinson,

37:The bee's life is like a magic well: the more you draw from it, the more it fills with water ~ Karl Von Frisch,

38:The bee's life is like a magic well: the more you draw from it, the more it fills with water ~ Karl von Frisch,

39:The frog lives by the side of the fragrant lotus, but it is the bee that gets the honey. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi,

40:I love the Bee Gees, but only the pre-disco stuff. From '64 to '69, I've got all their albums. ~ Noel Gallagher,

41:That which isn’t good for the hive, isn’t good for the bee.” —MARCUS AURELIUS, MEDITATIONS, 6.54 ~ Ryan Holiday,

42:If the bee disappeared off the face of the earth, man would only have four years left to live. ~ Albert Einstein,

43:Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry ~ William Shakespeare,

44:If the bee disappeared off the face of the earth, man would only have four years left to live. ~ Maurice Maeterlinck,

45:When we have been to Holy Communion, the balm of love envelops the soul as the flower envelops the bee. ~ John Vianney,

46:The bee is more honored than other animals not because she labors, but because she labors for others. ~ John Chrysostom,

47:the bee perishes because his lust for the lotus stupefies him and makes him stick to her even in death. ~ Wendy Doniger,

48:I go to books and to nature as the bee goes to a flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey. ~ John Burroughs,

49:Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry ~ William Shakespeare,

50:What a kid I got, I told him about the birds and the bee and he told me about the butcher and my wife. ~ Rodney Dangerfield,

51:He was the sweet taste of honey before the bee stung, the apple from Eden—so delicious, yet morally wrong. ~ Marita A Hansen,

52:The happiness of the bee and the dolphin is to exist. For man it is to know that and to wonder at it ~ Jacques Yves Cousteau,

53:The bee is more honored than other animals not because she labors, but because she labors for others. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,

54:The bee’s life is like a magic well: the more you draw from it, the more it fills with water. —KARL VON FRISCH ~ Laline Paull,

55:The happiness of the bee and the dolphin is to exist. For man it is to know that and to wonder at it. ~ Jacques Yves Cousteau,

56:Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it. ~ Anonymous,

57:The bee is more honored than other animals, not because she labors, but because she labors for others. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,

58:No matter how you seem to fatten on a crime, there can never be good for the bee which is bad for the hive. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

59:Did the harebell loose her girdle To the lover bee, Would the bee the harebell hallow Much as formerly? ~ Emily Dickinson,

60:I was always the one left behind. Out in the streets, when they saw me they'd say, That's just one of the Bee Gees. ~ Maurice Gibb,

61:I love Donna Summer, and I love ABBA. I love late 70s disco. I love the Bee Gees. I just love that period of recording. ~ Taylor Hawkins,

62:To be successful, one has to be one of three bees: the queen bee, the hardest working bee, or the bee that does not fit in. ~ Suzy Kassem,

63:Glory, glory, said the Bee, Hallelujah, said the Flea. Praise the Lord, remarked the Wren. At springtime all is born-again. ~ Eric Metaxas,

64:To be successful, one has to be one of three bees - the queen bee, the hardest working bee, or the bee that does not fit in. ~ Suzy Kassem,

65:Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

66:As the bee collects nectar and departs without injuring the flower, or its color or fragrance, so let the sage dwell on earth. ~ Gautama Buddha,

67:Like the bee, we distill poison from honey for our self-defense--what happens to the bee if it uses its sting is well known. ~ Dag Hammarskj ld,

68:Like the bee, we distill poison from honey for our self-defense--what happens to the bee if it uses its sting is well known. ~ Dag Hammarskjold,

69:It is not the bee's touching on the flowers that gathers the honey, but her abiding for a time upon them, and drawing out the sweet. ~ Joseph Hall,

70:The Juggler's Hat Her Country Is 330 The Juggler's Hat her Country is— The Mountain Gorse—the Bee's! ~ Emily Dickinson,

71:Partake As Doth The Bee 994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily. ~ Emily Dickinson,

72:Just as the bee takes the nectar and leaves without damaging the color or scent of the flowers, so should the sage act in a village. ~ Gautama Buddha,

73:Honor all living things, for we are of the stag, and the salmon, and the bee; so destroy not life, save it be to preserve your own. ~ Scott Cunningham,

74:I sometimes wonder if the tragedies my family has suffered are a kind of karmic price for all the fame and fortune the Bee Gees have had. ~ Robin Gibb,

75:Like the bee its sting, the promiscuous leave behind them in each encounter something of themselves by which they are made to suffer. ~ Cyril Connolly,

76:The Pedigree Of Honey The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy. ~ Emily Dickinson,

77:When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things and then I don't feel so bad. ~ Oscar Hammerstein II,

78:Apology For Her 852 Apology for Her Be rendered by the Bee— Herself, without a Parliament Apology for Me. ~ Emily Dickinson,

79:When the dog bites, when the bee stings... I simply remember I have a boyfriend and suddenly things don't seem quite so completely shit. ~ Sophie Kinsella,

80:never forget this moment, the hum of the bee, the saffron threads of the flower, the drawn blinds, nature's assiduousness and human cruelty. ~ Edna O Brien,

81:never forget this moment, the hum of the bee, the saffron threads of the flower, the drawn blinds, nature’s assiduousness and human cruelty. ~ Edna O Brien,

82:[Honey is sweet] and so is knowledge, but knowledge is like the bee that made that sweet honey, you have to chase it through the pages of a book. ~ Patricia Polacco,

83:The squirrel hoards nuts and the bee gathers honey, without knowing what they do, and they are thus provided for without selfishness or disgrace. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

84:Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude. ~ Thomas Gray,

85:The bee, though it finds every rose has a thorn, comes back loaded with honey from his rambles; and why should not other tourists do the same? ~ Thomas Chandler Haliburton,

86:Look not into a passion’s mouth to see if it have fangs or honeyed mandibles. The bee that gathers up the nectar of the flowerers gathers their poison, too. ~ Mikhail Naimy,

87:It had all kinds of improvements, it would be cheaper to run, it was the bee's knees, mutt's nuts, and various wonderful bits of half a dozen other creatures. ~ Terry Pratchett,

88:It is the goodly outside that sin puts on which tempteth to destruction. It has been said that sin is like the bee, with honey in its mouth, but a sting in its tail. ~ Hosea Ballou,

89:She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die: And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding Adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee mouths sips: ~ John Keats,

90:Herein A Blossom Lies 899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind. ~ Emily Dickinson,

91:[Lord Brougham's writings on the bee's cell contain] as striking examples of bad reasoning as are often to be met with in writings related to mathematical subjects. ~ James Whitbread Lee Glaisher,

92:I take music pretty seriously. You see that scar on my wrist? You see that? You know where that's from? I heard the Bee Gees were getting back together again. I couldn't take it, OK! ~ Denis Leary,

93:Taste may be compared to that exquisite sense of the bee, which instantly discovers and extracts the quintessence of every flower, and disregards all the rest of it. ~ Fulke Greville 1st Baron Brooke,

94:This man is the bee's knees, Arthur, he is the wasp's nipples. He is, I would go so far as to say, the entire set of erogenous zones of every major flying insect of the Western world. ~ Douglas Adams,

95:Everything dies. Everything. You were born with a terminal disease, just like everything else that has ever existed. You, your lamp, the sun, and the Bee Gees all have that in common. ~ Johnny B Truant,

96:If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would have only four years of life left. No more bees, no more pollination, no more plants, no more animals, no more man. ~ Albert Einstein,

97:Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep. ~ John Milton,

98:Pretty clothes are like the colors of a flower’s petals. They tell the bee where to land. After that, it’s what’s inside that holds his interest,” said Peggy, still quoting their mother. ~ Melissa de la Cruz,

99:When I was younger, I was listening to a lot of Armenian music, you know, revolutionary music about freedom and protest. In the 70s I was listening to soul and the Bee Gees and ABBA, and funk. ~ Serj Tankian,

100:Although devotion is to be given to many institutes and teachers, the essence is to be taken from them all, as the bee takes the essence from many flowers.- Samkhya, 4.13, an Eastern scripture ~ Swami Vivekananda,

101:The Bee Gees were always heavily influenced by black music. As a songwriter, it's never been difficult to pick up on the changing styles of music out there, and soul has always been my favourite genre. ~ Robin Gibb,

102:Alarm pheromone is the scent that bees emit to alert other bees to danger. It’s worth noting that alarm pheromone smells a lot like banana oil, and you should avoid eating bananas in the bee yard. Any ~ H G Bissinger,

103:Spring comes on the World Spring comes on the World I sight the Aprils Hueless to me until thou come As, till the Bee Blossoms stand negative, Touched to Conditions By a Hum. ~ Emily Dickinson,

104:The men of experiment are like the ant; they only collect and use. But the bee gathers its materials from the flowers of the garden and of the field, but transforms and digests it by a power of its own. ~ Leonardo da Vinci,

105:The men of experiment are like the ant; they only collect and use. But the bee...gathers its materials from the flowers of the garden and of the field, but transforms and digests it by a power of its own. ~ Leonardo da Vinci,

106:Where have I been while this person is leading my life with her patience, will and order? In the garden; on the bee and under the bee; in the crown gathering cumulus and flensing it from the boughs ~ Sharon Olds,

107:She wanted more, more slang, more figures of speech, the bee's knees, the cats pajamas, horse of a different color, dog-tired, she wanted to talk like she was born here, like she never came from anywhere else ~ Jonathan Safran Foer,

108:A soft Sea washed around the House A Sea of Summer Air And rose and fell the magic Planks That sailed without a care — For Captain was the Butterfly For Helmsman was the Bee And an entire universe For the delighted crew. ~ Emily Dickinson,

109:He didn’t at all see why the busy bee should be proposed as a model to him; he supposed the Bee liked to make honey, or he wouldn’t do it — nobody asked him. It was not necessary for the bee to make such a merit of his tastes. ~ Charles Dickens,

110:I hate the thing is called enjoyment: Besides it is a dull employment, It cuts off all that's life and fire From that which may be termed desire; Just like the bee whose sting is gone Converts the owner to a drone. ~ John Wilmot,

111:We all know about the habits of the ant, we know all about the habits of the bee, but we know nothing at all about the habits of the oyster. It seems almost certain that we have been choosing the wrong time for studying the oyster. ~ Mark Twain,

112:I am a part of all you see In Nature: part of all you feel: I am the impact of the bee Upon the blossom; in the tree I am the sap that shall reveal The leaf, the bloom that flows and flutes Up from the darkness through its roots. ~ Madison Cawein,

113:There was the Bennett Cocktail (gin, lime juice, bitters), the Bee’s Knees (gin, honey, lemon juice), the Gin Fizz (gin, lemon juice, sugar, seltzer water), and the Southside (lemon juice, sugar syrup, mint leaves, gin, seltzer water). ~ Deborah Blum,

114:All music is rehash. There are only a few notes. Just variations on a theme. Try to tell the kids in the Seventies who were screaming to the Bee Gees that their music was just The Beatles redone. There is nothing wrong with the Bee Gees. ~ John Lennon,

115:What Does The Bee Do? What does the bee do? Bring home honey. And what does Father do? Bring home money. And what does Mother do? Lay out the money. And what does baby do? Eat up the honey. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

116:Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gi'es to me. ~ Robert Burns,

117:The bee is enclosed, and shines preserved, in a tear of the sisters of Phaeton, so that it seems enshrined in its own nectar. It has obtained a worthy reward for its great toils; we may suppose that the bee itself would have desired such a death. ~ Martial,

118:A soft Sea washed around the House A Sea of Summer Air And rose and fell the magic Planks That sailed without a care — For Captain was the Butterfly For Helmsman was the Bee And an entire universe For the delighted crew. ~ Emily Dickinson,

119:Where the bee sucks. there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. ~ William Shakespeare,

120:Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield;  Learn from the beasts the physic of the field;  The arts of building from the bee receive;  Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave. ~ Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man (1733-34), Epistle III, line 173.,

121:Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. ~ William Shakespeare,

122:He liked to listen to the silence, he said, if silence could be listened to, for he went on, in that silence you could hear wildflower pollen sifting down the bee-fried air, by God, the bee-fried air! Listen! the waterfall of birdsong being those trees! ~ Ray Bradbury,

123:To be successful, one has to be one of three bees - the queen bee, the hardest working bee, or the bee that does not fit in. One success is inherited, and the the next one is earned. While the last one is self-sought, self-served, and happens on its own terms. ~ Suzy Kassem,

124:Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gi'es to me. ~ Robert Burns,

125:Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that has gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it from me. I wish to spread it and bestow it, until the wise have once more become joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

126:Their dark silhouettes numbed the soft part of his brain, like a bee stinging and numbing a caterpillar, then laying eggs on the surface of its body. The bee larvae use the paralyzed caterpillar as a convenient source of food and devour it as soon as they’re born. ~ Haruki Murakami,

127:The first concert I ever went to was the Bee Gees. I don't know if you remember the Bee Gees. My mom took me. I was little. But my mom was a big disco fan, and - my mom took me to the Bee Gees. Looking back now, it's pretty embarrassing if your first concert was with your mom. ~ Rob Huebel,

128:We may be touched by the most powerful of suppositions--even to a certainty--as we stand in the rose petals of the sun and hear a murmur from the wind no louder than the sound it makes as it dozes under the bee's wings. This, too, I suggest, is the weather, and worthy of report. ~ Mary Oliver,

129:The Flower Must Not Blame The Bee 206 The Flower must not blame the Bee— That seeketh his felicity Too often at her door— But teach the Footman from Vevay— Mistress is "not at home"—to say— To people—any more! ~ Emily Dickinson,

130:It's mainly about working hard and proving to people you're serious about it, and stretching yourself and learning. The mistake a lot of actors make, particularly young ones, is allowing themselves to feel that they're the finished articles, the bee's knees, and it's not true. ~ Daniel Radcliffe,

131:The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. ~ Robert Frost,

132:I was carrying an old-style pack with a metal frame. I could hear a zzz, zzz sound, like a bee. I looked around but couldn’t see anything. I was trying to dodge the bee, then I realized there was no bee, it was electricity. The sound was electricity zipping along my backpack frame. ~ Carolyn Jourdan,

133:Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings: but I say, 'tis the bee's wax; for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since. ~ William Shakespeare,

134:"I smell fennel," Launcelot said. "That reminds me, I should tell you I have discovered a specific for maims. You take salt, good-quality river mud, and bee urine, and slather it on the maim and hold it there for two days. Works like a charm. Gathering the bee urine is a bit of a bore." ~ Donald Barthelme,

135:Prayer is not a stratagem for occasional use, a refuge to resort to now and then. It is rather like an established residence for the innermost self. All things have a home: the bird has a nest, the fox has a hole, the bee has a hive. A soul without prayer is a soul without a home. ~ Abraham Joshua Heschel,

136:moral cowardice lowers one more than physical. Many have had eminent qualities, yet, for want of a stout heart, they passed inanimate lives and found a tomb in their own sloth. Wise Nature has thoughtfully combined in the bee the sweetness of its honey with the sharpness of its sting. lv ~ Baltasar Graci n,

137:The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze. ~ John Updike,

138:I would just imagine there's a criticism for just about everything, if you want to take something down. No one's invincible. The Jicks are a work in progress and we don't think everything we do is the bee's knees or something, we're just trying our best to get turned on by what we're doing. ~ Stephen Malkmus,

139:No living creature, not even man, has achieved, in the centre of his sphere, what the bee has achieved in her own: and were some one from another world to descend and ask of the earth the most perfect creation of the logic of life, we should needs have to offer the humble comb of honey. ~ Maurice Maeterlinck,

140:The men of experiment are like the ant, they only collect and use; the reasoners resemble spiders, who make cobwebs out of their own substance. But the bee takes the middle course, it gathers its material from the flowers of the garden and field, but transforms and digests it by a power of its own. ~ Francis Bacon,

141:The men of experiment are like the ant, they only collect and use; the reasoners resemble spiders, who make cobwebs out of their own substance. But the bee takes the middle course: it gathers its material from the flowers of the garden and field, but transforms and digests it by a power of its own. ~ Francis Bacon,

142:Of Silken Speech And Specious Shoe 896 Of Silken Speech and Specious Shoe A Traitor is the Bee His service to the newest Grace Present continually His Suit a chance His Troth a Term Protracted as the Breeze Continual Ban propoundeth He Continual Divorce. ~ Emily Dickinson,

143:Believe it or not the war on Iraq is based on a sound scientific principle, The bee hive principle. Which clearly states that if you are stung by a bee, you should follow it back to its nest and then proceed to beat nest to a pulp with a baseball bat until the stripey little turd has learned its lesson. ~ John Oliver,

144:The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. ~ Robert Frost,

145:It's Like The Light, -It's like the light, -A fashionless delight It's like the bee, -A dateless melody. It's like the woods, Private like breeze, Phraseless, yet it stirs The proudest trees. It's like the morning, -Best when it's done, -The everlasting clocks Chime noon. ~ Emily Dickinson,

146:The bee’s brain is oval in shape and only about the size of a sesame seed, yet the bee has remarkable capacities for learning and remembering things. It is able to make complex calculations on distance traveled and to recall where it’s going and where it’s already been. —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL ~ Karen White,

147:Did The Harebell Loose Her Girdle 213 Did the Harebell loose her girdle To the lover Bee Would the Bee the Harebell hallow Much as formerly? Did the "Paradise"—persuaded— Yield her moat of pearl— Would the Eden be an Eden, Or the Earl—an Earl? ~ Emily Dickinson,

148:So Soon As Thou Didst Love Me So soon as thou didst love me, So soon as thou madest me thine, So soon as thou madest me the bee of the lotus which is thy feet, Then, then, without a word to me, Thou didst depart; And I knew nothing, my love! Oh, I knew nothing then! ~ Bhai Vir Singh,

149:Were I to be the founder of a new sect, I would call them Apiarians, and, after the example of the bee, advise them to extract the honey of every sect. My fundamental principle would be ... that we are to be saved by our good works which are within our power, and not by our faith which is not within our power. ~ Thomas Jefferson,

150:And this help? It includes things as subtle as somehow tricking our astronomers into calling M44 the Beehive Cluster just to freak out the bee creatures living there, on the off chance that I would come along and mention that? How in the world could anyone arrange that coincidence over so many eons and lightyears? ~ John C Wright,

151:The Bee Is Not Afraid Of Me 111 The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially— The Brooks laugh louder when I come— The Breezes madder play; Wherefore mine eye thy silver mists, Wherefore, Oh Summer's Day? ~ Emily Dickinson,

152:The higher the human intellect rises in the discovery of these purposes, the more obvious it becomes, that the ultimate purpose is beyond our comprehension. All that is accessible to man is the relation of the life of the bee to other manifestations of life. And so it is with the purpose of historic characters and nations. ~ Leo Tolstoy,

153:I climbed into the honey wagon with my hair uncombed, with May handing me buttered toast and orange juice through the window and Rosaleen sticking in thermoses of water, both of them practically running alongside the truck while August rolled out of the driveway. I felt like the Red Cross springing to action to save the bee queendom. ~ Sue Monk Kidd,

154:When the bee has gathered the dew of heaven and the earth's sweetest nectar from the flowers, it turns it into honey, then hastens to its hive. In the same way, the priest, having taken from the altar the Son of God (who is as the dew from heaven, and true son of Mary, flower of our humanity), gives him to you as delicious food. ~ Saint Francis de Sales,

155:But let's suppose for a moment that my inspiration is not divine. Still, you would agree, my speaking is not inferior to the workings of a bee? The Quran says, God has inspired the bee. This universe is filled with honey. Human beings feed on it and evolve upward with the same, but more profound, inspiration as the bee. ~ Rumi,

156: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,

157:1061 There Is An Arid Pleasure 782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they— Yet one—rejoices Flowers— And one—the Flowers abhor— The finest Honey—curdled— Is worthless—to the Bee— ~ Emily Dickinson,

158:Then he said, Let me tell you a story from our tradition, a story about King Solomon. King Solomon gave a teaching once about the snake and the bee. The snake, King Solomon said, defends itself by killing. But the bee defends itself by dying. You know how a bee dies after a sting? Like that. It dies to defend. So, each creature has a method that is suitable to its strength. ~ Teju Cole,

159:There is an ocean of difference between a real all-renouncing devotee of God and a householder devotee. A real sannyāsi, a real devotee who has renounced the world, is like a bee. The bee will not light on anything but a flower. It will not drink anything but honey. But a devotee leading the worldly life is like a fly. The fly sits on a festering sore as well as on a ~ Swami Nikhilananda,

160:O my child, bethink you that just as the bee, having gathered heaven's dew and earth's sweetest juices from amid the flowers, carries it to her hive; so the Priest, having taken the Saviour, God's Own Son, Who came down from Heaven, the Son of Mary, Who sprang up as earth's choicest flower, from the Altar, feeds you with that Bread of Sweetness and of all delight. ~ Saint Francis de Sales,

161:Yes, all sex is good, but not all sex is created equally. I’m not just talking about hotel sex. Because I’ve just learned that sex with Natalie is in a class of its own. It’s beyond hotel sex. It’s more than the bee’s knees. It’s better than the cat’s meow. It’s heart-stoppingly magnificent. And I’m not the kind of guy who uses that word. But sex with her is indeed magnificent. ~ Lauren Blakely,

162:Poem 94 NAthlesse the cruell boy not so content, would needs the fly pursue: And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment, him caught for to subdue. But when on it he hasty hand did lay, the Bee him stung therefore: Now out alasse (he cryde) and welaway, I wounded am full sore: The fly that I so much did scorne, hath hurt me with his little horne. ~ Edmund Spenser,

163:1Q84 (Murakami, Haruki;Jay Rubin;Philip Gabriel) - Your Highlight on Location 20029-20031 | Added on Tuesday, April 1, 2014 11:10:06 PM Their dark silhouettes numbed the soft part of his brain, like a bee stinging and numbing a caterpillar, then laying eggs on the surface of its body. The bee larvae use the paralyzed caterpillar as a convenient source of food and devour it as soon as they’re born. ~ Anonymous,

164:So long as the bee is outside the petals of the lily, and has not tasted the sweetness of its honey, it hovers around the flower emitting the buzzing sound; but when it is inside the flower, it noiselessly drinks the nectar. So long as a man quarrels and disputes about doctrines and dogmas, he has not tasted the nectar of true faith; when he has tasted it, he becomes quiet and full of peace. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,

165:There's the hum of the bee drone two blocks away the racket of it you'd think it was right over the roof, when the bee drone swirls nearer and nearer (gulp again) you retreat into the cabin and wait, maybe they got a message to come and see you all two thousand of em- but gettin used to the bee drone finally which seem to happen like a big party once a week- and so everything is eventually marvelous. ~ Jack Kerouac,

166:Henry shuffled the jewelled insect back out of his pocket. It amber heart warmed light through the pit again. “Back in the lab, of course, as father dear tries to copy it with nonmagical parts. My mother told me to keep this one to remind me of what I am.” “And what is that?” The bee illuminated both itself and Henry: its translucent wings, Henry’s wickedly cut eyebrows. “Something more. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

167:And what is a kiss, specifically? A pledge properly sealed, a promise seasoned to taste, a vow stamped with the immediacy of a lip, a rosy circle drawn around the verb 'to love.' A kiss is a message too intimate for the ear, infinity captured in the bee's brief visit to a flower, secular communication with an aftertaste of heaven, the pulse rising from the heart to utter its name on a lover's lip: 'Forever. ~ Edmond Rostand,

168:[W]hat seems to be happening at the moment is never the full story is really going on. [...] [F]or the honey bee, it is the honey that is important. But the bee is at the same time nature's vehicle for carrying out cross-pollination of the flowers. Interconnectedness is a fundamental principle of nature. Nothing is isolated. Each event connects with others. Things are constantly unfolding on different levels. ~ Jon Kabat Zinn,

169:Can you spell everything?" asked Milo admiringly. "Just about," replied the bee with a hint of pride in his voice. "You see, years ago I was just an ordinary bee minding my own business, smelling flowers all day, and occasionally picking up part-time work in people's bonnets. Then one day I realized that I'd never amount to anything without an education and, being naturally adept at spelling, I decided that— ~ Norton Juster,

170:Have You Seen But A Bright Lily Grow Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier, Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! ~ Ben Jonson,

171:She Hideth Her The Last 557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes— She doth Her Purple Work— And putteth Her away In low Apartments in the Sod As worthily as We. To imitate her life As impotent would be As make of Our imperfect Mints, The Julep—of the Bee— ~ Emily Dickinson,

172:I want to write rage but all that comes is sadness. We have been sad long enough to make this earth either weep or grow fertile. I am an anachronism, a sport, like the bee that was never meant to fly. Science said so. I am not supposed to exist. I carry death around in my body like a condemnation. But I do live. The bee flies. There must be some way to integrate death into living, neither ignoring it nor giving in to it. ~ Audre Lorde,

173:That’s where the fish first started swimming don’t tell me you didn’t see the bee fly out you saved yourself perhaps from wasps or from the lashes of her strong plaits or having upon her legs leaned back your head were tender were all of a sudden ardent were again tender now sensitive to caresses now dull now a red-muzzled horse now a corpse now daydreaming pressed against a fence now wringing your hands at a distance. ~ Daniil Kharms,

174:The Bee Love, a Bee that lurk'd among Roses saw not, and was stung: Who for his hurt finger crying, Running sometimes, sometimes flying, Doth to his fair mother hie, And O help, cries he, I die; A wing'd snake hath bitten me, Call'd by countrymen a Bee: At which Venus, if such smart A Bee's little sting impart, How much greater is the pain, They, whom thou hast hurt, sustain? ~ Anacreon,

175:We are not wrong, perhaps, to be heedful of justice in the midst of a universe that heeds not at all; as the bee is not wrong to make honey in a world that itself can make none. But we are wrong to desire an external justice, since we know that it does not exist. Let that which is in us suffice. All is for ever being weighed and judged in our soul. It is we who shall judge ourselves; or rather, our happiness is our judge. ~ Maurice Maeterlinck,

176:The Butterfly THE Butterfly, an idle thing, Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing, As do the bee and bird; Nor does it, like the prudent ant, Lay up the grain for times of want, A wise and cautious hoard. My youth is but a summer's day: Then like the bee and ant I'll lay A store of learning by; And though from flower to flower I rove, My stock of wisdom I'll improve Nor be a butterfly. ~ Ann Taylor,

177:I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. ~ William Butler Yeats,

178:Buckminster Fuller himself was fond of stating that what seems to be happening at the moment is never the full story of what is really going on. He liked to point out that for the honey bee, it is the honey that is important. But the bee is at the same time nature's vehicle for carrying out cross-pollination of the flowers. Interconnectedness is a fundamental principle of nature. Nothing is isolated. Each event connects with others. ~ Jon Kabat Zinn,

179:Once upon a time there was a bear and a bee who lived in a wood and were the best of friends. All summer long the bee collected nectar from morning to night while the bear lay on his back basking in the long grass. When winter came the bear realised he had nothing to eat and thought to himself 'I hope that busy little bee will share some of his honey with me.' But the bee was nowhere to be found - he had died of a stress induced coronary disease. ~ Banksy,

180:Because The Bee May Blameless Hum 869 Because the Bee may blameless hum For Thee a Bee do I become List even unto Me. Because the Flowers unafraid May lift a look on thine, a Maid Alway a Flower would be. Nor Robins, Robins need not hide When Thou upon their Crypts intrude So Wings bestow on Me Or Petals, or a Dower of Buzz That Bee to ride, or Flower of Furze I that way worship Thee. ~ Emily Dickinson,

181:Physiologically, man in the normal use of technology (or his variously extended body) is perpetually modified by it and in turn finds ever new ways of modifying his technology. Man becomes, as it were, the sex organs of the machine world, as the bee of the plant world, enabling it to fecundate and to evolve ever new forms. The machine world reciprocates man's love by expediting his wishes and desires, namely, in providing him with wealth. ~ Marshall McLuhan,

182:Thomas Edison reads not for entertainment but to increase his store of knowledge. He sucks in information as eagerly as the bee sucks honey from flowers. The whole world, so to speak, pours its wisdom into his mind. He regards it as a criminal waste of time to go through the slow and painful ordeal of ascertaining things for one's self if these same things have already been ascertained and made available by others. In Edison's mind knowledge is power. ~ B C Forbes,

183:Royal joined the singing to change the subject and to remind her that there were things a body could feel good about. A community that had come together, from seeding to harvest to the bee. But the song was a work song Cora knew from the cotton rows, drawing her back to the Randall cruelties and making her heart thud. Connelly used to start the song as a signal to go back to picking after a whipping. how could such a bitter thing become a means of pleasure? ~ Colson Whitehead,

184:What's happened is somewhere, along the line, as a society, we confused the notion of 'home' with the possibility of 'an investment opportunity'. What kind of creature wants to live in an 'investment opportunity'? Only man. The fox has his den. The bee has his hive. The stoat, has, uh... his stoat-hole... but only man chooses to make his nest in an investment opportunity. Mmm, snuggled down in the lovely credit! All warm, in the mortgage payment, mmmmm... ~ Stewart Lee,

185:Would A Circling Surface Vulture Would a circling surface vulture know such depths of sky as the moon would know? would a weed on the riverbank know such depths of water as the lotus would know? would a fly darting nearby know the smell of flowers as the bee would know? O Lord white as jasmine only you would know the way of your devotees: how would these these mosquitos on the buffalo’s hides? ~ Akka Mahadevi,

186:The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized. The nearest dream recedes, unrealized. The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover Dips--evades--teases--deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boy Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky. Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies not That brews that rare variety. ~ Emily Dickinson,

187:The Universe is one great kindergarten for man. Everything that exists has brought with it its own peculiar lesson. The mountain teaches stability and grandeur; the ocean immensity and change. Forests, lakes, and rivers, clouds and winds, stars and flowers, stupendous glaciers and crystal snowflakes, - every form of animate or inanimate existence, leaves its impress upon the soul of man. Even the bee and ant have brought their little lessons of industry and economy. ~ Orison Swett Marden,

188:I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what I wanted either. I wanted to solve the mystery of the bee. I wanted Adam to like me. I wanted Adam to be Constance. I wanted to be happy, or at least to envision what happiness might look like. I wanted to be the best detective in the world. I wanted to take every ounce of pain I had ever t and condense it and transform it into something terrible and beautiful and throw it back to the world and say Now do you see how wrong you were? Don’t you fucking see it? ~ Sara Gran,

189:I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what I wanted either. I wanted to solve the mystery of the bee. I wanted Adam to like me. I wanted Adam to be Constance. I wanted to be happy, or at least to envision what happiness might look like. I wanted to be the best detective in the world. I wanted to take every ounce of pain I had ever felt and condense it and transform it into something terrible and beautiful and throw it back to the world and say Now do you see how wrong you were? Don’t you fucking see it? ~ Sara Gran,

190:The mullein had finished blooming, and stood up out of the pastures like dusty candelabra. The flowers of Queen Anne's lace had curled up into birds' nests, and the bee balm was covered with little crown-shaped pods. In another month -- no, two, maybe -- would come the season of the skeletons, when all that was left of the weeds was their brittle architecture. But the time was not yet. The air was warm and bright, the grass was green, and the leaves, and the lazy monarch butterflies were everywhere. ~ Elizabeth Enright,

191:An ancient philosopher once said that the bee extracts honey from the pollen of the flower, while from the same source the spider extracts poison. The problem which then confronts us is: are we bees or spiders ? Do we transform the experiences of life into honey, or do we change them into poison ? Do they lift us, or do we eternally rebel against the pricks? Many people become soured by experience, but the wise one takes the honey and builds it into the beehive of his own spiritual nature.    ~ Manly P Hall, The Occult Anatomy Of Man,

192:And now you ask in your heart, ‘How shall we distinguish that which is pleasurable from that which is not?’ Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower, But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee. For to the bee, a flower is a fountain of life, And to the flower, a bee is a messenger of love, And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.” – Khalil Gibran ~ Brian Tracy,

193:Answer July 386 Answer July— Where is the Bee— Where is the Blush— Where is the Hay? Ah, said July— Where is the Seed— Where is the Bud— Where is the May— Answer Thee—Me— Nay—said the May— Show me the Snow— Show me the Bells— Show me the Jay! Quibbled the Jay— Where be the Maize— Where be the Haze— Where be the Bur? Here—said the Year— ~ Emily Dickinson,

194:It Makes No Difference Abroad 620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame— Wild flowers—kindle in the Woods— The Brooks slam—all the Day— No Black bird bates his Banjo— For passing Calvary— Auto da Fe—and Judgment— Are nothing to the Bee— His separation from His Rose— To Him—sums Misery— ~ Emily Dickinson,

195:The mistake we all make is in assuming anybody remembers anydamnthing from one day to the next. If that were true, we'd stop getting involved with approximately the same kind of wrong lover each time, we'd learn the lessons of history, the death penalty would discourage those plotting murder, and George Santayana's famous quote would be about as popular as "the bee's knees." But few of us keep accurate records of what we've learned as we hobble through life barking our shins in the dark on experiences we've already had.... ~ Harlan Ellison,

196:TELL me, O Swan, your ancient tale. From what land do you come, O Swan? to what shore will you fly? Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek? Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise, follow me! There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of Death is no more. There the woods of spring are a-bloom, and the fragrant scent "He is I" is borne on the wind: There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy. Translated by Rabindranath Tagore ~ Kabir, Poem 6 ,

197:Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river: Nowhere by thee my steps shall be For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. ~ Alfred Tennyson,

198:perhaps the secret of the bee consists precisely in provoking in the customer sufficient stimuli and desires so that the use value gradually rises in their estimation, a stage followed shortly afterward by a rise in the exchange value, imposed on the buyer by the wily producer who gradually and subtly undermines the buyer’s inner defenses, which are the result of his awareness of his own personality, the same defenses that once, if an unsullied once ever really existed, gave him, however precariously, at least some chance of resistance and self-control. ~ Jos Saramago,

199:There was a time when my hand, too, held heat and when its touch left a burn beneath the skin and I sought beauty like the bee his queen; but it was a high flight for an old tyrant, and not worth wings. Doubtless there were sweet and brave and foolish times between them. There may be sweet times now. Such times lie beyond my conjuring. I only know that thorough evil is as bright as perfect good and seems as fair; for animals that live in caves are bleached by darkness and so shine in their surroundings as the good soul does in its, albino as the stars. ~ William H Gass,

200:The flower sees the propagation of its pollen in the bee, while the bee sees sweet food for its larvae in the flower. In the embrace of the two organisms each sees “itself as if in a mirror” (Phaedro 255d) in the disposition of the other. Neither knows whether its affirmation coincides with the other’s or whether conversely its affirmation deprives the other of the future— killing it; each knows only that this is good for it and uses the other as a means to its own end,material for its own life,while it is itself the material for the other’s life. ~ Carlo Michelstaedter,

201:Safe In Their Alabaster Chambers, Safe in their alabaster chambers, Untouched by morning and untouched by noon, Sleep the meek members of the resurrection, Rafter of satin, and roof of stone. Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine; Babbles the bee in a stolid ear; Pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadences, -Ah, what sagacity perished here! Grand go the years in the crescent above them; Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row, Diadems drop and Doges surrender, Soundless as dots on a disk of snow. ~ Emily Dickinson,

202:A Farewell Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river: Nowhere by thee my steps shall be For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

203:And now you ask in your heart, ‘How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?’ Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower, But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee. For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life, And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love, And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy. * People of Orphalese, be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees. ~ Khalil Gibran,

204:The ripe, the golden month has come again, and in Virginia the chinkapins are falling. Frost sharps the middle music of the seasons, and all things living on the earth turn home again... the fields are cut, the granaries are full, the bins are loaded to the brim with fatness, and from the cider-press the rich brown oozings of the York Imperials run. The bee bores to the belly of the grape, the fly gets old and fat and blue, he buzzes loud, crawls slow, creeps heavily to death on sill and ceiling, the sun goes down in blood and pollen across the bronzed and mown fields of the old October. ~ Thomas Wolfe,

205:She shook her head. “I don’t know the details, exactly, but he was a lobbyist for the Minnesota Apiary Association.” “You mean, archery?” Jeff asked. “No, apiary, Daddy. You know, honey bees. There was some kind of licensing thing going on,” Brittany said. “The state was going to put on a fee, and some of the bee guys said they wouldn’t bring their hives into Minnesota if that happened, and Tubbs thought that the bees were interstate commerce and so only the feds were allowed to regulate it. Or something like that. I don’t know. I wasn’t interested enough to follow it. But Bob was around. ~ John Sandford,

206:The Way Of Love THE butterfly loves the rose, He flutters around her bed, Till the soft curled leaves unclose, And she raises her darling head. He whispers of dawn and of dew, Of love, and the heart of love, Of worship, timid and true, And she takes no joy thereof. But when, through the noon's blind heat, The arrogant bee flaunts by, She yields him her heart's hid sweet, And he leaves her alone, to die. The depth of her dying bliss Her grief-white butterfly knows: And the bee laughs low in the kiss Of another, a redder rose. ~ Edith Nesbit,

207:I Haven'T Told My Garden Yet 50 I haven't told my garden yet— Lest that should conquer me. I haven't quite the strength now To break it to the Bee— I will not name it in the street For shops would stare at me— That one so shy—so ignorant Should have the face to die. The hillsides must not know it— Where I have rambled so— Nor tell the loving forests The day that I shall go— Nor lisp it at the table— Nor heedless by the way Hint that within the Riddle One will walk today— ~ Emily Dickinson,

208:I wanted to go on sitting there, not talking, not listening to the others, keeping the moment precious for all time, because we were peaceful all of us, we were content and drowsy even as the bee who droned above our heads. In a little while it would be different, there would come tomorrow, and the next day and another year. And we would be changed perhaps, never sitting qite like this again. Some of us would go away, or suffer, or die, the future stretched away in front of us, unknown, unseen, not perhaps what we wanted, not what we planned. This moment was safe though, this could not be touched. ~ Daphne du Maurier,

209:I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core. ~ W B Yeats,

210:Contemplation I muse upon the distant town In many a dreamy mood. Above my head the sunbeams crown The graveyard's giant rood. The lupin blooms among the tombs. The quail recalls her brood. Ah, good it is to sit and trace The shadow of the cross; It moves so still from place to place O'er marble, bronze and moss; With graves to mark upon its arc Our time's eternal loss. And sweet it is to watch the bee That reve's in the rose, And sense the fragrance floating free On every breeze that blows O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound, Mine enemies repose. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

211:He did not want to fail, when the Bee Master had trusted him with the home and the possessions and the occupation that were all he had of his very own, and he did not know that as the storm drew nearer, as the clouds grew blacker, as the heat waves resolved themselves into definite flashes of lightning, as the night closed down black as velvet around him, he did not realize that his moral and mental forces were rising with the tide of the storm, that all the remnants of manhood left in his shaken body were gathering together for some sort of culmination, just as presently the storm would reach its height and then subside. ~ Gene Stratton Porter,

212:1118 'Tis Sunrise&Mdash;Little Maid&Mdash;Hast Thou 908 'Tis Sunrise—Little Maid—Hast Thou No Station in the Day? 'Twas not thy wont, to hinder so— Retrieve thine industry— 'Tis Noon—My little Maid— Alas—and art thou sleeping yet? The Lily—waiting to be Wed— The Bee—Hast thou forgot? My little Maid—'Tis Night—Alas That Night should be to thee Instead of Morning—Had'st thou broached Thy little Plan to Die— Dissuade thee, if I could not, Sweet, I might have aided—thee— ~ Emily Dickinson,

213:1213 What Shall I Do When The Summer Troubles 956 What shall I do when the Summer troubles— What, when the Rose is ripe— What when the Eggs fly off in Music From the Maple Keep? What shall I do when the Skies a'chirrup Drop a Tune on me— When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup What will become of me? Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets And the Berries stare How can I bear their jocund Faces Thou from Here, so far? 'Twouldn't afflict a Robin— All His Goods have Wings— I—do not fly, so wherefore My Perennial Things? ~ Emily Dickinson,

214:Forget! The Lady With The Amulet 438 Forget! The lady with the Amulet Forget she wore it at her Heart Because she breathed against Was Treason twixt? Deny! Did Rose her Bee— For Privilege of Play Or Wile of Butterfly Or Opportunity—Her Lord away? The lady with the Amulet—will face— The Bee—in Mausoleum laid— Discard his Bride— But longer than the little Rill— That cooled the Forehead of the Hill— While Other—went the Sea to fill— And Other—went to turn the Mill— I'll do thy Will— ~ Emily Dickinson,

215:Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale. From what land do you come, O Swan? to what shore will you fly? Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek? Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise, follow me! There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of Death is no more. There the woods of spring are a-bloom, and the fragrant scent "He is I" is borne on the wind: There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy. [bk1sm.gif] -- from One Hundred Poems of Kabir: Translated by Rabindranath Tagore, by Kabir / Translated by Rabindranath Tagore ~ Kabir, Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale ,

216:Mantova" The first thing I saw in the morning Was a huge golden bee ploughing His burly right shoulder into the belly Of a sleek yellow pear Low on a bough. Before he could find that sudden black honey That squirms around in there Inside the seed, the tree could not bear any more. The pear fell to the ground, With the bee still half alive Inside its body. He would have died had I not knelt down And sliced the pear gently A little more open. The bee shuddered, and returned. Maybe I should have left him a lone there Drowning in his own delight. The best days are the first To flee. ~ Richard Wilbur,

217:Sonnet-Iv The birds are singing merrily, and here A squirrel claims the lordship of the woods, And scolds me for intruding. At my feet The tireless ants all silently proclaim The dignity of labour. In my ear The bee hums drowsily; from sweet to sweet Careering, like a lover weak in aim. I hear faint music in the solitudes; A dreamlike melody that whispers peace Imbues the calmy forest, and sweet rills Of pensive feeling murmur through my brain, Like ripplings of pure water down the hills That slumber in the moonlight. Cease, oh, cease! Some day my weary heart will coin these into pain. ~ Charles Sangster,

218:The Sun Rises Bright In France THE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree. O, it 's nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e, But the dear Marie I left behin' Wi' sweet bairnies three. My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie, And smiled my ain Marie; I've left a' my heart behin' In my ain countree. The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee; But I'll win back, O never, To my ain countree. O, I am leal to high Heaven, Where soon I hope to be, An' there I'll meet ye a' soon Frae my ain countree! ~ Allan Cunningham,

219:Sonnet Lxxi I Ioy to see how in your drawen work, Your selfe vnto the Bee ye doe compare; and me vnto the Spyder that doth lurke, in close awayt to catch her vnaware. Right so to your selfe were caught in cunning snare of a deare foe, and thralled to his loue: in whose streight bands ye now captiued are so firmely, that ye neuer may remoue. But as your worke is wouen all about, with woodbynd flowers and fragrant Eglantine: so sweet your prison you in time shall proue, with many deare delights bedecked fyne. And all thensforth eternall peace shall see. betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee. ~ Edmund Spenser,

220:For the bee, honey is the ultimate reality. It represents the fulfillment of her life mission, the triumph over her enemies, the continuity of the hive, the justification for working herself to death. Honey is to bees what money in the bank is to people—a measure of prosperity and well-being. But there is nothing abstract or symbolic about honey, as there is about money, which has no intrinsic value. There is more real wealth in a pound of honey, or a load of manure for that matter, than all the currency in the world. We often destroy the world’s real wealth to create an illusion of wealth, confusing symbol and substance.” —William Longgood, The Queen Must Die ~ Susan Wiggs,

221:The Gentian Weaves Her Fringes 18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple's loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade. A brief, but patient illness— An hour to prepare, And one below this morning Is where the angels are— It was a short procession, The Bobolink was there— An aged Bee addressed us— And then we knelt in prayer— We trust that she was willing— We ask that we may be. Summer—Sister—Seraph! Let us go with thee! In the name of the Bee— And of the Butterfly— And of the Breeze—Amen! ~ Emily Dickinson,

222:The Yogi should always listen to the sound (nada) in the interior of his right ear. This sound, when constantly practiced, will drown every sound (dhvani from outside .... By persisting ... the sound will be heard subtler and subtler. At first, it will be like what is produced by the ocean (jaladhi), the cloud (jimuta), the kettle-drum (bheri), and the water-fall (nirjhara) . ... A little later it will be like the sound produced by a tabor (mardala, or small drum), a big bell (ghanta), and a military drum (kahala); and finally like the sound of the tinkling bell (kinkin), the bamboo-flute (vamsa), the harp (vina) and the bee (bhramara).    ~ Nadabindu-Upanishad, (verses 31-41),

223:The Song Of Luddy-Dud A sunbeam comes a-creeping Into my dear one's nest, And sings to our babe a-sleeping The song that I love the best: "'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning 'T is little Luddy-Dud at night; And all day long 'T is the same sweet song Of that waddling, toddling, coddling little mite, Luddy-Dud." The bird to the tossing clover, The bee to the swaying bud, Keep singing that sweet song over Of wee little Luddy-Dud. "'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning 'T is little Luddy-Dud at night; And all day long 'T is the same dear song Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite, Luddy-Dud." ~ Eugene Field,

224:The only nineties performer I see worthy of wearing the Bee Gees mantle of grandiose love hurried on by an eternal wind is Seal. Seal informs the lady that she is "the light on the dark side of me." He goes on: "And did you know that when it snows my eyes become enlarged and the light that you shine can't be seen?" Well, no, I didn't know that. As with the Bee Gees, I'm not sure what Seal is trying to say, but it sounds so traumatic and interesting that I immediately imagine the song is about me. "You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain," Seal is telling me. I like to be talked to like that! I can't wait for his next album to come out so I can find out what else I am. ~ Lisa Crystal Carver,

225:I will arise and go now, And go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, Of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, A hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, For peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning To where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, And noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings I will arise and go now, For always night and day I hear lake water lapping With low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway Or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. ~ W B Yeats,

226:Anger Anger in its time and place May assume a kind of grace. It must have some reason in it, And not last beyond a minute. If to further lengths it go, It does into malice grow. 'Tis the difference that we see 'Twixt the serpent and the bee. If the latter you provoke, It inflicts a hasty stroke, Puts you to some little pain, But it never stings again. Close in tufted bush or brake Lurks the poison-swellëd snake Nursing up his cherished wrath; In the purlieux of his path, In the cold, or in the warm, Mean him good, or mean him harm, Whensoever fate may bring you, The vile snake will always sting you. ~ Charles Lamb,

227:Meditation is not words, a mantram, or self hypnosis, the drug of illusions. It must happen without your volition. It must take place in the quiet stillness of the night, when you are suddenly awake and see that the brain is quiet and there is a peculiar quality of meditation going on. It must take place as silently as a snake among the tall grass, green in the fresh morning light. It must take place in the deep recesses of the brain. Meditation is not an achievement. There is no method, system or practice. Meditation begins with the ending of comparison, the ending of the becoming or not becoming. As the bee whispers among the leaves so the whispering of meditation is action. ~ Jiddu Krishnamurti,

228:ROSEMARY Beauty and Beauty’s son and rosemary— Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly— born of the sea supposedly, at Christmas each, in company, braids a garland of festivity. Not always rosemary— since the flight to Egypt, blooming differently. With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath, its flowers—white originally— turned blue. The herb of memory, imitating the blue robe of Mary, is not too legendary to flower both as symbol and as pungency. Springing from stones beside the sea, the height of Christ when thirty-three— it feeds on dew and to the bee “hath a dumb language”; is in reality a kind of Christmas-tree. ~ Marianne Moore,

229:Knowledge What is more large than knowledge and more sweet; Knowledge of thoughts and deeds, of rights and wrongs, Of passions and of beauties and of songs; Knowledge of life; to feel its great heart beat Through all the soul upon her crystal seat; To see, to feel, and evermore to know; To till the old world's wisdom till it grow A garden for the wandering of our feet. Oh for a life of leisure and broad hours, To think and dream, to put away small things, This world's perpetual leaguer of dull naughts; To wander like the bee among the flowers Till old age find us weary, feet and wings Grown heavy with the gold of many thoughts. ~ Archibald Lampman,

230:Later, after Abby had lugged Fred back inside and was taking off his jacket, she heard a crinkling sound and reached into the pocket of her coat. Her hand closed around an envelope. She pulled it out and saw her name in neat printing. ABIGAIL. She waited until she was alone in her room to open it, and inside she found a card showing a girl and boy joyfully riding a giant bumblebee, the words Valentine, I’m abuzz over you trailing in the wake of the bee. She flipped the card open. Zander had written BEE MINE, ZANDER in the same neat handwriting. Abby frowned, then smiled, and added the card to the ones she’d received from Rose and Sarah the day before. She hadn’t dared to give Zander a Valentine. ~ Ann M Martin,

231:Those who have handled sciences have been either men of experiment or men of dogmas. The men of experiment are like the ant, they only collect and use; the reasoners resemble spiders, who make cobwebs out of their own substance. But the bee takes a middle course: it gathers its material from the flowers of the garden and of the field, but transforms and digests it by a power of its own. Not unlike this is the true business of philosophy; for it neither relies solely or chiefly on the powers of the mind, nor does it take the matter which it gathers from natural history and mechanical experiments and lay it up in the memory whole, as it finds it, but lays it up in the understanding altered and digested. ~ Francis Bacon,

232:Begging Another For love's sake, kiss me once again; I long, and should not beg in vain, Here's none to spy or see; Why do you doubt or stay? I'll taste as lightly as the bee That doth but touch his flower and flies away. Once more, and faith I will be gone; Can he that loves ask less than one? Nay, you may err in this And all your bounty wrong; This could be called but half a kiss, What we're but once to do, we should do long. I will but mend the last, and tell Where, how it should have relished well; Join lip to lip, and try Each suck other's breath. And whilst our tongues perplexed lie, Let who will, think us dead or wish our death. ~ Ben Jonson,

233:1069 These Are The Days When Birds Come Back 130 These are the days when Birds come back— A very few—a Bird or two— To take a backward look. These are the days when skies resume The old—old sophistries of June— A blue and gold mistake. Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee— Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief. Till ranks of seeds their witness bear— And softly thro' the altered air Hurries a timid leaf. Oh Sacrament of summer days, Oh Last Communion in the Haze— Permit a child to join. Thy sacred emblems to partake— They consecrated bread to take And thine immortal wine! ~ Emily Dickinson,

234:Sonnet Lix: Love's Last Gift Love to his singer held a glistening leaf, And said: “The rose-tree and the apple-tree Have fruits to vaunt or flowers to lure the bee; And golden shafts are in the feathered sheaf Of the great harvest-marshal, the year's chief, Victorious Summer; aye, and 'neath warm sea Strange secret grasses lurk inviolably Between the filtering channels of sunk reef. “All are my blooms; and all sweet blooms of love To thee I gave while Spring and Summer sang; But Autumn stops to listen, with some pang From those worse things the wind is moaning of. Only this laurel dreads no winter days: Take my last gift; thy heart hath sung my praise.” ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

235:I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core. First published in The National Observer 13th December 1890 ~ William Butler Yeats, The Lake Isle Of Innisfree ,

236:Bee co-champs Ansun Sujoe, left, and Sriram Hathwar get a victory confetti shower Thursday. 656 words Spelling bee: For the first time in 52 years, two spellers were declared co-champions of the 2014 Scripps National Spelling Bee. Sriram Hathwar, of Painted Post, N.Y., and Ansun Sujoe, of Fort Worth, Texas, shared the title after a final-round duel Thursday night in which they nearly exhausted the 25 designated championship words. After they spelled a dozen words correctly in a row, they both were named champions. In the final round, Hathwar correctly spelled “stichomythia,” dialogue especially of altercation delivered by two actors. Sujoe correctly spelled “feuilleton,” the features section of a European newspaper or magazine. They became the fourth co-champions in the bee’s history and the first since 1962. ~ Anonymous,

237:THE THREE BEES by Suzy Kassem A young boy once asked A wealthy beekeeper: “What is the secret of Your success?” The beekeeper simply smiled And replied: “To be successful, One has to be one of three bees: The queen bee, The hardest working bee, Or the bee that does not fit in. One success is inherited, And the next one is earned. While the last one is Self-sought, Self-served, And happens on its own Terms.” “And which bee are you?” Asked the boy. The beekeeper then wiped The sweat from his head And said: “The last may seem the riskiest, But the glory of achievement Is the most rewarding. Freedom always comes at a high cost, But only when you are Your own boss, Can you truly Afford it.” (Suzy Kassem Poetry) ~ Suzy Kassem,

238:Oh, the jobs people work at! Out west near Hawtch-Hawtch there's a Hawtch-Hawtcher bee watcher, his job is to watch. Is to keep both his eyes on the lazy town bee, a bee that is watched will work harder you see. So he watched and he watched, but in spite of his watch that bee didn't work any harder not mawtch. So then somebody said "Our old bee-watching man just isn't bee watching as hard as he can, he ought to be watched by another Hawtch-Hawtcher! The thing that we need is a bee-watcher-watcher!". Well, the bee-watcher-watcher watched the bee-watcher. He didn't watch well so another Hawtch-Hawtcher had to come in as a watch-watcher-watcher! And now all the Hawtchers who live in Hawtch-Hawtch are watching on watch watcher watchering watch, watch watching the watcher who's watching that bee. You're not a Hawtch-Watcher you're lucky you see! ~ Dr Seuss,

239:I. Hast thou not seen, officious with delight, Move through the illumined air about the flower The Bee, that fears to drink its purple light, Lest danger lurk within that Rose's bower? Hast thou not marked the moth's enamoured flight About the Taper's flame at evening hour; Till kindle in that monumental fire His sunflower wings their own funereal pyre? II. My heart, its wishes trembling to unfold. Thus round the Rose and Taper hovering came, 'And Passions slave, Distrust, in ashes cold. Smothered awhile, but could not quench the flame,'-- Till Love, that grows by disappointment bold, And Opportunity, had conquered Shame; And like the Bee and Moth, in act to close, 'I burned my wings, and settled on the Rose.' TRANSLATED BY MEDWIN AND CORRECTED BY SHELLEY. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Stanzas From Calderons Cisma De Inglaterra ,

240:Bring Me The Sunset In A Cup 128 Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning's flagons up And say how many Dew, Tell me how far the morning leaps— Tell me what time the weaver sleeps Who spun the breadth of blue! Write me how many notes there be In the new Robin's ecstasy Among astonished boughs— How many trips the Tortoise makes— How many cups the Bee partakes, The Debauchee of Dews! Also, who laid the Rainbow's piers, Also, who leads the docile spheres By withes of supple blue? Whose fingers string the stalactite— Who counts the wampum of the night To see that none is due? Who built this little Alban House And shut the windows down so close My spirit cannot see? Who'll let me out some gala day With implements to fly away, Passing Pomposity? ~ Emily Dickinson,

241:Growing Old Little by little the year grows old, The red leaves drop from the maple boughs; The sun grows dim, and the winds blow cold, Down from the distant arctic seas. Out of the skies the soft light dies, And the shadows of autumn come creeping over, And the bee and the bird are no longer heard In grove or meadow, or field of clover. Little by little our lives grow old, Our faces no longer are fair to see; For gray creeps into the curls of gold, And the red fades out of the cheeks, ah me! And the birds that sang till our heart strings rang With strains of hope, and joy, and pleasure, Have flown away; and our hearts today Hear only the weird wind's solemn measure. Youth and summer, and beauty and bloom, Droop and die in the autumn weather, But up from the gloom of the winter's tomb, They shall rise, in God's good time, together. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

242:The essential quality that an entity needs, if it is to become an effective gene vehicle, is this. It must have an impartial exit channel into the future, for all the genes inside it. This is true of an individual wolf. The channel is the thin stream of sperms, or eggs, which it manufactures by meiosis. It is not true of the pack of wolves. Genes have something to gain from selfishly promoting the welfare of their own individual bodies, at the expense of other genes in the wolf pack. A bee-hive, when it swarms, appears to reproduce by broad-fronted budding, like a wolf pack. But if we look more carefully we find that, as far as the genes are concerned, their destiny is largely shared. The future of the genes in the swarm is, at least to a large extent, lodged in the ovaries of one queen. This is why—it is just another way of expressing the message of earlier chapters—the bee colony looks and behaves like a truly integrated single vehicle. ~ Richard Dawkins,

243:There is a flower that Bees prefer— And Butterflies—desire— To gain the Purple Democrat The Humming Bird—aspire— And Whatsoever Insect pass— A Honey bear away Proportioned to his several dearth And her—capacity— Her face be rounder than the Moon And ruddier than the Gown Or Orchis in the Pasture— Or Rhododendron—worn— She doth not wait for June— Before the World be Green— Her sturdy little Countenance Against the Wind—be seen— Contending with the Grass— Near Kinsman to Herself— For Privilege of Sod and Sun— Sweet Litigants for Life— And when the Hills be full— And newer fashions blow— Doth not retract a single spice For pang of jealousy— Her Public—be the Noon— Her Providence—the Sun— Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed— In sovereign—Swerveless Tune— The Bravest—of the Host— Surrendering—the last— Nor even of Defeat—aware— What cancelled by the Frost— ~ Emily Dickinson,

244:1006 The Soul Has Bandaged Moments 512 The Soul has Bandaged moments— When too appalled to stir— She feels some ghastly Fright come up And stop to look at her— Salute her—with long fingers— Caress her freezing hair— Sip, Goblin, from the very lips The Lover—hovered—o'er— Unworthy, that a thought so mean Accost a Theme—so—fair— The soul has moments of Escape— When bursting all the doors— She dances like a Bomb, abroad, And swings upon the Hours, As do the Bee—delirious borne— Long Dungeoned from his Rose— Touch Liberty—then know no more, But Noon, and Paradise— The Soul's retaken moments— When, Felon led along, With shackles on the plumed feet, And staples, in the Song, The Horror welcomes her, again, These, are not brayed of Tongue— ~ Emily Dickinson,

245:Kissing Time 'T is when the lark goes soaring And the bee is at the bud, When lightly dancing zephyrs Sing over field and flood; When all sweet things in nature Seem joyfully achime 'T is then I wake my darling, For it is kissing time! Go, pretty lark, a-soaring, And suck your sweets, 0 bee; Sing, 0 ye winds of summer, Your songs to mine and me; For with your song and rapture Cometh the moment when It's half-past kissing time And time to kiss again! So - so the days go fleeting Like golden fancies free, And every day that cometh Is full of sweets for me; And sweetest are those moments My darling comes to climb Into my lap to mind me That it is kissing time. Sometimes, maybe, he wanders A heedless, aimless way Sometimes, maybe, he loiters In pretty, prattling play; But presently bethinks him And hastens to me then, For it's half-past kissing time And time to kiss again! ~ Eugene Field,

246:I wanted to go on sitting there, not talking, not listening to the others, keeping the moment precious for all time, because we were peaceful all of us, we were content and drowsy even as the bee who droned above our heads. In a little while it would be different, there would come tomorrow, and the next day and another year. And we would be changed perhaps, never sitting quite like this again. Some of us would go away, or suffer, or die, the future stretched away in front of us, unknown, unseen, not perhaps what we wanted, not what we planned. This moment was safe though, this could not be touched. Here we sat together, Maxim and I, hand-in-hand, and the past and the future mattered not at all. This was secure, this funny little fragment of time he would never remember, never think about again…For them it was just after lunch, quarter-past-three on a haphazard afternoon, like any hour, like any day. They did not want to hold it close, imprisoned and secure, as I did. They were not afraid. ~ Daphne du Maurier,

247:There is nothing illogical in the desire of the "have-nots" to appropriate the wealth of the "haves"; in fact, it is part and parcel of the law of animal life. The bear robs the hive and the wolf the fold, and when "nature red in tooth and claw" is stretched into its human dimension, there is nothing irrational in Marx's theory that, granted the power, one social class should devour another. But what is irrational is, to assume that by robbing the hive the bear will assume the industry of the bee, or by robbing the fold the wolf will become as pacific as the sheep. It is astonishing that a man of Marx's high intelligence could have believed in ritualistic cannibalism on the social plane; that by wresting the forces of production from the bourgeoisie and centralizing them in the hands of the proletariat, the proletariat would automatically aacquire the skills of the ruling class. And it is equally astonishing that a man of Lenin's mental calibre could have attempted to put this magic into practice. ~ J F C Fuller,

248:Song The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor - lark in the air, The bee among the heather - bells That hide my lady fair: The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left their solitude! I ween, that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again. They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years, But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears? Well, let them fight for Honour's breath, Or Pleasure's shade pursue The Dweller in the land of Death Is changed and careless too. And if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh! Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer streams There is no need of other sound To soothe my Lady's dreams. ~ Emily Jane Brontë,

249:My Lady's Grave THE linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair: The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caress'd, Have left her solitude! I ween that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again. They thought the tide of grief would flow Uncheck'd through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears? Well, let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue-The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too. And if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh! Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound: And murmur, summer streams! There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams. ~ Emily Jane Brontë,

250:In essence, the bee's azimuth system acts like a sundial run in reverse, and like a sundial, it has to be calibrated. A sundial, which must be oriented with respect to a known compass direction, calculates the time of day based on where the sun is; the navigational centers in the bee's brain calculate where the sun should be based on the time of day. As a consequence, the one thing that bees can't cope with is the discalibration that results from jet lag. In a famous 1960s experiment, Max Renner packed up a hive of bees in Long Island, New York, flew them to Davis, California, and tested their ability to navigate with the sun as a landmark. The jetlagged bees consistently misoriented themselves by 45 degrees, precisely as though they believed it was three hours later. The complex circuitry that allows the bee to use the sun as a guide is built in, but it is not that genes trump the environment (or the other way around). Instead, genes enable creatures to make sensible use of their particular environment. Learning is not the antithesis of innateness but one of its most important products. ~ Gary F Marcus,

251:I'M Saying Every Day 373 I'm saying every day "If I should be a Queen, tomorrow"— I'd do this way— And so I deck, a little, If it be, I wake a Bourbon, None on me, bend supercilious— With "This was she— Begged in the Market place— Yesterday." Court is a stately place— I've heard men say— So I loop my apron, against the Majesty With bright Pins of Buttercup— That not too plain— Rank—overtake me— And perch my Tongue On Twigs of singing—rather high— But this, might be my brief Term To qualify— Put from my simple speech all plain word— Take other accents, as such I heard Though but for the Cricket—just, And but for the Bee— Not in all the Meadow— One accost me— Better to be ready— Than did next morn Meet me in Aragon— My old Gown—on— And the surprised Air Rustics—wear— 552 Summoned—unexpectedly— To Exeter— ~ Emily Dickinson,

252:Honey bees, too, use a highly specialized learning mechanism to help them figure out where they are going: the difference is that their system works based on the trajectory of a single star, our very own sun. Once again, part of the system is prewired, but part of it requires learning. The prewired bit is a mathematical function that relates the sun's position on the horizon to to a bee's orientation-but some of the values of the equation must be set, which is where learning comes in. What the bee learns is a highly specific bit of information about the sun's trajectory at the bee's particular latitude at a particular time of year. A five o'clock winter sun in Boston means something very different from a five o'clock summer sun in California, and a highly focused learning mechanism allows honeybees to take advantage of that information. We know that bees don't simply memorize a correspondence between particular places on the horizon and particular headings, because bees that have been raised in conditions in which they are exposed only to morning light can accurately use the sun as a guide during evening light. ~ Gary F Marcus,

253:The Bee's Winter Retreat Go, while the summer suns are bright, Take at large thy wandering flight, Go, and load thy tiny feet With every rich and various sweet; Cling around the flowering thorn, Dive in the woodbine's honey'd horn, Seek the wild rose that shades the dell, Explore the foxglove's freckled bell; Or in the heath-flower's fairy cup, Drink the fragrant spirit up, But when the meadows shall be mown, And summer's garlands overblown, Then come, thou little busy bee, And let thy homestead be with me:There, shelter'd by the straw-built hive, In my garden thou shalt live, And that garden shall supply Thy delicious alchymy;There, for thee, in autumn, blows The Indian pink and latest rose, The mignonette perfumes the air, And stocks, unfading flowers, are there. Yet fear not when the tempests come, And drive thee to thy waxen home, That I shall then, most treacherously, For thy honey murder thee:Oh, no! -throughout the winter drear I'll feed thee, that another year Thou may'st renew thy industry Among the flowers, thou busy bee. ~ Charlotte Smith,

254:Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl, When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep Was aerie-light, from pure digestion bred, And temperate vapors bland, which the only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan, Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song Of birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwakened Eve With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek, As through unquiet rest: He, on his side Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love Hung over her enamored, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, Her hand soft touching, whispered thus. Awake, My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight! Awake: The morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, How nature paints her colors, how the bee Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet. ~ John Milton,

255:The Triumph Of Charis See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And, enamoured, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! ~ Ben Jonson,

256:A Celebration Of Charis: Iv. Her Triumph See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her; And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it? Ha' you felt the wool o' the beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she! ~ Ben Jonson,

257:Although I Put Away His Life 366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear, This might have been the Hand That sowed the flower, he preferred— Or smoothed a homely pain, Or pushed the pebble from his path— Or played his chosen tune— On Lute the least—the latest— But just his Ear could know That whatsoe'er delighted it, I never would let go— The foot to bear his errand— A little Boot I know— Would leap abroad like Antelope— With just the grant to do— His weariest Commandment— A sweeter to obey, Than "Hide and Seek"— Or skip to Flutes— Or all Day, chase the Bee— Your Servant, Sir, will weary— The Surgeon, will not come— The World, will have its own—to do— The Dust, will vex your Fame— The Cold will force your tightest door Some February Day, But say my apron bring the sticks To make your Cottage gay— That I may take that promise 127 To Paradise, with me— To teach the Angels, avarice, You, Sir, taught first—to me. ~ Emily Dickinson,

258:1053 There Is A Flower That Bees Prefer 380 There is a flower that Bees prefer— And Butterflies—desire— To gain the Purple Democrat The Humming Bird—aspire— And Whatsoever Insect pass— A Honey bear away Proportioned to his several dearth And her—capacity— Her face be rounder than the Moon And ruddier than the Gown Or Orchis in the Pasture— Or Rhododendron—worn— She doth not wait for June— Before the World be Green— Her sturdy little Countenance Against the Wind—be seen— Contending with the Grass— Near Kinsman to Herself— For Privilege of Sod and Sun— Sweet Litigants for Life— And when the Hills be full— And newer fashions blow— Doth not retract a single spice For pang of jealousy— Her Public—be the Noon— Her Providence—the Sun— Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed— In sovereign—Swerveless Tune— The Bravest—of the Host— Surrendering—the last— 1054 Nor even of Defeat—aware— What cancelled by the Frost— ~ Emily Dickinson,

259:A bee settling on a flower has stung a child. And the child is afraid of bees and declares that bees exist to sting people. A poet admires the bee sucking from the chalice of a flower and says it exists to suck the fragrance of flowers. A beekeeper, seeing the bee collect pollen from flowers and carry it to the hive, says that it exists to gather honey. Another beekeeper who has studied the life of the hive more closely says that the bee gathers pollen dust to feed the young bees and rear a queen, and that it exists to perpetuate its race. A botanist notices that the bee flying with the pollen of a male flower to a pistil fertilizes the latter, and sees in this the purpose of the bee’s existence. Another, observing the migration of plants, notices that the bee helps in this work, and may say that in this lies the purpose of the bee. But the ultimate purpose of the bee is not exhausted by the first, the second, or any of the processes the human mind can discern. The higher the human intellect rises in the discovery of these purposes, the more obvious it becomes, that the ultimate purpose is beyond our comprehension. All that is accessible to man is the relation of the life of the bee to other manifestations of life. And so it is with the purpose of historic characters and nations. ~ Leo Tolstoy,

260:how is it that you came up with so many clever solutions to what seemed to be impossible problems?” “They weren’t, not really . . . clever, I mean. They were actually kind of crazy and not even well thought out. Stupid, you might say.” I pause, feeling like a fool before an audience of millions. “But—with all factors put together, they worked—for the circumstances. It’s like—you know that old myth about the bee? That, according to ‘physics,’ a bumblebee is not ‘aerodynamic’ enough, is not supposed to be able to fly—it just does because it doesn’t know any better? Well, that’s all nonsense. A bumblebee flies just fine! It flies according to physical laws, only different ones, because it itself is different, using other complex variables for its flight method—for example, something called ‘dynamic stall’ comes into play. . . . Anyway, what I did wasn’t clever but kind of all over the place, using everything at my disposal . . . like the bee. It’s like—if you move fast enough and just the right way—if you do some things quickly and desperately enough, hoping they don’t have time to fall apart on you—you can make the seemingly impossible happen. And it’s not ‘before it knows any better.’ It’s before the whole unstable construct falls apart. Move fast enough and you can walk on water. . ~ Vera Nazarian,

261:Summer Song The meadow lark’s trill and the brown thrush’s whistle From morning to evening fill all the sweet air, And my heart is as light as the down of a thistle – The world is so bright and the earth is so fair. There is life in the wood, there is bloom on the meadow; The air drops with songs that the merry birds sing. The sunshine has won, in the battle with shadow, And she’s dressed the glad earth with robes of the spring. The bee leaves his hive for the field of red clover And the vale where the daisies bloom white as the snow, And a mantle of warm yellow sunshine hangs over The calm little pond, where the pale lillies grow. In the woodland beyond it, a thousand gay voices Are singing in chorus some jubilant air. The bird and the bee and all nature rejoices, The world is so bright, and the earth is so fair. I am glad as a child, in this beautiful weather; I have tossed all my burdens and trials away; My heart is as light – yes, as light as a feather; I am care-free, and careless, and happy to-day. Can it be there approaches a dark, dreary to-morrow? Can shadows e’er fall on this beautiful earth? Ah! To-day is my own! No forebodings of sorrow Shall darken my skies, or shall dampen my mirth. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

262:Good-Night! Good-night! Now dwindle wan and low The embers of the afterglow, And slowly over leaf and lawn Is twilight's dewy curtain drawn. The slouching vixen leaves her lair, And, prowling, sniffs the tell-tale air. The frogs croak louder in the dyke, And all the trees seem dark alike: The bee is drowsing in the comb, The sharded beetle hath gone home: Good-night! Good-night! The hawk is in his nest, And the last rook hath dropped to rest. There is no hum, no chirp, no bleat, No rustle in the meadow-sweet. The woodbine, somewhere out of sight, Sweetens the loneliness of night. The Sister Stars, that once were seven, Mourn for their missing mate in Heaven. The poppy's fair frail petals close, The lily yet more languid grows, And dewy-dreamy droops the rose: Good-night! Good-night! Caressing and caressed, The moist babe warms its mother's breast. Silent are rustic loom and lathe; The scythe lies quiet as the swathe; The woodreeve blinks in covert shed, The weary yokel is abed, The covey warm beneath the wing, And sleep enfoldeth everything. Forsaken love, its last tear shed, On the lone pillow lays its head, And all our woes are respited: Good-night! 249 ~ Alfred Austin,

263:An example of the way he is benevolent towards His servants is His giving them more than they need and His demanding of them less than they are capable of. It also pertains to His being benevolent to facilitate their attaining the happiness of eternity with little effort in a short time, that is, a lifetime; for there is no way of comparing that with eternity. The production of pure milk out of digested food and blood, as well as the production of precious gems from hard stone, of honey from the bee, silk from the worm, and pearls from the oyster-are all part of His benevolence. But even more amazing than that is His creating from impure semen one who is a vessel for His knowledge, bears His trust and witnesses to His heavenly kingdoms-this too is impossible to reckon. Counsel: A man's share in this attribute is gentleness with regard to the servants of God-great and glorious, and a predilection for them in petitioning God the most high; as well as guiding them to the happiness of the world to come in a manner free from rebuke or harshness, fanaticism or disputation. The best way of being benevolent open to man lies in attracting others to accept the truth by one's good qualities, pleasing comportment, and exemplary actions, for they are more effective and more benign than eloquent exhortation. ~ Abu Hamid al-Ghazali,

264:The Sea-Child HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink Where every eye but his own would shrink; No music he hears but the billow’s noise, And shells and weeds are his only toys. No lullaby can the mother find To sing him to rest like the moaning wind; And the louder it wails and the fiercer it sweeps, The deeper he breathes and the sounder he sleeps. And now his wandering feet can reach The rugged tracks of the desolate beach; Creeping about like a Triton imp, To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp. He clings, with none to guide or help, To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp; And his bold heart glows while he stands and mocks The seamew’s cry on the jutting rocks. Few years have wan’d—and now he stands Bareheaded on the shelving sands. A boat is moor’d, but his young hands cope Right well with the twisted cable rope; He frees the craft, she kisses the tide; The boy has climb’d her beaten side: She drifts—she floats—he shouts with glee; His soul hath claim’d its right on the sea. ’T is vain to tell him the howling breath Rides over the waters with wreck and death: He ’ll say there ’s more of fear and pain On the plague-ridden earth than the storm-lash’d main. ’T would be as wise to spend thy power In trying to lure the bee from the flower, The lark from the sky, or the worm from the grave, As in weaning the Sea-Child from the wave. ~ Eliza Cook,

265:A Dead Rose O Rose! who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,--Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee. The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odour up the lane to last all day,--If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee. The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,--If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee. The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined, because It lay upon thee where the crimson was,--If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee. The fly that lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet, Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,--If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee. The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,--If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee. The heart doth recognise thee, Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,--Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee. Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!--Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee! 16 ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

266:Gouge, Adze, Rasp, Hammer So this is what it's like when love leaves, and one is disappointed that the body and mind continue to exist, exacting payment from each other, engaging in stale rituals of desire, and it would seem the best use of one's time is not to stand for hours outside her darkened house, drenched and chilled, blinking into the slanting rain. So this is what it's like to have to practice amiability and learn to say the orchard looks grand this evening as the sun slips behind scumbled clouds and the pears, mellowed to a golden-green, glow like flames among the boughs. It is now one claims there is comfort in the constancy of nature, in the wind's way of snatching dogwood blossoms from their branches, scattering them in the dirt, in the slug's sure, slow arrival to nowhere. It is now one makes a show of praise for the lilac that strains so hard to win attention to its sweet inscrutability, when one admires instead the lowly gouge, adze, rasp, hammer-fire-forged, blunt-syllabled things, unthought-of until a need exists: a groove chiseled to a fixed width, a roof sloped just so. It is now one knows what it is to envy the rivet, wrench, vise -- whatever works unburdened by memory and sight, while high above the damp fields flocks of swallows roil and dip, and streams churn, thick with leaping salmon, and the bee advances on the rose. ~ Chris Forhan,

267:The Spring—time, O The Spring--Time The Spring-time, O the Spring-time! Who does not know it well? When the little birds begin to build, And the buds begin to swell. When the sun with the clouds plays hide-and-seek, And the lambs are bucking and bleating, And the colour mounts to the maiden's cheek, And the cuckoo scatters greeting; In the Spring-time, joyous Spring-time! The Summer, O the Summer! Who does not know it well? When the ringdoves coo the long day through, And the bee refills his cell. When the swish of the mower is heard at morn, And we all in the woods go roaming, And waiting is over, and love is born, And shy lips meet in the gloaming; In the Summer, ripening Summer! The Autumn, O the Autumn! Who does not know it well? When the leaf turns brown, and the mast drops down, And the chestnut splits its shell. When we muse o'er the days that have gone before, And the days that will follow after, When the grain lies deep on the winnowing-floor, And the plump gourd hangs from the rafter; In the Autumn, thoughtful Autumn! The Winter, O the Winter! Who does not know it well? When, day after day, the fields stretch gray, And the peewit wails on the fell. When we close up the crannies and shut out the cold, And the wind sounds hoarse and hollow, And our dead loves sleep in the churchyard mould, And we feel that we soon shall follow; In the Winter, mournful Winter! 551 ~ Alfred Austin,

268:As the sun and each atom of ether is a sphere complete in itself, and yet at the same time only a part of a whole too immense for man to comprehend, so each individual has within himself his own aims and yet has them to serve a general purpose incomprehensible to man. A bee settling on a flower has stung a child. And the child is afraid of bees and declares that bees exist to sting people. A poet admires the bee sucking from the chalice of a flower and says it exists to suck the fragrance of flowers. A beekeeper, seeing the bee collect pollen from flowers and carry it to the hive, says that it exists to gather honey. Another beekeeper who has studied the life of the hive more closely says that the bee gathers pollen dust to feed the young bees and rear a queen, and that it exists to perpetuate its race. A botanist notices that the bee flying with the pollen of a male flower to a pistil fertilizes the latter, and sees in this the purpose of the bee's existence. Another, observing the migration of plants, notices that the bee helps in this work, and may say that in this lies the purpose of the bee. But the ultimate purpose of the bee is not exhausted by the first, the second, or any of the processes the human mind can discern. The higher the human intellect rises in the discovery of these purposes, the more obvious it becomes, that the ultimate purpose is beyond our comprehension. All that is accessible to man is the relation of the life of the bee to other manifestations of life. And so it is with the purpose of historic characters and nations. ~ Leo Tolstoy,

269:Isabel Now o'er the landscape crowd the deepening shades, And the shut lily cradles not the bee; The red deer couches in the forest glades, And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea: And ere I rest, one prayer I'll breathe for thee, The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams: Lady, forgive, that ever upon me Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams Linger on Merlin's rock, or dark Sabrina's streams. On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray, And watch far off the glimmering roselight break O'er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake. Oh! who felt not new life within him wake, And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn (Save one we wot of, whom the cold DID make Feel 'shooting pains in every joint in turn,') When first he saw the sun gild thy green shores, Lucerne? And years have past, and I have gazed once more On blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue; And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before For all awakened memories of you. Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieu Of that red matron, whom the flies would worry, (Flies in those parts unfortunately do,) Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry, And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray! O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme That ere drew dreamer on to poesy, Since 'Peggy's locks' made Burns neglect his team, And Stella's smile lured Johnson from his tea I may not tell thee what thou art to me! But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear, Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be, Would he but 'do the duty that lies near,' And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard-rooms, and beer. 37 ~ Charles Stuart Calverley,

270:Stung Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice. They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear. Sylvia Plath, “The Bee Meeting” When he was a young man & the flower of his mind opened wide as a birth canal, a single bumblebee, pregnant with pollen landed a quick kiss on his cheek, laced with a fine golden down sticky as honey. When he was a bit older a second bumblebee descended onto the stem of his thorn sharp nose, locked feelers with the first bee & began an elegant waltz. His legs moved like an insect's. When he was older still a third bumblebee alighted on his forehead, crawled down the cleft of his eye & joined its two brethren, pirouetting along his jaw-line. When he was older still again a flotilla of bees covered his chin like a living veil. Their wings interlocked; a phalanx of shields protecting him from the wasps that fled their nests of mud & were out to get him. 37 When he was in his prime a honeybee, blown far off course set down on the hive of his heart. She never flew away. Just gave order to the bees that streamed down his throat like a black & yellow waterfall. When he was an old man, a thick beard of drones hung down to his knees. He tucked them into the belt serpenting his waist, constricting time into nectar. Not a single bee ever stung him. When eventually he died a hundred thousand bees danced alongside the funeral procession. All the way to the gravesite, where they flung themselves like dervishes in after his Baltic amber coffin. When he was honeycombed with mud tiny pairs of frosted glass wings littered the grave's edge. When dusk fell they twinkled like mirrored wall-tiles, illuminating the blood red roses that died with the light of the day. ~ B. R. Dionysius,

271:On this account I feel always, on a Saturday night, as though I also were released from some yoke of labour, had some wages to receive, and some luxury of repose to enjoy. For the sake, therefore, of witnessing, upon as large a scale as possible, a spectacle with which my sympathy was so entire, I used after, on Saturday nights, after I had taken opium, to wander forth, without much regarding the direction or the sistance, to all the markets, and other parts of London, to which the poor resort on a Saturday night, for laying out their wages. Many a family party, consisting of a man, his wife, and sometimes one or two of his children, have I listened to, as they stood consulting on their ways and means, or the strength of their exchequer, or the price of household articles. Gradually I became familiar with their wishes, their difficulties, and their opinions. Sometimes there might be heard murmers of discontent: but far oftener expressions on the countenance, or uttered in words, of patience, hope, and tranquillity. And taken generally, I must say, that, in this point at least, the poor are far more philosophic than the rich - that they show a more ready and cheerful submission to what they consider as irremediable evils, or irreparable losses. Whenever I saw occasion, or could do it without appearing to be intrusive, I joined their parties; and gave my opinion upon the matter in discussion, which, if not always judicious, was always received indulgently. If wages were a little higher, or expected to be so, or the quartern loaf a little lower, or it was reported that onions and butter were expected to fall, I was glad: yet, if the contrary were true, I drew from opium some means of consoling myself. For opium (like the bee, that extracts its materials indiscriminately from roses and from the soot of chimneys) can overrule all feelings into a compliance with the master key. Some of these rambles lead me to great distances: for an opium-eater is too happy to observe the motion of time. ~ Thomas de Quincey,

272:Voicemail #1: “Hi, Isabel Culpeper. I am lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling. I am mostly naked. I am thinking of … your mother. Call me.” Voicemail #2: The first minute and thirty seconds of “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You” by the Bee Gees. Voicemail #3: “I’m bored. I need to be entertained. Sam is moping. I may kill him with his own guitar. It would give me something to do and also make him say something. Two birds with one stone! I find all these old expressions unnecessarily violent. Like, ring around the rosy. That’s about the plague, did you know? Of course you did. The plague is, like, your older cousin. Hey, does Sam talk to you? He says jack shit to me. God, I’m bored. Call me.” Voicemail #4: “Hotel California” by the Eagles, in its entirety, with every instance of the word California replaced with Minnesota. Voicemail #5: “Hi, this is Cole St. Clair. Want to know two true things? One, you’re never picking up this phone. Two, I’m never going to stop leaving long messages. It’s like therapy. Gotta talk to someone. Hey, you know what I figured out today? Victor’s dead. I figured it out yesterday, too. Every day I figure it out again. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like there’s no one I can —” Voicemail #6: “So, yeah, I’m sorry. That last message went a little pear-shaped. You like that expression? Sam said it the other day. Hey, try this theory on for size: I think he’s a dead British housewife reincarnated into a Beatle’s body. You know, I used to know this band that put on fake British accents for their shows. Boy, did they suck, aside from being assholes. I can’t remember their name now. I’m either getting senile or I’ve done enough to my brain that stuff’s falling out. Not so fair of me to make this one-sided, is it? I’m always talking about myself in these things. So, how are you, Isabel Rosemary Culpeper? Smile lately? Hot Toddies. That was the name of the band. The Hot Toddies.” Voicemail #20: “I wish you’d answer. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

273:For A Certain Critic Let lowly themes engage my humble pen Stupidities of critics, not of men. Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace Of the expounders' self-directed race Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine, Of diligent vacuity the sign. Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse The moral meaning of the random verse That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen To be half-blotted by ambitious men Who hope with his their meaner names to link By writing o'er it in another ink The thoughts unreal which they think they think, Until the mental eye in vain inspects The hateful palimpsest to find the text. The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long Sings to the dawning day his wanton song. The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: Explains its principles, design-in brief, Pronounces it a parable of grief! The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh With pollen from a hollyhock near by, Declares he never heard in terms so just The labor problem thoughtfully discussed! The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle To say: 'A monologue upon the thistle!' Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing And innocently asks: 'What!-did I sing?' O literary parasites! who thrive Upon the fame of better men, derive Your sustenance by suction, like a leech, And, for you preach of them, think masters preach, Who find it half is profit, half delight, To write about what you could never write, Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes 267 Of famine and discomfiture in those You write of if they had been critics, too, And doomed to write of nothing but of you! Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent, To see the lion resolutely bent! The prosing showman who the beast displays Grows rich and richer daily in its praise. But how if, to attract the curious yeoman, The lion owned the show and showed the showman? ~ Ambrose Bierce,

274:When You Are Not Surprised When you are not surprised, not surprised, nor leap in imagination from sunlight into shadow or from shadow into sunlight suiting the color of fright or delight to the bewildering circumstance when you are no longer surprised by the quiet or fury of daybreak the stormy uprush of the sun’s rage over the edges of torn trees torrents of living and dying flung upward and outward inward and downward to space or else peace peace peace peace the wood-thrush speaking his holy holy far hidden in the forest of the mind while slowly the limbs of light unwind and the world’s surface dreams again of night as the center dreams of light when you are not surprised by breath and breath and breath the first unconscious morning breath the tap of the bird’s beak on the pane and do not cry out come again blest blest that you are come again o light o sound o voice of bird o light and memory too o memory blest and curst with the debts of yesterday that would not stay, or stay when you are not surprised by death and death and death death of the bee in the daffodil death of color in the child’s cheek on the young mother’s breast death of sense of touch of sight death of delight and the inward death the inward turning night 332 when the heart hardens itself with hate and indifference for hated self and beloved not-self when you are not surprised by wheel’s turn or turn of season the winged and orbed chariot tilt of time the halcyon pause, the blue caesura of spring and solar rhyme woven into the divinely remembered nest by the dark-eyed love in the oriole’s breast and the tides of space that ring the heart while still, while still, the wave of the invisible world breaks into consciousness in the mind of god then welcome death and be by death benignly welcomed and join again in the ceaseless know-nothing from which you awoke to the first surprise. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

275:I. I dream of a red-rose tree. And which of its roses three Is the dearest rose to me? II. Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go Floating the women faded for ages, Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages. Then follow women fresh and gay, Living and loving and loved to-day. Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence, They circle their rose on my rose tree. III. Dear rose, thy term is reached, Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached: Bees pass it unimpeached. IV. Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb, You, great shapes of the antique time! How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you, Break my heart at your feet to please you? Oh, to possess and be possessed! Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast! Once but of love, the poesy, the passion, Drink but once and die!-In vain, the same fashion, They circle their rose on my rose tree. V. Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed, Thy cup is ruby-rimmed, Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed. VI. Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth The bee sucked in by the hyacinth, So will I bury me while burning, Quench like him at a plunge my yearning, Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips! Fold me fast where the cincture slips, Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure, Girdle me for once! But no-the old measure, They circle their rose on my rose tree. VII. Dear rose without a thorn, Thy bud's the babe unborn: First streak of a new morn. VIII. Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear! What is far conquers what is near. Roses will bloom nor want beholders, Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders. What shall arrive with the cycle's change? A novel grace and a beauty strange. I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her, Shaped her to his mind!-Alas! in like manner They circle their rose on my rose tree. ~ Robert Browning, Women And Roses ,

276:Chimes I. HONEY-FLOWERS to the honey-comb, And the honey-bee's from home. A honey-comb and a honey-flower, And the bee shall have his hour. A honeyed heart for the honey-comb, And the humming bee flies home. A heavy heart in the honey-flower, And the bee has had his hour. II. A honey-cell's in the honeysuckle, And the honey-bee knows it well. The honey-comb has a heart of honey, And the humming bee's so bonny. A honey-flower's the honeysuckle, And the bee's in the honey-bell. The honeysuckle is sucked of honey, And the bee is heavy and bonny. III. Brown shell first for the butterfly, And a bright wing by and by. Butterfly, good-bye to your shell, And, bright wings, speed you well. Bright lamplight for the butterfly And a burnt wing by and by. Butterfly, alas for your shell, And, bright wings, fare you well. IV. Lost love-labour and lullaby, 65 And lowly let love lie. Lost love-morrow and love fellow And love's life lying low. Lovelorn labour and life laid by, And lowly let love lie. Late love-longing and life-sorrow And love's life lying low. V. Beauty's body and benison With a bosom-flower new-blown. Bitter beauty and blessing bann'd With a breast to burn and brand. Beauty's bower in the dust o'erblown With a bare white breast of bone. Barren beauty and bower of sand With a blast on either hand. VI. Buried bars in the breakwater And bubble of the brimming weir. Body's blood in the breakwater And a buried body's bier. Buried bones in the breakwater And bubble of the brawling weir. Bitter tears in the breakwater And a breaking heart to bear. VII. Hollow heaven and the hurricane And hurry of the heavy rain. Hurried clouds in the hollow heaven And a heavy rain hard-driven. The heavy rain it hurries amain And heaven and the hurricane. Hurrying wind o'er the heaven's hollow And the heavy rain to follow. 66 ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

277:Dark Thesis (i) The ocean is the oldest cliché. When we came home there was a dead bee on the windowsill – its body a perfect death’s head question mark, its elements, sodium calcium & potassium curled halfway to the sea. (ii) This afternoon was as hot as Greece. We missed the bee’s last do-se-do distant arthropodic cousin in shell-shock miniature. Dead from time’s comical Acme weight. Imprinted on our layers of human memory & recorded thus. 15 Filed: insect sedimentary. (iii) A new home was sluiced on land. Through the meniscus of coast, pods stuck. The amphibians, neither here nor there kept genetic ‘get out of jail free’ cards. Some larger, more aggressive marine exiles (pre-Cuban) returned to the aquatic fray. Made use of their bulk, heavyweights who outclassed all comers. This primeval Bay of Pigs, & pre-Darwinian back flip. (iv) It is the deep sea where everything stops. Philosophy & sex coexist; a dark thesis writ. 16 Light mostly extinguished, but for some slight phosphorescence, evades touch, as sight demystified, reveals nothing. In the ether of unlight, feeling is everything. First racial memories – trilobites’ dodgem car head-on into an armoured scorpions grin. Cambrian sideshow alley adrenaline. (v) But we regress. Our new home is closer to that first ocean. Pre-salt, pre-water, more tanning salon than 2 brd flat. The ants & their artery/vein routine we notice, shift their long march, include the kitchen sink. The Silk Road to our bin is Semtex lined. We’ve thrown in an oasis for fun. Will they find the bee? Our small deposit of platinum, alloyed by the alchemical sun. 17 (vi) Do they remember a mother, these full stops fossilised into the lining of our Westinghouse’s air-tight door? What good, hindsight? After the Earth & Ocean lodged their divorce papers & freezing had begun. (vii) On St Georges’ Rd the stream of life poured on. ~ B. R. Dionysius,

278:Famine's Realm To him in whom the love of Nature has Imperfectly supplanted the desire And dread necessity of food, your shore, Fair Oakland, is a terror. Over all Your sunny level, from Tamaletown To where the Pestuary's fragrant slime, With dead dogs studded, bears its ailing fleet, Broods the still menace of starvation. Bones Of men and women bleach along the ways And pampered vultures sleep upon the trees. It is a land of death, and Famine there Holds sovereignty; though some there be her sway Who challenge, and intrenched in larders live, Drawing their sustentation from abroad. But woe to him, the stranger! He shall die As die the early righteous in the bud And promise of their prime. He, venturesome To penetrate the wilds rectangular Of grass-grown ways luxuriant of blooms, Frequented of the bee and of the blithe, Bold squirrel, strays with heedless feet afar From human habitation and is lost In mid-Broadway. There hunger seizes him, And (careless man! deeming God's providence Extends so far) he has not wherewithal To bate its urgency. Then, lo! appears A mealery-a restaurant-a place Where poison battles famine, and the two, Like fish-hawks warring in the upper sky For that which one has taken from the deep, Manage between them to dispatch the prey. He enters and leaves hope behind. There ends His history. Anon his bones, clean-picked By buzzards (with the bones himself had picked, Incautious) line the highway. O, my friends, Of all felonious and deadlywise Devices of the Enemy of Souls, Planted along the ways of life to snare Man's mortal and immortal part alike, 261 The Oakland restaurant is chief. It lives That man may die. It flourishes that life May wither. Its foundation stones repose On human hearts and hopes. I've seen in it Crabs stewed in milk and salad offered up With dressing so unholily compound That it included flour and sugar! Yea, I've eaten dog there!-dog, as I'm a man, Dog seethed in sewage of the town! No more Thy hand, Dyspepsia, assumes the pen And scrawls a tortured 'Finis' on the page. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

279:An Evening Song To She Who Exists By My Name Daughter of the daughter of the daughters of the daughter Pe foreto the apple you ate of yee beguiling Adam's heights foreto you favorite daughter of the daughter of Pe being the Mother of the world and the world itself and the child of the world being open the eye of the soul of grain open the shores and do not turn yee head about open the fallen shadows of thrones to the larch open through Angels singing birds open the sighing breath in the air of the sown winds that call you down to them that call you that love you that yellow find yee in life. The steam bath of your faces the steam bath of your faces foreto opening memory's window take a look around what is situated in the distance take a count of the moving and the restless and count out on your hand A those restless ones those restless ones foreto taking from movement accepting life long to move and yet still sleeputh or quick say: from movement comes life but in stillness death. Origin and Power will fit into thy shoulder Origin and Power will fit into thy forehead Origin and Power will fit into the sole of thy foot but you will never take fire and arrow into your hand but you will never take fire and arrow into your hand foreto the ladder of thou head daughter of the daughter of the daughters of the daughter of Pe O fy lily of mine eyes fe the inkwell of mine cheeks trrr the ear of mine hair quill of happiness reflection of the light of mine things key of ashes and bosom of flowing pride take cover in silence people of this mine country foreto wink number height and horse's ride Of willfulness shall we sing sister of willfulness shall we sing sister daughter of the daughter of the daughters of Pe name-day girl of your own name of your own legs the wind and of your own bosom the bee of your own hands the strength and my breath uneasyseeable depth of my soul the light that sings in my city joy of the night and forest of the graveyard of still standing times with courage come into the world and life's witness come to me in my dreams. ~ Daniil Ivanovich Kharms,

280:Why The Jackass Laughs The Boastful Crow and the Laughing Jack Were telling tales of the outer back: "I've just been travelling far and wide, At the back of Bourke and the Queensland side; There isn't a bird in the bush can go As far as me," said the old black crow. "There isn't a bird in the bush can fly A course as straight or a course as high. Higher than human eyesight goes. There's sometimes clouds -- but there's always crows, Drifting along for a scent of blood Or a smell of smoke or a sign of flood. For never a bird or a beast has been With a sight as strong or a scent as keen. At fires and floods I'm the first about, For then the lizards and mice run out: And I make my swoop -- and that's all they know -I'm a whale on mice," said the Boastful Crow. The Bee-birds over the homestead flew And told each other the long day through "The cold has come, we must take the track." "Now, I'll make you a bet," said the Laughing Jack, "Of a hundred mice, that you dare not go With the little Bee-birds, by Boastful Crow." Said the Boastful Crow, "I could take my ease And fly with little green birds like these. If they went flat out and they did their best I could have a smoke and could take a rest." And he asked of the Bee-birds circling round: "Now, where do you spike-tails think you're bound?" "We leave tonight, and out present plan is to go straight on till we reach Japan. "Every year, on the self-same day, We call our children and start away, Twittering, travelling day and night, 530 Over the ocean we take our flight; And we rest a day on some lonely isles Or we beg a ride for a hundred miles On a steamer's deck,* and away we go: We hope you'll come with us, Mister Crow." But the old black crow was extremely sad. Said he: "I reckon you're raving mad To talk of travelling night and day, And how in the world do you find your way?" And the Bee-birds answered him, "If you please, That's one of our own great mysteries". Now these things chanced in the long ago And explain the fact, which no doubt you know, That every jackass high and low Will always laugh when he sees a crow. ~ Banjo Paterson,

281:The Open Secret The Heavens repeat no other Song, And, plainly or in parable, The Angels trust, in each man's to gue, The Treasure's safety to its size. In shameful Hell The Lily in last corruption lies, Where known 'tis, rotten-lily-wise, By the strange foulness of the smell. Earth, that, in this arcanum, spies Proof of high kinship unconceiv'd, By all desired and disbeliev'd, Shews fancies, in each thing that is, Which nothing mean, not meaning this, Yea, does from her own law, to hint it, err, As 'twere a trust too huge for her. Maiden and Youth pipe wondrous clear The tune they are the last to hear. 'Tis the strange gem in Pleasure's cup. Physician and Philosopher, In search of acorns, plough it up, But count it nothing 'mong their gains, Nay, call it pearl, they'd answer, ‘Lo, Blest Land where pearls as large as pumpkins grow!’ And would not even rend you for your pains. To tell men truth, yet keep them dark And shooting still beside the mark, God, as in jest, gave to their wish, The Sign of Jonah and the Fish. 'Tis the name new, on the white stone, To none but them that have it known; And even these can scarce believe, but cry, ‘When turn'd was Sion's captivity, Then were we, yea, and yet we seem Like them that dream!’ In Spirit 'tis a punctual ray Of peace that sheds more light than day; In Will and Mind 'Tis the easy path so hard to find; In Heart, a pain not to be told, 192 Were words mere honey, milk, and gold; I' the Body 'tis the bag of the bee; In all, the present, thousandfold amends Made to the sad, astonish'd life Of him that leaves house, child, and wife, And on God's 'hest, almost despairing, wends, As little guessing as the herd What a strange Phœnix of a bird Builds in this tree, But only intending all that He intends. To this, the Life of them that live, If God would not, thus far, give tongue, Ah, why did He his secret give To one that has the gift of song? But all He does He doubtless means, And, if the Mystery that smites Prophets dumb Here, to the grace-couch'd eyes of some, Shapes to its living face the clinging shroud, Perchance the Skies grow tired of screens, And 'tis His Advent in the Cloud. ~ Coventry Patmore,

282:The Rose-Bush There was a rose-bush in a garden growing, Its tender leaves unfolding day by day; The sun looked-on, and his down-going Left it amid the starlit dusk of nights of May. The dew-drop came and kissed it in the gloaming; It gathered sweetness in the morning hours; The bee beheld it as he went aroaming, And thought, 'What honey will be hidden in its flowers!' The The The The light grew richer and the days grew long; May-time deepened into June; air was laden with the robin's song, light wind touched the leaves and set them atune. And now a tiny bud appeared, and then another-Bright promises of radiant flowers; The breezes, whispering, told it to each other, The rose-bush heard them in the gladsome hours. New Hope awoke and thrilled in all it veins; Life is so sweet that culminates in flowers! It smiled and grew in misty summer rains, And caught the freshness of the evening showers. And oft the gardener came and stood beside; He tended it alway with zealous care, Watching lest any evil should betide, Or blight creep o'er the leaves that grew so fair. He crushed the buds and dropped them on the ground; The rose-bush felt a chill in every vein; It drooped, as if to hide each bitter wound-This strange experience was its earliest thought of pain. 'Poor little plant,' the gardener thought, Thou art too young, too young to know That few buds unto flowers are brought,-It is by pruning thou must grow.' 354 And still the summer smiled and shoned, And other roses bloomed and died. 'Mine would more beauteously have blown,' The little rose-bush sadly sighed. Again the gardener sought his flowers, Where he had watched his treasures blow: The autumn blast has swept the bowers, The winds and storms has laid them low! Though sad of heart, the rose-bush still was green; It lifted up its drooping head; 'The life that would have filled the buds may still be seen, 'Tis folded in its heart,' he said. He stooped and took it from the ground All trembling with its vague alarms, And quick and tenderly he wrapped it round, And kindly bore it in his arms. And now where soft the sunshine flows, Within a fair, immortal bower, In all its fragrant beauty blooms the rose, Its every bud grown into perfect flower. ~ Anonymous Americas,

283:Awake Ye Muses Nine, Sing Me A Strain Divine Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine, Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine! Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain, For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain. All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair! The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one, Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun; The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be, Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree. The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small, None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball; The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives, And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves; The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won, And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son. The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune, The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon, Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows, No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose. The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide; Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true, And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue. Now to the application, to the reading of the roll, To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul: Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone, Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap'st what thou hast sown. Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long, And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song? There's Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair, And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair! Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree; Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb, And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time! 171 Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower, And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower— And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum— And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home! ~ Emily Dickinson,

284:So at last Ilar Sant came to this wood, which people now call St. Hilary's wood because they have forgotten all about Ilar. And he was weary with his wandering, and the day was very hot; so he stayed by this well and began to drink. And there on that great stone he saw the shining fish, and so he rested, and built an altar and a church of willow boughs, and offered the sacrifice not only for the quick and the dead, but for all the wild beasts of the woods and the streams. "And when this blessed Ilar rang his holy bell and began to offer, there came not only the Prince and his servants, but all the creatures of the wood. There, under the hazel boughs, you might see the hare, which flies so swiftly from men, come gently and fall down, weeping greatly on account of the Passion of the Son of Mary. And, beside the hare, the weasel and the pole-cat would lament grievously in the manner of penitent sinners; and wolves and lambs together adored the saint's hierurgy; and men have beheld tears streaming from the eyes of venomous serpents when Ilar Agios uttered 'Curiluson' with a loud voice—since the serpent is not ignorant that by its wickedness sorrow came to the whole world. And when, in the time of the holy ministry, it is necessary that frequent Alleluyas should be chanted and vociferated, the saint wondered what should be done, for as yet none in that place was skilled in the art of song. Then was a great miracle, since from all the boughs of the wood, from every bush and from every green tree, there resounded Alleluyas in enchanting and prolonged harmony; never did the Bishop of Rome listen to so sweet a singing in his church as was heard in this wood. For the nightingale and thrush and blackbird and blackcap, and all their companions, are gathered together and sing praises to the Lord, chanting distinct notes and yet concluding in a melody of most ravishing sweetness; such was the mass of the Fisherman. Nor was this all, for one day as the saint prayed beside the well he became aware that a bee circled round and round his head, uttering loud buzzing sounds, but not endeavouring to sting him. To be short; the bee went before Ilar, and led him to a hollow tree not far off, and straightway a swarm of bees issued forth, leaving a vast store of wax behind them. This was their oblation to the Most High, for from their wax Ilar Sant made goodly candles to burn at the Offering; and from that time the bee is holy, because his wax makes light to shine upon the Gifts. ~ Arthur Machen,

285:1. No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist   Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed   By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries,   Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be      Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;   For shade to shade will come too drowsily,      And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 2. But when the melancholy fit shall fall   Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,   And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,   Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,      Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,   Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,      And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 3. She dwells with Beauty Beauty that must die;   And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,   Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips; Ay, in the very temple of delight   Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,      Though seen of none save him whose strenuous      tongue   Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,      And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 'Lord Houghton gives the following stanza as the intended opening of the Ode, from the original manuscript: Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones, And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast, Stitch shrouds together for a sail, with groans To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast; Although your rudder be a dragon's tail Long sever'd, yet still hard with agony, Your cordage large uprootings from the skull Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail To find the Melancholy -- whether she Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull. His Lordship adds -- "But no sooner was this written, than the poet became conscious that the coarseness of the contrast would destroy the general effect of luxurious tenderness which it was the object of the poem to produce, and he confined the gross notion of Melancholy to less violent images,..."' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Ode On Melancholy ,

286:City Contrasts A barefooted child on the crossing, Sweeping the mud away, A lady in silks and diamonds, Proud of the vain display; A beggar blind on the curbstone, A rich man passing along; A tiny child with a tambourine Wailing out her life in song. A pauper in lone hearse passing, Hurried away to the tomb; A train of carriages, music grand, And the flutter of waving plume. For the one there is never a mourner, He cumbered the earth alway; For the other the flags at half-mast droop, And the city wears black today. A soldier with one sleeve empty, That sadly hangs by his side, Another shuffling along the walk In the flush of health and pride; A cripple-girl slowly toiling Through the vexed and crowded street, And tearfully gazing at those who pass With hearts as light as their feet. A wreck of a woman flaunting, As if proud of her very shame, A purer sister whose modest cheeks Would crimson e'en at the name; A petty thief stealing in terror, Afraid in your face to gaze, And one who has robbed by the thousands, Courting the sun's broad blaza. The millionaire in his carriage, The workman plodding along, The humble follower of the right, 52 And the slave of the giant wrong; The murderer seeking a refuge, Looking ever wearily back, And the sleuth hounds of the broken law Following silently in his track. The judge, freed now of the ermine, Pompous of place and power, And the shivering wretch his word will doom To prison within an hour; The miser clutching his pennies, The spendthrift squandering gold, The meeked-eyed Sister of Mercy, And the woman brazen and bold. The widow, in weeds of blackness, Meets the bride at the church door-The future for one holds nothing but tears, But joy for the other in store. A cradle jostles a coffin-Orange-flowers, with honeyed breath, Are wove by the self-same fingers That but now made a cross for death. Dives and Lazarus elbow Each other whene'er they meet, And the crumbs from the rich man's table Feed the beggar upon the street. And penury crowdeth plenty, And sin stalks boldly abroad, And the infidel holds his head proudly As the child of the living God. The bee in its ceaseless searching Finds sweets in each flower fair, And the noisome spider, creeping up, Finds nothing but poison there. And so life is made up of contrasts-Rich and poor, coward and brave, Virtue and vice, and all will find Equality in the grave. 53 ~ Anonymous Americas,

287:The Man-Moth Here, above, cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight. The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat. It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on, and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon. He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties, feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold, of a temperature impossible to records in thermometers. But when the Man-Moth pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface, the moon looks rather different to him. He emerges from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings. He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky, proving the sky quite useless for protection. He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb. Up the façades, his shadow dragging like a photographer's cloth behind him he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage to push his small head through that round clean opening and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light. (Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.) But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt. Then he returns to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits, he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains fast enough to suit him. The doors close swiftly. The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed, without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort. He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards. 112 Each night he must be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams. Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window, for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison, runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers. If you catch him, hold up a flashlight to his eye. It's all dark pupil, an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens as he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lids one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips. Slyly he palms it, and if you're not paying attention he'll swallow it. However, if you watch, he'll hand it over, cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink. ~ Elizabeth Bishop,

288:Another Spring Carol Now Winter hath drifted To bygone years, And the sod is uplifted By crocus spears; And out of the hive the bee wings humming, And we know that the Spring, the Spring, is coming. For the snow hath melted From sunless cleft, And the clouds that pelted Slant sleet have left The sky as blue as a child's gaze after Its tears have vanished and veered to laughter. See! light is gleaming In primrose brakes, And out of its dreaming The speedwell wakes, And the tender tips of the timid clover Peep forth to see if the frost be over. The celandine gazes Straight at the sun; The starlike daisies Peer one by one; And, over the pool where the sallow glistens, The daffodil hangs its head and listens. At first but single, And then in flocks, In dell and dingle The lady-smocks Make mist for the golden cowslip tapers To shine like sunrise through morning vapours. In fat-ribbed fallows The lapwings nest, And the home-coming swallows Seek out where best 146 They may build, with a love that is sure and stable, Their cosy cribs under last year's gable. The blackcaps treble A strain as sweet As stream o'er pebble, Or wind through wheat, While, like flickering light, the kinglet hovers Round woodbined haven of hiding lovers. The lark chants, soaring From moist brown heath, 'Twixt Heaven's high flooring And earth beneath, Like a true wise poet, in wavering weather, A carol to link the twain together. The cuckoo, flaunting O'er glen and glade, Flies loudly vaunting New loves betrayed, Till we all of us echo the madcap saying, And laugh, and joyously wend a'maying. Then in mask and tabard The mummer trips, And out of its scabbard The iris slips, And calls to the lily and rose, ``Why tarry, Now the nightingale under the silence starry, ``Keeps trilling, trilling, Its nest above, The descant thrilling Of straining love, That yearneth for more-more-more,-till gladness, Still winged with wanting, seems one with sadness.'' But once the roses And lilies blow, Our wilding posies Follow the snow, 147 And, turning to greet the fair new comer, We find the face of the fearless Summer. But though sultry shimmer And panting heat Lure senses dimmer To deem them sweet, Who would not exchange their passionate thunder For May's moist blushes of maiden wonder? But Winter hath drifted To bygone years, And the sod is uplifted By crocus spears; And out of the hive the bee wings humming, And we know that the Spring is coming, coming! ~ Alfred Austin,

289: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 ,

290:The Gossips A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest, Was hanging her head through the long golden hours; And early one morning I saw her tears falling, And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers. The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded, Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose: 'That wild roving Bee who was hanging about her, Has jilted her squarely, as everyone knows. 'I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing, His airs and his speeches so fine and so sweet, Just how it would end; but no one would believe me, For all were quite ready to fall at his feet.' 'Indeed, you are wrong,' said the Lily-belle proudly, 'I cared nothing for him, he called on me once, And would have come often, no doubt, if I'd asked him, But, though he was handsome, I thought him a dunce.' 'Now, now, that's not true,' cried the tall Oleander. 'He has traveled and seen every flower that grows; And one who has supped in the garden of princes, We all might have known would not wed with the Rose.' 'But wasn't she proud when he showed her attention? And she let him caress her,' said sly Mignonette; 'And I used to see it and blush for her folly. The silly thing thinks he will come to her yet.' 'I thought he was splendid,' said pretty pert Larkspur, 'So dark, and so grand with that gay cloak of gold; But he tried once to kiss me, the impudent fellow! And I got offended; I thought him too bold.' 'Oh, fie!' laughed the Almond, 'that does for a story. Though I hang down my head, yet I see all that goes; And I saw you reach out trying hard to detain him, But he just tapped your cheek and flew by to the Rose. 597 'He cared nothing for her, he only was flirting To while away time, as I very well knew; So I turned a cold shoulder on all his advances, Because I was certain his heart was untrue.' 'The Rose is served right for her folly in trusting An oily-tongued stranger,' quoth proud Columbine. 'I knew what he was, and thought once I would warn her, But of course the affair was no business of mine.' 'Oh, well,' cried the Peony, shrugging her shoulders, 'I saw all along that the Bee was a flirt; But the Rose has been always so praised and so petted, I thought a good lesson would do her no hurt.' Just then came the sound of a love-song sung sweetly, I saw my proud Rose lifting up her bowed head; And the talk of the gossips was hushed in a moment, And the flowers all listened to hear what was said. And the dark, handsome Bee, with his cloak o'er his shoulder, Came swift through the sunlight and kissed the sad Rose, And whispered: 'My darling, I've roved the world over, And you are the loveliest flower that grows.' ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

291:The Canadian Rossignol (In June) PRONE where maples widely spread I watch the far blue overhead, Where little pillowy clouds arise From naught to die before my eyes; Within the shade a pleasant rout Of dallying zephyrs steal about; Lazily as moves the day Odours float and faint away From roses yellow, red, and white, That prank yon garden with delight; Round which the locust blossoms swing, And some late lilacs droop for spring. Anon swells up a dubious breeze, Stirring the half-reluctant trees, Then, rising to a mimic gale, Ruffles the massy oaks to pale, Till spent its sudden force, once more The zephyrs come that went before; Now silvery poplars shivering stand, And languid lindens waver bland, Hemlock traceries scarcely stir, All the pines of summer purr. Hovering butterflies I see, Full of business shoots the bee, Straight from the valley is his flight Where crowding marbles solemn white Show through the trees and mutely tell How there the low-laid loved rest well. Half hid in the grasses there Red breast thrushes jump and stare, Sparrows flutter up like leaves Tossed upon the wind in sheaves, Curve-winged swallows slant and slide O'er the graves that stretch so wide, Steady crows go labouring by– Ha! the Rossignol is nigh! 75 Rossignol, why will you sing, Though lost the lovely world of spring? 'T was well that then your roulades rang Of joy, despite of every pang; But now the sweet, the bliss is gone– Nay, now the summer joy is on, And lo, the foliage and the bloom, The fuller life, the bluer room, 'T was this the sweet spring promised me. Oh, bird, and can you sing so free, Though never yet the roaming wind Could leave earth's countless graves behind? And will you sing when summer goes And leaves turn brown and dies the rose? Oh, then how brave shall Autumn dress The maple out with gorgeousness! And red-cheeked apples deck the green, [Page 166] And corn wave tall its yellow sheen. But, bird, bethink you well, I pray, Then marches winter on his way. Ah, winter–yes, ah yes–but still, Hark! sweetly chimes the summer rill, And joy is here and life is strong, And love still calls upon my song. No, Rossignol, sing not that strain, Triumphant 'spite of all the pain,– She cannot hear you, Rossignol, She does not pause and flush, your thrall, She does not raise that slender hand And, poised, lips parted, understand What you are telling of the years, Her brown eyes soft with happy tears, She does not hear a note of all, Ah, Rossignol! ah, Rossignol! But skies are blue, and flowers bloom, And roses breathe the old perfume, And here the murmuring of the trees In all of lovelier mysteries– And maybe now she hears thy song 76 Pouring the summer rills along, Listens with joy that still to me Remain the summer time and thee. ~ Edward William Thomson,

292:His breath fell in a warm, even rhythm on the curve of her cheek. “Some people think of the bee as a sacred insect,” he said. “It’s a symbol of reincarnation.” “I don’t believe in reincarnation,” she muttered. There was a smile in his voice. “What a surprise. At the very least, the bees’ presence in your home is a sign of good things to come.” Her voice was buried in the fine wool of his coat. “Wh-what does it mean if there are thousands of bees in one’s home?” He shifted her higher in his arms, his lips curving gently against the cold rim of her ear. “Probably that we’ll have plenty of honey for teatime. We’re going through the doorway now. In a moment I’m going to set you on your feet.” Amelia kept her face against him, her fingertips digging into the layers of his clothes. “Are they following?” “No. They want to stay near the hive. Their main concern is to protect the queen from predators.” “She has nothing to fear from me!” Laughter rustled in his throat. With extreme care, he lowered Amelia’s feet to the floor. Keeping one arm around her, he reached with the other to close the door. “There. We’re out of the room. You’re safe.” His hand passed over her hair. “You can open your eyes now.” Clutching the lapels of his coat, Amelia stood and waited for a feeling of relief that didn’t come. Her heart was racing too hard, too fast. Her chest ached from the strain of her breathing. Her lashes lifted, but all she could see was a shower of sparks. “Amelia … easy. You’re all right.” His hands chased the shivers that ran up and down her back. “Slow down, sweetheart.” She couldn’t. Her lungs were about to burst. No matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t get enough air. Bees … the sound of buzzing was still in her ears. She heard his voice as if from a great distance, and she felt his arms go around her again as she sank into layers of gray softness. After what could have been a minute or an hour, pleasant sensations filtered through the haze. A tender pressure moved over her forehead. The gentle brushes touched her eyelids, slid to her cheeks. Strong arms held her against a comfortingly hard surface, while a clean, salt-edged scent filled her nostrils. Her lashes fluttered, and she turned into the warmth with confused pleasure. “There you are,” came a low murmur. Opening her eyes, Amelia saw Cam Rohan’s face above her. They were on the hallway floor—he was holding her in his lap. As if the situation weren’t mortifying enough, the front of her bodice was gaping, and her corset was unhooked. Only her crumpled chemise was left to cover her chest. Amelia stiffened. Until that moment she had never known there was a feeling beyond embarrassment, that made one wish one could crumble into a pile of ashes. “My … my dress…” “You weren’t breathing well. I thought it best to loosen your corset.” “I’ve never fainted before,” she said groggily, struggling to sit up. “You were frightened.” His hand came to the center of her chest, gently pressing her back down. “Rest another minute.” His gaze moved over her wan features. “I think we can conclude you’re not fond of bees. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

293:Don Rafael 'I would not have,' he said, 'Tears, nor the black pall, nor the wormy grave, Grief's hideous panoply I would not have Round me when I am dead. 'Music and flowers and light, And choric dances to guitar and flute, Be these around me when my lips are mute, Mine eyes are sealed from sight. 'So let me lie one day, One long, eternal day, in sunshine bathed, In cerements of silken tissue swathed, Smothered 'neath flowers of May. 'One perfect day of peace, Or ere clean flame consume my fleshly veil, My life-a gilded vapor-shall exhale, Brief as a sigh-and cease. 'But ere the torch be laid To my unshrinking limbs by some true hand, Athwart the orange-fragrant laughing land, Bring many a dark-eyed maid 'From the bright, sea-kissed town; My beautiful, beloved enemies, Gemmed as the dew, voluptuous as the breeze, Each in her festal gown. 'All those through whom I learned The sweet of folly and the pains of love, My Rose, my Star, my Comforter, my Dove, For whom, poor moth, I burned. 'Loves of a day, and hour, Or passions (vowed eternal) of a year, Though each be strange to each, to me all dear As to the bee the flower. 58 'Around me they shall move In languid contra dances, and shall shed Their smiling eyebeams as I were not dead, But quick to flash back love. 'Something not alien quite To tender ruth, perchance their breast shall fill, Seeing him that was so mobile grown so still, The fiery-veined so white. 'And when the dance is o'er, The pinched guitar, the smitten tambourine, Have ceased their rhythmic beat,-oh, friends of mine, On my rich bier, then pour 'The garlands that ye wear, The happy rose that on your bosom breathes, The fresh-culled clusters and the dewy wreaths That crown your fragrant hair. 'Though blind, I still shall see, Though dead, shall feel your presence and shall know, I who was beauty's life-long slave, shall so Win her in death to me. 'Thanks, sisters, and farewell! Back to your joys. My brother shall make room For my tried sword upon the high-piled bloom, And fire the pinnacle. 'My soul, pure flame, shall leap To meet its parent essence once again My body dust and ashes shall remain, Tired heart and brain shall sleep. 'Life has one gate alone, Obscure, beset with peril and fierce pain. Large death has many portals to his fane, Why choose we to make moan? 'Why dwell with worms and clay 59 When we may soar through air on wings of flame, Dissolve to small, white dust our perfect frame, And never know decay? 'A brother's pious hand The pure, fire-winnowed ashes shall inurn, And lay them in the orange grove where burn Globed suns that scent the land. 'The leaf shall be more green, Even for my dust-more snowy-soft the flower, More juicy-sweet the fruit's live pulp-the bower Richer that I have been. 'For I would not,' he said, 'Tears and the black pall and the wormy grave, Grief's hideous panoply I would not have Round me when I am dead.' ~ Emma Lazarus,

294:Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming; Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting: What do then? Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear **** blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overaw'd, Fancy, high-commission'd:send her! She has vassals to attend her: She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray; All the heaped Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth: She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it:thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And, in the same moment, hark! 'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plum'd lillies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower. Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celled sleep; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see   Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering, While the autumn breezes sing.    Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-ey'd as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet And Jove grew languid.Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string And such joys as these she'll bring. Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Fancy ,

295:/Farsi Being humble is right for you now. Don't thrash around showing your strength. You're naked in the bee-house! It doesn't matter how powerful your arms and legs are. To God, that is more of a lie than your weakness is. In his doorway your prestige and your physical energy are just dust on your face. Be helpless and completely poor. And don't try to meet his eye! That's like signing a paper that honors yourself. If you can take care of things, do so! But when you're living at home with God, you neither sew the world together with desires nor tear it apart with disappointments. In that place existence itself is illusion. All that is, is one. Lost in that, your personal form becomes a vast, empty mosque. When you hold on to yourself, you're a fire-worshipping temple. Dissolve, and let everything get done. When you don't, you're an untrained colt, full of erratic loving and biting. Loyal sometimes, then treacherous. Be more like the servant who owns nothing and is neither hungry nor satisfied, who has no hopes for anything, and no fear of anyone. An owl living near the king's palace is considered a bird of misfortune, ragged and ominous. But off in the woods, sitting alone, its feathers grow splendid and sleek like the Phoenix restored. Musk should not be kept near water or heat. The dampness and the dryness spoil its fragrance. But when the musk is at home in the musk bladder, fire and wetness mean nothing. In God's doorway your guilt and your virtue don't count. Whether you're Muslim, or Christian, or fire-worshipper, the categories disappear. You're seeking, and God is what is sought, the essence beyond any cause. External theological learning moves like a moon and fades when the sun of experience rises. We are here for a week, or less. We arrive and leave almost simultaneously. To be is not to be. The Qur'an says, "They go hastening, with the Light running on before them." Clear the way! Muhammed says, "How fine!" A sigh goes out, and there is union. Forget how you came to this gate, your history. Let that be as if it had not been. Do you think the day plans its course by what the rooster says? God does not depend on any of his creatures. Your existence or non-existence is insignificant. Many like you have come here before. When the fountain of light is pouring, there's no need to urge it on! That's like a handful of straw trying to help the sun. "This way! Please, let this light through!" The sun doesn't need an announcer. The lamp you carry is your self-reliance. The sun is something else! Half a sneeze might extinguish your lantern, whereas all a winter's windiness cannot put That out. The road you must take has no particular name. It's the one composed of your own sighing and giving up. What you've been doing is not devotion. Your hoping and worrying are like donkeys wandering loose, sometimes docile, or suddenly mean. Your face looks wise at times, and ashamed at others. There is another way, a pure blankness where those are one expression. Omar once saw a group of boys on the road challenging each other to wrestle. They were all claiming to be champions, but when Omar, the fierce and accomplished warrior, came near, they scattered. All but one, Abdullah Zubair. Omar asked, "Why didn't you run?" "Why should I? You are not a tyrant, and I am not guilty." When someone knows his own inner value, he doesn't care about being accepted or rejected by anyone else. The prince here is strong and just. Stand wondering in his presence. There is nothing but That. [1841.jpg] -- from The Hand of Poetry: Five Mystic Poets of Persia, with Lectures by Inayat Khan, Translated by Coleman Barks ~ Hakim Sanai, Naked in the Bee-House ,

296:Tecumseh There was a time on this fair continent When all things throve in spacious peacefulness. The prosperous forests unmolested stood, For where the stalwart oak grew there it lived Long ages, and then died among its kind. The hoary pines—those ancients of the earth— Brimful of legends of the early world, Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued. And all things else illumined by the sun, Inland or by the lifted wave, had rest. The passionate or calm pageants of the skies No artist drew; but in the auburn west Innumerable faces of fair cloud Vanished in silent darkness with the day. The prairie realm—vast ocean's paraphraseRich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory, No civilized barbarian trenched for gain. And all that flowed was sweet and uncorrupt The rivers and their tributary streams, Undammed, wound on forever, and gave up Their lonely torrents to weird gulfs of sea, And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail. And all the wild life of this western world Knew not the fear of man; yet in those woods, And by those plenteous streams and mighty lakes, And on stupendous steppes of peerless plain, And in the rocky gloom of canyons deep, Screened by the stony ribs of mountains hoar Which steeped their snowy peaks in purging cloud, And down the continent where tropic suns Warmed to her very heart the mother earth, And in the congcal'd north where silence self Ached with intensity of stubborn frost, There lived a soul more wild than barbarous; A tameless soul—the sunburnt savage free— Free, and untainted by the greed of gain: Great Nature's man content with Nature's food. LEFROY. I love you better than I love my race; And could I mass my fondness for my friends, Augment it with my love of noble brutes, Tap every spring of reverence and respect, And all affections bright and beautiful— Still would my love for you outweigh them all. IENA. Speak not of love! Speak of the Long-Knife's hate! Oh, it is pitiful to creep in fear O'er lands where once our fathers stept in pride! The Long-Knife strengthens, whilst our race decays, And falls before him as our forests fall. First comes his pioneer, the bee, and soon The mast which plumped the wild deer fats his swine. His cattle pasture where the bison fed; His flowers, his very weeds, displace our own— Aggressive as himself. All, all thrust back! Destruction follows us, and swift decay. Oh, I have lain for hours upon the grass, And gazed into the tenderest blue of heaven— Cleansed as with dew, so limpid, pure and sweet— All flecked with silver packs of standing cloud Most beautiful! But watch them narrowly! Those clouds will sheer small fleeces from their sides, Which, melting in our sight as in a dream, Will vanish all like phantoms in the sky. So melts our heedless race! Some weaned away, And wedded to rough-handed pioneers, Who, fierce as wolves in hatred of our kind, Yet from their shrill and acid women turn, Prizing our maidens for their gentleness. Some by outlandish fevers die, and some— Caught in the white man's toils and vices mean— Court death, and find it in the trader's cup. And all are driven from their heritage, Far from our fathers' seats and sepulchres, And girdled with the growing glooms of war; Resting a moment here, a moment there, Whilst ever through our plains and forest realms Bursts the pale spoiler, armed, with eager quest, And ruinous lust of land. I think of all— And own Tecumseh right. 'Tis he alone Can stem this tide of sorrows dark and deep; So must I bend my feeble will to his, And, for my people's welfare, banish love ~ Charles Mair,

297:Dearest, best and brightest, Come away, To the woods and to the fields! Dearer than this fairest day Which, like thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough Year just awake In its cradle in the brake. The eldest of the Hours of Spring, Into the Winter wandering, Looks upon the leafless wood, And the banks all bare and rude; Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn In Februarys bosom born, Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free; And waked to music all the fountains, And breathed upon the rigid mountains, And made the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear. Radiant Sister of the Day, Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, To the pools where winter rains Image all the roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Sapless, gray, and ivy dun Round stems that never kiss the sun-- To the sandhills of the sea, Where the earliest violets be. Now the last day of many days, All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest and the last, is dead, Rise, Memory, and write its praise! And do thy wonted work and trace The epitaph of glory fled; For now the Earth has changed its face, A frown is on the Heavens brow. We wandered to the Pine Forest That skirts the Ocean's foam, The lightest wind was in its nest, The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the woods, and on the deep The smile of Heaven lay. It seemed as if the day were one Sent from beyond the skies, Which shed to earth above the sun A light of Paradise. We paused amid the pines that stood, The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude With stems like serpents interlaced. How calm it was--the silence there By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. It seemed that from the remotest seat Of the white mountain's waste To the bright flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced;-- A spirit interfused around, A thinking, silent life; To momentary peace it bound Our mortal natures strife;-- And still, it seemed, the centre of The magic circle there, Was one whose being filled with love The breathless atmosphere. Were not the crocuses that grew Under that ilex-tree As beautiful in scent and hue As ever fed the bee? We stood beneath the pools that lie Under the forest bough, And each seemed like a sky Gulfed in a world below; A purple firmament of light Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night, And clearer than the day In which the massy forests grew As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any waving there. Like one beloved the scene had lent To the dark water's breast Its every leaf and lineament With that clear truth expressed; There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green crowd The white sun twinkling like the dawn Under a speckled cloud. Sweet views, which in our world above Can never well be seen, Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green. And all was interfused beneath With an Elysian air, An atmosphere without a breath, A silence sleeping there. Until a wandering wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought, Which from my mind's too faithful eye Blots thy bright image out. For thou art good and dear and kind, The forest ever green, But less of peace in S---'s mind, Than calm in waters, seen. This, the first draft of To Jane: The Invitation, The Recollection, was published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824, and reprinted, Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition. See Editors Prefatory Note to The Invitation, above ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa ,

298:Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view A fate more pleasing, a delight more true Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd, Who with combined powers, their wit employ'd To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. The thought of this great partnership diffuses Over the genius loving heart, a feeling Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee Past each horizon of fine poesy; Fain would I echo back each pleasant note As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted, Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted: But 'tis impossible, far different cares Beckon me sternly from soft "Lydian airs," And hold my faculties so long in thrall, That I am oft in doubt whether at all I shall again see Phoebus in the morning: Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning! Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream; Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam; Or again witness what with thee I've seen, The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, After a night of some quaint jubilee Which every elf and fay had come to see: When bright processions took their airy march Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch. But might I now each passing moment give To the coy muse, with me she would not live In this dark city, nor would condescend 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, That often must have seen a poet frantic; Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing, And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing; Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping clusters Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres, And intertwined the cassia's arms unite, With its own drooping buds, but very white. Where on one side are covert branches hung, 'Mong which the nightingales have always sung In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof, Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling. There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy, To say "joy not too much in all that's bloomy." Yet this is vain--O Mathew lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid-- Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton; And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him. With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages: And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell Of those who in the cause of freedom fell; Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace, High-minded and unbending William Wallace. While to the rugged north our musing turns We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. Felton! without incitements such as these, How vain for me the ****rd Muse to tease; For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace, And make "a sunshine in a shady place:" For thou wast once a flowret blooming wild, Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil'd, Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hour Came chaste Diana from her shady bower, Just as the sun was from the east uprising; And, as for him some gift she was devising, Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream To meet her glorious brothers greeting beam. I marvel much that thou hast never told How, from a flower, into a fish of gold Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream; And when thou first didst in that mirror trace The placid features of a human face: That thou hast never told thy travels strange, And all the wonders of the mazy range Oer pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands; Kissing thy daily food from Naiads pearly hands. Written in November, 1815. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, To George Felton Mathew ,

299:The Progress Of Spring THE groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould, Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea, Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold That trembles not to kisses of the bee: Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves The spear of ice has wept itself away, And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day. She comes! The loosen'd rivulets run; The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair; Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun, Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bar To breaths of balmier air; Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome her, About her glance the tits, and shriek the jays, Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker, The linnet's bosom blushes at her gaze, While round her brows a woodland culver flits, Watching her large light eyes and gracious looks, And in her open palm a halcyon sits Patient--the secret splendour of the brooks. Come Spring! She comes on waste and wood, On farm and field: but enter also here, Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my blood, And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere, Lodge with me all the year! Once more a downy drift against the brakes, Self-darken'd in the sky, descending slow! But gladly see I thro' the wavering flakes Yon blanching apricot like snow in snow. These will thine eyes not brook in forest-paths, On their perpetual pine, nor round the beech; They fuse themselves to little spicy baths, Solved in the tender blushes of the peach; They lose themselves and die On that new life that gems the hawthorn line; Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them by, 814 And out once more in varnish'd glory shine Thy stars of celandine. She floats across the hamlet. Heaven lours, But in the tearful splendour of her smiles I see the slowl-thickening chestnut towers Fill out the spaces by the barren tiles. Now past her feet the swallow circling flies, A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet her hand; Her light makes rainbows in my closing eyes, I hear a charm of song thro' all the land. Come, Spring! She comes, and Earth is glad To roll her North below thy deepening dome, But ere thy maiden birk be wholly clad, And these low bushes dip their twigs in foam, Make all true hearths thy home. Across my garden! and the thicket stirs, The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs, The starling claps his tiny castanets. Still round her forehead wheels the woodland dove, And scatters on her throat the sparks of dew, The kingcup fills her footprint, and above Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue. Hail ample presence of a Queen, Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, Whose mantle, every shade of glancing green, Flies back in fragrant breezes to display A tunic white as May! She whispers, 'From the South I bring you balm, For on a tropic mountain was I born, While some dark dweller by the coco-palm Watch'd my far meadow zoned with airy morn; From under rose a muffled moan of floods; I sat beneath a solitude of snow; There no one came, the turf was fresh, the woods Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their vales below I saw beyond their silent tops The steaming marshes of the scarlet cranes, The slant seas leaning oll the mangrove copse, 815 And summer basking in the sultry plains About a land of canes; 'Then from my vapour-girdle soaring forth I scaled the buoyant highway of the birds, And drank the dews and drizzle of the North, That I might mix with men, and hear their words On pathway'd plains; for--while my hand exults Within the bloodless heart of lowly flowers To work old laws of Love to fresh results, Thro' manifold effect of simple powers-I too would teach the man Beyond the darker hour to see the bright, That his fresh life may close as it began, The still-fulfilling promise of a light Narrowing the bounds of night.' So wed thee with my soul, that I may mark The coming year's great good and varied ills, And new developments, whatever spark Be struck from out the clash of warring wills; Or whether, since our nature cannot rest, The smoke of war's volcano burst again From hoary deeps that belt the changeful West, Old Empires, dwellings of the kings of men; Or should those fail, that hold the helm, While the long day of knowledge grows and warms, And in the heart of this most ancient realm A hateful voice be utter'd, and alarms Sounding 'To arms! to arms!' A simpler, saner lesson might he learn Who reads thy gradual process, Holy Spring. Thy leaves possess the season in their turn, And in their time thy warblers rise on wing. How surely glidest thou from March to May, And changest, breathing it, the sullen wind, Thy scope of operation, day by day, Larger and fuller, like the human mind ' Thy warmths from bud to bud Accomplish that blind model in the seed, And men have hopes, which race the restless blood 816 That after many changes may succeed Life, which is Life indeed. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

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

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

302:Mariline At the wheel plied Mariline, Beauteous and self-serene, Never dreaming of that mien Fit for lady or for queen. Never sang she, but her words, Music-laden, swept the chords Of the heart, that eagerly Stored the subtle melody, Like the honey in the bee; Never spake, but showed that she Held the golden master-key That unlocked all sympathy Pent in souls where Feeling glows, Like the perfume in the rose, Like her own innate repose, Like the whiteness in the snows. Richly thoughted Mariline! Nature's heiress!-nature's queen! II. By her side, with liberal look, Paused a student o'er a book, Wielder of a shepherd's crook, Reveller by grove and brook: Hunter-up of musty tomes, Worshipper of deathless poems: Lover of the true and good, Hater of sin's evil brood, Votary of solitude, Man, of mind-like amplitude. 91 With exalted eye serene Gazed he on fair Mariline. Swifter whirled the busy wheel, Piled the thread upon the reelSaw she not his spirit kneel, Praying for her after-weal? Like the wife of Collatine, Busily spun Mariline. III. Hour by hour, and day by day, Sang the maid her roundelay; Hour by hour, and day by day, Spun her threads of white and gray. While the shepherd-student held Commune with the great of eld: Pondered on their wondrous words, While he watched his scattered herds, While he stemmed the surging fords. And he knew the lore of birds, Learned the secrets of the rills, Conversed with the answering hills. Like her threads of white and gray, Passed their mingled Eves away, One unceasing roundelayWinter came, it still was May! IV. When the spring smiled, opening up Pink-lipped flower and acorn cup; 92 When the summer waked the rose In the scented briar boughs; When the earth, with painless throes, Bore her golden autumn rowsField on field of grain, that pressed, Childlike, to her fruitful breastWhen hale winter wrapped his form In the mantle of the storm, Tamed the bird, and chilled the worm, Stopped the pulse that thrilled the germ; As the seasons went and came, One in heart, and hope, and aim, Cheered they each the other on, Where was labor to be done, At day-break or set of sun, Like two thoughts that merge in one. Dignified, and soul-serene, Busily spun Mariline. V. Brightly broke the summer morn, Like a lark from out the corn,Broke like joy just newly born From the depths of woe forlorn,Broke with grateful songs of birds, Lowings of well-pastured herds; Hailed by childhood's happy looks, Cheered by anthems of the brooksChants beyond the lore of booksCawing crows, instead of rooks. Glowed the heavens-rose the sun, Mariline was up, for one. 93 VI. Like a chatterer tongue-tied, Lo, the wheel is placed aside!Not from indolence or prideMariline must be a Bride! Fairest maid of maids terrene! Bride of Brides, dear Mariline! VII. Up the meditative air Passed the smoke-wreaths, white and fair, Like the spirit of the prayer Mariline now offered there: Passed behind the cottage eaves, Curling through the maple leaves: Through the pines and old elm trees, Belies of past centuries, Hardy oaks, that never breeze Humbled to their gnarly knees: Forest lords, beneath whose sheen Flowers bloomed for Mariline. Round the cottage, fresh and green, Climbed the vine, the scarlet bean, Morning-glories peeped between, Looking out for Mariline. Odours never felt before Tranced the locust at the door, Vieing with the mignonette Bound the garden parapet, Whose rare fragrances were met 94 By rich perfumes, rarer yet, Stealing from the garden walks, Sentineled with hollyhocks. VIII. What a heaven the cottage seemed! Love's own temple, where Faith dreamed Of the coming years that beamed On them, as pale stars have gleamed Through unnavigated seas, To which the prophetic breeze Whispered of a future day, When swift fleets would urge their way, Through the waters cold and gray, Like the dolphins at their play. There the future Bride, and he, Prince of love's knight-errantry, Whose good shepherd arms must hold This pet yeanling of the fold, Gift of God so long foretold, Gift beyond the price of gold. There the parents, aged and hale, Passing down life's autumn vale, With a joy as rare and true As their daughter's eye of blue, With such hopes as reach up to Heaven's gate, when, passing through, Peris, bound for higher skies, Win the Celestial Paradise. IX. 95 Thoughtfully stood Mariline, Whitely veiled, and soul-serene; Love's fair world for her demesne, Never looked she more a queenWith her maidens by her side, Smiling on the coming bride. Her pet lamb, with comic mirth, Licked her hand and scampered forth; The fine sheep-dog, on the hearth, Kindly eyed her for her worth. X. Up the air, across the moor, As they left the cottage door, Chimed the merry village-hells, Music-wrapt the neighbouring fells, Stirred the heart's awakened cells, Like fine strains from fairy dells. Past the orchard, down the lane, By fresh wavy fields of grain, By the brook, that told its love To the pasture, glen, and groveSacred haunts, that well could prove Vows enregistered above. By the restless mill, where stood, Bowing in his amplest mood, The old miller, hat in hand, Rich in goodness, rich in land, On whose features, grave and bland, Glowed a blessing for the band. Through the village, where, behind 96 Many a half-uplifted blind, Eyes, that might have lit the skies Of Mahomet's Paradise, Flashed behind the curtains' dyes, With a cheerful, half-surprise. Through the village, underneath, Many a blooming flower-wreath, Garlanding the arches green Beared in honour of the queen Of this day of days serene, Day of days to Mariline. To the church, whose cheering bells Told the tale in music-swellsTold it to the country wide, With an earnest kind of prideSomething not to be denied'Mariline must be a Bride!' XI. Up the aisle with solemn pace, Meeting God there, face to face. Never Bride more chaste or fair Stood before His altar there, Her ripe heart aflame with prayer, Blessing Him for all His care: Every earthly promise given, Registered with joy in heaven. From the galleries looked down, Village belle and country clown, Men with honest labour brown, Far removed from mart or town: 97 Smiling with a zealous pride On the shepherd and his bridePlaymates of their early days; For their walks in wisdom's ways, Ever crowned with honoured bays Of esteem and ardent praise. XII. Well done, servant of the Lord! Grave expounder of His Word, Who in distant Galilee Graced the marriage feast, that He, With all due solemnity, Might commission such as thee To do likewise, and unite Souls like these in marriage plight. With what manly, gentle pride, The glad Shepherd clasps his Bride! Love like theirs, so true and tried, Ever true love must abide! XIII. Ye whose souls are strong and firm, In whom love's electric germ Has been fanned into a flame At the mention of a name; Ye whose souls are still the same As when first the Victor came, Stinging every nerve to life, In the beatific strife, Till the man's divinest part Ruled triumphant in the heart, 98 And, with shrinking, sudden start, The bleak old world stood apart, Periling the wild Ideal By the presence of the Real: Ye, and ye alone, can know How these twain souls burn and glow, Can interpret every throe Of the full heart's overflow, That imparts that light serene To the brow of Mariline. ~ Charles Sangster,

303: [Dedicated to General J.C.F. Fuller] Velvet soft the night-star glowed Over the untrodden road, Through the giant glades of yew Where its ray fell light as dew Lighting up the shimmering veil Maiden pure and aery frail That the spiders wove to hide Blushes of the sylvan bride Earth, that trembled with delight At the male caress of Night. Velvet soft the wizard trod To the Sabbath of his God. With his naked feet he made Starry blossoms in the glade, Softly, softly, as he went To the sombre sacrament, Stealthy stepping to the tryst In his gown of amethyst. Earlier yet his soul had come To the Hill of Martyrdom, Where the charred and crooked stake Like a black envenomed snake By the hangman's hands is thrust Through the wet and writhing dust, Never black and never dried Heart's blood of a suicide. He had plucked the hazel rod From the rude and goatish god, Even as the curved moon's waning ray Stolen from the King of Day. He had learnt the elvish sign; Given the Token of the Nine: Once to rave, and once to revel, Once to bow before the devil, Once to swing the thurible, Once to kiss the goat of hell, Once to dance the aspen spring, Once to croak, and once to sing, Once to oil the savoury thighs Of the witch with sea-green eyes With the unguents magical. Oh the honey and the gall Of that black enchanter's lips As he croons to the eclipse Mingling that most puissant spell Of the giant gods of hell With the four ingredients Of the evil elements; Ambergris from golden spar, Musk of ox from Mongol jar, Civet from a box of jade, Mixed with fat of many a maid Slain by the inchauntments cold Of the witches wild and old. He had crucified a toad In the basilisk abode, Muttering the Runes averse Mad with many a mocking curse. He had traced the serpent sigil In his ghastly virgin vigil. Sursum cor! the elfin hill, Where the wind blows deadly chill From the world that wails beneath Death's black throat and lipless teeth. There he had stood - his bosom bare - Tracing Life upon the Air With the crook and with the flail Lashing forward on the gale, Till its blade that wavereth Like the flickering of Death Sank before his subtle fence To the starless sea of sense. Now at last the man is come Haply to his halidom. Surely as he waves his rod In a circle on the sod Springs the emerald chaste and clean From the duller paler green. Surely in the circle millions Of immaculate pavilions Flash upon the trembling turf Like the sea-stars in the surf - Millions of bejewelled tents For the warrior sacraments. Vaster, vaster, vaster, vaster, Grows the stature of the master; All the ringed encampment vies With the infinite galaxies. In the midst a cubic stone With the Devil set thereon; Hath a lamb's virginal throat; Hath the body of a stoat; Hath the buttocks of a goat; Hath the sanguine face and rod Of a goddess and a god! Spell by spell and pace by pace! Mystic flashes swing and trace Velvet soft the sigils stepped By the silver-starred adept. Back and front, and to and fro, Soul and body sway and flow In vertiginous caresses To imponderable recesses, Till at last the spell is woven, And the faery veil is cloven That was Sequence, Space, and Stress Of the soul-sick consciousness. "Give thy body to the beasts! Give thy spirit to the priests! Break in twain the hazel rod On the virgin lips of God! Tear the Rosy Cross asunder! Shatter the black bolt of thunder! Suck the swart ensanguine kiss Of the resolute abyss!" Wonder-weft the wizard heard This intolerable word. Smote the blasting hazel rod On the scarlet lips of God; Trampled Cross and rosy core; Brake the thunder-tool of Thor; Meek and holy acolyte Of the priestly hells of spite, Sleek and shameless catamite Of the beasts that prowl the night! Like a star that streams from heaven Through the virgin airs light-riven, From the lift there shot and fell An admirable miracle. Carved minute and clean, a key Of purest lapis-lazuli More blue than the blind sky that aches (Wreathed with the stars, her torturing snakes), For the dead god's kiss that never wakes; Shot with golden specks of fire Like a virgin with desire. Look, the levers! fern-frail fronds Of fantastic diamonds, Glimmering with ethereal azure In each exquisite embrasure. On the shaft the letters laced, As if dryads lunar-chaste With the satyrs were embraced, Spelled the secret of the key: Sic pervenias. And he Went his wizard way, inweaving Dreams of things beyond believing. When he will, the weary world Of the senses closely curled Like a serpent round his heart Shakes herself and stands apart. So the heart's blood flames, expanding, Strenuous, urgent, and commanding; And the key unlocks the door Where his love lives evermore. She is of the faery blood; All smaragdine flows its flood. Glowing in the amber sky To ensorcelled porphyry She hath eyes of glittering flake Like a cold grey water-snake. She hath naked breasts of amber Jetting wine in her bed-chamber, Whereof whoso stoops and drinks Rees the riddle of the Sphinx. She hath naked limbs of amber Whereupon her children clamber. She hath five navels rosy-red From the five wounds of God that bled; Each wound that mothered her still bleeding, And on that blood her babes are feeding. Oh! like a rose-winged pelican She hath bred blessed babes to Pan! Oh! like a lion-hued nightingale She hath torn her breast on thorns to avail The barren rose-tree to renew Her life with that disastrous dew, Building the rose o' the world alight With music out of the pale moonlight! O She is like the river of blood That broke from the lips of the bastard god, When he saw the sacred mother smile On the ibis that flew up the foam of Nile Bearing the limbs unblessed, unborn, That the lurking beast of Nile had torn! So (for the world is weary) I These dreadful souls of sense lay by. I sacrifice these impure shoon To the cold ray of the waning moon. I take the forked hazel staff, And the rose of no terrene graff, And the lamp of no olive oil With heart's blood that alone may boil. With naked breast and feet unshod I follow the wizard way to God. Wherever he leads my foot shall follow; Over the height, into the hollow, Up to the caves of pure cold breath, Down to the deeps of foul hot death, Across the seas, through the fires, Past the palace of desires; Where he will, whether he will or no, If I go, I care not whither I go. For in me is the taint of the faery blood. Fast, fast its emerald flood Leaps within me, violent rude Like a bestial faun's beatitude. In me the faery blood runs hard: My sires were a druid, a devil, a bard, A beast, a wizard, a snake and a satyr; For - as my mother said - what does it matter? She was a fay, pure of the faery; Queen Morgan's daughter by an aery Demon that came to Orkney once To pay the Beetle his orisons. So, it is I that writhe with the twitch Of the faery blood, and the wizard itch To attain a matter one may not utter Rather than sink in the greasy splutter Of Britons munching their bread and butter; Ailing boys and coarse-grained girls Grown to sloppy women and brutal churls. So, I am off with staff in hand To the endless light of the nameless land. Darkness spreads its sombre streams, Blotting out the elfin dreams. I might haply be afraid, Were it not the Feather-maid Leads me softly by the hand, Whispers me to understand. Now (when through the world of weeping Light at last starrily creeping Steals upon my babe-new sight, Light - O light that is not light!) On my mouth the lips of her Like a stone on my sepulchre Seal my speech with ecstasy, Till a babe is born of me That is silent more than I; For its inarticulate cry Hushes as its mouth is pressed To the pearl, her honey breast; While its breath divinely ripples The rose-petals of her nipples, And the jetted milk he laps From the soft delicious paps, Sweeter than the bee-sweet showers In the chalice of the flowers, More intoxicating than All the purple grapes of Pan. Ah! my proper lips are stilled. Only, all the world is filled With the Echo, that drips over Like the honey from the clover. Passion, penitence, and pain Seek their mother's womb again, And are born the triple treasure, Peace and purity and pleasure. - Hush, my child, and come aloft Where the stars are velvet soft! ~ Aleister Crowley, The Wizard Way ,

304:Robin Hood And Guy Of Gisborne When shawes been sheene, and shradds full fayre, And leeves both large and longe, Itt is merry, walking in the fayre forrest, To heare the small birds songe. The woodweele sang, and wold not cease, Amongst the leaves a lyne: And it is by two wight yeomen, By deare God, that I meane. 'Me thought they did mee beate and binde, And tooke my bow mee froe; If I bee Robin a-live in this lande, I'le be wrocken on both them towe.' Sweavens are swift, master,' quoth John, 'As the wind that blowes ore a hill; For if itt be never soe lowde this night, To-morrow it may be still.' 'Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, For John shall goe with mee: For I'le goe seek yond wight yeomen In greenwood where the bee.' ^ TOP The cast on their gowne of greene, A shooting gone are they, Untill they came to the merry greenwood, Where they had gladdest bee; There were the ware of a wight yeoman, His body leaned to a tree. A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, Had beene many a man bane, And he was cladd in his capull-hyde, Topp, and tayle, and mayne. 554 'Stand you still, master,' quoth Litle John, 'Under this trusty tree, And I will goe to yong wight yeomen, To know his meaning trulye.' 'A, John, by me thou setts noe store, And that's a farley thinge; How offt send I my men beffore, And tarry my-selfe behinde? It is noe cunning a knave to ken, And a man but heare him speake; And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, John, I wold thy head breake.' But often words they breeden bale, That parted Robin and John; John is gone to Barnesdale, The gates he knowes eche one. ^ TOP And when hee came to Barnesdale, Great heavinesse there hee hadd; He found two of his fellowes Were slaine both in a slade. And Scarlett a foote flyinge was, Over stockes and stone, For the sheriffe with seven score men Fast after him is gone. 'Yett one shoote I'le shoote', sayes Little John, 'With Crist his might and mayne; I'le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast To be both glad and faine.' John bent up a good viewe bow, And fetteled him to shoote; The bow was made of a tender boughe, And fell downe to his foote. 'Woe worth thee, wicked wood,' sayd Little John, 555 'That ere thou grew on a tree! For this day thou art my bale, My foote when thou shold bee!' This shoote it was but looselye shott, The arrowe flew in vaine, And it mett one of the sheriffes men; Good William a Trent was slaine. It had beene better for William a Trent To hange upon a gallowe Then for to lye in the greenwoode, There slaine with an arrowe. And it is syd, when men be mett, Six can doe more then three: And they have tane Litle John, And bound him fast to a tre. 'Thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe,' quoth the sheriffe, And hanged hye on a hill: 'But thou may fayle,' quoth Litle John, 'If itt be Christs owne will.' Let us leave talking of Little John, For hee is bound fast to a tree, And talke of Guy and Robin Hood, In the green woode where they bee. How these two yeomen together they mett, Under the leaves of lyne, To see what merchandise they made Even at that same time. 'Good morrow, good fellow,' quoth Sir Guy: 'Good morrow, good fellow,' quoth hee; 'Methinkes by this bow thou beares in thy hand, A good archer thou seems to bee.' 'I am wilfull of my way,' quoth Sir Guye, 'And of my morning tyde:' 'I'le lead thee through the wood,' quoth Robin, 556 'Good fellow, I'le be thy guide.' 'I seeke an outlaw,' quoth Sir Guye, 'Men call him Robin Hood; I had rather meet with him upon a day Then forty pound of golde.' 'If you tow mett it wold be seene whether were better Afore yee did part awaye; Let us some other pastime find, Good fellow, I thee pray. ^ TOP 'Let us some other masteryes make, And wee will walke in the woods even; Wee may chance meet with Robin Hoode Att some unsett steven.' They cutt them downe the summer shroggs Which grew both under a bryar, And sett them three score rodd in twinn, To shoote the prickes full neare. 'Leade on, good fellow,' sayd Sir Guye, 'Lead on, I doe bidd thee:' 'Nay, by my faith,' quoth Robin Hood, 'The leader thou shalt bee.' The first good shoot that Robin ledd Did not shoote an inch the pricke froe; Guy was an archer good enoughe, But he cold neere shoote soe. The second shoote Sir Guy shott, He shotte within the garlande; But Robin Hoode shott it better then hee, For he clove the good pricke-wande. 'Gods blessing on thy heart!' sayes Guye, 'Goode fellow, they shooting is goode; For an thy hart be as good as thy hands, Thou were better then Robin Hood. 557 'Tell me thy name, good fellow,' quoth Guy, 'Under the leaves of lyne:' 'Nay, by my faith,' quoth good Robin, 'Till thou have told me thine.' 'I dwell by dale and downe,' quoth Guye, 'And I have done many a curst turne; And he that calles me by my right name Calles me Guye of good Gysborne.' ^ TOP 'My dwelling is in the wood,' sayes Robin; 'By thee I set right nought; My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale, A fellow thou has long sought. He that had neither beene a kithe nor kin, Might have seene a full fayre sight, To see how together these yeomen went, With blades both browne and bright. To have seene how these yeomen together fought, Two howers of a summers day; Itt was neither Guy nor Robin Hood That fettled them to flye away. Robin was rechles on a roote, And stumbled at that tyde, And Guy was quicke and nimble withall, And hitt him ore the left side. 'Ah, deere Lady!' sayd Robin Hoode, 'Thou are both mother and may! I thinke it was never mans destinye To dye before his day.' Robin thought on Our Lady deere, And soone leapt up againe, And thus he came with an awkwarde stroke; Good Sir Guy hee has slayne. 558 He tooke Sir Guys head by the hayre, And sticked itt on his bowes end: 'Thous hast beene traytor all thy liffe, Which thing must have an ende.' Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, And nicked Sir Guy in the face, That hee was never on a woman borne Cold tell who Sir Guye was. ^ TOP Saies, 'Lye there, lye there, good Sir Guye, And with me be not wrothe; If thou have had the worse stroakes at my hand, Thou shalt have the better cloathe.' Robin did off his gowne of greene, Sir Guye hee did it throwe; And hee put on that capull-hyde, That cladd him toppe to toe. 'The bowe, the arrowes, and little horne, And with me now I'le beare; For now I will goe to Barnesdale, To see how my men doe fare.' Robin sett Guyes horne to his mouth, A lowd blast in it he did blow; That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, As he leaned under a lowe. 'Hearken! hearken!' sayd the sheriffe, 'I heard noe tydings but good; For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blowe, For he hath slaine Robin Hoode. 'For yonder I heare Sir Guyes horne blow, Itt blowes soe well in tyde, For yonder comes that wighty yeoman, Cladd in his capulll-hyde. Come hither, thou good Sir Guy, 559 Aske of me what thou wilt have:' 'I'le none of thy gold,' sayes Robin Hood, 'Nor I'le none of it have.' ^ TOP 'But now I have slaine the master,' he sayde, 'Let me goe strike the knave; This is all the reward I aske, Nor noe other will I have.' 'Thou art a madman,' said the shiriffe, 'Thou sholdest have had a knights fee; Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd, Well granted it shall be.' But Litle John heard his master speake, Well he knew that was his steven; 'now shall I be loset,' quoth Litle John, 'With Christs might in heaven.' But Robin hee hyed him towards Litle John, Hee thought hee wold loose him believe; The sheriffe and all his companye Fast after him did drive. 'Stand abacke! stand abacke!' sayd Robin; 'Why draw you mee soe neere? Itt was never the use in our countrye One's shrift another shold heere.' But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe, And losed John hand and foote, And gave him Sir Guyes bow in his hand, And bade it be his boote. But John tooke Guyes bow in his hand His arrowes were rawstye by the roote The sheriffe saw Litle John draw a bow And fettle him to shoote. Towards his house in Nottingham He fled full fast away, 560 And soe did all his companye, Not one behind did stay. But he cold neither soe fast goe, Nor away soe fast runn, But Litle John, with an arrow broade, Did cleave his heart in twinn. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

305:He sings. I send my heart up to thee, all my heart In this my singing. For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clinging Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. She speaks. Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, In your own voice, in your own way: ``This woman's heart and soul and brain ``Are mine as much as this gold chain ``She bids me wear; which'' (say again) ``I choose to make by cherishing ``A precious thing, or choose to fling ``Over the boat-side, ring by ring.'' And yet once more say no word more! Since words are only words. Give o'er! Unless you call me, all the same, Familiarly by my pet name, Which if the Three should hear you call, And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all. Ask of me, too, command me, blame- Do, break down the partition-wall 'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds Curtained in dusk and splendid folds! What's left but-all of me to take? I am the Three's: prevent them, slake Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage, In practising with gems, can loose Their subtle spirit in his cruce And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, Leave them my ashes when thy use Sucks out my soul, thy heritage! He sings. I. Past we glide, and past, and past! What's that poor Agnese doing Where they make the shutters fast? Grey Zanobi's just a-wooing To his couch the purchased bride: Past we glide! II. Past we glide, and past, and past! Why's the Pucci Palace flaring Like a beacon to the blast? Guests by hundreds, not one caring If the dear host's neck were wried: Past we glide! She sings. I. The moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. II. The bee's kiss, now! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow. He sings. I. What are we two? I am a Jew, And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue, To a feast of our tribe; Where they need thee to bribe The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe Thy Scatter the vision for ever! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou! II. Say again, what we are? The sprite of a star, I lure thee above where the destinies bar My plumes their full play Till a ruddier ray Than my pale one announce there is withering away Some Scatter the vision for ever! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou! He muses. Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? The land's lap or the water's breast? To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, Or swim in lucid shallows just Eluding water-lily leaves, An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust To lock you, whom release he must; Which life were best on Summer eves? He speaks, musing. Lie back; could thought of mine improve you? From this shoulder let there spring A wing; from this, another wing; Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! Snow-white must they spring, to blend With your flesh, but I intend They shall deepen to the end, Broader, into burning gold, Till both wings crescent-wise enfold Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet As if a million sword-blades hurled Defiance from you to the world! Rescue me thou, the only real! And scare away this mad ideal That came, nor motions to depart! Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art! Still he muses. I. What if the Three should catch at last Thy serenader? While there's cast Paul's cloak about my head, and fast Gian pinions me, himself has past His stylet thro' my back; I reel; And is it thou I feel? II. They trail me, these three godless knaves, Past every church that saints and saves, Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves By Lido's wet accursed graves, They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, And on thy breast I sink She replies, musing. Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep, As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep, Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel, Or poison doubtless; but from water-feel! Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass To plait in where the foolish jewel was, I flung away: since you have praised my hair, 'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear. He speaks. Row home? must we row home? Too surely Know I where its front's demurely Over the Giudecca piled; Window just with window mating, Door on door exactly waiting, All's the set face of a child: But behind it, where's a trace Of the staidness and reserve, And formal lines without a curve, In the same child's playing-face? No two windows look one way O'er the small sea-water thread Below them. Ah, the autumn day I, passing, saw you overhead! First, out a cloud of curtain blew, Then a sweet cry, and last came you- To catch your lory that must needs Escape just then, of all times then, To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds, And make me happiest of men. I scarce could breathe to see you reach So far back o'er the balcony To catch him ere he climbed too high Above you in the Smyrna peach That quick the round smooth cord of gold, This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, Fell down you like a gorgeous snake The Roman girls were wont, of old, When Rome there was, for coolness' sake To let lie curling o'er their bosoms. Dear lory,* may his beak retain Ever its delicate rose stain As if the wounded lotus-blossoms Had marked their thief to know again! Stay longer yet, for others' sake Than mine! What should your chamber do? -With all its rarities that ache In silence while day lasts, but wake At night-time and their life renew, Suspended just to pleasure you Who brought against their will together These objects, and, while day lasts, weave Around them such a magic tether That dumb they look: your harp, believe, With all the sensitive tight strings Which dare not speak, now to itself Breathes slumberously, as if some elf Went in and out the chords, his wings Make murmur wheresoe'er they graze, As an angel may, between the maze Of midnight palace-pillars, on And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone Through guilty glorious Babylon. And while such murmurs flow, the nymph Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell As the dry limpet for the lymph Come with a tune be knows so well. And how your statues' hearts must swell! And how your pictures must descend To see each other, friend with friend! Oh, could you take them by surprise, You'd find Schidone's eager Duke Doing the quaintest courtesies To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke! And, deeper into her rock den, Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen You'd find retreated from the ken Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser- As if the Tizian thinks of her, And is not, rather, gravely bent On seeing for himself what toys Are these, his progeny invent, What litter now the board employs Whereon he signed a document That got him murdered! Each enjoys Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up, so, indeed must make More stay with me, for others' sake. She speaks. I. To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Is used to tie the jasmine back That overfloods my room with sweets, Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets My Zanze! If the ribbon's black, The Three are watching: keep away! II. Your gondola-let Zorzi wreathe A mesh of water-weeds about its prow, as if he unaware Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair! That I may throw a paper out As you and he go underneath. There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we. Only one minute more to-night with me? Resume your past self of a month ago! Be you the bashful gallant, I will be The lady with the colder breast than snow. Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand More than I touch yours when I step to land, And say, ``All thanks, Siora!''- Heart to heart And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part, Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art! [He is surprised, and stabbed. It was ordained to be so, sweet!-and best Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast. Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care Only to put aside thy beauteous hair My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn To death, because they never lived: but I Have lived indeed, and so-(yet one more kiss)-can die! ~ Robert Browning, In A Gondola ,

306:New Year's Day at Asolo in the Trevisan Scene.A large mean airy chamber. A girl, Pippa, from the Silk-mills, springing out of bed. Day! Faster and more fast, O'er night's brim, day boils at last: Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, A mite of my twelve hours' treasure, The least of thy gazes or glances, (Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure) One of thy choices or one of thy chances, (Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure) My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure, Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me! Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing, Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going, As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not As prosperous ones are treated, those who live At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot, In readiness to take what thou wilt give, And free to let alone what thou refusest; For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest Me, who am only Pippa,old-year's sorrow, Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow: Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow. All other men and women that this earth Belongs to, who all days alike possess, Make general plenty cure particular dearth, Get more joy one way, if another, less: Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven, Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's! Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones And let thy morning rain on that superb Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb Her Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane, He will but press the closer, breathe more warm Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm? And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom O'er Jules and Phene,what care bride and groom Save for their dear selves? 'T is their marriage-day; And while they leave church and go home their way, Hand clasping hand, within each breast would be Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee. Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve With mist,will Luigi and his mother grieve The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth, She in her age, as Luigi in his youth, For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close And safe, the sooner that thou art morose, Receives them. And yet once again, outbreak In storm at night on Monsignor, they make Such stir about,whom they expect from Rome To visit Asolo, his brothers' home, And say here masses proper to release A soul from pain,what storm dares hurt his peace? Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard. But Pippajust one such mischance would spoil Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil! And here I let time slip for nought! Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caught With a single splash from my ewer! You that would mock the best pursuer, Was my basin over-deep? One splash of water ruins you asleep, And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits Wheeling and counterwheeling, Reeling, broken beyond healing: Now grow together on the ceiling! That will task your wits. Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to see Morsel after morsel flee As merrily, as giddily . . . Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on, Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple? Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon? New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple, Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll! Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple Of ocean, bud there,fairies watch unroll Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse Thick red flame through that dusk green universe! I am queen of thee, floweret! And each fleshy blossom Preserve I not(safer Than leaves that embower it, Or shells that embosom) From weevil and chafer? Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee; Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee, Love thy queen, worship me! Worship whom else? For am I not, this day, Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day? My morn, noon, eve and nighthow spend my day? To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk, The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk: But, this one day, I have leave to go, And play out my fancy's fullest games; I may fancy all dayand it shall be so That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo! See! Up the hill-side yonder, through the morning, Some one shall love me, as the world calls love: I am no less than Ottima, take warning! The gardens, and the great stone house above, And other house for shrubs, all glass in front, Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont, To court me, while old Luca yet reposes: And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses, I . . . what now?give abundant cause for prate About meOttima, I meanof late, Too bold, too confident she'll still face down The spitefullest of talkers in our town. How we talk in the little town below! But love, love, lovethere's better love, I know! This foolish love was only day's first offer; I choose my next love to defy the scoffer: For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally Out of Possagno church at noon? Their house looks over Orcana valley: Why should not I be the bride as soon As Ottima? For I saw, beside, Arrive last night that little bride Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses, Blacker than all except the black eyelash; I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses! So strict was she, the veil Should cover close her pale Pure cheeksa bride to look at and scarce touch, Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not such Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature, As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature? A soft and easy life these ladies lead: Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed. Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness, Keep that foot its lady primness, Let those ankles never swerve From their exquisite reserve, Yet have to trip along the streets like me, All but naked to the knee! How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss So startling as her real first infant kiss? Oh, nonot envy, this! Not envy, sure!for if you gave me Leave to take or to refuse, In earnest, do you think I'd choose That sort of new love to enslave me? Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning; As little fear of losing it as winning: Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives, And only parents' love can last our lives. At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair, Commune inside our turret: what prevents My being Luigi? While that mossy lair Of lizards through the winter-time is stirred With each to each imparting sweet intents For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird (For I observe of late, the evening walk Of Luigi and his mother, always ends Inside our ruined turret, where they talk, Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends) Let me be cared about, kept out of harm, And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm; Let me be Luigi! If I only knew What was my mother's facemy father, too! Nay, if you come to that, best love of all Is God's; then why not have God's love befall Myself as, in the palace by the Dome, Monsignor?who to-night will bless the home Of his dead brother; and God bless in turn That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn With love for all men! I, to-night at least, Would be that holy and beloved priest. Now wait!even I already seem to share In God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare? What other meaning do these verses bear? All service ranks the same with God: If now, as formerly he trod Paradise, his presence fills Our earth, each only as God wills Can workGod's puppets, best and worst, Are we; there is no last nor first. Say not "a small event!" Why "small"? Costs it more pain that this, ye call A "great event," should come to pass, Than that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed! And more of it, and more of it!oh yes I will pass each, and see their happiness, And envy nonebeing just as great, no doubt, Useful to men, and dear to God, as they! A pretty thing to care about So mightily, this single holiday! But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine? With thee to lead me, O Day of mine, Down the grass path grey with dew, Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs, Where the swallow never flew Nor yet cicala dared carouse No, dared carouse! [She enters the street] ~ Robert Browning, Introduction: Pippa Passes ,

307:'O happy Earth, reality of Heaven! To which those restless souls that ceaselessly Throng through the human universe, aspire! Thou consummation of all mortal hope! Thou glorious prize of blindly working will, Whose rays, diffused throughout all space and time, Verge to one point and blend forever there! Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling-place Where care and sorrow, impotence and crime, Languor, disease and ignorance dare not come! O happy Earth, reality of Heaven! 'Genius has seen thee in her passionate dreams; And dim forebodings of thy loveliness, Haunting the human heart, have there entwined Those rooted hopes of some sweet place of bliss, Where friends and lovers meet to part no more. Thou art the end of all desire and will, The product of all action; and the souls, That by the paths of an aspiring change Have reached thy haven of perpetual peace, There rest from the eternity of toil That framed the fabric of thy perfectness. 'Even Time, the conqueror, fled thee in his fear; That hoary giant, who in lonely pride So long had ruled the world that nations fell Beneath his silent footstep. Pyramids, That for millenniums had withstood the tide Of human things, his storm-breath drove in sand Across that desert where their stones survived The name of him whose pride had heaped them there. Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp, Was but the mushroom of a summer day, That his light-wingd footstep pressed to dust; Time was the king of earth; all things gave way Before him but the fixed and virtuous will, The sacred sympathies of soul and sense, That mocked his fury and prepared his fall. 'Yet slow and gradual dawned the morn of love; Long lay the clouds of darkness o'er the scene, Till from its native heaven they rolled away: First, crime triumphant o'er all hope careered Unblushing, undisguising, bold and strong, Whilst falsehood, tricked in virtue's attributes, Long sanctified all deeds of vice and woe, Till, done by her own venomous sting to death, She left the moral world without a law, No longer fettering passion's fearless wing, Nor searing reason with the brand of God. Then steadily the happy ferment worked; Reason was free; and wild though passion went Through tangled glens and wood-embosomed meads, Gathering a garland of the strangest flowers, Yet, like the bee returning to her queen, She bound the sweetest on her sister's brow, Who meek and sober kissed the sportive child, No longer trembling at the broken rod. 'Mild was the slow necessity of death. The tranquil spirit failed beneath its grasp, Without a groan, almost without a fear, Calm as a voyager to some distant land, And full of wonder, full of hope as he. The deadly germs of languor and disease Died in the human frame, and purity Blessed with all gifts her earthly worshippers. How vigorous then the athletic form of age! How clear its open and unwrinkled brow! Where neither avarice, cunning, pride or care Had stamped the seal of gray deformity On all the mingling lineaments of time. How lovely the intrepid front of youth, Which meek-eyed courage decked with freshest grace; Courage of soul, that dreaded not a name, And elevated will, that journeyed on Through life's phantasmal scene in fearlessness, With virtue, love and pleasure, hand in hand! 'Then, that sweet bondage which is freedom's self, And rivets with sensation's softest tie The kindred sympathies of human souls, Needed no fetters of tyrannic law. Those delicate and timid impulses In Nature's primal modesty arose, And with undoubting confidence disclosed The growing longings of its dawning love, Unchecked by dull and selfish chastity, That virtue of the cheaply virtuous, Who pride themselves in senselessness and frost. No longer prostitution's venomed bane Poisoned the springs of happiness and life; Woman and man, in confidence and love, Equal and free and pure together trod The mountain-paths of virtue, which no more Were stained with blood from many a pilgrim's feet. 'Then, where, through distant ages, long in pride The palace of the monarch-slave had mocked Famine's faint groan and penury's silent tear, A heap of crumbling ruins stood, and threw Year after year their stones upon the field, Wakening a lonely echo; and the leaves Of the old thorn, that on the topmost tower Usurped the royal ensign's grandeur, shook In the stern storm that swayed the topmost tower, And whispered strange tales in the whirlwind's ear. 'Low through the lone cathedral's roofless aisles The melancholy winds a death-dirge sung. It were a sight of awfulness to see The works of faith and slavery, so vast, So sumptuous, yet so perishing withal, Even as the corpse that rests beneath its wall! A thousand mourners deck the pomp of death To-day, the breathing marble glows above To decorate its memory, and tongues Are busy of its life; to-morrow, worms In silence and in darkness seize their prey. 'Within the massy prison's mouldering courts, Fearless and free the ruddy children played, Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent brows With the green ivy and the red wall-flower That mock the dungeon's unavailing gloom; The ponderous chains and gratings of strong iron There rusted amid heaps of broken stone That mingled slowly with their native earth; There the broad beam of day, which feebly once Lighted the cheek of lean captivity With a pale and sickly glare, then freely shone On the pure smiles of infant playfulness; No more the shuddering voice of hoarse despair Pealed through the echoing vaults, but soothing notes Of ivy-fingered winds and gladsome birds And merriment were resonant around. 'These ruins soon left not a wreck behind; Their elements, wide-scattered o'er the globe, To happier shapes were moulded, and became Ministrant to all blissful impulses; Thus human things were perfected, and earth, Even as a child beneath its mother's love, Was strengthened in all excellence, and grew Fairer and nobler with each passing year. 'Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the scene Closes in steadfast darkness, and the past Fades from our charmd sight. My task is done; Thy lore is learned. Earth's wonders are thine own With all the fear and all the hope they bring. My spells are passed; the present now recurs. Ah me! a pathless wilderness remains Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming hand. 'Yet, human Spirit! bravely hold thy course; Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue The gradual paths of an aspiring change; For birth and life and death, and that strange state Before the naked soul has found its home, All tend to perfect happiness, and urge The restless wheels of being on their way, Whose flashing spokes, instinct with infinite life, Bicker and burn to gain their destined goal; For birth but wakes the spirit to the sense Of outward shows, whose unexperienced shape New modes of passion to its frame may lend; Life is its state of action, and the store Of all events is aggregated there That variegate the eternal universe; Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom, That leads to azure isles and beaming skies And happy regions of eternal hope. Therefore, O Spirit! fearlessly bear on. Though storms may break the primrose on its stalk, Though frosts may blight the freshness of its bloom, Yet spring's awakening breath will woo the earth To feed with kindliest dews its favorite flower, That blooms in mossy bank and darksome glens, Lighting the greenwood with its sunny smile. 'Fear not then, Spirit, death's disrobing hand, So welcome when the tyrant is awake, So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch burns; 'T is but the voyage of a darksome hour, The transient gulf-dream of a startling sleep. Death is no foe to virtue; earth has seen Love's brightest roses on the scaffold bloom, Mingling with freedom's fadeless laurels there, And presaging the truth of visioned bliss. Are there not hopes within thee, which this scene Of linked and gradual being has confirmed? Whose stingings bade thy heart look further still, When, to the moonlight walk by Henry led, Sweetly and sadly thou didst talk of death? And wilt thou rudely tear them from thy breast, Listening supinely to a bigot's creed, Or tamely crouching to the tyrant's rod, Whose iron thongs are red with human gore? Never: but bravely bearing on, thy will Is destined an eternal war to wage With tyranny and falsehood, and uproot The germs of misery from the human heart. Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe The thorny pillow of unhappy crime, Whose impotence an easy pardon gains, Watching its wanderings as a friend's disease; Thine is the brow whose mildness would defy Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest will, When fenced by power and master of the world. Thou art sincere and good; of resolute mind, Free from heart-withering custom's cold control, Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. Earth's pride and meanness could not vanquish thee, And therefore art thou worthy of the boon Which thou hast now received; virtue shall keep Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast trod, And many days of beaming hope shall bless Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love. Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy,   Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch   Light, life and rapture from thy smile!'   The Fairy waves her wand of charm. Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the car,   That rolled beside the battlement, Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness.   Again the enchanted steeds were yoked;   Again the burning wheels inflame The steep descent of heaven's untrodden way.   Fast and far the chariot flew;   The vast and fiery globes that rolled   Around the Fairy's palace-gate Lessened by slow degrees, and soon appeared Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs That there attendant on the solar power With borrowed light pursued their narrower way.    Earth floated then below;   The chariot paused a moment there;    The Spirit then descended; The restless coursers pawed the ungenial soil, Snuffed the gross air, and then, their errand done, Unfurled their pinions to the winds of heaven.   The Body and the Soul united then. A gentle start convulsed Ianthe's frame; Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained. She looked around in wonder, and beheld Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love,    And the bright beaming stars    That through the casement shone.    ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab - Part IX. ,

308:A Roxbury Garden Hoops Blue and pink sashes, Criss-cross shoes, Minna and Stella run out into the garden To play at hoop. Up and down the garden-paths they race, In the yellow sunshine, Each with a big round hoop White as a stripped willow-wand. Round and round turn the hoops, Their diamond whiteness cleaving the yellow sunshine. The gravel crunches and squeaks beneath them, And a large pebble springs them into the air To go whirling for a foot or two Before they touch the earth again In a series of little jumps. Spring, Hoops! Spit out a shower of blue and white brightness. The little criss-cross shoes twinkle behind you, The pink and blue sashes flutter like flags, The hoop-sticks are ready to beat you. Turn, turn, Hoops! In the yellow sunshine. Turn your stripped willow whiteness Along the smooth paths. Stella sings: 'Round and round, rolls my hoop, Scarcely touching the ground, With a swoop, And a bound, Round and round. With a bumpety, crunching, scattering sound, Down the garden it flies; 24 In our eyes The sun lies. See it spin Out and in; Through the paths it goes whirling, About the beds curling. Sway now to the loop, Faster, faster, my hoop. Round you come, Up you come, Quick and straight as before. Run, run, my hoop, run, Away from the sun.' And the great hoop bounds along the path, Leaping into the wind-bright air. Minna sings: 'Turn, hoop, Burn hoop, Twist and twine Hoop of mine. Flash along, Leap along, Right at the sun. Run, hoop, run. Faster and faster, Whirl, twirl. Wheel like fire, And spin like glass; Fire's no whiter Glass is no brighter. Dance, Prance, Over and over, About and about, With the top of you under, And the bottom at top, But never a stop. Turn about, hoop, to the tap of my stick, I follow behind you To touch and remind you. 25 Burn and glitter, so white and quick, Round and round, to the tap of a stick.' The hoop flies along between the flower-beds, Swaying the flowers with the wind of its passing. Beside the foxglove-border roll the hoops, And the little pink and white bells shake and jingle Up and down their tall spires; They roll under the snow-ball bush, And the ground behind them is strewn with white petals; They swirl round a corner, And jar a bee out of a Canterbury bell; They cast their shadows for an instant Over a bed of pansies, Catch against the spurs of a columbine, Jostle the quietness from a cluster of monk's-hood. Pat! Pat! behind them come the little criss-cross shoes, And the blue and pink sashes stream out in flappings of colour. Stella sings: 'Hoop, hoop, Roll along, Faster bowl along, Hoop. Slow, to the turning, Now go! - Go! Quick! Here's the stick. Rat-a-tap-tap it, Pat it, flap it. Fly like a bird or a yellow-backed bee, See how soon you can reach that tree. Here is a path that is perfectly straight. Roll along, hoop, or we shall be late.' Minna sings: 'Trip about, slip about, whip about Hoop. Wheel like a top at its quickest spin, Then, dear hoop, we shall surely win. First to the greenhouse and then to the wall 26 Circle and circle, And let the wind push you, Poke you, Brush you, And not let you fall. Whirring you round like a wreath of mist. Hoopety hoop, Twist, Twist.' Tap! Tap! go the hoop-sticks, And the hoops bowl along under a grape arbour. For an instant their willow whiteness is green, Pale white-green. Then they are out in the sunshine, Leaving the half-formed grape clusters A-tremble under their big leaves. 'I will beat you, Minna,' cries Stella, Hitting her hoop smartly with her stick. 'Stella, Stella, we are winning,' calls Minna, As her hoop curves round a bed of clove-pinks. A humming-bird whizzes past Stella's ear, And two or three yellow-and-black butterflies Flutter, startled, out of a pillar rose. Round and round race the little girls After their great white hoops. Suddenly Minna stops. Her hoop wavers an instant, But she catches it up on her stick. 'Listen, Stella!' Both the little girls are listening; And the scents of the garden rise up quietly about them. 'It's the chaise! It's Father! Perhaps he's brought us a book from Boston.' Twinkle, twinkle, the little criss-cross shoes Up the garden path. Blue - pink - an instant, against the syringa hedge. But the hoops, white as stripped willow-wands, Lie in the grass, And the grasshoppers jump back and forth 27 Over them. II Battledore and Shuttlecock The shuttlecock soars upward In a parabola of whiteness, Turns, And sinks to a perfect arc. Plat! the battledore strikes it, And it rises again, Without haste, Winged and curving, Tracing its white flight Against the clipped hemlock-trees. Plat! Up again, Orange and sparkling with sun, Rounding under the blue sky, Dropping, Fading to grey-green In the shadow of the coned hemlocks. 'Ninety-one.' 'Ninety-two.' 'Ninety-three.' The arms of the little girls Come up - and up Precisely, Like mechanical toys. The battledores beat at nothing, And toss the dazzle of snow Off their parchment drums. 'Ninety-four.' Plat! 'Ninety-five.' Plat! Back and forth Goes the shuttlecock, Icicle-white, Leaping at the sharp-edged clouds, Overturning, Falling, Down, And down, Tinctured with pink 28 From the upthrusting shine Of Oriental poppies. The little girls sway to the counting rhythm; Left foot, Right foot. Plat! Plat! Yellow heat twines round the handles of the battledores, The parchment cracks with dryness; But the shuttlecock Swings slowly into the ice-blue sky, Heaving up on the warm air Like a foam-bubble on a wave, With feathers slanted and sustaining. Higher, Until the earth turns beneath it; Poised and swinging, With all the garden flowing beneath it, Scarlet, and blue, and purple, and white Blurred colour reflections in rippled water Changing - streaming For the moment that Stella takes to lift her arm. Then the shuttlecock relinquishes, Bows, Descends; And the sharp blue spears of the air Thrust it to earth. Again it mounts, Stepping up on the rising scents of flowers, Buoyed up and under by the shining heat. Above the foxgloves, Above the guelder-roses, Above the greenhouse glitter, Till the shafts of cooler air Meet it, Deflect it, Reject it, Then down, Down, Past the greenhouse, Past the guelder-rose bush, 29 Past the foxgloves. 'Ninety-nine,' Stella's battledore springs to the impact. Plunk! Like the snap of a taut string. 'Oh! Minna!' The shuttlecock drops zigzagedly, Out of orbit, Hits the path, And rolls over quite still. Dead white feathers, With a weight at the end. III Garden Games The tall clock is striking twelve; And the little girls stop in the hall to watch it, And the big ships rocking in a half-circle Above the dial. Twelve o'clock! Down the side steps Go the little girls, Under their big round straw hats. Minna's has a pink ribbon, Stella's a blue, That is the way they know which is which. Twelve o'clock! An hour yet before dinner. Mother is busy in the still-room, And Hannah is making gingerbread. Slowly, with lagging steps, They follow the garden-path, Crushing a leaf of box for its acrid smell, Discussing what they shall do, And doing nothing. 'Stella, see that grasshopper Climbing up the bank! What a jump! Almost as long as my arm.' 30 Run, children, run. For the grasshopper is leaping away, In half-circle curves, Shuttlecock curves, Over the grasses. Hand in hand, the little girls call to him: 'Grandfather, grandfather gray, Give me molasses, or I'll throw you away.' The grasshopper leaps into the sunlight, Golden-green, And is gone. 'Let's catch a bee.' Round whirl the little girls, And up the garden. Two heads are thrust among the Canterbury bells, Listening, And fingers clasp and unclasp behind backs In a strain of silence. White bells, Blue bells, Hollow and reflexed. Deep tunnels of blue and white dimness, Cool wine-tunnels for bees. There is a floundering and buzzing over Minna's head. 'Bend it down, Stella. Quick! Quick!' The wide mouth of a blossom Is pressed together in Minna's fingers. The stem flies up, jiggling its flower-bells, And Minna holds the dark blue cup in her hand, With the bee Imprisoned in it. Whirr! Buzz! Bump! Bump! Whiz! Bang! BANG!! The blue flower tears across like paper, And a gold-black bee darts away in the sunshine. 'If we could fly, we could catch him.' 31 The sunshine is hot on Stella's upturned face, As she stares after the bee. 'We'll follow him in a dove chariot. Come on, Stella.' Run, children, Along the red gravel paths, For a bee is hard to catch, Even with a chariot of doves. Tall, still, and cowled, Stand the monk's-hoods; Taller than the heads of the little girls. A blossom for Minna. A blossom for Stella. Off comes the cowl, And there is a purple-painted chariot; Off comes the forward petal, And there are two little green doves, With green traces tying them to the chariot. 'Now we will get in, and fly right up to the clouds. Fly, Doves, up in the sky, With Minna and me, After the bee.' Up one path, Down another, Run the little girls, Holding their dove chariots in front of them; But the bee is hidden in the trumpet of a honeysuckle, With his wings folded along his back. The dove chariots are thrown away, And the little girls wander slowly through the garden, Sucking the salvia tips, And squeezing the snapdragons To make them gape. 'I'm so hot, Let's pick a pansy And see the little man in his bath, And play we're he.' A royal bath-tub, Hung with purple stuffs and yellow. 32 The great purple-yellow wings Rise up behind the little red and green man; The purple-yellow wings fan him, He dabbles his feet in cool green. Off with the green sheath, And there are two spindly legs. 'Heigho!' sighs Minna. 'Heigho!' sighs Stella. There is not a flutter of wind, And the sun is directly overhead. Along the edge of the garden Walk the little girls. Their hats, round and yellow like cheeses, Are dangling by the ribbons. The grass is a tumult of buttercups and daisies; Buttercups and daisies streaming away Up the hill. The garden is purple, and pink, and orange, and scarlet; The garden is hot with colours. But the meadow is only yellow, and white, and green, Cool, and long, and quiet. The little girls pick buttercups And hold them under each other's chins. 'You're as gold as Grandfather's snuff-box. You're going to be very rich, Minna.' 'Oh-o-o! Then I'll ask my husband to give me a pair of garnet earrings Just like Aunt Nancy's. I wonder if he will. I know. We'll tell fortunes. That's what we'll do.' Plump down in the meadow grass, Stella and Minna, With their round yellow hats, Like cheeses, Beside them. Drop, Drop, Daisy petals. 'One I love, Two I love, Three I love I say . . .' 33 The ground is peppered with daisy petals, And the little girls nibble the golden centres, And play it is cake. A bell rings. Dinner-time; And after dinner there are lessons. ~ Amy Lowell,

309: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,

310:The Happy Harvester I. Autumn, like an old poet in a haze Of golden visions, dreams away his days, So Hafiz-like that one may almost hear The singer's thoughts imbue the atmosphere; Sweet as the dreamings of the nightingales Ere yet their songs have waked the eastern vales, Or stirred the airy echoes of the wood That haunt the forest's social solitude. His thoughts are pastorals; his days are rife With the calm wisdom of that inner life That makes the poet heir to worlds unknown, All space his empire, and the sun his throne. As the bee stores the sweetness of the flowers, So into autumn's variegated hours Is hived the Hybla richness of the year; Choice souls imbibing the ambrosial cheer, As autumn, seated on the highest hills, Gleans honied secrets from the passing rills; While from below, the harvest canzonas Link vale to mountain with a chain of praise. Foremost among the honoured sons of toil Are they who overcome the stubborn soil; Brave Cincinnatus in his country home Was even greater than when lord of Rome. Down sinks the sun behind the lofty pines That skirt the mountain, like the straggling lines Of Ceres' army looking from the height On the dim lowlands deepening into night; Soft-featured twilight, peering through the maze, Sees the first starbeam pierce the purple haze; Through all the vales the vespers of the birds Cheer the young shepherds homeward with their herds; And the stout axles of the heavy wain Creak 'neath the fulness of the ripened grain, As the swarth builders of the precious load, Returning homewards, sing their Autumn Ode. 145 AUTUMN ODE. God of the Harvest! Thou, whose sun Has ripened all the golden grain, We bless Thee for Thy bounteous store, The cup of Plenty running o'er, The sunshine and the rain. The year laughs out for very joy, Its silver treble echoing Like a sweet anthem through the woods, Till mellowed by the solitudes It folds its glossy wing. But our united voices blend From day to day unweariedly; Sure as the sun rolls up the morn, Or twilight from the eve is born, Our song ascends to Thee. Where'er the various-tinted woods, In all their autumn splendour dressed, Impart their gold and purple dyes To distant hills and farthest skies Along the crimson west: Across the smooth, extended plain, By rushing stream and broad lagoon, On shady height and sunny dale, Wherever scuds the balmy gale, Or gleams the autumn moon: From inland seas of yellow grain, Where cheerful Labour, heaven-blest, With willing hands and keen-edged scythe, And accents musically blythe, Reveals its lordly crest: From clover-fields and meadows wide, Where moves the richly-laden wain 146 To barns well-stored with new-made hay, Or where the flail at early day Rolls out the ripened grain: From meads and pastures on the hills, And in the mountain valleys deep, Alive with beeves and sweet-breathed kine Of famous Ayr or Devon's line, And shepherd-guarded sheep: The spirits of the golden year, From crystal caves and grottoes dim, From forest depths and mossy sward, Myriad-tongued, with one accord Peal forth their harvest hymn. II. Their daily labour in the happy fields A two-fold crop of grain and pleasure yields, While round their hearths, before their evening fires, Whore comfort reigns, whence weariness retires, The level tracts, denuded of their grain, In calm dispute are bravely shorn again, Till some rough reaper, on a tide of song, Like a bold pirate, captivates the throng: A SONG FOR THE FLAIL. A song, a song for the good old Flail, And the brawny arms that wield it, Hearty and hale, in our yeoman mail, Like intrepid knights we'll shield it. We are old nature's peers, Right royal cavaliers! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right-our sceptre is the Flail. A song, a song for the golden grain, As it wooes the flail's embraces, 147 In wavy sheaves like a golden main, With its bright spray in our faces. Mirth hastens at our call, Jovial hearts have we all! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right-our sceptre is the Flail. A song, a song for the good old Flail, That our fathers used before us; A song for the Flail, and the faces hale Of the queenly dames that bore us! We are old nature's peers, Right royal cavaliers! Knights of the Plough! for no Golden Fleece we sail, We're Princes in our own right-our sceptre is the Flail. III. Fair was the maid, and lovely as the morn From starry Night and rosy Twilight born, Within whose mind a rivulet of song Rehearsed the strains that from her lips ere long Welled free and sparkling, as the vocal woods Repeat the day-spring's sweetest interludes. Her gentle eyes' serenest depths of blue Shrined love and truth, and all their retinue; The health and beauty of her youthful face Made it the Harem of each maiden grace; And such perfection blended with her air, She seemed some stately Goddess moving there: Beholding her, you thought she might have been The long-lost, flower-loving Proserpine: AN AUTUMN CHANGE. 'Oh, dreamy autumn days! I seek your faded ways, As one who calmly strays Through visions of the past; 148 I walk the golden hours, And where I gathered flowers The stricken leaves in showers Are hurled upon the blast.' Thus mused the lonely maid, As through the autumn glade, With pensive heart, she strayed, Regretting Love's delay; In vain the traitor flies! To pleading lips and eyes, Sweet looks, and tender sighs, He falls an easy prey. 'Oh, dreamy autumn days! I tread your bridal ways, As one who homeward strays, Through realms divinely fair; I walk Love's radiant hours, Fragrant with passion flowers, And blessings fall like dowers Down the elysian air.' Thus mused the maiden now, With sunny heart and brow, For Love had turned his prow Towards the Golden Isles, Where from Pierean springs The soul of Music sings Its sweet imaginings, Through all the Land of Smiles. IV. Up the wide chimney rolls the social fire, Warming the hearts of matron, youth, and sire; Painting such grotesque shadows on the wall, The stripling looms a giant stout and tall, While they whose statures reach the common height Seem spectres mocking the hilarious night. 149 From hand to hand the ripened fruit went round, And rural sports a pleased acceptance found; The youthful fiddler on his three-legged stool, Fancied himself at least an Ole Bull; Some easy bumpkin, seated on the floor, Hunted the slipper till his ribs were sore; Some chose the graceful waltz or lively reel, While deeper heads the chess battalions wheel Till some old veteran, compelled to yield, More brave than skilful, vanquished, quits the field. As a flushed harper, when the doubtful fight Favors the prowess of some stately knight, In stirring numbers of triumphal song Upholds the spirits of the victor throng, A sturdy ploughboy, wedded to the soil, Thus sung the praises of the partner of his toil: THE SOLDIERS OF THE PLOUGH. No maiden dream, nor fancy theme, Brown Labour's muse would sing; Her stately mien and russet sheen Demand a stronger wing, Long ages since, the sage, the prince, The man of lordly brow, All honour gave that army brave, The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seedThe bread we need, Man's labour must provide it. In every land, the toiling hand Is blest as it deserves; Not so the race who, in disgrace, From honest labour swerves. From fairest bowers bring rarest flowers, To deck the swarthy brow Of those whose toil improves the soil, 150 The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seedThe bread we need, Man's labour must provide it. Blest is his lot, in hall or cot, Who lives as nature wills, Who pours his corn from Ceres' horn, And quaffs his native rills! No breeze that sweeps trade's stormy deeps, Can touch his golden prow; Their foes are few, their lives are true, The Soldiers of the Plough. Kind heaven speed the Plough! And bless the hands that guide it; God gives the seedThe bread we need, Man's labour must provide it. V. Fast sped the rushing chariot of the Hours. Without, the Harvest Moon, through fleecy bowers Of hazy cloudlets, swept her graceful way, Proud as an empress on her marriage-day; The admiring planets lit her stately march With smiles that gleamed along the silent arch, And all the starry midnight blazed with light, As if 'twere earth and heaven's nuptial-night; The cock crowed, certain that the day had broke, The aged house-dog suddenly awoke, And bayed so loud a challenge to the moon, From the old orchard fled the thievish 'coon; Within, the lightest hearts that ever beat Still found their harmless pleasures pure and sweet; The fire still burned on the capacious hearth, In sympathy with the redundant mirth; Old graybeards felt the glow of youth revive, 151 Old matrons smiled upon the human hive, Where life's rare nectar, fit for gods to sip, In forfeit kisses passed from lip to lip. Be hushed rude Mirth! as merry as the May Is she who comes to sing her roundelay: CLAIRE. Whither now, blushing Claire? Maid of the sylph-like air, Blooming and debonair, Whither so early? Chasing the merry morn, Down through the golden corn? List'ning the hunter's horn Ring through the barley? 'Flowerets fresh and fair,' Answered the blushing Claire, 'Fit for my bridal hair, Bloom 'mongst the barley; Hark! 'tis the hunter's horn, Waking the sylvan morn, And through the yellow corn Comes my brave Charlie.' Through the dew-dripping grain Pressed the heart-stricken swain, Crushed with a weight of pain, Drooped like the barley; Ah! timid shepherd boy! Man's love should ne'er be coy, Sweet is Claire's maiden joy, Kissing her Charlie! VI. A pleasant soul as ever trilled a song Was hers who warbled 'Claire.' All the day long 152 Her voice was ringing like a bridal bell; Gladness and joy leaped up at every swell; And love was deeper, warmer, for the tone That clasped the heart like an enchanted zone. A youth was there more comely than the rest, One who could turn a furrow with the best, Compete for manly strength and portly air, Or wield a scythe with any reaper there. The spirit of her voice had moved above The waters of his soul, and waked his song to Love: BALLAD. 'Come tell me, merry Brooklet, of a gentle Maid I seek, Thou'lt know her by the freshness of the rose upon her cheek; Her eyes are chaste and tender, and so serenely bright, You can read her heart's pure secrets by their warm religious light.' 'The Maid has not come hither,' said the Brooklet in reply; 'I've listened for her footfall ere the stars were in the sky; The Fountain has been singing of a Maid, with eyes so bright You may read the cherished secrets of her bosom by their light.' 'Pray tell me, merry Brooklet, what saith her thoughts of one Who wronged her loving nature ere the setting of the sun? What say they of yon autumn moon that smiles so mournfully On the slowly-dying season, and the blasted moorland tree?' 'She sitteth by the Fountain,' the Brook replied again, 'Her heart as pure as heaven, and her thoughts without a stain; 'Oh, fickle moon, and changeful man!' she saith, 'a year ago All the paths were true-love-lighted where I'm groping now in woe.' 'She sitteth by the Fountain, the gentle mists arise, And kiss away the tear-pearls that tremble in her eyes, The Fountain singeth to me that the Maiden in her dream Shrinks as the vapours claim her as the Oread of the stream.' Off sped the merry Streamlet adown the sloping vale; The Shepherd seeks the Fountain, where sits the Maiden pale; And to the wandering Brooklet, through many a lonely wild, 153 The burden of the Fountain was, that Love was reconciled. VII. But soon the Morn, on many a distant height, Fingers the raven locks of lingering Night; The last dark shadows that precede the day Have stripped the splendour from the Milky Way; And Nature seems disturbed by fitful dreams, As one who shudders when the owlet screams; The painful burden of the Whippoorwill, Like a vague Sorrow, floats from hill to hill; Along the vales the doleful accents run, Where the white vapours dread the burning sun; While human voices stir the haunted air, One sings 'the Plough,' another warbles 'Claire:' The Happy Harvesters, a lightsome throng, Dispersing homewards, prove the excellence of Song. ~ Charles Sangster,

311:PART 1. A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light. And closed them beneath the kisses of Night. And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earths dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with loves sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant. The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the streams recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness; And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green; And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense; And the rose like a nymph to the bath addressed, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare: And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky; And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime. And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was pranked, under boughs of embowering blossom, With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue, Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells As fair as the fabulous asphodels, And flowrets which, drooping as day drooped too, Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers (as an infants awakening eyes Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet Can first lull, and at last must awaken it), When Heavens blithe winds had unfolded them, As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun; For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. But the Sensitive Plant which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, Received more than all, it loved more than ever, Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver, For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; Radiance and odour are not its dower; It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, It desires what it has not, the Beautiful! The light winds which from unsustaining wings Shed the music of many murmurings; The beams which dart from many a star Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar; The plumed insects swift and free, Like golden boats on a sunny sea, Laden with light and odour, which pass Over the gleam of the living grass; The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, Then wander like spirits among the spheres, Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears; The quivering vapours of dim noontide, Which like a sea oer the warm earth glide, In which every sound, and odour, and beam, Move, as reeds in a single stream; Each and all like ministering angels were For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by Like windless clouds oer a tender sky. And when evening descended from Heaven above, And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love, And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, And the days veil fell from the world of sleep, And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned In an ocean of dreams without a sound; Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it, consciousness; (Only overhead the sweet nightingale Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, And snatches of its Elysian chant Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant);-- The Sensitive Plant was the earliest Upgathered into the bosom of rest; A sweet child weary of its delight, The feeblest and yet the favourite, Cradled within the embrace of Night. PART 2. There was a Power in this sweet place, An Eve in this Eden; a ruling Grace Which to the flowers, did they waken or dream, Was as God is to the starry scheme. A Lady, the wonder of her kind, Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and motion Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean, Tended the garden from morn to even: And the meteors of that sublunar Heaven, Like the lamps of the air when Night walks forth, Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth! She had no companion of mortal race, But her tremulous breath and her flushing face Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep from her eyes, That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise: As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake Had deserted Heaven while the stars were awake, As if yet around her he lingering were, Though the veil of daylight concealed him from her. Her step seemed to pity the grass it pressed; You might hear by the heaving of her breast, That the coming and going of the wind Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. And wherever her aery footstep trod, Her trailing hair from the grassy sod Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep, Like a sunny storm oer the dark green deep. I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet; I doubt not they felt the spirit that came From her glowing fingers through all their frame. She sprinkled bright water from the stream On those that were faint with the sunny beam; And out of the cups of the heavy flowers She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers. She lifted their heads with her tender hands, And sustained them with rods and osier-bands; If the flowers had been her own infants, she Could never have nursed them more tenderly. And all killing insects and gnawing worms, And things of obscene and unlovely forms, She bore, in a basket of Indian woof, Into the rough woods far aloof,-- In a basket, of grasses and wild-flowers full, The freshest her gentle hands could pull For the poor banished insects, whose intent, Although they did ill, was innocent. But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris Whose path is the lightning's, and soft moths that kiss The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she Make her attendant angels be. And many an antenatal tomb, Where butterflies dream of the life to come, She left clinging round the smooth and dark Edge of the odorous cedar bark. This fairest creature from earliest Spring Thus moved through the garden ministering Mi the sweet season of Summertide, And ere the first leaf looked brownshe died! PART 3. Three days the flowers of the garden fair, Like stars when the moon is awakened, were, Or the waves of Baiae, ere luminous She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant Felt the sound of the funeral chant, And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, And the sobs of the mourners, deep and low; The weary sound and the heavy breath, And the silent motions of passing death, And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank, Sent through the pores of the coffin-plank; The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass; From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, Like the corpse of her who had been its soul, Which at first was lovely as if in sleep, Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap To make men tremble who never weep. Swift Summer into the Autumn flowed, And frost in the mist of the morning rode, Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, Mocking the spoil of the secret night. The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, Paved the turf and the moss below. The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, Like the head and the skin of a dying man. And Indian plants, of scent and hue The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, Leaf by leaf, day after day, Were massed into the common clay. And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and red, And white with the whiteness of what is dead, Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind passed; Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds, Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds, Till they clung round many a sweet flowers stem, Which rotted into the earth with them. The water-blooms under the rivulet Fell from the stalks on which they were set; And the eddies drove them here and there, As the winds did those of the upper air. Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks Were bent and tangled across the walks; And the leafless network of parasite bowers Massed into ruin; and all sweet flowers. Between the time of the wind and the snow All loathliest weeds began to grow, Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a speck, Like the water-snakes belly and the toads back. And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank, Stretched out its long and hollow shank, And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath, Filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth, Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue, Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. And agarics, and fungi, with mildew and mould Started like mist from the wet ground cold; Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead With a spirit of growth had been animated! Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum, Made the running rivulet thick and dumb, And at its outlet flags huge as stakes Dammed it up with roots knotted like water-snakes. And hour by hour, when the air was still, The vapours arose which have strength to kill; At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt, At night they were darkness no star could melt. And unctuous meteors from spray to spray Crept and flitted in broad noonday Unseen; every branch on which they alit By a venomous blight was burned and bit. The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, Wept, and the tears within each lid Of its folded leaves, which together grew, Were changed to a blight of frozen glue. For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn; The sap shrank to the root through every pore As blood to a heart that will beat no more. For Winter came: the wind was his whip: One choppy finger was on his lip: He had torn the cataracts from the hills And they clanked at his girdle like manacles; His breath was a chain which without a sound The earth, and the air, and the water bound; He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot-throne By the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone. Then the weeds which were forms of living death Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. Their decay and sudden flight from frost Was but like the vanishing of a ghost! And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant The moles and the dormice died for want: The birds dropped stiff from the frozen air And were caught in the branches naked and bare. First there came down a thawing rain And its dull drops froze on the boughs again; Then there steamed up a freezing dew Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew; And a northern whirlwind, wandering about Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out, Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy, and stiff, And snapped them off with his rigid griff. When Winter had gone and Spring came back The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck; But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and darnels, Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. CONCLUSION. Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that Which within its boughs like a Spirit sat, Ere its outward form had known decay, Now felt this change, I cannot say. Whether that Ladys gentle mind, No longer with the form combined Which scattered love, as stars do light, Found sadness, where it left delight, I dare not guess; but in this life Of error, ignorance, and strife, Where nothing is, but all things seem, And we the shadows of the dream, It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery. That garden sweet, that lady fair, And all sweet shapes and odours there, In truth have never passed away: Tis we, tis ours, are changed; not they. For love, and beauty, and delight, There is no death nor change: their might Exceeds our organs, which endure No light, being themselves obscure. Composed at Pisa, early in 1820 (dated 'March, 1820,' in Harvard manuscript), and published, with Prometheus Unbound, the same year: included in the Harvard College manuscript book. Reprinted in the Poetical Works, 1839, both editions. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sensitive Plant ,

312:Scene.Inside the Palace by the Duomo. Monsignor, dismissing his Attendants. Monsignor Thanks, friends, many thanks! I chiefly desire life now, that I may recompense every one of you. Most I know something of already. What, a repast prepared?Benedicto benedicatur . . . ugh, ugh! Where was I? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very unlike winter-weather: but I am a Sicilian, you know, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when 't was full summer at Messina, as we priests used to cross in procession the great square on Assumption Day, you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go! [To the Intendant] Not you, Ugo! [The others leave the apartment] I have long wanted to converse with you, Ugo. Intendant Uguccio Monsignor . . . 'guccio Stefani, man! of Ascoli, Fermo and Fossombruno;what I do need instructing about, are these accounts of your administration of my poor brother's affairs. Ugh! I shall never get through a third part of your accounts: take some of these dainties before we attempt it, however. Are you bashful to that degree? For me, a crust and water suffice. Intendant Do you choose this especial night to question me? Monsignor This night, Ugo. You have managed my late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother: fourteen years and a month, all but three days. On the Third of December, I find him . . . Intendant If you have so intimate an acquaintance with your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning so far back: they will hardly bear looking into, so far back. Monsignor Ay, ay, ugh, ugh,nothing but disappointments here below! I remark a considerable payment made to yourself on this Third of December. Talk of disappointments! There was a young fellow here, Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my utmost to advance, that the Church might be a gainer by us both: he was going on hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me some marvellous change that has happened in his notions of Art. Here's his letter,"He never had a clearly conceived Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet since his hand could manage a chisel, he has practised expressing other men's Ideals; and, in the very perfection he has attained to, he foresees an ultimate failure: his unconscious hand will pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will reproduce with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the novel one appear never so palpably to his spirit. There is but one method of escape: confiding the virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor, and paint, not carve, its characteristics," strike out, I dare say, a school like Correggio: how think you, Ugo? Intendant Is Correggio a painter? Monsignor Foolish Jules! and yet, after all, why foolish? He mayprobably willfail egregiously; but if there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some such way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits who have conceived and perfected an Ideal through some other channel), transferring it to this, and escaping our conventional roads by pure ignorance of them; eh, Ugo? If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo! Intendant Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of yours. First, you select the group of which I formed one,next you thin it gradually,always retaining me with your smile,and so do you proceed till you have fairly got me alone with you between four stone walls. And now then? Let this farce, this chatter end now: what is it you want with me? Monsignor Ugo! Intendant From the instant you arrived, I felt your smile on me as you questioned me about this and the other article in those paperswhy your brother should have given me this villa, that podere,and your nod at the end meant,what? Monsignor Possibly that I wished for no loud talk here. If once you set me coughing, Ugo! Intendant I have your brother's hand and seal to all I possess: now ask me what for! what service I did himask me! Monsignor I would better not: I should rip up old disgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the way, Maffeo of Forli (which, I forgot to observe, is your true name), was the interdict ever taken off you, for robbing that church at Cesena? Intendant No, nor needs be: for when I murdered your brother's friend, Pasquale, for him . . . Monsignor Ah, he employed you in that business, did he? Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villa and that podere, for fear the world should find out my relations were of so indifferent a stamp? Maffeo, my family is the oldest in Messina, and century after century have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every wickedness under heaven: my own father . . . rest his soul!I have, I know, a chapel to support that it may rest: my dear two dead brothers were,what you know tolerably well; I, the youngest, might have rivalled them in vice, if not in wealth: but from my boyhood I came out from among them, and so am not partaker of their plagues. My glory springs from another source; or if from this, by contrast only,for I, the bishop, am the brother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some of their wrong, however; so far as my brothers' illgotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop the consequences of his crime: and not one soldo shall escape me. Maffec, the sword we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd knaves pick up and commit murders with; what opportunities the virtuous forego, the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure myself apart from other considerations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and my couch straw,am I therefore to let you, the offscouring of the earth, seduce the poor and ignorant by appropriating a pomp these will be sure to think lessens the abominations so unaccountably and exclusively associated with it? Must I let villas and poderi go to you, a murderer and thief, that you may beget by means of them other murderers and thieves? Noif my cough would but allow me to speak! Intendant What am I to expect? You are going to punish me? Monsignor Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannot afford to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of sin to redeem, and only a month or two of life to it in. How should I dare to say . . . Intendant "Forgive us our trespasses"? Monsignor My friend, it is because I avow myself a very worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of conduct you would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed, as it were, a-pardoning?I?who have no symptom of reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less keep others out. No: I do trespass, but will not double that by allowing you to trespass. Intendant And suppose the villas are not your brother's to give, nor yours to take? Oh, you are hasty enough just now! Monsignor I, 2No 3!ay, can you read the substance of a letter, No 3, I have received from Rome? It is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion I have that a certain child of my late elder brother, who would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in infancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my late younger brotherthat the Pontiff enjoins on me not merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, but the taking all pains, as guardian of the infant's heritage for the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever, whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are now gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voice brings my people from the next room to dispose of yourself. But I want you to confess quietly, and save me raising my voice. Why, man, do I not know the old story? The heir between the succeeding heir, and this heir's ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect, and the life of fear and bribes and ominous smiling silence? Did you throttle or stab my brother's infant? Come now Intendant So old a story, and tell it no better? When did such an instrument ever produce such an effect? Either the child smiles in his face; or, most likely, he is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's power so thoroughly: the child is always ready to produceas you sayhowsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever. Monsignor Liar! Intendant Strike me? Ah, so might a father chastise! I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the gallows await me to-morrow; for what a life did I lead! Carlo of Cesena reminds me of his connivance, every time I pay his annuity; which happens commonly thrice a year. If I remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishopyou! Monsignor I see through the trick, caitiff! I would you spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however seven times sifted. Intendant And how my absurd riches encumbered me! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions. Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die! Sir, you are no brutal dastardly idiot like your brother I frightened to death: let us understand one another. Sir, I will make away with her for youthe girlhere close at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do not speakknow nothing of her nor of me! I see her every daysaw her this morning: of course there is to be no killing; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every three years, and I can entice her thitherhave indeed begun operations already. There's a certain lusty blue-eyed florid-complexioned English knave, I and the Police employ occasionally. You assent, I perceive no, that's not itassent I do not saybut you will let me convert my present havings and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the Alps? 'T is but a little black-eyed pretty singing Felippa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her out of harm's way up to this present; for I always intended to make your life a plague to you with her. 'T is as well settled once and for ever. Some women I have procured will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for somebody; and once Pippa entangled!you conceive? Through her singing? Is it a bargain? [From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing Overhead the tree-tops meet, Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; There was nought above me, nought below, My childhood had not learned to know: For, what are the voices of birds Ay, and of beasts,but words, our words, Only so much more sweet? The knowledge of that with my life begun. But I had so near made out the sun, And counted your stars, the seven and one, Like the fingers of my hand: Nay, I could all but understand Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges; And just when out of her soft fifty changes No unfamiliar face might overlook me Suddenly God took me.] [Pippa passes. Monsignor [springing up]. My peopleone and all allwithin there! Gag this villaintie him hand and foot! He dares . . . I know not half he daresbut remove himquick! Miserere mei, Domine! Quick, I say! Scene.Pippa's chamber again. She enters it. The bee with his comb, The mouse at her dray, The grub in his tomb, Wile winter away; But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray, How fare they? Ha, ha, thanks for your counsel, my Zanze! "Feast upon lampreys, quaff Breganze" The summer of life so easy to spend, And care for to-morrow so soon put away! But winter hastens at summer's end, And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray, How fare they? No bidding me then to . . . what did Zanze say? "Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes "More like" . . (what said she?)"and less like canoes!" How pert that girl was!would I be those pert Impudent staring women! It had done me, However, surely no such mighty hurt To learn his name who passed that jest upon me: No foreigner, that I can recollect, Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect Our silk-millsnone with blue eyes and thick rings Of raw-silk-coloured hair, at all events. Well, if old Luca keep his good intents, We shall do better, see what next year brings. I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear More destitute than you perhaps next year! Bluph . . . something! I had caught the uncouth name But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter Above usbound to spoil such idle chatter As ours: it were indeed a serious matter If silly talk like ours should put to shame The pious man, the man devoid of blame, The . . . ah butah but, all the same, No mere mortal has a right To carry that exalted air; Best people are not angels quite: Whilenot the worst of people's doings scare The devil; so there's that proud look to spare! Which is mere counsel to myself, mind! for I have just been the holy Monsignor: And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mother, And you too, Luigi!how that Luigi started Out of the turretdoubtlessly departed On some good errand or another, For he passed just now in a traveller's trim, And the sullen company that prowled About his path, I noticed, scowled As if they had lost a prey in him. And I was Jules the sculptor's bride, And I was Ottima beside, And now what am I?tired of fooling. Day for folly, night for schooling! New year's day is over and spent, Ill or well, I must be content. Even my lily's asleep, I vow: Wake uphere's a friend I've plucked you! Call this flower a heart's-ease now! Something rare, let me instruct you, Is this, with petals triply swollen, Three times spotted, thrice the pollen; While the leaves and parts that witness Old proportions and their fitness, Here remain unchanged, unmoved now; Call this pampered thing improved now! Suppose there's a king of the flowers And a girl-show held in his bowers "Look ye, buds, this growth of ours," Says he, "Zanze from the Brenta, "I have made her gorge polenta "Till both cheeks are near as bouncing "As her . . . name there's no pronouncing! "See this heightened colour too, "For she swilled Breganze wine "Till her nose turned deep carmine; "'T was but white when wild she grew. "And only by this Zanze's eyes "Of which we could not change the size, "The magnitude of all achieved "Otherwise, may be perceived." Oh what a drear dark close to my poor day! How could that red sun drop in that black cloud? Ah Pippa, morning's rule is moved away, Dispensed with, never more to be allowed! Day's turn is over, now arrives the night's. Oh lark, be day's apostle To mavis, merle and throstle, Bid them their betters jostle From day and its delights! But at night, brother howlet, over the woods, Toll the world to thy chantry; Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods Full complines with gallantry: Then, owls and bats, Cowls and twats, Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry! [After she has begun to undress herself.] Now, one thing I should like to really know: How near I ever might approach all these I only fancied being, this long day: Approach, I mean, so as to touch them, so As to . . . in some way . . . move themif you please, Do good or evil to them some slight way. For instance, if I wind Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind [Sitting on the bedside.] And border Ottima's cloak's hem. Ah me, and my important part with them, This morning's hymn half promised when I rose! True in some sense or other, I suppose. [As she lies down.] God bless me! I can pray no more to-night. No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right. All service ranks the same with God With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first. [She sleeps.] ~ Robert Browning, Pippa Passes - Part IV - Night ,

313:Al Aaraaf PART I O! nothing earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of CircassyO! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rillOr (music of the passion-hearted) Joy's voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwellOh, nothing of the dross of oursYet all the beauty- all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowersAdorn yon world afar, afarThe wandering star. 'Twas a sweet time for Nesace- for there Her world lay lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns- a temporary restAn oasis in desert of the blest. Away- away- 'mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soulThe soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) Can struggle to its destin'd eminence,To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode And late to ours, the favor'd one of GodBut, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm, She throws aside the sceptre- leaves the helm, And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence sprang the 'Idea of Beauty' into birth, (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar, It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) She looked into Infinity- and knelt. 15 Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curledFit emblems of the model of her worldSeen but in beauty- not impeding sight Of other beauty glittering thro' the lightA wreath that twined each starry form around, And all the opal'd air in color bound. All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang So eagerly around about to hang Upon the flying footsteps of- deep prideOf her who lov'd a mortal- and so died. The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Upreared its purple stem around her knees:And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'dInmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd All other loveliness:- its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven, And fell on gardens of the unforgiven In Trebizond- and on a sunny flower So like its own above that, to this hour, It still remaineth, torturing the bee With madness, and unwonted reverie: In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant in grief Disconsolate linger- grief that hangs her head, Repenting follies that full long have Red, Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair: Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light She fears to perfume, perfuming the night: And Clytia, pondering between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run: And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth, And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king: And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown' From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante! 16 Isola d'oro!- Fior di Levante! And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy riverFair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven: 'Spirit! that dwellest where, In the deep sky, The terrible and fair, In beauty vie! Beyond the line of blueThe boundary of the star Which turneth at the view Of thy barrier and thy barOf the barrier overgone By the comets who were cast From their pride and from their throne To be drudges till the lastTo be carriers of fire (The red fire of their heart) With speed that may not tire And with pain that shall not partWho livest- that we knowIn Eternity- we feelBut the shadow of whose brow What spirit shall reveal? Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace, Thy messenger hath known Have dream'd for thy Infinity A model of their ownThy will is done, O God! The star hath ridden high Thro' many a tempest, but she rode Beneath thy burning eye; And here, in thought, to theeIn thought that can alone Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throneBy winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the environs of Heaven.' 17 She ceas'd- and buried then her burning cheek Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek A shelter from the fervor of His eye; For the stars trembled at the Deity. She stirr'd not- breath'd not- for a voice was there How solemnly pervading the calm air! A sound of silence on the startled ear Which dreamy poets name 'the music of the sphere.' Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call 'Silence'- which is the merest word of all. All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wingsBut ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high The eternal voice of God is passing by, And the red winds are withering in the sky:'What tho 'in worlds which sightless cycles run, Linked to a little system, and one sunWhere all my love is folly and the crowd Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud, The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?) What tho' in worlds which own a single sun The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run, Yet thine is my resplendency, so given To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven! Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly, With all thy train, athwart the moony skyApart- like fire-flies in Sicilian night, And wing to other worlds another light! Divulge the secrets of thy embassy To the proud orbs that twinkle- and so be To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!' Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, The single-mooned eve!- on Earth we plight Our faith to one love- and one moon adoreThe birth-place of young Beauty had no more. As sprang that yellow star from downy hours Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers, 18 And bent o'er sheeny mountains and dim plain Her way, but left not yet her Therasaean reign. PART II High on a mountain of enamell'd headSuch as the drowsy shepherd on his bed Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees With many a mutter'd 'hope to be forgiven' What time the moon is quadrated in HeavenOf rosy head that, towering far away Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray Of sunken suns at eve- at noon of night, While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger lightUprear'd upon such height arose a pile Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air, Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair. Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution, while they dieAdorning then the dwellings of the sky. A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crownA window of one circular diamond, there, Look'd out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow'd all the beauty twice again, Save, when, between th' empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit Flapp'd his dusky wing. But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world: that greyish green That Nature loves the best Beauty's grave Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architraveAnd every sculptur'd cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling peered out, Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his nicheAchaian statues in a world so rich! Friezes from Tadmor and PersepolisFrom Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss 19 Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave Is now upon thee- but too late to save! Sound loves to revel in a summer night: Witness the murmur of the grey twilight That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, Of many a wild star-gazer long agoThat stealeth ever on the ear of him Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim, And sees the darkness coming as a cloudIs not its form- its voice- most palpable and loud? But what is this?- it cometh, and it brings A music with it- 'tis the rush of wingsA pause- and then a sweeping, falling strain And Nesace is in her halls again. From the wild energy of wanton haste Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart; And zone that clung around her gentle waist Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. Within the centre of that hall to breathe, She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath, The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there. Young flowers were whispering in melody To happy flowers that night- and tree to tree; Fountains were gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell; Yet silence came upon material thingsFair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wingsAnd sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang: ''Neath the blue-bell or streamerOr tufted wild spray That keeps, from the dreamer, The moonbeam awayBright beings! that ponder, With half closing eyes, On the stars which your wonder Hath drawn from the skies, 20 Till they glance thro' the shade, and Come down to your brow Like- eyes of the maiden Who calls on you nowArise! from your dreaming In violet bowers, To duty beseeming These star-litten hoursAnd shake from your tresses Encumber'd with dew The breath of those kisses That cumber them too(O! how, without you, Love! Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true Love That lull'd ye to rest! Up!- shake from your wing Each hindering thing: The dew of the nightIt would weigh down your flight And true love caressesO, leave them apart! They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart. Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatros, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there? Ligeia! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee. 21 Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleepBut the strains still arise Which thy vigilance keepThe sound of the rain, Which leaps down to the flowerAnd dances again In the rhythm of the showerThe murmur that springs From the growing of grass Are the music of thingsBut are modell'd, alas!Away, then, my dearest, Oh! hie thee away To the springs that lie clearest Beneath the moon-rayTo lone lake that smiles, In its dream of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breastWhere wild flowers, creeping, Have mingled their shade, On its margin is sleeping Full many a maidSome have left the cool glade, and Have slept with the beeArouse them, my maiden, On moorland and leaGo! breathe on their slumber, All softly in ear, Thy musical number They slumbered to hearFor what can awaken An angel so soon, Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rhythmical number Which lull'd him to rest?' Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, 22 A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro', Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flightSeraphs in all but 'Knowledge,' the keen light That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar, O Death! from eye of God upon that star: Sweet was that error- sweeter still that deathSweet was that error- even with us the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joyTo them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroyFor what (to them) availeth it to know That Truth is Falsehood- or that Bliss is Woe? Sweet was their death- with them to die was rife With the last ecstasy of satiate lifeBeyond that death no immortalityBut sleep that pondereth and is not 'to be'!And there- oh! may my weary spirit dwellApart from Heaven's Eternity- and yet how far from Hell! What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn? But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts To those who hear not for their beating hearts. A maiden-angel and her seraph-loverO! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known? Unguided Love hath fallen- 'mid 'tears of perfect moan.' He was a goodly spirit- he who fell: A wanderer by moss-y-mantled wellA gazer on the lights that shine aboveA dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: What wonder? for each star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hairAnd they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. The night had found (to him a night of woe) Upon a mountain crag, young AngeloBeetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. Here sat he with his love- his dark eye bent With eagle gaze along the firmament: Now turn'd it upon her- but ever then It trembled to the orb of EARTH again. 23 'Ianthe, dearest, see- how dim that ray! How lovely 'tis to look so far away! She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve I left her gorgeous halls- nor mourn'd to leave. That eve- that eve- I should remember wellThe sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spell On th' arabesque carving of a gilded hall Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wallAnd on my eyelids- O the heavy light! How drowsily it weigh'd them into night! On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan: But O that light!- I slumber'd- Death, the while, Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle So softly that no single silken hair Awoke that slept- or knew that he was there. 'The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon; More beauty clung around her column'd wall Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal, And when old Time my wing did disenthral Thence sprang I- as the eagle from his tower, And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung, One half the garden of her globe was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my viewTenantless cities of the desert too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, And half I wish'd to be again of men.' 'My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place is here for theeAnd greener fields than in yon world above, And woman's loveliness- and passionate love.' 'But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft, Perhaps my brain grew dizzy- but the world I left so late was into chaos hurl'dSprang from her station, on the winds apart. And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. 24 Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar And fell- not swiftly as I rose before, But with a downward, tremulous motion thro' Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours, For nearest of all stars was thine to oursDread star! that came, amid a night of mirth, A red Daedalion on the timid Earth.' 'We came- and to thy Earth- but not to us Be given our lady's bidding to discuss: We came, my love; around, above, below, Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go, Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod She grants to us, as granted by her GodBut, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd Never his fairy wing O'er fairier world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o'er the starry seaBut when its glory swell'd upon the sky, As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye, We paused before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled- as doth Beauty then!' Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

314: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 ,

315:The Two Voices A still small voice spake unto me, "Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?" Then to the still small voice I said; "Let me not cast in endless shade What is so wonderfully made." To which the voice did urge reply; "To-day I saw the dragon-fly Come from the wells where he did lie. "An inner impulse rent the veil Of his old husk: from head to tail Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. "He dried his wings: like gauze they grew; Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew A living flash of light he flew." I said, "When first the world began, Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, And in the sixth she moulded man. "She gave him mind, the lordliest Proportion, and, above the rest, Dominion in the head and breast." Thereto the silent voice replied; "Self-blinded are you by your pride: Look up thro' night: the world is wide. "This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse. "Think you this mould of hopes and fears Could find no statelier than his peers In yonder hundred million spheres?" 838 It spake, moreover, in my mind: "Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind." Then did my response clearer fall: "No compound of this earthly ball Is like another, all in all." To which he answer'd scoffingly; "Good soul! suppose I grant it thee, Who'll weep for thy deficiency? "Or will one beam be less intense, When thy peculiar difference Is cancell'd in the world of sense?" I would have said, "Thou canst not know," But my full heart, that work'd below, Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. Again the voice spake unto me: "Thou art so steep'd in misery, Surely 'twere better not to be. "Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, Nor any train of reason keep: Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." I said, "The years with change advance: If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance. "Some turn this sickness yet might take, Ev'n yet." But he: "What drug can make A wither'd palsy cease to shake?" I wept, "Tho' I should die, I know That all about the thorn will blow In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; "And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 839 Still moving after truth long sought, Will learn new things when I am not." "Yet," said the secret voice, "some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime. "Not less swift souls that yearn for light, Rapt after heaven's starry flight, Would sweep the tracts of day and night. "Not less the bee would range her cells, The furzy prickle fire the dells, The foxglove cluster dappled bells." I said that "all the years invent; Each month is various to present The world with some development. "Were this not well, to bide mine hour, Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower How grows the day of human power?" "The highest-mounted mind," he said, "Still sees the sacred morning spread The silent summit overhead. "Will thirty seasons render plain Those lonely lights that still remain, Just breaking over land and main? "Or make that morn, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town? "Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. "Thou hast not gain'd a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light, Because the scale is infinite. 840 "'Twere better not to breathe or speak, Than cry for strength, remaining weak, And seem to find, but still to seek. "Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind." I said, "When I am gone away, ‘He dared not tarry,' men will say, Doing dishonour to my clay." "This is more vile," he made reply, "To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, Than once from dread of pain to die. "Sick art thou—a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. "Do men love thee? Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Will vex thee lying underground? "The memory of the wither'd leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. "Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, Hears little of the false or just." "Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, "From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride! "Nay—rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm'd me in the days While still I yearn'd for human praise. "When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 841 Among the tents I paused and sung, The distant battle flash'd and rung. "I sung the joyful P¾an clear, And, sitting, burnish'd without fear The brand, the buckler, and the spear— "Waiting to strive a happy strife, To war with falsehood to the knife, And not to lose the good of life— "Some hidden principle to move, To put together, part and prove, And mete the bounds of hate and love— "As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about— "To search thro' all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe, And reach the law within the law: "At least, not rotting like a weed, But, having sown some generous seed, Fruitful of further thought and deed, "To pass, when Life her light withdraws, Not void of righteous self-applause, Nor in a merely selfish cause— "In some good cause, not in mine own, To perish, wept for, honour'd, known, And like a warrior overthrown; "Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears His country's war-song thrill his ears: "Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman's line is broke, And all the war is roll'd in smoke." 842 "Yea!" said the voice, "thy dream was good, While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. "If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour? "Then comes the check, the change, the fall, Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. There is one remedy for all. "Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, Link'd month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain. "Thou hadst not between death and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. So were thy labour little-worth. "That men with knowledge merely play'd, I told thee—hardly nigher made, Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade; "Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, Named man, may hope some truth to find, That bears relation to the mind. "For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. "Cry, faint not: either Truth is born Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, Or in the gateways of the morn. "Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope, Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. "Sometimes a little corner shines, 843 As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag with belts of pines. "I will go forward, sayest thou, I shall not fail to find her now. Look up, the fold is on her brow. "If straight thy track, or if oblique, Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike, Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; "And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, Calling thyself a little lower "Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? There is one remedy for all." "O dull, one-sided voice," said I, "Wilt thou make everything a lie, To flatter me that I may die? "I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds. "I cannot hide that some have striven, Achieving calm, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven: "Who, rowing hard against the stream, Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream; "But heard, by secret transport led, Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, The murmur of the fountain-head— "Which did accomplish their desire, Bore and forebore, and did not tire, Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 844 "He heeded not reviling tones, Nor sold his heart to idle moans, Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with stones: "But looking upward, full of grace, He pray'd, and from a happy place God's glory smote him on the face." The sullen answer slid betwixt: "Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, The elements were kindlier mix'd." I said, "I toil beneath the curse, But, knowing not the universe, I fear to slide from bad to worse. "And that, in seeking to undo One riddle, and to find the true, I knit a hundred others new: "Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence: "For I go, weak from suffering here: Naked I go, and void of cheer: What is it that I may not fear?" "Consider well," the voice replied, "His face, that two hours since hath died; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride? "Will he obey when one commands? Or answer should one press his hands? He answers not, nor understands. "His palms are folded on his breast: There is no other thing express'd But long disquiet merged in rest. "His lips are very mild and meek: 845 Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, And on the mouth, he will not speak. "His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, Becomes dishonour to her race— "His sons grow up that bear his name, Some grow to honour, some to shame,— But he is chill to praise or blame. "He will not hear the north-wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave From winter rains that beat his grave. "High up the vapours fold and swim: About him broods the twilight dim: The place he knew forgetteth him." "If all be dark, vague voice," I said, "These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. "The sap dries up: the plant declines. A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not Death? the outward signs? "I found him when my years were few; A shadow on the graves I knew, And darkness in the village yew. "From grave to grave the shadow crept: In her still place the morning wept: Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. "The simple senses crown'd his head: ‘Omega! thou art Lord,' they said, ‘We find no motion in the dead.' "Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, Should that plain fact, as taught by these, Not make him sure that he shall cease? 846 "Who forged that other influence, That heat of inward evidence, By which he doubts against the sense? "He owns the fatal gift of eyes, That read his spirit blindly wise, Not simple as a thing that dies. "Here sits he shaping wings to fly: His heart forebodes a mystery: He names the name Eternity. "That type of Perfect in his mind In Nature can he nowhere find. He sows himself on every wind. "He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro' thick veils to apprehend A labour working to an end. "The end and the beginning vex His reason: many things perplex, With motions, checks, and counterchecks. "He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good, He may not do the thing he would. "Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Vast images in glimmering dawn, Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. "Ah! sure within him and without, Could his dark wisdom find it out, There must be answer to his doubt, "But thou canst answer not again. With thine own weapon art thou slain, Or thou wilt answer but in vain. "The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 847 In the same circle we revolve. Assurance only breeds resolve." As when a billow, blown against, Falls back, the voice with which I fenced A little ceased, but recommenced. "Where wert thou when thy father play'd In his free field, and pastime made, A merry boy in sun and shade? "A merry boy they call'd him then, He sat upon the knees of men In days that never come again. "Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert also man: "Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, Whose troubles number with his days: "A life of nothings, nothing-worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth!" "These words," I said, "are like the rest; No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast: "But if I grant, thou mightst defend The thesis which thy words intend— That to begin implies to end; "Yet how should I for certain hold, Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould? "I cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. 848 "It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round. "As old mythologies relate, Some draught of Lethe might await The slipping thro' from state to state. "As here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then, Until they fall in trance again. "So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much, For those two likes might meet and touch. "But, if I lapsed from nobler place, Some legend of a fallen race Alone might hint of my disgrace; "Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, Some yeaming toward the lamps of night; "Or if thro' lower lives I came— Tho' all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame— "I might forget my weaker lot; For is not our first year forgot? The haunts of memory echo not. "And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind. "Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory: "For memory dealing but with time, 849 And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime? "Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— "Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare." The still voice laugh'd. "I talk," said he, "Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain is a reality." "But thou," said I, "hast missed thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. "Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new? "Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death. "'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want." I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, "Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, When meres begin to uncongeal, The sweet church bells began to peal. 850 On to God's house the people prest: Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter'd like a welcome guest. One walk'd between his wife and child, With measured footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, Wearing the rose of womanhood. And in their double love secure, The little maiden walk'd demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure. These three made unity so sweet, My frozen heart began to beat, Remembering its ancient heat. I blest them, and they wander'd on: I spoke, but answer came there none: The dull and bitter voice was gone. A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, "Be of better cheer." As from some blissful neighbourhood, A notice faintly understood, "I see the end, and know the good." A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, "I may not speak of what I know." Like an Æolian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes: Such seem'd the whisper at my side: 851 "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried. "A hidden hope," the voice replied: So heavenly-toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love. And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers: You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I wonder'd, while I paced along: The woods were fill'd so full with song, There seem'd no room for sense of wrong; And all so variously wrought, I marvell'd how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought; And wherefore rather I made choice To commune with that barren voice, Than him that said, "Rejoice! Rejoice!" ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

316:How gracefully, O man, with thy palm-bough, Upon the waning century standest thou, In proud and noble manhood's prime, With unlocked senses, with a spirit freed, Of firmness mild,though silent, rich in deed, The ripest son of Time, Through meekness great, through precepts strong, Through treasures rich, that time had long Hid in thy bosom, and through reason free, Master of Nature, who thy fetters loves, And who thy strength in thousand conflicts proves, And from the desert soared in pride with thee! Flushed with the glow of victory, Never forget to prize the hand That found the weeping orphan child Deserted on life's barren strand, And left a prey to hazard wild, That, ere thy spirit-honor saw the day, Thy youthful heart watched over silently, And from thy tender bosom turned away Each thought that might have stained its purity; That kind one ne'er forget who, as in sport, Thy youth to noble aspirations trained, And who to thee in easy riddles taught The secret how each virtue might be gained; Who, to receive him back more perfect still, E'en into strangers' arms her favorite gave Oh, may'st thou never with degenerate will, Humble thyself to be her abject slave! In industry, the bee the palm may bear; In skill, the worm a lesson may impart; With spirits blest thy knowledge thou dost share, But thou, O man, alone hast art! Only through beauty's morning gate Didst thou the land of knowledge find. To merit a more glorious fate, In graces trains itself the mind. What thrilled thee through with trembling blessed, When erst the Muses swept the chord, That power created in thy breast, Which to the mighty spirit soared. When first was seen by doting reason's ken, When many a thousand years had passed away, A symbol of the fair and great e'en then, Before the childlike mind uncovered lay. Its blessed form bade us honor virtue's cause, The honest sense 'gainst vice put forth its powers, Before a Solon had devised the laws That slowly bring to light their languid flowers. Before Eternity's vast scheme Was to the thinker's mind revealed, Was't not foreshadowed in his dream, Whose eyes explored yon starry field? Urania,the majestic dreaded one, Who wears a glory of Orions twined Around her brow, and who is seen by none Save purest spirits, when, in splendor shrined, She soars above the stars in pride, Ascending to her sunny throne, Her fiery chaplet lays aside, And now, as beauty, stands alone; While, with the Graces' girdle round her cast, She seems a child, by children understood; For we shall recognize as truth at last, What here as beauty only we have viewed. When the Creator banished from his sight Frail man to dark mortality's abode, And granted him a late return to light, Only by treading reason's arduous road, When each immortal turned his face away, She, the compassionate, alone Took up her dwelling in that house of clay, With the deserted, banished one. With drooping wing she hovers here Around her darling, near the senses' land, And on his prison-walls so drear Elysium paints with fond deceptive hand. While soft humanity still lay at rest, Within her tender arms extended, No flame was stirred by bigots' murderous zest, No guiltless blood on high ascended. The heart that she in gentle fetters binds, Views duty's slavish escort scornfully; Her path of light, though fairer far it winds, Sinks in the sun-track of morality. Those who in her chaste service still remain, No grovelling thought can tempt, no fate affright; The spiritual life, so free from stain, Freedom's sweet birthright, they receive again, Under the mystic sway of holy might. The purest among millions, happy they Whom to her service she has sanctified, Whose mouths the mighty one's commands convey, Within whose breasts she deigneth to abide; Whom she ordained to feed her holy fire Upon her altar's ever-flaming pyre, Whose eyes alone her unveiled graces meet, And whom she gathers round in union sweet In the much-honored place be glad Where noble order bade ye climb, For in the spirit-world sublime, Man's loftiest rank ye've ever had! Ere to the world proportion ye revealed, That every being joyfully obeys, A boundless structure, in night's veil concealed, Illumed by naught but faint and languid rays, A band of phantoms, struggling ceaselessly, Holding his mind in slavish fetters bound, Unsociable and rude as be, Assailing him on every side around, Thus seemed to man creation in that day! United to surrounding forms alone By the blind chains the passions had put on, Whilst Nature's beauteous spirit fled away Unfelt, untasted, and unknown. And, as it hovered o'er with parting ray, Ye seized the shades so neighborly, With silent hand, with feeling mind, And taught how they might be combined In one firm bond of harmony. The gaze, light-soaring, felt uplifted then, When first the cedar's slender trunk it viewed; And pleasingly the ocean's crystal flood Reflected back the dancing form again. Could ye mistake the look, with beauty fraught, That Nature gave to help ye on your way? The image floating on the billows taught The art the fleeting shadow to portray. From her own being torn apart, Her phantom, beauteous as a dream, She plunged into the silvery stream, Surrendering to her spoiler's art. Creative power soon in your breast unfolded; Too noble far, not idly to conceive, The shadow's form in sand, in clay ye moulded, And made it in the sketch its being leave. The longing thirst for action then awoke, And from your breast the first creation broke. By contemplation captive made, Ensnared by your discerning eye, The friendly phantom's soon betrayed The talisman that roused your ecstasy. The laws of wonder-working might, The stores by beauty brought to light, Inventive reason in soft union planned To blend together 'neath your forming hand. The obelisk, the pyramid ascended, The Hermes stood, the column sprang on high, The reed poured forth the woodland melody, Immortal song on victor's deeds attended. The fairest flowers that decked the earth, Into a nosegay, with wise choice combined, Thus the first art from Nature had its birth; Into a garland then were nosegays twined, And from the works that mortal hands had made, A second, nobler art was now displayed. The child of beauty, self-sufficient now, That issued from your hands to perfect day, Loses the chaplet that adorned its brow, Soon as reality asserts its sway. The column, yielding to proportion's chains, Must with its sisters join in friendly link, The hero in the hero-band must sink, The Muses' harp peals forth its tuneful strains. The wondering savages soon came To view the new creation's plan "Behold!"the joyous crowds exclaim, "Behold, all this is done by man!" With jocund and more social aim The minstrel's lyre their awe awoke, Telling of Titans, and of giant's frays And lion-slayers, turning, as he spoke, Even into heroes those who heard his lays. For the first time the soul feels joy, By raptures blessed that calmer are, That only greet it from afar, That passions wild can ne'er destroy, And that, when tasted, do not cloy. And now the spirit, free and fair, Awoke from out its sensual sleep; By you unchained, the slave of care Into the arms of joy could leap. Each brutish barrier soon was set at naught, Humanity first graced the cloudless brow, And the majestic, noble stranger, thought, From out the wondering brain sprang boldly now. Man in his glory stood upright, And showed the stars his kingly face; His speaking glance the sun's bright light Blessed in the realms sublime of space. Upon the cheek now bloomed the smile, The voice's soulful harmony Expanded into song the while, And feeling swam in the moist eye; And from the mouth, with spirit teeming o'er, Jest, sweetly linked with grace, began to pour. Sunk in the instincts of the worm, By naught but sensual lust possessed, Ye recognized within his breast Love-spiritual's noble germ; And that this germ of love so blest Escaped the senses' abject load, To the first pastoral song he owed. Raised to the dignity of thought, Passions more calm to flow were taught From the bard's mouth with melody. The cheeks with dewy softness burned; The longing that, though quenched, still yearned, Proclaimed the spirit-harmony. The wisest's wisdom, and the strongest's vigor, The meekest's meekness, and the noblest's grace, By you were knit together in one figure, Wreathing a radiant glory round the place. Man at the Unknown's sight must tremble, Yet its refulgence needs must love; That mighty Being to resemble, Each glorious hero madly strove; The prototype of beauty's earliest strain Ye made resound through Nature's wide domain. The passions' wild and headlong course, The ever-varying plan of fate, Duty and instinct's twofold force, With proving mind and guidance straight Ye then conducted to their ends. What Nature, as she moves along, Far from each other ever rends, Become upon the stage, in song, Members of order, firmly bound. Awed by the Furies' chorus dread, Murder draws down upon its head The doom of death from their wild sound. Long e'er the wise to give a verdict dared, An Iliad had fate's mysteries declared To early ages from afar; While Providence in silence fared Into the world from Thespis' car. Yet into that world's current so sublime Your symmetry was borne before its time, When the dark hand of destiny Failed in your sight to part by force. What it had fashioned 'neath your eye, In darkness life made haste to die, Ere it fulfilled its beauteous course. Then ye with bold and self-sufficient might Led the arch further through the future's night: Then, too, ye plunged, without a fear, Into Avernus' ocean black, And found the vanished life so dear Beyond the urn, and brought it back. A blooming Pollux-form appeared now soon, On Castor leaning, and enshrined in light The shadow that is seen upon the moon, Ere she has filled her silvery circle bright! Yet higher,higher still above the earth Inventive genius never ceased to rise: Creations from creations had their birth, And harmonies from harmonies. What here alone enchants the ravished sight, A nobler beauty yonder must obey; The graceful charms that in the nymph unite, In the divine Athene melt away; The strength with which the wrestler is endowed, In the god's beauty we no longer find: The wonder of his timeJove's image proud In the Olympian temple is enshrined. The world, transformed by industry's bold hand, The human heart, by new-born instincts moved, That have in burning fights been fully proved, Your circle of creation now expand. Advancing man bears on his soaring pinions, In gratitude, art with him in his flight, And out of Nature's now-enriched dominions New worlds of beauty issue forth to light. The barriers upon knowledge are o'erthrown; The spirit that, with pleasure soon matured, Has in your easy triumphs been inured To hasten through an artist-whole of graces, Nature's more distant columns duly places. And overtakes her on her pathway lone. He weighs her now with weights that human are, Metes her with measures that she lent of old; While in her beauty's rites more practised far, She now must let his eye her form behold. With youthful and self-pleasing bliss, He lends the spheres his harmony, And, if he praise earth's edifice, 'Tis for its wondrous symmetry. In all that now around him breathes, Proportion sweet is ever rife; And beauty's golden girdle wreathes With mildness round his path through life; Perfection blest, triumphantly, Before him in your works soars high; Wherever boisterous rapture swells, Wherever silent sorrow flees, Where pensive contemplation dwells, Where he the tears of anguish sees, Where thousand terrors on him glare, Harmonious streams are yet behind He sees the Graces sporting there, With feeling silent and refined. Gentle as beauty's lines together linking, As the appearances that round him play, In tender outline in each other sinking, The soft breath of his life thus fleets away. His spirit melts in the harmonious sea, That, rich in rapture, round his senses flows, And the dissolving thought all silently To omnipresent Cytherea grows. Joining in lofty union with the Fates, On Graces and on Muses calm relying, With freely-offered bosom he awaits The shaft that soon against him will be flying From the soft bow necessity creates. Favorites beloved of blissful harmony, Welcome attendants on life's dreary road, The noblest and the dearest far that she, Who gave us life, to bless that life bestowed! That unyoked man his duties bears in mind, And loves the fetters that his motions bind, That Chance with brazen sceptre rules him not, For this eternity is now your lot, Your heart has won a bright reward for this. That round the cup where freedom flows, Merrily sport the gods of bliss, The beauteous dream its fragrance throws, For this, receive a loving kiss! The spirit, glorious and serene, Who round necessity the graces trains, Who bids his ether and his starry plains Upon us wait with pleasing mien, Who, 'mid his terrors, by his majesty gives joy, And who is beauteous e'en when seeking to destroy, Him imitate, the artist good! As o'er the streamlet's crystal flood The banks with checkered dances hover, The flowery mead, the sunset's light, Thus gleams, life's barren pathway over, Poesy's shadowy world so bright. In bridal dress ye led us on Before the terrible Unknown, Before the inexorable fate, As in your urns the bones are laid, With beauteous magic veil ye shade The chorus dread that cares create. Thousands of years I hastened through The boundless realm of vanished time How sad it seems when left by you But where ye linger, how sublime! She who, with fleeting wing, of yore From your creating hand arose in might, Within your arms was found once more, When, vanquished by Time's silent flight, Life's blossoms faded from the cheek, And from the limbs all vigor went, And mournfully, with footstep weak, Upon his staff the gray-beard leant. Then gave ye to the languishing, Life's waters from a new-born spring; Twice was the youth of time renewed, Twice, from the seeds that ye had strewed. When chased by fierce barbarian hordes away, The last remaining votive brand ye tore From Orient's altars, now pollution's prey, And to these western lands in safety bore. The fugitive from yonder eastern shore, The youthful day, the West her dwelling made; And on Hesperia's plains sprang up once more Ionia's flowers, in pristine bloom arrayed. Over the spirit fairer Nature shed, With soft refulgence, a reflection bright, And through the graceful soul with stately tread Advanced the mighty Deity of light. Millions of chains were burst asunder then, And to the slave then human laws applied, And mildly rose the younger race of men, As brethren, gently wandering side by side, With noble inward ecstasy, The bliss imparted ye receive, And in the veil of modesty, With silent merit take your leave. If on the paths of thought, so freely given, The searcher now with daring fortune stands, And, by triumphant Paeans onward driven, Would seize upon the crown with dauntless hands If he with grovelling hireling's pay Thinks to dismiss his glorious guide Or, with the first slave's-place array Art near the throne his dream supplied Forgive him!O'er your head to-day Hovers perfection's crown in pride, With you the earliest plant Spring had, Soul-forming Nature first began; With you, the harvest-chaplet glad, Perfected Nature ends her plan. The art creative, that all-modestly arose From clay and stone, with silent triumph throws Its arms around the spirit's vast domain. What in the land of knowledge the discoverer knows, He knows, discovers, only for your gain The treasures that the thinker has amassed, He will enjoy within your arms alone, Soon as his knowledge, beauty-ripe at last. To art ennobled shall have grown, Soon as with you he scales a mountain-height, And there, illumined by the setting sun, The smiling valley bursts upon his sight. The richer ye reward the eager gaze The higher, fairer orders that the mind May traverse with its magic rays, Or compass with enjoyment unconfined The wider thoughts and feelings open lie To more luxuriant floods of harmony. To beauty's richer, more majestic stream, The fair members of the world's vast scheme, That, maimed, disgrace on his creation bring, He sees the lofty forms then perfecting The fairer riddles come from out the night The richer is the world his arms enclose, The broader stream the sea with which he flows The weaker, too, is destiny's blind might The nobler instincts does he prove The smaller he himself, the greater grows his love. Thus is he led, in still and hidden race, By poetry, who strews his path with flowers, Through ever-purer forms, and purer powers, Through ever higher heights, and fairer grace. At length, arrived at the ripe goal of time, Yet one more inspiration all-sublime, Poetic outburst of man's latest youth, Andhe will glide into the arms of truth! Herself, the gentle Cypria, Illumined by her fiery crown, Then stands before her full-grown son Unveiledas great Urania; The sooner only by him caught, The fairer he had fled away! Thus stood, in wonder rapture-fraught, Ulysses' noble son that day, When the sage mentor who his youth beguiled; Herself transfigured as Jove's glorious child! Man's honor is confided to your hand, There let it well protected be! It sinks with you! with you it will expand! Poesy's sacred sorcery Obeys a world-plan wise and good; In silence let it swell the flood Of mighty-rolling harmony. By her own time viewed with disdain, Let solemn truth in song remain, And let the Muses' band defend her! In all the fullness of her splendor, Let her survive in numbers glorious, More dread, when veiled her charms appear, And vengeance take, with strains victorious, On her tormentor's ear! The freest mother's children free, With steadfast countenance then rise To highest beauty's radiancy, And every other crown despise! The sisters who escaped you here, Within your mother's arms ye'll meet; What noble spirits may revere, Must be deserving and complete. High over your own course of time Exalt yourselves with pinion bold, And dimly let your glass sublime The coming century unfold! On thousand roads advancing fast Of ever-rich variety, With fond embraces meet at last Before the throne of harmony! As into seven mild rays we view With softness break the glimmer white, As rainbow-beams of sevenfold hue Dissolve again in that soft light, In clearness thousandfold thus throw Your magic round the ravished gaze, Into one stream of light thus flow, One bond of truth that ne'er decays! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Artists ,

317:Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations I am a house, says Senlin, locked and darkened, Sealed from the sun with wall and door and blind. Summon me loudly, and you'll hear slow footsteps Ring far and faint in the galleries of my mind. You'll hear soft steps on an old and dusty stairway; Peer darkly through some corner of a pane, You'll see me with a faint light coming slowly, Pausing above some gallery of the brain . . . I am a city . . . In the blue light of evening Wind wanders among my streets and makes them fair; I am a room of rock . . . a maiden dances Lifting her hands, tossing her golden hair. She combs her hair, the room of rock is darkened, She extends herself in me, and I am sleep. It is my pride that starlight is above me; I dream amid waves of air, my walls are deep. I am a door . . . before me roils the darkness, Behind me ring clear waves of sound and light. Stand in the shadowy street outside, and listen-The crying of violins assails the night . . . My walls are deep, but the cries of music pierce them; They shake with the sound of drums . . . yet it is strange That I should know so little what means this music, Hearing it always within me change and change. Knock on the door,--and you shall have an answer. Open the heavy walls to set me free, And blow a horn to call me into the sunlight,-And startled, then, what a strange thing you will see! Nuns, murderers, and drunkards, saints and sinners, Lover and dancing girl and sage and clown Will laugh upon you, and you will find me nowhere. I am a room, a house, a street, a town. 127 It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, I arise, I face the sunrise, And do the things my fathers learned to do. Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet Stand before a glass and tie my tie. Vine leaves tap my window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chips in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones. It is morning. I stand by the mirror And tie my tie once more. While waves far off in a pale rose twilight Crash on a white sand shore. I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: How small and white my face!-The green earth tilts through a sphere of air And bathes in a flame of space. There are houses hanging above the stars And stars hung under a sea . . . And a sun far off in a shell of silence Dapples my walls for me . . . It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning Should I not pause in the light to remember God? Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable, He is immense and lonely as a cloud. I will dedicate this moment before my mirror To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair. Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence! I will think of you as I descend the stair. Vine leaves tap my window, The snail-track shines on the stones, Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree Repeating two clear tones. 128 It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence, Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep. The walls are about me still as in the evening, I am the same, and the same name still I keep. The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion, The stars pale silently in a coral sky. In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, Unconcerned, I tie my tie. There are horses neighing on far-off hills Tossing their long white manes, And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, Their shoulders black with rains . . . It is morning. I stand by the mirror And surprise my soul once more; The blue air rushes above my ceiling, There are suns beneath my floor . . . . . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness And depart on the winds of space for I know not where, My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven, And a god among the stars; and I will go Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak And humming a tune I know . . . Vine-leaves tap at the window, Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree Repeating three clear tones. I walk to my work, says Senlin, along a street Superbly hung in space. I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel I tap them into place. But is god, perhaps, a giant who ties his tie Grimacing before a colossal glass of sky? 129 These stones are heavy, these stones decay, These stones are wet with rain, I build them into a wall today, Tomorrow they fall again. Does god arise from a chaos of starless sleep, Rise from the dark and stretch his arms and yawn; And drowsily look from the window at his garden; And rejoice at the dewdrop sparkeling on his lawn? Does he remember, suddenly, with amazement, The yesterday he left in sleep,--his name,-Or the glittering street superbly hung in wind Along which, in the dusk, he slowly came? I devise new patterns for laying stones And build a stronger wall. One drop of rain astonishes me And I let my trowel fall. The flashing of leaves delights my eyes, Blue air delights my face; I will dedicate this stone to god And tap it into its place. That woman--did she try to attract my attention? Is it true I saw her smile and nod? She turned her head and smiled . . . was it for me? It is better to think of work or god. The clouds pile coldly above the houses Slow wind revolves the leaves: It begins to rain, and the first long drops Are slantingly blown from eaves. But it is true she tried to attract my attention! She pressed a rose to her chin and smiled. Her hand was white by the richness of her hair, Her eyes were those of a child. It is true she looked at me as if she liked me. And turned away, afraid to look too long! 130 She watched me out of the corners of her eyes; And, tapping time with fingers, hummed a song. . . . Nevertheless, I will think of work, With a trowel in my hands; Or the vague god who blows like clouds Above these dripping lands . . . But . . . is it sure she tried to attract my attention? She leaned her elbow in a peculiar way There in the crowded room . . . she touched my hand . . . She must have known, and yet,--she let it stay. Music of flesh! Music of root and sod! Leaf touching leaf in the rain! Impalpable clouds of red ascend, Red clouds blow over my brain. Did she await from me some sign of acceptance? I smoothed my hair with a faltering hand. I started a feeble smile, but the smile was frozen: Perhaps, I thought, I misunderstood. Is it to be conceived that I could attract her-This dull and futile flesh attract such fire? I,--with a trowel's dullness in hand and brain!-Take on some godlike aspect, rouse desire? Incredible! . . . delicious! . . . I will wear A brighter color of tie, arranged with care, I will delight in god as I comb my hair. And the conquests of my bolder past return Like strains of music, some lost tune Recalled from youth and a happier time. I take my sweetheart's arm in the dusk once more; One more we climb Up the forbidden stairway, Under the flickering light, along the railing: I catch her hand in the dark, we laugh once more, I hear the rustle of silk, and follow swiftly, And softly at last we close the door. Yes, it is true that woman tried to attract me: 131 It is true she came out of time for me, Came from the swirling and savage forest of earth, The cruel eternity of the sea. She parted the leaves of waves and rose from silence Shining with secrets she did not know. Music of dust! Music of web and web! And I, bewildered, let her go. I light my pipe. The flame is yellow, Edged underneath with blue. These thoughts are truer of god, perhaps, Than thoughts of god are true. It is noontime, Senlin says, and a street piano Strikes sharply against the sunshine a harsh chord, And the universe is suddenly agitated, And pain to my heart goes glittering like a sword. Do I imagine it? The dust is shaken, The sunlight quivers, the brittle oak-leaves tremble. The world, disturbed, conceals its agitation; And I, too, will dissemble. Yet it is sorrow has found my heart, Sorrow for beauty, sorrow for death; And pain twirls slowly among the trees. The street-piano revolves its glittering music, The sharp notes flash and dazzle and turn, Memory's knives are in this sunlit silence, They ripple and lazily burn. The star on which my shadow falls is frightened,-It does not move; my trowel taps a stone, The sweet note wavers amid derisive music; And I, in horror of sunlight, stand alone. Do not recall my weakness, savage music! Let the knives rest! Impersonal, harsh, the music revolves and glitters, And the notes like poniards pierce my breast. And I remember the shadows of webs on stones, 132 And the sound or rain on withered grass, And a sorrowful face that looked without illusions At its image in the glass. Do not recall my childhood, pitiless music! The green blades flicker and gleam, The red bee bends the clover, deeply humming; In the blue sea above me lazily stream Cloud upon thin-brown cloud, revolving, scattering; The mulberry tree rakes heaven and drops its fruit; Amazing sunlight sings in the opened vault On dust and bones, and I am mute. It is noon; the bells let fall soft flowers of sound. They turn on the air, they shrink in the flare of noon. It is night; and I lie alone, and watch through the window The terrible ice-white emptiness of the moon. Small bells, far off, spill jewels of sound like rain, A long wind hurries them whirled and far, A cloud creeps over the moon, my bed is darkened, I hold my breath and watch a star. Do not disturb my memories, heartless music! I stand once more by a vine-dark moonlit wall, The sound of my footsteps dies in a void of moonlight, And I watch white jasmine fall. Is it my heart that falls? Does earth itself Drift, a white petal, down the sky? One bell-note goes to the stars in the blue-white silence, Solitary and mournful, a somnolent cry. Death himself in the rain . . . death himself . . . Death in the savage sunlight . . . skeletal death . . . I hear the clack of his feet, Clearly on stones, softly in dust; He hurries among the trees Whirling the leaves, tossing he hands from waves. Listen! the immortal footsteps beat. Death himself in the grass, death himself, 133 Gyrating invisibly in the sun, Scatters the grass-blades, whips the wind, Tears at boughs with malignant laughter: On the long echoing air I hear him run. Death himself in the dusk, gathering lilacs, Breaking a white-fleshed bough, Strewing purple on a cobwebbed lawn, Dancing, dancing, The long red sun-rays glancing On flailing arms, skipping with hideous knees Cavorting grotesque ecstasies: I do not see him, but I see the lilacs fall, I hear the scrape of knuckles against the wall, The leaves are tossed and tremble where he plunges among them, And I hear the sound of his breath, Sharp and whistling, the rythm of death. It is evening: the lights on a long street balance and sway. In the purple ether they swing and silently sing, The street is a gossamer swung in space, And death himself in the wind comes dancing along it, And the lights, like raindrops, tremble and swing. Hurry, spider, and spread your glistening web, For death approaches! Hurry, rose, and open your heart to the bee, For death approaches! Maiden, let down your hair for the hands of your lover, Comb it with moonlight and wreathe it with leaves, For death approaches! Death, huge in the star; small in the sand-grain; Death himself in the rain, Drawing the rain about him like a garment of jewels: I hear the sound of his feet On the stairs of the wind, in the sun, In the forests of the sea . . . Listen! the immortal footsteps beat! It is noontime, Senlin says. The sky is brilliant 134 Above a green and dreaming hill. I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless, The grass, the wall, the peach-tree, all are still. It appears to me that I am one with these: A hill, upon whose back are a wall and trees. It is noontime: all seems still Upon this green and flowering hill. Yet suddenly out of nowhere in the sky, A cloud comes whirling, and flings A lazily coiled vortex of shade on the hill. It crosses the hill, and a bird in the peach-tree sings. Amazing! Is there a change? The hill seems somehow strange. It is noontime. And in the tree The leaves are delicately disturbed Where the bird descends invisibly. It is noontime. And in the pool The sky is blue and cool. Yet suddenly out of nowhere, Something flings itself at the hill, Tears with claws at the earth, Lunges and hisses and softly recoils, Crashing against the green. The peach-tree braces itself, the pool is frightened, The grass-blades quiver, the bird is still; The wall silently struggles against the sunlight; A terror stiffens the hill. The trees turn rigidly, to face Something that circles with slow pace: The blue pool seems to shrink From something that slides above its brink. What struggle is this, ferocious and still-What war in sunlight on this hill? What is it creeping to dart Like a knife-blade at my heart? It is noontime, Senlin says, and all is tranquil: The brilliant sky burns over a greenbright earth. The peach-tree dreams in the sun, the wall is contented. 135 A bird in the peach-leaves, moving from sun to shadow, Phrases again his unremembering mirth, His lazily beautiful, foolish, mechanical mirth. The pale blue gloom of evening comes Among the phantom forests and walls With a mournful and rythmic sound of drums. My heart is disturbed with a sound of myriad throbbing, Persuasive and sinister, near and far: In the blue evening of my heart I hear the thrum of the evening star. My work is uncompleted; and yet I hurry,-Hearing the whispered pulsing of those drums,-To enter the luminous walls and woods of night. It is the eternal mistress of the world Who shakes these drums for my delight. Listen! the drums of the leaves, the drums of the dust, The delicious quivering of this air! I will leave my work unfinished, and I will go With ringing and certain step through the laughter of chaos To the one small room in the void I know. Yesterday it was there,-Will I find it tonight once more when I climb the stair? The drums of the street beat swift and soft: In the blue evening of my heart I hear the throb of the bridal star. It weaves deliciously in my brain A tyrannous melody of her: Hands in sunlight, threads of rain Against a weeping face that fades, Snow on a blackened window-pane; Fire, in a dusk of hair entangled; Flesh, more delicate than fruit; And a voice that searches quivering nerves For a string to mute. My life is uncompleted: and yet I hurry Among the tinkling forests and walls of evening 136 To a certain fragrant room. Who is it that dances there, to a beating of drums, While stars on a grey sea bud and bloom? She stands at the top of the stair, With the lamplight on her hair. I will walk through the snarling of streams of space And climb the long steps carved from wind And rise once more towards her face. Listen! the drums of the drowsy trees Beating our nuptial ecstasies! Music spins from the heart of silence And twirls me softly upon the air: It takes my hand and whispers to me: It draws the web of the moonlight down. There are hands, it says, as cool as snow, The hands of the Venus of the sea; There are waves of sound in a mermaid-cave;-Come--then--come with me! The flesh of the sea-rose new and cool, The wavering image of her who comes At dusk by a blue sea-pool. Whispers upon the haunted air-Whisper of foam-white arm and thigh; And a shower of delicate lights blown down Fro the laughing sky! . . . Music spins from a far-off room. Do you remember,--it seems to say,-The mouth that smiled, beneath your mouth, And kissed you . . . yesterday? It is your own flesh waits for you. Come! you are incomplete! . . . The drums of the universe once more Morosely beat. It is the harlot of the world Who clashes the leaves like ghostly drums And disturbs the solitude of my heart As evening comes! I leave my work once more and walk Along a street that sways in the wind. 137 I leave these stones, and walk once more Along infinity's shore. I climb the golden-laddered stair; Among the stars in the void I climb: I ascend the golden-laddered hair Of the harlot-queen of time: She laughs from a window in the sky, Her white arms downward reach to me! We are the universe that spins In a dim ethereal sea. It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening The throbbing of drums has languidly died away. Forest and sea are still. We breathe in silence And strive to say the things flesh cannot say. The soulless wind falls slowly about the earth And finds no rest. The lover stares at the setting star,--the wakeful lover Who finds no peace on his lover's breast. The snare of desire that bound us in is broken; Softly, in sorrow, we draw apart, and see, Far off, the beauty we thought our flesh had captured,-The star we longed to be but could not be. Come back! We will laugh once more at the words we said! We say them slowly again, but the words are dead. Come back beloved! . . . The blue void falls between, We cry to each other: alone; unknown; unseen. We are the grains of sand that run and rustle In the dry wind, We are the grains of sand who thought ourselves Immortal. You touch my hand, time bears you away,-An alien star for whom I have no word. What are the meaningless things you say? I answer you, but am not heard. It is evening, Senlin says; And a dream in ruin falls. Once more we turn in pain, bewildered, 138 Among our finite walls: The walls we built ourselves with patient hands; For the god who sealed a question in our flesh. 10 It is moonlight. Alone in the silence I ascend my stairs once more, While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight, Crash on a white sand shore. It is moonlight. The garden is silent. I stand in my room alone. Across my wall, from the far-off moon, A rain of fire is thrown . . . There are houses hanging above the stars, And stars hung under a sea: And a wind from the long blue vault of time Waves my curtain for me . . . I wait in the dark once more, Swung between space and space: Before my mirror I lift my hands And face my remembered face. Is it I who stand in a question here, Asking to know my name? . . . It is I, yet I know not whither I go, Nor why, nor whence I came. It is I, who awoke at dawn And arose and descended the stair, Conceiving a god in the eye of the sun,-In a woman's hands and hair. It is I whose flesh is gray with the stones I builded into a wall: With a mournful melody in my brain Of a tune I cannot recall . . . There are roses to kiss: and mouths to kiss; And the sharp-pained shadow of death. I remember a rain-drop on my cheek,-- 139 A wind like a fragrant breath . . . And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven; And the heavens are dark and steep . . . I will forget these things once more In the silence of sleep. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

318:The Kalevala - Rune Ix ORIGIN OF IRON. Wainamoinen, thus encouraged, Quickly rises in his snow-sledge, Asking no one for assistance, Straightway hastens to the cottage, Takes a seat within the dwelling. Come two maids with silver pitchers, Bringing also golden goblets; Dip they up a very little, But the very smallest measure Of the blood of the magician, From the wounds of Wainamoinen. From the fire-place calls the old man, Thus the gray-beard asks the minstrel: 'Tell me who thou art of heroes, Who of all the great magicians? Lo! thy blood fills seven sea-boats, Eight of largest birchen vessels, Flowing from some hero's veinlets, From the wounds of some magician. Other matters I would ask thee; Sing the cause of this thy trouble, Sing to me the source of metals, Sing the origin of iron, How at first it was created.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Made this answer to the gray-beard: 'Know I well the source of metals, Know the origin of iron; f can tell bow steel is fashioned. Of the mothers air is oldest, Water is the oldest brother, And the fire is second brother, And the youngest brother, iron; Ukko is the first creator. Ukko, maker of the heavens, Cut apart the air and water, 54 Ere was born the metal, iron. Ukko, maker of the heavens, Firmly rubbed his hands together, Firmly pressed them on his knee-cap, Then arose three lovely maidens, Three most beautiful of daughters; These were mothers of the iron, And of steel of bright-blue color. Tremblingly they walked the heavens, Walked the clouds with silver linings, With their bosoms overflowing With the milk of future iron, Flowing on and flowing ever, From the bright rims of the cloudlets To the earth, the valleys filling, To the slumber-calling waters. 'Ukko's eldest daughter sprinkled Black milk over river channels And the second daughter sprinkled White milk over hills and mountains, While the youngest daughter sprinkled Red milk over seas and oceans. Whero the black milk had been sprinked, Grew the dark and ductile iron; Where the white milk had been sprinkled. Grew the iron, lighter-colored; Where the red milk had been sprinkled, Grew the red and brittle iron. 'After Time had gone a distance, Iron hastened Fire to visit, His beloved elder brother, Thus to know his brother better. Straightway Fire began his roarings, Labored to consume his brother, His beloved younger brother. Straightway Iron sees his danger, Saves himself by fleetly fleeing, From the fiery flame's advances, Fleeing hither, fleeing thither, Fleeing still and taking shelter In the swamps and in the valleys, In the springs that loudly bubble, 55 By the rivers winding seaward, On the broad backs of the marshes, Where the swans their nests have builded, Where the wild geese hatch their goslings. 'Thus is iron in the swamp-lands, Stretching by the water-courses, Hidden well for many ages, Hidden in the birchen forests, But he could not hide forever From the searchings of his brother; Here and there the fire has caught him, Caught and brought him to his furnace, That the spears, and swords, and axes, Might be forged and duly hammered. In the swamps ran blackened waters, From the heath the bears came ambling, And the wolves ran through the marshes. Iron then made his appearance, Where the feet of wolves had trodden, Where the paws of bears had trampled. 'Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Came to earth to work the metal; He was born upon the Coal-mount, Skilled and nurtured in the coal-fields; In one hand, a copper hammer, In the other, tongs of iron; In the night was born the blacksmith, In the morn he built his smithy, Sought with care a favored hillock, Where the winds might fill his bellows; Found a hillock in the swamp-lands, Where the iron hid abundant; There he built his smelting furnace, There he laid his leathern bellows, Hastened where the wolves had travelled, Followed where the bears had trampled, Found the iron's young formations, In the wolf-tracks of the marshes, In the foot-prints of the gray-bear. 'Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, 'Thus addressed the sleeping iron: Thou most useful of the metals, 56 Thou art sleeping in the marshes, Thou art hid in low conditions, Where the wolf treads in the swamp-lands, Where the bear sleeps in the thickets. Hast thou thought and well considered, What would be thy future station, Should I place thee in the furnace, Thus to make thee free and useful?' 'Then was Iron sorely frightened, Much distressed and filled with horror, When of Fire he heard the mention, Mention of his fell destroyer. 'Then again speaks Ilmarinen, Thus the smith addresses Iron: 'Be not frightened, useful metal, Surely Fire will not consume thee, Will not burn his youngest brother, Will not harm his nearest kindred. Come thou to my room and furnace, Where the fire is freely burning, Thou wilt live, and grow, and prosper, Wilt become the swords of heroes, Buckles for the belts of women.' 'Ere arose the star of evening, Iron ore had left the marshes, From the water-beds had risen, Had been carried to the furnace, In the fire the smith had laid it, Laid it in his smelting furnace. Ilmarinen starts the bellows, Gives three motions of the handle, And the iron flows in streamlets From the forge of the magician, Soon becomes like baker's leaven, Soft as dough for bread of barley. Then out-screamed the metal, Iron: 'Wondrous blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Take, O take me from thy furnace, From this fire and cruel torture.' 'Ilmarinen thus made answer: 'I will take thee from my furnace, 'Thou art but a little frightened, 57 Thou shalt be a mighty power, Thou shalt slay the best of heroes, Thou shalt wound thy dearest brother.' 'Straightway Iron made this promise, Vowed and swore in strongest accents, By the furnace, by the anvil, By the tongs, and by the hammer, These the words he vowed and uttered: 'Many trees that I shall injure, Shall devour the hearts of mountains, Shall not slay my nearest kindred, Shall not kill the best of heroes, Shall not wound my dearest brother; Better live in civil freedom, Happier would be my life-time, Should I serve my fellow-beings, Serve as tools for their convenience, Than as implements of warfare, Slay my friends and nearest. kindred, Wound the children of my mother.' 'Now the master, Ilmarinen, The renowned and skilful blacksmith, From the fire removes the iron, Places it upon the anvil, Hammers well until it softens, Hammers many fine utensils, Hammers spears, and swords, and axes, Hammers knives, and forks, and hatchets, Hammers tools of all descriptions. 'Many things the blacksmith needed, Many things he could not fashion, Could not make the tongue of iron, Could not hammer steel from iron, Could not make the iron harden. Well considered Ilmarinen, Deeply thought and long reflected. Then he gathered birchen ashes, Steeped the ashes in the water, Made a lye to harden iron, Thus to form the steel most needful. With his tongue he tests the mixture, Weighs it long and well considers, 58 And the blacksmith speaks as follows: 'All this labor is for nothing, Will not fashion steel from iron, Will not make the soft ore harden.' 'Now a bee flies from the meadow, Blue-wing coming from the flowers, Flies about, then safely settles Near the furnace of the smithy. ''Thus the smith the bee addresses, These the words of Ilmarinen: 'Little bee, thou tiny birdling, Bring me honey on thy winglets, On thy tongue, I pray thee, bring me Sweetness from the fragrant meadows, From the little cups of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, That we thus may aid the water To produce the steel from iron.' 'Evil Hisi's bird, the hornet, Heard these words of Ilmarinen, Looking from the cottage gable, Flying to the bark of birch-trees, While the iron bars were heating While the steel was being tempered; Swiftly flew the stinging hornet, Scattered all the Hisi horrors, Brought the blessing of the serpent, Brought the venom of the adder, Brought the poison of the spider, Brought the stings of all the insects, Mixed them with the ore and water, While the steel was being, tempered. 'Ilmarinen, skilful blacksmith, First of all the iron-workers, Thought the bee had surely brought him Honey from the fragrant meadows, From the little cups of flowers, From the tips of seven petals, And he spake the words that follow: 'Welcome, welcome, is thy coming, Honeyed sweetness from the flowers Thou hast brought to aid the water, 59 Thus to form the steel from iron!' 'Ilmarinen, ancient blacksmith, Dipped the iron into water, Water mixed with many poisons, Thought it but the wild bee's honey; Thus he formed the steel from iron. When he plunged it into water, Water mixed with many poisons, When be placed it in the furnace, Angry grew the hardened iron, Broke the vow that he had taken, Ate his words like dogs and devils, Mercilessly cut his brother, Madly raged against his kindred, Caused the blood to flow in streamlets From the wounds of man and hero. This, the origin of iron, And of steel of light blue color.' From the hearth arose the gray-beard, Shook his heavy looks and answered: 'Now I know the source of iron, Whence the steel and whence its evils; Curses on thee, cruel iron, Curses on the steel thou givest, Curses on thee, tongue of evil, Cursed be thy life forever! Once thou wert of little value, Having neither form nor beauty, Neither strength nor great importance, When in form of milk thou rested, When for ages thou wert hidden In the breasts of God's three daughters, Hidden in their heaving bosoms, On the borders of the cloudlets, In the blue vault of the heavens. 'Thou wert once of little value, Having neither form nor beauty, Neither strength nor great importance, When like water thou wert resting On the broad back of the marshes, On the steep declines of mountains, When thou wert but formless matter, 60 Only dust of rusty color. 'Surely thou wert void of greatness, Having neither strength nor beauty, When the moose was trampling on thee, When the roebuck trod upon thee, When the tracks of wolves were in thee, And the bear-paws scratched thy body. Surely thou hadst little value When the skilful Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Brought thee from the blackened swamp-lands, Took thee to his ancient smithy, Placed thee in his fiery furnace. Truly thou hadst little vigor, Little strength, and little danger, When thou in the fire wert hissing, Rolling forth like seething water, From the furnace of the smithy, When thou gavest oath the strongest, By the furnace, by the anvil, By the tongs, and by the hammer, By the dwelling of the blacksmith, By the fire within the furnace. 'Now forsooth thou hast grown mighty, Thou canst rage in wildest fury; Thou hast broken all thy pledges, All thy solemn vows hast broken, Like the dogs thou shamest honor, Shamest both thyself and kindred, Tainted all with breath of evil. Tell who drove thee to this mischief, Tell who taught thee all thy malice, Tell who gavest thee thine evil! Did thy father, or thy mother, Did the eldest of thy brothers, Did the youngest of thy sisters, Did the worst of all thy kindred Give to thee thine evil nature? Not thy father, nor thy mother, Not the eldest of thy brothers, Not the youngest of thy sisters, Not the worst of all thy kindred, 61 But thyself hast done this mischief, Thou the cause of all our trouble. Come and view thine evil doings, And amend this flood of damage, Ere I tell thy gray-haired mother, Ere I tell thine aged father. Great indeed a mother's anguish, Great indeed a father's sorrow, When a son does something evil, When a child runs wild and lawless. 'Crimson streamlet, cease thy flowing From the wounds of Wainamoinen; Blood of ages, stop thy coursing From the veins of the magician; Stand like heaven's crystal pillars, Stand like columns in the ocean, Stand like birch-trees in the forest, Like the tall reeds in the marshes, Like the high-rocks on the sea-coast, Stand by power of mighty magic! 'Should perforce thy will impel thee, Flow thou on thine endless circuit, Through the veins of Wainamoinen, Through the bones, and through the muscles, Through the lungs, and heart, and liver, Of the mighty sage and singer; Better be the food of heroes, Than to waste thy strength and virtue On the meadows and the woodlands, And be lost in dust and ashes. Flow forever in thy circle; Thou must cease this crimson out-flow; Stain no more the grass and flowers, Stain no more these golden hill-tops, Pride and beauty of our heroes. In the veins of the magician, In the heart of Wainamoinen, Is thy rightful home and storehouse. Thither now withdraw thy forces, Thither hasten, swiftly flowing; Flow no more as crimson currents, Fill no longer crimson lakelets, 62 Must not rush like brooks in spring-tide, Nor meander like the rivers. 'Cease thy flow, by word of magic, Cease as did the falls of Tyrya, As the rivers of Tuoni, When the sky withheld her rain-drops, When the sea gave up her waters, In the famine of the seasons, In the years of fire and torture. If thou heedest not this order, I shall offer other measures, Know I well of other forces; I shall call the Hisi irons, In them I shall boil and roast thee, Thus to check thy crimson flowing, Thus to save the wounded hero. 'If these means be inefficient, Should these measures prove unworthy, I shall call omniscient Ukko, Mightiest of the creators, Stronger than all ancient heroes, Wiser than the world-magicians; He will check the crimson out-flow, He will heal this wound of hatchet. 'Ukko, God of love and mercy, God and Master Of the heavens, Come thou hither, thou art needed, Come thou quickly I beseech thee, Lend thy hand to aid thy children, Touch this wound with healing fingers, Stop this hero's streaming life-blood, Bind this wound with tender leaflets, Mingle with them healing flowers, Thus to check this crimson current, Thus to save this great magician, Save the life of Wainamoinen.' Thus at last the blood-stream ended, As the magic words were spoken. Then the gray-beard, much rejoicing, Sent his young son to the smithy, There to make a healing balsam, From the herbs of tender fibre, 63 From the healing plants and flowers, From the stalks secreting honey, From the roots, and leaves, and blossoms. On the way he meets an oak-tree, And the oak the son addresses: 'Hast thou honey in thy branches, Does thy sap run full of sweetness?' Thus the oak-tree wisely answers: 'Yea, but last night dripped the honey Down upon my spreading branches, And the clouds their fragrance sifted, Sifted honey on my leaflets, From their home within the heavens.' Then the son takes oak-wood splinters, Takes the youngest oak-tree branches, Gathers many healing grasses, Gathers many herbs and flowers, Rarest herbs that grow in Northland, Places them within the furnace In a kettle made of copper; Lets them steep and boil together, Bits of bark chipped from the oak-tree, Many herbs of healing virtues; Steeps them one day, then a second, Three long days of summer weather, Days and nights in quick succession; Then he tries his magic balsam, Looks to see if it is ready, If his remedy is finished; But the balsam is unworthy. Then he added other grasses, Herbs of every healing virtue, That were brought from distant nations, Many hundred leagues from Northland, Gathered by the wisest minstrels, Thither brought by nine enchanters. Three days more be steeped the balsam, Three nights more the fire be tended, Nine the days and nights be watched it, Then again be tried the ointment, Viewed it carefully and tested, Found at last that it was ready, 64 Found the magic balm was finished. Near by stood a branching birch-tree. On the border of the meadow, Wickedly it had been broken, Broken down by evil Hisi; Quick he takes his balm of healing, And anoints the broken branches, Rubs the balsam in the fractures, Thus addresses then the birch-tree: 'With this balsam I anoint thee, With this salve thy wounds I cover, Cover well thine injured places; Now the birch-tree shall recover, Grow more beautiful than ever.' True, the birch-tree soon recovered, Grew more beautiful than ever, Grew more uniform its branches, And its bole more strong and stately. Thus it was be tried the balsam, Thus the magic salve he tested, Touched with it the splintered sandstone, Touched the broken blocks of granite, Touched the fissures in the mountains, And the broken parts united, All the fragments grew together. Then the young boy quick returning With the balsam he had finished, To the gray-beard gave the ointment, And the boy these measures uttered 'Here I bring the balm of healing, Wonderful the salve I bring thee; It will join the broken granite, Make the fragments grow together, Heat the fissures in the mountains, And restore the injured birch-tree.' With his tongue the old man tested, Tested thus the magic balsam, Found the remedy effective, Found the balm had magic virtues; Then anointed he the minstrel, Touched the wounds of Wainamoinen, Touched them with his magic balsam, 65 With the balm of many virtues; Speaking words of ancient wisdom, These the words the gray-beard uttered: 'Do not walk in thine own virtue, Do not work in thine own power, Walk in strength of thy Creator; Do not speak in thine own wisdom, Speak with tongue of mighty Ukko. In my mouth, if there be sweetness, It has come from my Creator; If my bands are filled with beauty, All the beauty comes from Ukko.' When the wounds had been anointed, When the magic salve had touched them, Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Suffered fearful pain and anguish, Sank upon the floor in torment, Turning one way, then another, Sought for rest and found it nowhere, Till his pain the gray-beard banished, Banished by the aid of magic, Drove away his killing torment To the court of all our trouble, To the highest hill of torture, To the distant rocks and ledges, To the evil-bearing mountains, To the realm of wicked Hisi. Then be took some silken fabric, Quick he tore the silk asunder, Making equal strips for wrapping, Tied the ends with silken ribbons, Making thus a healing bandage; Then he wrapped with skilful fingers Wainamoinen's knee and ankle, Wrapped the wounds of the magician, And this prayer the gray-beard uttered 'Ukko's fabric is the bandage, Ukko's science is the surgeon, These have served the wounded hero, Wrapped the wounds of the magician. Look upon us, God of mercy, Come and guard us, kind Creator, 66 And protect us from all evil! Guide our feet lest they may stumble, Guard our lives from every danger, From the wicked wilds of Hisi.' Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Felt the mighty aid of magic, Felt the help of gracious Ukko, Straightway stronger grew in body, Straightway were the wounds united, Quick the fearful pain departed. Strong and hardy grew the hero, Straightway walked in perfect freedom, Turned his knee in all directions, Knowing neither pain nor trouble. Then the ancient Wainamoinen Raised his eyes to high Jumala, Looked with gratitude to heaven, Looked on high, in joy and gladness, Then addressed omniscient Ukko, This the prayer the minstrel uttered: 'O be praised, thou God of mercy, Let me praise thee, my Creator, Since thou gavest me assistance, And vouchsafed me thy protection, Healed my wounds and stilled mine anguish, Banished all my pain and trouble, Caused by Iron and by Hisi. O, ye people of Wainola, People of this generation, And the folk of future ages, Fashion not in emulation, River boat, nor ocean shallop, Boasting of its fine appearance, God alone can work completion, Give to cause its perfect ending, Never hand of man can find it, Never can the hero give it, Ukko is the only Master.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

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

320:From 'Omeros' BOOK SIX Chapter XLIV In hill-towns, from San Fernando to Mayagüez, the same sunrise stirred the feathered lances of cane down the archipelago's highways. The first breeze rattled the spears and their noise was like distant rain marching down from the hills, like a shell at your ears. In the cool asphalt Sundays of the Antilles the light brought the bitter history of sugar across the squared fields, heightening towards harvest, to the bleached flags of the Indian diaspora. The drizzling light blew across the savannah darkening the racehorses' hides; mist slowly erased the royal palms on the crests of the hills and the hills themselves. The brown patches the horses had grazed shone as wet as their hides. A skittish stallion jerked at his bridle, marble-eyed at the thunder muffling the hills, but the groom was drawing him in like a fisherman, wrapping the slack line under one fist, then with the other tightening the rein and narrowing the circle. The sky cracked asunder and a forked tree flashed, and suddenly that black rain which can lose an entire archipelago in broad daylight was pouring tin nails on the roof, hammering the balcony. I closed the French window, and thought of the horses in their stalls with one hoof 22 tilted, watching the ropes of rain. I lay in bed with current gone from the bed-lamp and heard the roar of wind shaking the windows, and I remembered Achille on his own mattress and desperate Hector trying to save his canoe, I thought of Helen as my island lost in the haze, and I was sure I'd never see her again. All of a sudden the rain stopped and I heard the sluicing of water down the guttering. I opened the window when the sun came out. It replaced the tiny brooms of palms on the ridges. On the red galvanized roof of the paddock, the wet sparkled, then the grooms led the horses over the new grass and exercised them again, and there was a different brightness in everything, in the leaves, in the horses' eyes. II I smelt the leaves threshing at the top of the year in green January over the orange villas and military barracks where the Plunketts were, the harbour flecked by the wind that comes with Christmas, edged with the Arctic, that was christened Vent Noël; it stayed until March and, with luck, until Easter. It freshened the cedars, waxed the laurier-cannelle, and hid the African swift. I smelt the drizzle on the asphalt leaving the Morne, it was the smell of an iron on damp cloth; I heard the sizzle of fried jackfish in oil with their coppery skin; I smelt ham studded with cloves, the crusted accra, the wax in the varnished parlour: Come in. Come in, the arm of the Morris chair sticky with lacquer; I saw a sail going out and a sail coming in, 23 and a breeze so fresh it lifted the lace curtains like a petticoat, like a sail towards Ithaca; I smelt a dead rivulet in the clogged drains. III Ah, twin-headed January, seeing either tense: a past, they assured us, born in degradation, and a present that lifted us up with the wind's noise in the breadfruit leaves with such an elation that it contradicts what is past! The cannonballs of rotting breadfruit from the Battle of the Saints, the asterisks of bulletholes in the brick walls of the redoubt. I lived there with every sense. I smelt with my eyes, I could see with my nostrils. Chapter XLV One side of the coast plunges its precipices into the Atlantic. Turns require wide locks, since the shoulder is sharp and the curve just misses a long drop over the wind-bent trees and the rocks between the trees. There is a wide view of Dennery, with its stone church and raw ochre cliffs at whose base the African breakers end. Across the flecked sea whose combers veil and unveil the rocks with their lace the next port is Dakar. The uninterrupted wind thuds under the wings of frigates, you see them bent from a force that has crossed the world, tilting to find purchase in the sudden downdrafts of its current. 24 The breeze threshed the palms on the cool December road where the Comet hurtled with empty leopard seats, so fast a man on a donkey trying to read its oncoming fiery sign heard only two thudding beats from the up-tempo zouk that its stereo played when it screeched round a bridge and began to ascend away from the palm-fronds and their wickerwork shade that left the windscreen clear as it locked round the bend, where Hector suddenly saw the trotting piglet and thought of Plunkett's warning as he heard it screel with the same sound that the tires of the Comet made rounding the curve from the sweat-greased steering wheel. The rear wheels spin to a dead stop, like a helm. The piglet trots down the safer side of the road. Lodged in their broken branches the curled letters flame. Hector had both hands on the wheel. His head was bowed under the swaying statue of the Madonna of the Rocks, her smile swayed under the blue hood, and when her fluted robe stilled, the smile stayed on her dimpled porcelain. She saw, in the bowed man, the calm common oval of prayer, the head's usual angle over the pew of the dashboard. Her lifted palm, small as a doll's from its cerulean mantle, indicated that he had prayed enough to the lace of foam round the cliff's altar, that now, if he wished, he could lift his head, but he stayed in the same place, the way a man will remain when Mass is finished, not unclenching his hands or freeing one to cross forehead, heart, and shoulders swiftly and then kneel facing the altar. He bowed in endless remorse, for her mercy at what he had done to Achille, his brother. But his arc was over, for the course 25 of every comet is such. The fated crescent was printed on the road by the scorching tires. A salt tear ran down the porcelain cheek and it went in one slow drop to the clenched knuckle that still gripped the wheel. On the flecked sea, the uninterrupted wind herded the long African combers, and whipped the small flag of the island on its silver spearhead. II Drivers leant over the rail. One seized my luggage off the porter's cart. The rest burst into patois, with gestures of despair at the lost privilege of driving me, then turned to other customers. In the evening pastures horses grazed, their hides wet with light that shot its lances over the combers. I had the transport all to myself. "You all set? Good. A good pal of mine died in that chariot of his called the Comet." He turned in the front seat, spinning the air with his free hand. I sat, sprawled out in the back, discouraging talk, with my crossed feet. "You never know when, eh? I was at the airport that day. I see him take off like a rocket. I always said that thing have too much horsepower. And so said, so done. The same hotel, chief, correct?" I saw the coastal villages receding as the highway's tongue translated bush into forest, the wild savannah into moderate pastures, that other life going in its "change for the best," its peace paralyzed in a postcard, a concrete future ahead of it all, in the cinder-blocks 26 of hotel development with the obsolete craft of the carpenter, as I sensed, in the neat marinas, the fisherman's phantom. Old oarlocks and rusting fretsaw. My craft required the same crouching care, the same crabbed, natural devotion of the hand that stencilled a flowered window-frame or planed an elegant canoe; its time was gone with the spirit in the wood, as wood grew obsolete and plasterers smoothed the blank page of white concrete. I watched the afternoon sea. Didn't I want the poor to stay in the same light so that I could transfix them in amber, the afterglow of an empire, preferring a shed of palm-thatch with tilted sticks to that blue bus-stop? Didn't I prefer a road from which tracks climbed into the thickening syntax of colonial travellers, the measured prose I read as a schoolboy? That cove, with its brown shallows there, Praslin? That heron? Had they waited for me to develop my craft? Why hallow that pretence of preserving what they left, the hypocrisy of loving them from hotels, a biscuit-tin fence smothered in love-vines, scenes to which I was attached as blindly as Plunkett with his remorseful research? Art is History's nostalgia, it prefers a thatched roof to a concrete factory, and the huge church above a bleached village. The gap between the driver and me increased when he said: "The place changing, eh?" where an old rumshop had gone, but not that river with its clogged shadows. That would make me a stranger. "All to the good," he said. I said, "All to the good," 27 then, "whoever they are," to myself. I caught his eyes in the mirror. We were climbing out of Micoud. Hadn't I made their poverty my paradise? His back could have been Hector's, ferrying tourists in the other direction home, the leopard seat scratching their damp backs like the fur-covered armrests. He had driven his burnt-out cargo, tired of sweat, who longed for snow on the moon and didn't have to face the heat of that sinking sun, who knew a climate as monotonous as this one could only produce from its unvarying vegetation flashes of a primal insight like those red-pronged lilies that shot from the verge, that their dried calabashes of fake African masks for a fake Achilles rattled with the seeds that came from other men's minds. So let them think that. Who needed art in this place where even the old women strode with stiff-backed spines, and the fishermen had such adept thumbs, such grace these people had, but what they envied most in them was the calypso part, the Caribbean lilt still in the shells of their ears, like the surf's rhythm, until too much happiness was shadowed with guilt like any Eden, and they sighed at the sign: HEWANNORRA (Iounalao), the gold sea flat as a credit-card, extending its line to a beach that now looked just like everywhere else, Greece or Hawaii. Now the goddamn souvenir felt absurd, excessive. The painted gourds, the shells. Their own faces as brown as gourds. Mine felt as strange as those at the counter feeling their bodies change. III 28 Change lay in our silence. We had come to that bend where the trees are warped by wind, and the cliffs, raw, shelve surely to foam. "Is right here everything end," the driver said, and rammed open the transport door on his side, then mine. "Anyway, chief, the view nice." I joined him at the gusting edge. "His name was Hector." The name was bent like the trees on the precipice to point inland. In its echo a man-o'-war screamed on the wind. The driver moved off for a piss, then shouted over his shoulder: "A road-warrior. He would drive like a madman when the power took. He had a nice woman. Maybe he died for her." For her and tourism, I thought. The driver shook himself, zipping then hoisting his crotch. "Crazy, but a gentle fellow anyway, with a very good brain." Cut to a leopard galloping on a dry plain across Serengeti. Cut to the spraying fans drummed by a riderless stallion, its wild mane scaring the Scamander. Cut to a woman's hands clenched towards her mouth with no sound. Cut to the wheel of a chariot's spiked hubcap. Cut to the face of his muscling jaw, then flashback to Achille hurling a red tin and a cutlass. Next, a vase with a girl's hoarse whisper echoing "Omeros," as in a conch-shell. Cut to a shield of silver rolling like a hubcap. Rewind, in slow motion, myrmidons gathering by a village river 29 with lances for oars. Cut to the surpliced ocean droning its missal. Cut. A crane hoisting a wreck. A horse nosing the surf, then shuddering its neck. He'd paid the penalty of giving up the sea as graceless and as treacherous as it had seemed, for the taxi-business; he was making money, but all of that money was making him ashamed of the long afternoons of shouting by the wharf hustling passengers. He missed the uncertain sand under his feet, he sighed for the trough of a wave, and the jerk of the oar when it turned in his hand, and the rose conch sunset with its low pelicans. Castries was corrupting him with its roaring life, its littered market, with too many transport vans competing. Castries had been his common-law wife who, like Helen, he had longed for from a distance, and now he had both, but a frightening discontent hollowed his face; to find that the sea was a love he could never lose made every gesture violent: ramming the side-door shut, raking the clutch. He drove as if driven by furies, but furies paid the rent. A man who cursed the sea had cursed his own mother. Mer was both mother and sea. In his lost canoe he had said his prayers. But now he was in another kind of life that was changing him with his brand-new stereo, its endless garages, where he could not whip off his shirt, hearing the conch's summoning note. Chapter XLVI 30 Hector was buried near the sea he had loved once. Not too far from the shallows where he fought Achille for a tin and Helen. He did not hear the sea-almond's moan over the bay when Philoctete blew the shell, nor the one drumbeat of a wave-thud, nor a sail rattling to rest as its day's work was over, and its mate, gauging depth, bent over the gunwale, then wearily sounding the fathoms with an oar, the same rite his shipmates would repeat soon enough when it was their turn to lie quiet as Hector, lowering a pitch-pine canoe in the earth's trough, to sleep under the piled conchs, through every weather on the violet-wreathed mound. Crouching for his friend to hear, Achille whispered about their ancestral river, and those things he would recognize when he got there, his true home, forever and ever and ever, forever, compère. Then Philoctete limped over and rested his hand firmly on a shaking shoulder to anchor his sorrow. Seven Seas and Helen did not come nearer. Achille had carried an oar to the church and propped it outside with the red tin. Now his voice strengthened. He said: "Mate, this is your spear," and laid the oar slowly, the same way he had placed the parallel oars in the hull of the gommier the day the African swift and its shadow raced. And this was the prayer that Achille could not utter: "The spear that I give you, my friend, is only wood. Vexation is past. I know how well you treat her. You never know my admiration, when you stood crossing the sun at the bow of the long canoe with the plates of your chest like a shield; I would say any enemy so was a compliment. 'Cause no 31 African ever hurled his wide seine at the bay by which he was born with such beauty. You hear me? Men did not know you like me. All right. Sleep good. Good night." Achille moved Philoctete's hand, then he saw Helen standing alone and veiled in the widowing light. Then he reached down to the grave and lifted the tin to her. Helen nodded. A wind blew out the sun. II Pride set in Helen's face after this, like a stone bracketed with Hector's name; her lips were incised by its dates in parenthesis. She seemed more stern, more ennobled by distance as she slowly crossed the hot street of the village like a distant sail on the horizon. Grief heightened her. When she smiled it was with such distance that it was hard to tell if she had heard your condolence. It was the child, Ma Kilman told them, that made her more beautiful. III The rites of the island were simplified by its elements, which changed places. The grooved sea was Achille's garden, the ridged plot of rattling plantains carried their sense of the sea, and Philoctete, on his height, often heard, in a wind that suddenly churned the rage of deep gorges, the leafy sound of far breakers plunging with smoke, and for smoke there were the bonfires which the sun catches on the blue heights at sunrise, doing the same work as Philoctete clearing his plot, just as, at sunset, smoke came from the glowing rim of the horizon as if from his enamel pot. The woodsmoke smelt of a regret 32 that men cannot name. On the charred field, the massive sawn trunks burnt slowly like towers, and the great indigo dusk slowly plumed down, devouring the still leaves, igniting the firefly huts, lifting the panicky egret to beat its lagoon and shelve in the cage of the mangroves, take in the spars of its sails, then with quick-pricking head anchor itself shiftingly, and lift its question again. At night, the island reversed its elements, the heron of a quarter-moon floated from Hector's grave, rain rose upwards from the sea, and the corrugated iron of the sea glittered with nailheads. Ragged plantains bent and stepped with their rustling powers over the furrows of Philoctete's garden, a chorus of aged ancestors and straw, and, rustling, surrounded every house in the village with its back garden, with its rank midden of rusted chamber pots, rotting nets, and the moon's cold basin. They sounded, when they shook, after the moonlit meridian of their crossing, like the night-surf; they gazed in silence at the shadows of their lamplit children. At Philoctete, groaning and soaking the flower on his shin with hot sulphur, cleaning its edges with yellow Vaseline, and, gripping his knee, squeezing rags from the basin. At night, when yards are asleep, and the broken line of the surf hisses like Philo, "Bon Dieu, aie, waie, my sin is this sore?" the old plantains suffer and shine. Chapter XLVII Islands of bay leaves in the medicinal bath of a cauldron, a sibylline cure. The citron 33 sprig of a lime-tree dividing the sky in half dipped its divining rod. The white spray of the thorn, which the swift bends lightly, waited for a black hand to break it in bits and boil its leaves for the wound from the pronged anchor rusting in clean bottom-sand. Ma Kilman, in a black hat with its berried fringe, eased herself sideways down the broken concrete step of the rumshop's back door, closed it, and rammed the hinge tight. The bolt caught a finger and with that her instep arch twisted and she let out a soft Catholic curse, then crossed herself. She closed the gate. The asphalt sweated with the heat, the limp breadfruit leaves were thick over the fence. Her spectacles swam in their sweat. She plucked an armpit. The damn wig was badly made. She was going to five o'clock Mass, to la Messe, and sometimes she had to straighten it as she prayed until the wafer dissolved her with tenderness, the way a raindrop melts on the tongue of a breeze. In the church's cool cave the sweat dried from her eyes. She rolled down the elastic bands below the knees of her swollen stockings. It was then that their vise round her calves reminded her of Philoctete. Then, numbering her beads, she began her own litany of berries, Hail Mary marigolds that stiffen their aureoles in the heights, mild anemone and clear watercress, the sacred heart of Jesus pierced like the anthurium, the thorns of logwood, called the tree of life, the aloe good for seizures, the hole in the daisy's palm, with its drying blood that was the hole in the fisherman's shin since he was pierced by a hook; there was the pale, roadside tisane 34 of her malarial childhood. There was this one for easing a birth-breach, that one for a love-bath, before the buds of green sugar-apples in the sun ripened like her nipples in girlhood. But what path led through nettles to the cure, the furious sibyl couldn't remember. Mimosa winced from her fingers, shutting like jalousies at some passing evil when she reached for them. The smell of incense lingers in her clothes. Inside, the candle-flames are erect round the bier of the altar while she and her friends old-talk on the steps, but the plant keeps its secret when her memory reaches, shuttering in its fronds. II The dew had not yet dried on the white-ribbed awnings and the nodding palanquins of umbrella yams where the dark grove had not heat but early mornings of perpetual freshness, in which the bearded arms of a cedar held council. Between its gnarled toes grew the reek of an unknown weed; its pronged flower sprang like a buried anchor; its windborne odours diverted the bee from its pollen, but its power, rooted in bitterness, drew her bowed head by the nose as a spike does a circling bull. To approach it Ma Kilman lowered her head to one side and screened the stench with a cologned handkerchief. The mulch it was rooted in carried the smell, when it gangrened, of Philoctete's cut. In her black dress, her berried black hat, she climbed a goat-path up from the village, past the stones with dried palms and conchs, where the buried suffer the sun all day Sunday, while goats forage the new wreaths. Once more she pulled at the itch in her 35 armpits, nearly dropping her purse. Then she climbed hard up the rain-cracked path, the bay closing behind her like a wound, and rested. Everything that echoed repeated its outline: a goat's doddering bleat, a hammer multiplying a roof, and, through the back yards, a mother cursing a boy too nimble to beat. Ma Kilman picked up her purse and sighed on upwards to the thread of the smell, one arm behind her back, passing the cactus, the thorn trees, and then the wood appeared over her, thick green, the green almost black as her dress in its shade, its border of flowers flecking the pasture with spray. Then she staggered back from the line of ants at her feet. She saw the course they had kept behind her, following her from church, signalling a language she could not recognize. III A swift had carried the strong seed in its stomach centuries ago from its antipodal shore, skimming the sea-troughs, outdarting ospreys, her luck held to its shadow. She aimed to carry the cure that precedes every wound; the reversible Bight of Benin was her bow, her target the ringed haze of a circling horizon. The star-grains at night made her hungrier; the leafless sea with no house for her weariness. Sometimes she dozed in her flight for a swift's second, closing the seeds of her stare, then ruddering straight. The dry sea-flakes whitened her breast, her feathers thinned. Then, one dawn the day-star rose slowly from the wrong place and it frightened her because all the breakers were blowing from the wrong 36 east. She saw the horned island and uncurled her claws with one frail cry, since swifts are not given to song, and fluttered down to a beach, ejecting the seed in grass near the sand. She nestled in dry seaweed. In a year she was bleached bone. All of that motion a pile of fragile ash from the fire of her will, but the vine grew its own wings, out of the ocean it climbed like the ants, the ancestors of Achille, the women carrying coals after the dark door slid over the hold. As the weed grew in odour so did its strength at the damp root of the cedar, where the flower was anchored at the mottled root as a lizard crawled upwards, foot by sallow foot. ~ Derek Walcott,

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

322:The Kalevala - Rune Xv LEMMINKAINEN'S RESTORATION. Lemminkainen's aged mother Anxious roams about the islands, Anxious wonders in her chambers, What the fate of Lemminkainen, Why her son so long has tarried; Thinks that something ill has happened To her hero in Pohyola. Sad, indeed, the mother's anguish, As in vain she waits his coming, As in vain she asks the question, Where her daring son is roaming, Whether to the fir-tree mountain, Whether to the distant heath-land, Or upon the broad-sea's ridges, On the floods and rolling waters, To the war's contending armies, To the heat and din of battle, Steeped in blood of valiant heroes, Evidence of fatal warfare. Daily does the wife Kyllikki Look about her vacant chamber, In the home of Lemminkainen, At the court of Kaukomieli; Looks at evening, looks at morning, Looks, perchance, upon his hair-brush, Sees alas! the blood-drops oozing, Oozing from the golden bristles, And the blood-drops, scarlet-colored. Then the beauteous wife, Kyllikki, Spake these words in deeps of anguish: 'Dead or wounded is my husband, Or at best is filled with trouble, Lost perhaps in Northland forests, In some glen unknown to heroes, Since alas! the blood is flowing From the brush of Lemminkainen, 273 Red drops oozing from the bristles.' Thereupon the anxious mother Looks upon the bleeding hair-brush And begins this wail of anguish: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated, Woe is me, all joy departed! For alas! my son and hero, Valiant hero of the islands, Son of trouble and misfortune! Some sad fate has overtaken My ill-fated Lemminkainen! Blood is flowing from his hair-brush, Oozing from its golden bristles, And the drops are scarlet-colored.' Quick her garment's hem she clutches, On her arm she throws her long-robes, Fleetly flies upon her journey; With her might she hastens northward, Mountains tremble from her footsteps, Valleys rise and heights are lowered, Highlands soon become as lowlands, All the hills and valleys levelled. Soon she gains the Northland village, Quickly asks about her hero, These the words the mother utters: 'O thou hostess of Pohyola, Where hast thou my Lemminkainen? Tell me of my son and hero!' Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Gives this answer to the mother: 'Nothing know I of thy hero, Of the hero of the islands; Where thy son may be I know not, Cannot lend the information; Once I gave thy son a courser, Hitched the racer to his snow-sledge, This the last of Lemminkainen; May perchance be drowned in Wuhne, Frozen In the icy ocean, Fallen prey to wolves in hunger, In a bear's den may have perished.' Lemminkainen's mother answers: 274 'Thou art only speaking falsehoods, Northland wolves cannot devour us, Nor the bears kill Kaukomieli; He can slay the wolves of Pohya With the fingers of his left hand; Bears of Northland he would silence With the magic of his singing. 'Hostess of Pohyola, tell me Whither thou hast sent my hero; I shall burst thy many garners, Shall destroy the magic Sampo, If thou dost not tell me truly Where to find my Lemminkainen.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'I have well thy hero treated, Well my court has entertained him, Gave him of my rarest viands, Fed him at my well-filled tables, Placed him in a boat of copper, Thus to float adown the current, This the last of Lemminkainen; Cannot tell where he has wandered. Whether in the foam of waters, Whether in the boiling torrent, Whether in the drowning whirlpool.' Lemminkainen's mother answers: Thou again art speaking falsely; Tell me now the truth I pray thee, Make an end of thy deception, Where is now my Lemminkainen, Whither hast thou sent my hero, Young and daring son of Kalew? If a third time thou deceivest, I will send thee plagues, unnumbered, I will send thee fell destruction, Certain death will overtake thee.' Spake the hostess of Pohyola: 'This the third time that I answer, This the truth that I shall tell thee: I have sent the Kalew-hero To the Hisi-fields and forests, There to hunt the moose of Lempo; 275 Sent him then to catch the fire-horse, Catch the fire-expiring stallion, On the distant plains of Juutas, In the realm of cruel Hisi. Then I sent him to the Death-stream, In the kingdom of Tuoni, With his bow and but one arrow, There to shoot the swan as dowry For my best and fairest daughter; Have not heard about thy hero Since he left for Tuonela; May in misery have fallen, May have perished in Manala; Has not come to ask my daughter, Has not come to woo the maiden, Since he left to hunt the death-swan.' Now the mother seeks her lost one, For her son she weeps and trembles, Like the wolf she bounds through fenlands, Like the bear, through forest thickets, Like the wild-boar, through the marshes, Like the hare, along the sea-coast, To the sea-point, like the hedgehog Like the wild-duck swims the waters, Casts the rubbish from her pathway, Tramples down opposing brush-wood, Stops at nothing in her journey Seeks a long time for her hero, Seeks, and seeks, and does not find him. Now she asks the trees the question, And the forest gives this answer: 'We have care enough already, Cannot think about thy matters; Cruel fates have we to battle, Pitiful our own misfortunes! We are felled and chopped in pieces, Cut in blocks for hero-fancy, We are burned to death as fuel, No one cares how much we suffer.' Now again the mother wanders, Seeks again her long-lost hero, Seeks, and seeks, and does not find him. 276 Paths arise and come to meet her, And she questions thus the pathways: 'Paths of hope that God has fashioned, Have ye seen my Lemminkainen, Has my son and golden hero Travelled through thy many kingdoms?' Sad, the many pathways answer: 'We ourselves have cares sufficient, Cannot watch thy son and hero, Wretched are the lives of pathways, Deep indeed our own misfortunes; We are trodden by, the red-deer, By the wolves, and bears, and roebucks, Driven o'er by heavy cart-wheels, By the feet of dogs are trodden, Trodden under foot of heroes, Foot-paths for contending armies.' Seeks again the frantic mother, Seeks her long-lost son and hero, Seeks, and seeks, and does not find him; Finds the Moon within her orbit, Asks the Moon in pleading measures: 'Golden Moon, whom God has stationed In the heavens, the Sun's companion, Hast thou seen my Kaukomieli, Hast thou seen my silver apple, Anywhere in thy dominions? ' Thus the golden Moon makes answer: 'I have trouble all-sufficient, Cannot watch thy daring hero; Long the journey I must travel, Sad the fate to me befallen, Pitiful mine own misfortunes, All alone the nights to wander, Shine alone without a respite, In the winter ever watching, In the summer sink and perish.' Still the mother seeks, and wanders, Seeks, and does not find her hero, Sees the Sun in the horizon, And the mother thus entreats him: Silver Sun, whom God has fashioned, 277 Thou that giveth warmth and comfort, Hast thou lately seen my hero, Hast thou seen my Lemminkainen, Wandering in thy dominions?' Thus the Sun in kindness answers: 'Surely has thy hero perished, To ingratitude a victim; Lemminkainen died and vanished In Tuoni's fatal river, In the waters of Manala, In the sacred stream and whirlpool, In the cataract and rapids, Sank within the drowning current To the realm of Tuonela, To Manala's lower regions.' Lemminkainen's mother weeping, Wailing in the deeps of anguish, Mourns the fate of Kaukomieli, Hastens to the Northland smithy, To the forge of Ilmarinen, These the words the mother utters: 'Ilmarinen, metal-artist, Thou that long ago wert forging, Forging earth a concave cover, Yesterday wert forging wonders, Forge thou now, immortal blacksmith, Forge a rake with shaft of copper, Forge the teeth of strongest metal, Teeth in length a hundred fathoms, And five hundred long the handle.' Ilmarinen does as bidden, Makes the rake in full perfection. Lemminkainen's anxious mother Takes the magic rake and hastens To the river of Tuoni, Praying to the Sun as follows: 'Thou, O Sun, by God created, Thou that shinest on thy Maker, Shine for me in heat of magic, Give me warmth, and strength, and courage, Shine a third time full of power, Lull to sleep the wicked people, 278 Still the people of Manala, Quiet all Tuoni's empire.' Thereupon the sun of Ukko, Dearest child of the Creator, Flying through the groves of Northland, Sitting on a curving birch-tree, Shines a little while in ardor, Shines again in greater fervor, Shines a third time full of power, Lulls to sleep the wicked people In the Manala home and kingdom, Still the heroes with their broadswords, Makes the lancers halt and totter, Stills the stoutest of the spearmen, Quiets Tuoni's ghastly empire. Now the Sun retires in magic, Hovers here and there a moment Over Tuoni's hapless sleepers, Hastens upward to his station, To his Jumala home and kingdom. Lemminkainen's faithful mother Takes the rake of magic metals, Rakes the Tuoni river bottoms, Rakes the cataract and whirlpool, Rakes the swift and boiling current Of the sacred stream of death-land, In the Manala home and kingdom. Searching for her long-lost hero, Rakes a long time, finding nothing; Now she wades the river deeper, To her belt in mud and water, Deeper, deeper, rakes the death-stream, Rakes the river's deepest caverns, Raking up and down the current, Till at last she finds his tunic, Heavy-hearted, finds his jacket; Rakes again and rakes unceasing, Finds the hero's shoes and stockings, Sorely troubled, finds these relies; Now she wades the river deeper, Rakes the Manala shoals and shallows, Rakes the deeps at every angle; 279 As she draws the rake the third time From the Tuoni shores and waters, In the rake she finds the body Of her long-lost Lemminkainen, In the metal teeth entangled, In the rake with copper handle. Thus the reckless Lemminkainen, Thus the son of Kalevala, Was recovered from the bottom Of the Manala lake and river. There were wanting many fragments, Half the head, a hand, a fore-arm, Many other smaller portions, Life, above all else, was missing. Then the mother, well reflecting, Spake these words in bitter weeping: 'From these fragments, with my magic, I will bring to life my hero.' Hearing this, the raven answered, Spake these measures to the mother: 'There is not in these a hero, Thou canst not revive these fragments; Eels have fed upon his body, On his eyes have fed the whiting; Cast the dead upon the waters, On the streams of Tuonela, Let him there become a walrus, Or a seal, or whale, or porpoise.' Lemminkainen's mother does not Cast the dead upon the waters, On the streams of Tuonela, She again with hope and courage, Rakes the river lengthwise, crosswise, Through the Manala pools and caverns, Rakes up half the head, a fore-arm, Finds a hand and half the back-bone, Many other smaller portions; Shapes her son from all the fragments, Shapes anew her Lemminkainen, Flesh to flesh with skill she places, Gives the bones their proper stations, Binds one member to the other, 280 Joins the ends of severed vessels, Counts the threads of all the venules, Knits the parts in apposition; Then this prayer the mother offers: 'Suonetar, thou slender virgin, Goddess of the veins of heroes, Skilful spinner of the vessels, With thy slender, silver spindle, With thy spinning-wheel of copper, Set in frame of molten silver, Come thou hither, thou art needed; Bring the instruments for mending, Firmly knit the veins together, At the end join well the venules, In the wounds that still are open, In the members that are injured. 'Should this aid be inefficient; There is living in the ether, In a boat enriched with silver, In a copper boat, a maiden, That can bring to thee assistance. Come, O maiden, from the ether, Virgin from the belt of heaven, Row throughout these veins, O maiden, Row through all these lifeless members, Through the channels of the long-bones, Row through every form of tissue. Set the vessels in their places, Lay the heart in right position, Make the pulses beat together, Join the smallest of the veinlets, And unite with skill the sinews. Take thou now a slender needle, Silken thread within its eyelet, Ply the silver needle gently, Sew with care the wounds together. 'Should this aid be inefficient, Thou, O God, that knowest all things, Come and give us thine assistance, Harness thou thy fleetest racer Call to aid thy strongest courser, In thy scarlet sledge come swiftly, 281 Drive through all the bones and channels, Drive throughout these lifeless tissues, Drive thy courser through each vessel, Bind the flesh and bones securely, In the joints put finest silver, Purest gold in all the fissures. 'Where the skin is broken open, Where the veins are torn asunder, Mend these injuries with magic; Where the blood has left the body, There make new blood flow abundant; Where the bones are rudely broken, Set the parts in full perfection; Where the flesh is bruised and loosened, Touch the wounds with magic balsam, Do not leave a part imperfect; Bone, and vein, and nerve, and sinew, Heart, and brain, and gland, and vessel, Heal as Thou alone canst heal them.' These the means the mother uses, Thus she joins the lifeless members, Thus she heals the death-like tissues, Thus restores her son and hero To his former life and likeness; All his veins are knit together, All their ends are firmly fastened, All the parts in apposition, Life returns, but speech is wanting, Deaf and dumb, and blind, and senseless. Now the mother speaks as follows: 'Where may I procure the balsam, Where the drops of magic honey, To anoint my son and hero, Thus to heal my Lemminkainen, That again his month may open, May again begin his singing, Speak again in words of wonder, Sing again his incantations? 'Tiny bee, thou honey-birdling, Lord of all the forest flowers, Fly away and gather honey, Bring to me the forest-sweetness, 282 Found in Metsola's rich gardens, And in Tapio's fragrant meadows, From the petals of the flowers, From the blooming herbs and grasses, Thus to heal my hero's anguish, Thus to heal his wounds of evil.' Thereupon the honey-birdling Flies away on wings of swiftness, Into Metsola's rich gardens, Into Tapio's flowery meadows, Gathers sweetness from the meadows, With the tongue distills the honey From the cups of seven flowers, From the bloom of countless grasses; Quick from Metsola returning, Flying, humming darting onward, With his winglets honey-laden, With the store of sweetest odors, To the mother brings the balsam. Lemminkainen's anxious mother Takes the balm of magic virtues, And anoints the injured hero, Heals his wounds and stills his anguish; But the balm is inefficient, For her son is deaf and speechless. Then again out-speaks the mother: Lemminkainen's Restoration. 'Little bee, my honey-birdling, Fly away in one direction, Fly across the seven oceans, In the eighth, a magic island, Where the honey is enchanted, To the distant Turi-castles, To the chambers of Palwoinen; There the honey is effective, There, the wonder-working balsam, This may heal the wounded hero; Bring me of this magic ointment, That I may anoint his eyelids, May restore his injured senses.' Thereupon the honey-birdling Flew away o'er seven oceans, 283 To the old enchanted island; Flies one day, and then a second, On the verdure does not settle, Does not rest upon the flowers; Flies a third day, fleetly onward, Till a third day evening brings him To the island in the ocean, To the meadows rich in honey, To the cataract and fire-flow, To the sacred stream and whirlpool. There the honey was preparing, There the magic balm distilling In the tiny earthen vessels, In the burnished copper kettles, Smaller than a maiden's thimble, Smaller than the tips of fingers. Faithfully the busy insect Gathers the enchanted honey From the magic Turi-cuplets In the chambers of Palwoinen. Time had gone but little distance, Ere the bee came loudly humming Flying fleetly, honey-laden; In his arms were seven vessels, Seven, the vessels on each shoulder; All were filled with honey-balsam, With the balm of magic virtues. Lemminkainen's tireless mother Quick anoints her speechless hero, With the magic Turi-balsam, With the balm of seven virtues; Nine the times that she anoints him With the honey of Palwoinen, With the wonder-working balsam; But the balm is inefficient, For the hero still is speechless. Then again out-speaks the mother: 'Honey-bee, thou ether birdling, Fly a third time on thy journey, Fly away to high Jumala, Fly thou to the seventh heaven, Honey there thou'lt find abundant, 284 Balsam of the highest virtue, Only used by the Creator, Only made from the breath of Ukko. God anoints his faithful children, With the honey of his wisdom, When they feel the pangs of sorrow, When they meet the powers of evil. Dip thy winglets in this honey, Steep thy plumage in His sweetness, Hither bring the all-sufficient Balsam of the great Creator; This will still my hero's anguish, This will heal his wounded tissues, This restore his long-lost vision, Make the Northland hills re-echo With the magic of his singing, With his wonderful enchantment.' Thus the honey-bee made answer: 'I can never fly to heaven, To the seventh of the heavens, To the distant home of Ukko, With these wings of little virtue.' Lemminkainen's mother answered: 'Thou canst surely fly to heaven, To the seventh of the heavens, O'er the Moon, beneath the sunshine, Through the dim and distant starlight. On the first day, flying upward, Thou wilt near the Moon in heaven, Fan the brow of Kootamoinen; On the second thou canst rest thee On the shoulders of Otava; On the third day, flying higher, Rest upon the seven starlets, On the heads of Hetewanè; Short the journey that is left thee, Inconsiderable the distance To the home of mighty Ukko, To the dwellings of the blessed.' Thereupon the bee arising, From the earth flies swiftly upward, Hastens on with graceful motion, 285 By his tiny wings borne heavenward, In the paths of golden moonbeams, Touches on the Moon's bright borders, Fans the brow of Kootamoinen, Rests upon Otava's shoulders, Hastens to the seven starlets., To the heads of Hetewanè, Flies to the Creator's castle, To the home of generous Ukko, Finds the remedy preparing, Finds the balm of life distilling, In the silver-tinted caldrons, In the purest golden kettles; On one side, heart-easing honey, On a second, balm of joyance, On the third, life-giving balsam. Here the magic bee, selecting, Culls the sweet, life-giving balsam, Gathers too, heart-easing honey, Heavy-laden hastens homeward. Time had traveled little distance, Ere the busy bee came humming To the anxious mother waiting, In his arms a hundred cuplets, And a thousand other vessels, Filled with honey, filled with balsam, Filled with the balm of the Creator. Lemminkainen's mother quickly Takes them on her, tongue and tests them, Finds a balsam all-sufficient. Then the mother spake as follows: 'I have found the long-sought balsam, Found the remedy of Ukko, Where-with God anoints his people, Gives them life, and faith, and wisdom, Heals their wounds and stills their anguish, Makes them strong against temptation, Guards them from the evil-doers.' Now the mother well anointing, Heals her son, the magic singer, Eyes, and ears, and tongue, and temples, Breaks, and cuts, and seams, anointing, 286 Touching well the life-blood centres, Speaks these words of magic import To the sleeping Lemminkainen: 'Wake, arise from out thy slumber, From the worst of low conditions, From thy state of dire misfortune!' Slowly wakes the son and hero, Rises from the depths of slumber, Speaks again in magic accents, These the first words of the singer: 'Long, indeed, have I been sleeping, Long unconscious of existence, But my sleep was full of sweetness, Sweet the sleep in Tuonela, Knowing neither joy nor sorrow!' This the answer of his mother: 'Longer still thou wouldst have slumbered, Were it not for me, thy, mother; Tell me now, my son beloved, Tell me that I well may hear thee, Who enticed thee to Manala, To the river of Tuoni, To the fatal stream and whirlpool?' Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Gave this answer to his mother: 'Nasshut, the decrepit shepherd Of the flocks of Sariola, Blind, and halt, and poor, and wretched, And to whom I did a favor; From the slumber-land of envy Nasshut sent me to Manala, To the river of Tuoni; Sent a serpent from the waters, Sent an adder from the death-stream, Through the heart of Lemminkainen; Did not recognize the serpent, Could not speak the serpent-language, Did not know the sting of adders.' Spake again the ancient mother: 'O thou son of little insight, Senseless hero, fool-magician, Thou didst boast betimes thy magic 287 To enchant the wise enchanters, On the dismal shores of Lapland, Thou didst think to banish heroes, From the borders of Pohyola; Didst not know the sting of serpents, Didst not know the reed of waters, Nor the magic word-protector! Learn the origin of serpents, Whence the poison of the adder. 'In the floods was born the serpent, From the marrow of the gray-duck, From the brain of ocean-swallows; Suoyatar had made saliva, Cast it on the waves of ocean, Currents drove it outward, onward, Softly shone the sun upon it, By the winds 'twas gently cradled, Gently nursed by winds and waters, By the waves was driven shoreward, Landed by the surging billows. Thus the serpent, thing of evil, Filling all the world with trouble, Was created in the waters Born from Suoyatar, its maker.' Then the mother of the hero Rocked her son to rest and comfort, Rocked him to his former being, To his former life and spirit, Into greater magic powers; Wiser, handsomer than ever Grew the hero of the islands; But his heart was full of trouble, And his mother, ever watchful, Asked the cause of his dejection. This is Lemminkainen's answer: 'This the cause of all my sorrow; Far away my heart is roaming, All my thoughts forever wander To the Northland's blooming virgins, To the maids of braided tresses. Northland's ugly hostess, Louhi, Will not give to me her daughter, 288 Fairest maiden of Pohyola, Till I kill the swan of Mana, With my bow and but one arrow, In the river of Tuoni. Lemminkainen's mother answers, In the sacred stream and whirlpool. 'Let the swan swim on in safety, Give the water-bird his freedom, In the river of Manala, In the whirlpool of Tuoni; Leave the maiden in the Northland., With her charms and fading beauty; With thy fond and faithful mother, Go at once to Kalevala, To thy native fields and fallows. Praise thy fortune, all sufficient, Praise, above all else, thy Maker. Ukko gave thee aid when needed, Thou wert saved by thy Creator, From thy long and hopeless slumber, In the waters of Tuoni, In the chambers of Manala. I unaided could not save thee, Could not give the least assistance; God alone, omniscient Ukko, First and last of the creators, Can revive the dead and dying, Can protect his worthy people From the waters of Manala, . From the fatal stream and whirlpool, In the kingdom of Tuoni.' Lemminkainen, filled with wisdom, With his fond and faithful mother, Hastened straightway on his journey To his distant home and kindred, To the Wainola fields and meadows, To the plains of Kalevala. ***** Here I leave my Kaukomieli, Leave my hero Lemminkainen, Long I leave him from my singing, Turn my song to other heroes, 289 Send it forth on other pathways, Sing some other golden legend. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

323:Upon Appleton House, To My Lord Fairfax Within this sober Frame expect Work of no Forrain Architect; That unto Caves the Quarries drew, And Forrests did to Pastures hew; Who of his great Design in pain Did for a Model vault his Brain, Whose Columnes should so high be rais'd To arch the Brows that on them gaz'd. Why should of all things Man unrul'd Such unproportion'd dwellings build? The Beasts are by their Denns exprest: And Birds contrive an equal Nest; The low roof'd Tortoises do dwell In cases fit of Tortoise-shell: No Creature loves an empty space; Their Bodies measure out their Place. But He, superfluously spread, Demands more room alive then dead. And in his hollow Palace goes Where Winds as he themselves may lose. What need of all this Marble Crust T'impark the wanton Mose of Dust, That thinks by Breadth the World t'unite Though the first Builders fail'd in Height? But all things are composed here Like Nature, orderly and near: In which we the Dimensions find Of that more sober Age and Mind, When larger sized Men did stoop To enter at a narrow loop; As practising, in doors so strait, To strain themselves through Heavens Gate. And surely when the after Age Shall hither come in Pilgrimage, These sacred Places to adore, 188 By Vere and Fairfax trod before, Men will dispute how their Extent Within such dwarfish Confines went: And some will smile at this, as well As Romulus his Bee-like Cell. Humility alone designs Those short but admirable Lines, By which, ungirt and unconstrain'd, Things greater are in less contain'd. Let others vainly strive t'immure The Circle in the Quadrature! These holy Mathematics can In ev'ry Figure equal Man. Yet thus the laden House does sweat, And scarce indures the Master great: But where he comes the swelling Hall Stirs, and the Square grows Spherical; More by his Magnitude distrest, Then he is by its straitness prest: And too officiously it slights That in it self which him delights. So Honour better Lowness bears, Then That unwonted Greatness wears Height with a certain Grace does bend, But low Things clownishly ascend. And yet what needs there here Excuse, Where ev'ry Thing does answer Use? Where neatness nothing can condemn, Nor Pride invent what to contemn? A Stately Frontispice Of Poor Adorns without the open Door: Nor less the Rooms within commends Daily new Furniture Of Friends. The House was built upon the Place Only as for a Mark Of Grace; And for an Inn to entertain Its Lord a while, but not remain. 189 Him Bishops-Hill, or Denton may, Or Bilbrough, better hold then they: But Nature here hath been so free As if she said leave this to me. Art would more neatly have defac'd What she had laid so sweetly wast; In fragrant Gardens, shaddy Woods, Deep Meadows, and transparent Floods. While with slow Eyes we these survey, And on each pleasant footstep stay, We opportunly may relate The progress of this Houses Fate. A Nunnery first gave it birth. For Virgin Buildings oft brought forth. And all that Neighbour-Ruine shows The Quarries whence this dwelling rose. Near to this gloomy Cloysters Gates There dwelt the blooming Virgin Thwates, Fair beyond Measure, and an Heir Which might Deformity make fair. And oft She spent the Summer Suns Discoursing with the Suttle Nuns. Whence in these Words one to her weav'd, (As 'twere by Chance) Thoughts long conceiv'd. "Within this holy leisure we "Live innocently as you see. "these Walls restrain the World without, "But hedge our Liberty about. "These Bars inclose the wider Den "Of those wild Creatures, called Men. "The Cloyster outward shuts its Gates, "And, from us, locks on them the Grates. "Here we, in shining Armour white, "Like Virgin Amazons do fight. "And our chast Lamps we hourly trim, "Lest the great Bridegroom find them dim. "Our Orient Breaths perfumed are "With insense of incessant Pray'r. 190 "And Holy-water of our Tears "Most strangly our complexion clears. "Not Tears of Grief; but such as those "With which calm Pleasure overflows; "Or Pity, when we look on you "That live without this happy Vow. "How should we grieve that must be seen "Each one a Spouse, and each a Queen; "And can in Heaven hence behold "Our brighter Robes and Crowns of Gold? "When we have prayed all our Beads, "Some One the holy Legend reads; "While all the rest with Needles paint "The Face and Graces of the Saint. "But what the Linnen can't receive "They in their Lives do interweave "This work the Saints best represents; "That serves for Altar's Ornaments. "But much it to our work would add "If here your hand, your Face we had: "By it we would our Lady touch; "Yet thus She you resembles much. "Some of your Features, as we sow'd, "Through ev'ry Shrine should be bestow'd. "And in one Beauty we would take "Enough a thousand Saints to make. "And (for I dare not quench the Fire "That me does for your good inspire) "'Twere Sacriledge a Mant t'admit "To holy things, for Heaven fit. "I see the Angels in a Crown "On you the Lillies show'ring down: "And round about you Glory breaks, "That something more then humane speaks. "All Beauty, when at such a height, "Is so already consecrate. "Fairfax I know; and long ere this 191 "Have mark'd the Youth, and what he is. "But can he such a Rival seem "For whom you Heav'n should disesteem? "Ah, no! and 'twould more Honour prove "He your Devoto were, then Love. Here live beloved, and obey'd: Each one your Sister, each your Maid. "And, if our Rule seem strictly pend, "The Rule it self to you shall bend. "Our Abbess too, now far in Age, "Doth your succession near presage. "How soft the yoke on us would lye, "Might such fair Hands as yours it tye! "Your voice, the sweetest of the Quire, "Shall draw Heav'n nearer, raise us higher. "And your Example, if our Head, "Will soon us to perfection lead. "Those Virtues to us all so dear, "Will straight grow Sanctity when here: "And that, once sprung, increase so fast "Till Miracles it work at last. "Nor is our Order yet so nice, "Delight to banish as a Vice. "Here Pleasure Piety doth meet; "One perfecting the other Sweet. "So through the mortal fruit we boyl "The Sugars uncorrupting Oyl: "And that which perisht while we pull, "Is thus preserved clear and full. "For such indeed are all our Arts; "Still handling Natures finest Parts. "Flow'rs dress the Altars; for the Clothes, "The Sea-born Amber we compose; "Balms for the griv'd we draw; and pasts "We mold, as Baits for curious tasts. "What need is here of Man? unless "These as sweet Sins we should confess. 192 "Each Night among us to your side "Appoint a fresh and Virgin Bride; "Whom if Our Lord at midnight find, "Yet Neither should be left behind. "Where you may lye as chast in Bed, "As Pearls together billeted. "All Night embracing Arm in Arm, "Like Chrystal pure with Cotton warm. "But what is this to all the store "Of Joys you see, and may make more! "Try but a while, if you be wise: "The Tryal neither Costs, nor Tyes. Now Fairfax seek her promis'd faith: Religion that dispensed hath; Which She hence forward does begin; The Nuns smooth Tongue has suckt her in. Oft, though he knew it was in vain, Yet would he valiantly complain. "Is this that Sanctity so great, "An Art by which you finly'r cheat "Hypocrite Witches, hence Avant, "Who though in prison yet inchant! "Death only can such Theeves make fast, "As rob though in the Dungeon cast. "Were there but, when this House was made, "One Stone that a just Hand had laid, "It must have fall'n upon her Head "Who first Thee from thy Faith misled. "And yet, how well soever ment, "With them 'twould soon grow fraudulent "For like themselves they alter all, "And vice infects the very Wall. "But sure those Buildings last not long, "Founded by Folly, kept by Wrong. "I know what Fruit their Gardens yield, "When they it think by Night conceal'd. "Fly from their Vices. 'Tis thy state, "Not Thee, that they would consecrate. 193 "Fly from their Ruine. How I fear "Though guiltless lest thou perish there. What should he do? He would respect Religion, but not Right neglect: For first Religion taught him Right, And dazled not but clear'd his sight. Sometimes resolv'd his Sword he draws, But reverenceth then the Laws: "For Justice still that Courage led; First from a Judge, then Souldier bred. Small Honour would be in the Storm. The Court him grants the lawful Form; Which licens'd either Peace or Force, To hinder the unjust Divorce. Yet still the Nuns his Right debar'd, Standing upon their holy Guard. Ill-counsell'd Women, do you know Whom you resist, or what you do? Is not this he whose Offspring fierce Shall fight through all the Universe; And with successive Valour try France, Poland, either Germany; Till one, as long since prophecy'd, His Horse through conquer'd Britain ride? Yet, against Fate, his Spouse they kept; And the great Race would intercept. Some to the Breach against their Foes Their Wooden Saints in vain oppose Another bolder stands at push With their old Holy-Water Brush. While the disjointed Abbess threads The gingling Chain-shot of her Beads. But their lowd'st Cannon were their Lungs; And sharpest Weapons were their Tongues. But, waving these aside like Flyes, Young Fairfax through the Wall does rise. Then th' unfrequented Vault appear'd, 194 And superstitions vainly fear'd. The Relicks False were set to view; Only the Jewels there were true. But truly bright and holy Thwaites That weeping at the Altar waites. But the glad Youth away her bears, And to the Nuns bequeaths her Tears: Who guiltily their Prize bemoan, Like Gipsies that a Child hath stoln. Thenceforth (as when th' Inchantment ends The Castle vanishes or rends) The wasting Cloister with the rest Was in one instant dispossest. At the demolishing, this Seat To Fairfax fell as by Escheat. And what both Nuns and Founders will'd 'Tis likely better thus fulfill'd, For if the Virgin prov'd not theirs, The Cloyster yet remained hers. Though many a Nun there made her vow, 'Twas no Religious-House till now. From that blest Bed the Heroe came, Whom France and Poland yet does fame: Who, when retired here to Peace, His warlike Studies could not cease; But laid these Gardens out in sport In the just Figure of a Fort; And with five Bastions it did fence, As aiming one for ev'ry Sense. When in the East the Morning Ray Hangs out the Colours of the Day, The Bee through these known Allies hums, Beating the Dian with its Drumms. Then Flow'rs their drowsie Eylids raise, Their Silken Ensigns each displayes, And dries its Pan yet dank with Dew, And fills its Flask with Odours new. 195 These, as their Governour goes by, In fragrant Vollyes they let fly; And to salute their Governess Again as great a charge they press: None for the Virgin Nymph; for She Seems with the Flow'rs a Flow'r to be. And think so still! though not compare With Breath so sweet, or Cheek so faire. Well shot ye Fireman! Oh how sweet, And round your equal Fires do meet; Whose shrill report no Ear can tell, But Ecchoes to the Eye and smell. See how the Flow'rs, as at Parade, Under their Colours stand displaid: Each Regiment in order grows, That of the Tulip Pinke and Rose. But when the vigilant Patroul Of Stars walks round about the Pole, Their Leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd, Seem to their Staves the Ensigns furl'd. Then in some Flow'rs beloved Hut Each Bee as Sentinel is shut; And sleeps so too: but, if once stir'd, She runs you through, or askes The Word. Oh Thou, that dear and happy Isle The Garden of the World ere while, Thou Paradise of four Seas, Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the World, did guard With watry if not flaming Sword; What luckless Apple did we tast, To make us Mortal, and The Wast. Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet Milltia restore, When Gardens only had their Towrs, And all the Garrisons were Flow'rs, When Roses only Arms might bear, And Men did rosie Garlands wear? 196 Tulips, in several Colours barr'd, Were then the Switzers of our Guard. The Gardiner had the Souldiers place, And his more gentle Forts did trace. The Nursery of all things green Was then the only Magazeen. The Winter Quarters were the Stoves, Where he the tender Plants removes. But War all this doth overgrow: We Ord'nance Plant and Powder sow. And yet their walks one on the Sod Who, had it pleased him and God, Might once have made our Gardens spring Fresh as his own and flourishing. But he preferr'd to the Cinque Ports These five imaginary Forts: And, in those half-dry Trenches, spann'd Pow'r which the Ocean might command. For he did, with his utmost Skill, Ambition weed, but Conscience till. Conscience, that Heaven-nursed Plant, Which most our Earthly Gardens want. A prickling leaf it bears, and such As that which shrinks at ev'ry touch; But Flow'rs eternal, and divine, That in the Crowns of Saints do shine. The sight does from these Bastions ply, Th' invisible Artilery; And at proud Cawood Castle seems To point the Battery of its Beams. As if it quarrell'd in the Seat Th' Ambition of its Prelate great. But ore the Meads below it plays, Or innocently seems to gaze. And now to the Abbyss I pass Of that unfathomable Grass, Where Men like Grashoppers appear, 197 But Grashoppers are Gyants there: They, in there squeking Laugh, contemn Us as we walk more low then them: And, from the Precipices tall Of the green spir's, to us do call. To see Men through this Meadow Dive, We wonder how they rise alive. As, under Water, none does know Whether he fall through it or go. But, as the Marriners that sound, And show upon their Lead the Ground, They bring up Flow'rs so to be seen, And prove they've at the Bottom been. No Scene that turns with Engines strange Does oftner then these Meadows change, For when the Sun the Grass hath vext, The tawny Mowers enter next; Who seem like Israaliies to be, Walking on foot through a green Sea. To them the Grassy Deeps divide, And crowd a Lane to either Side. With whistling Sithe, and Elbow strong, These Massacre the Grass along: While one, unknowing, carves the Rail, Whose yet unfeather'd Quils her fail. The Edge all bloody from its Breast He draws, and does his stroke detest; Fearing the Flesh untimely mow'd To him a Fate as black forebode. But bloody Thestylis, that waites To bring the mowing Camp their Cates, Greedy as Kites has trust it up, And forthwith means on it to sup: When on another quick She lights, And cryes, he call'd us Israelites; But now, to make his saying true, Rails rain for Quails, for Manna Dew. 198 Unhappy Birds! what does it boot To build below the Grasses Root; When Lowness is unsafe as Hight, And Chance o'retakes what scapeth spight? And now your Orphan Parents Call Sounds your untimely Funeral. Death-Trumpets creak in such a Note, And 'tis the Sourdine in their Throat. Or sooner hatch or higher build: The Mower now commands the Field; In whose new Traverse seemeth wrought A Camp of Battail newly fought: Where, as the Meads with Hay, the Plain Lyes quilted ore with Bodies slain: The Women that with forks it filing, Do represent the Pillaging. And now the careless Victors play, Dancing the Triumphs of the Hay; Where every Mowers wholesome Heat Smells like an Alexanders Sweat. Their Females fragrant as the Mead Which they in Fairy Circles tread: When at their Dances End they kiss, Their new-made Hay not sweeter is. When after this 'tis pil'd in Cocks, Like a calm Sea it shews the Rocks: We wondring in the River near How Boats among them safely steer. Or, like the Desert Memphis Sand, Short Pyramids of Hay do stand. And such the Roman Camps do rise In Hills for Soldiers Obsequies. This Scene again withdrawing brings A new and empty Face of things; A levell'd space, as smooth and plain, As Clothes for Lilly strecht to stain. The World when first created sure Was such a Table rase and pure. 199 Or rather such is the Toril Ere the Bulls enter at Madril. For to this naked equal Flat, Which Levellers take Pattern at, The Villagers in common chase Their Cattle, which it closer rase; And what below the Sith increast Is pincht yet nearer by the Breast. Such, in the painted World, appear'd Davenant with th'Universal Heard. They seem within the polisht Grass A landskip drawen in Looking-Glass. And shrunk in the huge Pasture show As spots, so shap'd, on Faces do. Such Fleas, ere they approach the Eye, In Multiplyiug Glasses lye. They feed so wide, so slowly move, As Constellatious do above. Then, to conclude these pleasant Acts, Denton sets ope its Cataracts; And makes the Meadow truly be (What it but seem'd before) a Sea. For, jealous of its Lords long stay, It try's t'invite him thus away. The River in it self is drown'd, And Isl's th' astonish Cattle round. Let others tell the Paradox, How Eels now bellow in the Ox; How Horses at their Tails do kick, Turn'd as they hang to Leeches quick; How Boats can over Bridges sail; And Fishes do the Stables scale. How Salmons trespassing are found; And Pikes are taken in the Pound. But I, retiring from the Flood, Take Sanctuary in the Wood; And, while it lasts, my self imbark 200 In this yet green, yet growing Ark; Where the first Carpenter might best Fit Timber for his Keel have Prest. And where all Creatures might have shares, Although in Armies, not in Paires. The double Wood of ancient Stocks Link'd in so thick, an Union locks, It like two Pedigrees appears, On one hand Fairfax, th' other Veres: Of whom though many fell in War, Yet more to Heaven shooting are: And, as they Natures Cradle deckt, Will in green Age her Hearse expect. When first the Eye this Forrest sees It seems indeed as Wood not Trees: As if their Neighbourhood so old To one great Trunk them all did mold. There the huge Bulk takes place, as ment To thrust up a Fifth Element; And stretches still so closely wedg'd As if the Night within were hedg'd. Dark all without it knits; within It opens passable and thin; And in as loose an order grows, As the Corinthean Porticoes. The Arching Boughs unite between The Columnes of the Temple green; And underneath the winged Quires Echo about their tuned Fires. The Nightingale does here make choice To sing the Tryals of her Voice. Low Shrubs she sits in, and adorns With Musick high the squatted Thorns. But highest Oakes stoop down to hear, And listning Elders prick the Ear. The Thorn, lest it should hurt her, draws Within the Skin its shrunken claws. 201 But I have for my Musick found A Sadder, yet more pleasing Sound: The Stock-doves whose fair necks are grac'd With Nuptial Rings their Ensigns chast; Yet always, for some Cause unknown, Sad pair unto the Elms they moan. O why should such a Couple mourn, That in so equal Flames do burn! Then as I carless on the Bed Of gelid Straw-berryes do tread, And through the Hazles thick espy The hatching Thrastles shining Eye, The Heron from the Ashes top, The eldest of its young lets drop, As if it Stork-like did pretend That Tribute to its Lord to send. But most the Hewel's wonders are, Who here has the Holt-felsters care. He walks still upright from the Root, Meas'ring the Timber with his Foot; And all the way, to keep it clean, Doth from the Bark the Wood-moths glean. He, with his Beak, examines well Which fit to stand and which to fell. The good he numbers up, and hacks; As if he mark'd them with the Ax. But where he, tinkling with his Beak, Does find the hollow Oak to speak, That for his building he designs, And through the tainted Side he mines. Who could have thought the tallest Oak Should fall by such a feeble Strok'! Nor would it, had the Tree not fed A Traitor-worm, within it bred. (As first our Flesh corrupt within Tempts impotent and bashful Sin. And yet that Worm triumphs not long, But serves to feed the Hewels young. 202 While the Oake seems to fall content, Viewing the Treason's Punishment. Thus I, easie Philosopher, Among the Birds and Trees confer: And little now to make me, wants Or of the Fowles, or of the Plants. Give me but Wings as they, and I Streight floting on the Air shall fly: Or turn me but, and you shall see I was but an inverted Tree. Already I begin to call In their most-learned Original: And where I Language want,my Signs The Bird upon the Bough divines; And more attentive there doth sit Then if She were with Lime-twigs knit. No Leaf does tremble in the Wind Which I returning cannot find. Out of these scatter'd Sibyls Leaves Strange Prophecies my Phancy weaves: And in one History consumes, Like Mexique Paintings, all the Plumes. What Rome, Greece, Palestine, ere said I in this light Mosaick read. Thrice happy he who, not mistook, Hath read in Natures mystick Book. And see how Chance's better Wit Could with a Mask my studies hit! The Oak-Leaves me embroyder all, Between which Caterpillars crawl: And Ivy, with familiar trails, Me licks, and clasps, and curles, and hales. Under this antick Cope I move Like some great Prelate of the Grove, Then, languishing with ease, I toss On Pallets swoln of Velvet Moss; While the Wind, cooling through the Boughs, 203 Flatters with Air my panting Brows. Thanks for my Rest ye Mossy Banks, And unto you cool Zephyr's Thanks, Who, as my Hair, my Thoughts too shed, And winnow from the Chaff my Head. How safe, methinks, and strong, behind These Trees have I incamp'd my Mind; Where Beauty, aiming at the Heart, Bends in some Tree its useless Dart; And where the World no certain Shot Can make, or me it toucheth not. But I on it securely play, And gaul its Horsemen all the Day. Bind me ye Woodbines in your 'twines, Curle me about ye gadding Vines, And Oh so close your Circles lace, That I may never leave this Place: But, lest your Fetters prove too weak, Ere I your Silken Bondage break, Do you, O Brambles, chain me too, And courteous Briars nail me though. Here in the Morning tye my Chain, Where the two Woods have made a Lane; While, like a Guard on either side, The Trees before their Lord divide; This, like a long and equal Thread, Betwixt two Labyrinths does lead. But, where the Floods did lately drown, There at the Ev'ning stake me down. For now the Waves are fal'n and dry'd, And now the Meadows fresher dy'd; Whose Grass, with moister colour dasht, Seems as green Silks but newly washt. No Serpent new nor Crocodile Remains behind our little Nile; Unless it self you will mistake, Among these Meads the only Snake. 204 See in what wanton harmless folds It ev'ry where the Meadow holds; And its yet muddy back doth lick, Till as a Chrystal Mirrour slick; Where all things gaze themselves, and doubt If they be in it or without. And for his shade which therein shines, Narcissus like, the Sun too pines. Oh what a Pleasure 'tis to hedge My Temples here with heavy sedge; Abandoning my lazy Side, Stretcht as a Bank unto the Tide; Or to suspend my sliding Foot On the Osiers undermined Root, And in its Branches tough to hang, While at my Lines the Fishes twang! But now away my Hooks, my Quills, And Angles, idle Utensils. The Young Maria walks to night: Hide trifling Youth thy Pleasures slight. 'Twere shame that such judicious Eyes Should with such Toyes a Man surprize; She that already is the Law Of all her Sex, her Ages Aw. See how loose Nature, in respect To her, it self doth recollect; And every thing so whisht and fine, Starts forth with to its Bonne Mine. The Sun himself, of Her aware, Seems to descend with greater Care, And lest She see him go to Bed, In blushing Clouds conceales his Head. So when the Shadows laid asleep From underneath these Banks do creep, And on the River as it flows With Eben Shuts begin to close; The modest Halcyon comes in sight, Flying betwixt the Day and Night; 205 And such an horror calm and dumb, Admiring Nature does benum. The viscous Air, wheres'ere She fly, Follows and sucks her Azure dy; The gellying Stream compacts below, If it might fix her shadow so; The Stupid Fishes hang, as plain As Flies in Chrystal overt'ane, And Men the silent Scene assist, Charm'd with the saphir-winged Mist. Maria such, and so doth hush The World, and through the Ev'ning rush. No new-born Comet such a Train Draws through the Skie, nor Star new-slain. For streight those giddy Rockets fail, Which from the putrid Earth exhale, But by her Flames, in Heaven try'd, Nature is wholly Vitrifi'd. 'Tis She that to these Gardens gave That wondrous Beauty which they have; She streightness on the Woods bestows; To Her the Meadow sweetness owes; Nothing could make the River be So Chrystal-pure but only She; She yet more Pure, Sweet, Streight, and Fair, Then Gardens, Woods, Meads, Rivers are. Therefore what first She on them spent, They gratefully again present. The Meadow Carpets where to tread; The Garden Flow'rs to Crown Her Head; And for a Glass the limpid Brook, Where She may all her Beautyes look; But, since She would not have them seen, The Wood about her draws a Skreen. For She, to higher Beauties rais'd, Disdains to be for lesser prais'd. She counts her Beauty to converse 206 In all the Languages as hers; Not yet in those her self imployes But for the Wisdome, not the Noyse; Nor yet that Wisdome would affect, But as 'tis Heavens Dialect. Blest Nymph! that couldst so soon prevent Those Trains by Youth against thee meant; Tears (watry Shot that pierce the Mind;) And Sighs (Loves Cannon charg'd with Wind;) True Praise (That breaks through all defence;) And feign'd complying Innocence; But knowing where this Ambush lay, She scap'd the safe, but roughest Way. This 'tis to have been from the first In a Domestick Heaven nurst, Under the Discipline severe Of Fairfax, and the starry Vere; Where not one object can come nigh But pure, and spotless as the Eye; And Goodness doth it self intail On Females, if there want a Male. Go now fond Sex that on your Face Do all your useless Study place, Nor once at Vice your Brows dare knit Lest the smooth Forehead wrinkled sit Yet your own Face shall at you grin, Thorough the Black-bag of your Skin; When knowledge only could have fill'd And Virtue all those Furows till'd. Hence She with Graces more divine Supplies beyond her Sex the Line; And, like a sprig of Misleto, On the Fairfacian Oak does grow; Whence, for some universal good, The Priest shall cut the sacred Bud; While her glad Parents most rejoice, And make their Destiny their Choice. 207 Mean time ye Fields, Springs, Bushes, Flow'rs, Where yet She leads her studious Hours, (Till Fate her worthily translates, And find a Fairfax for our Thwaites) Employ the means you have by Her, And in your kind your selves preferr; That, as all Virgins She preceds, So you all Woods, Streams, Gardens, Meads. For you Thessalian Tempe's Seat Shall now be scorn'd as obsolete; Aranjeuz, as less, disdain'd; The Bel-Retiro as constrain'd; But name not the Idalian Grove, For 'twas the Seat of wanton Love; Much less the Dead's Elysian Fields, Yet nor to them your Beauty yields. 'Tis not, what once it was, the World; But a rude heap together hurl'd; All negligently overthrown, Gulfes, Deserts, Precipices, Stone. Your lesser World contains the same. But in more decent Order tame; You Heaven's Center, Nature's Lap. And Paradice's only Map. But now the Salmon-Fishers moist Their Leathern Boats begin to hoist; And, like Antipodes in Shoes, Have shod their Heads in their Canoos. How Tortoise like, but not so slow, These rational Amphibii go? Let's in: for the dark Hemisphere Does now like one of them appear. ~ Andrew Marvell,

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

325: The Descent of Ahana I AHANA Strayed from the roads of Time, far-couched on the void I have slumbered; Centuries passed me unnoticed, millenniums perished unnumbered. I, Ahana, slept. In the stream of thy sevenfold Ocean, Being, how hast thou laboured without me? Whence was thy motion? Not without me can thy nature be satisfied. But I came fleeing; - Vexed was my soul with the joys of sound and weary of seeing; Into the deeps of my nature I lapsed, I escaped into slumber. Out of the silence who call me back to the clamour and cumber? Why should I go with you? What hast thou done in return for my labour, World? what wage had my soul when its strength was thy neighbour, Though I have loved all, working and suffering, giving them pleasure? I have escaped from it all; I have fled from the pitiless pressure. Silence vast and pure, again to thy wideness receive me; For unto thee I turn back from those who would use me and grieve me. VOICES Nay, thou art thrilled, O goddess; thy calm thou shalt not recover, But must come down to this world of pain and the need of thy lover. Joy as thou canst, endure as thou must, but bend to our uses. Vainly thy heart repines, - thou wast made for this, - vainly refuses. AHANA Voices of joy, from the roseate arbour of sense and the places Thrilled with the song and the scent and peopled with beautiful faces, Long in your closes of springtime, lured to joyaunce unsated Tarried my heart, and I walked in your meadows, your chaplets I plaited, Played in your gardens of ease and, careless of blasts in the distance, Paced, pursued by the winds, your orchard of autumn's persistence, Saw on the dance of a ripple your lotus that slumbers and quivers, Heard your nightingales warbling in covert by moon-gilded rivers. 496 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 But I relinquished your streams and I turned from your moonbeams and flowers; Now I have done with space and my soul is released from the hours. Saved is my heart from the need of joy, the attraction to sorrow, Who have escaped from my past and forgotten today and tomorrow; I have grown vacant and mighty, naked and wide as the azure. Will you now plant in this blast, on this snow your roses of pleasure? Once was a dwelling here that was made for the dance of the Graces, But I have hewn down its gardens and ravaged its delicate places, Driven the revellers out from their pleasaunce to wander unfriended, Flung down the walls and over the debris written 'tis ended. Now, and I know not yet wherefore, the Mighty One suffers you near Him, But in their coming the great Gods hesitate seeming to fear Him. Thought returns to my soul like a stranger. Sweetness and feature Draw back appalled to their kind from the frozen vasts of my nature. Turn back you also, angels of yearning, vessels of sweetness. Have I not wandered from Time, left ecstasy, outstripped completeness? VOICES Goddess, we moaned upon earth and we wandered exiled from heaven. Joy from us fled; our hearts to the worm and the arrow were given. Old delights we remembered, natures of ecstasy keeping, Hastened from rose to rose, but were turned back wounded and weeping: Snatches of pleasure we seized; they were haunted and challenged by sorrow. Marred was our joy of the day by a cloud and the dread of the morrow. Star of infinity, we have beheld thee bright and unmoving Seated above us, in tracts unattained by us, throned beyond loving. Lonely thou sittest above in the fruitless vasts of the Spirit. Waitest thou, goddess, then for a fairer world to inherit? Wilt thou not perfect this rather that sprang too from Wisdom and Power? Taking the earthly rose canst thou image not Heaven in a flower? Nay, if thou save not this, will another rise from the spaces? Is not the past fulfilled that gives room for the future faces? Winging like bees to thy limbs we made haste like flames through the azure; O we were ploughed with delight, we were pierced as with arrows of pleasure. The Descent of Ahana 497 Rapture yearned and the Uswins cried to us; Indra arising Gazed from the heights of his mental realms and the moonbeams surprising Flowed on him out of the regions immortal; their nectar slowly Mixed with the scattered roses of dawn and mastered us wholly. Come, come down to us, Woman divine, whom the world unforgetting Yearns for still, - we will draw thee, O star, from thy colourless setting. Goddess, we understand thee not; Woman, we know not thy nature; This yet we know, we have need of thee here in our world of misfeature. Therefore we call to thee and would compel if our hands could but reach thee. O, we have means to compel; we have many a sweetness to teach thee Charming thee back to thy task mid our fields and our sunbeams and flowers, Weaving a net for thy feet with the snare of the moonlit hours. AHANA Spirits of helpless rapture, spirits of sweetness and playtime, Thrilled with my honey of night and drunk with my wine of the daytime, If there were strengths that could seize on the world for their passion and rapture, If there were souls that could hunt after God as a prey for their capture, Such might aspire to possess me. I am Ahana the mighty, I am Ashtaroth, I am the goddess, divine Aphrodite. You have a thirst full sweet, but earth's vineyards quickly assuage it: There must be thoughts that outmeasure existence, strengths that besiege it, Natures fit for my vastness! Return to your haunts, O ye shadows Beautiful. Not of my will I descend to the bee-haunted meadows, Rivulets stealing through flowers. Let those who are mighty aspire, Gods if there are of such greatness, to seize on the world's Desire. VOICES Good, it is spoken. We wait thee, Ahana, where fugitive traces Came of the hunted prey of the Titans in desert places Trod by thee once, when the world was mighty and violent. Risen, Hark, they ascend; they are freed by thy call from the seals of their prison. 498 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 AHANA Rush I can hear as of wings in the void and the march of a nation. Shapes of old mightiness visit me; movements of ancient elation Stride and return in my soul, and it turns like an antelope fleeing. What was the cry that thou drewst from my bosom, Lord of my being? Lo, their souls are cast on my soul like forms on a mirror! Hark, they arise, they aspire, they are near, and I shudder with terror, Quake with delight and attraction. Lord of the worlds, dost Thou leave me Bare for their seizing? of peace and of strength in a moment bereave me? Long hast Thou kept me safe in Thy soul, but I lose my defences. Thought streams fast on me; joy is awake and the strife of the senses. Ah, their clutch on my feet! my thighs are seized by them! Legions Mighty around me they stride; I feel them filling the regions. Seest Thou their hands on my locks? Wilt Thou suffer it, Master of Nature? I am Thy force and Thy strength; wilt Thou hand me enslaved to Thy creature? Headlong they drag me down to their dreadful worlds far below me. What will you do with me there, O you mighty Ones? Speak to me, show me One of your faces, teach me one of your names while you ravish, Dragging my arms and my knees while you hurry me. Tell me what lavish Ecstasy, show me what torture immense you seize me for. Quittance When shall I have from my labour? What term has your tyranny, Titans? Masters fierce of your worlds who would conquer the higher creation, What is your will with me, giants of violence, lords of elation? VOICES In the beginning of things when nought was abroad but the waters, Ocean stirred with longing his mighty and deep-bosomed daughters. Out of that longing we rose from the voiceless heart of the Ocean; Candid, unwarmed, O Ahana, the spaces empty of motion Stretched, enormous, silent, void of the breath of thy greatness, Hushed to thy sweetnesses, fixed in the calm of their ancient sedateness. We are the gods who have mapped out Time and measured its spaces, Raised there our mansions of pride and planted our amorous places. Trembling like flowers appeared in the void the immense constellations; Gods grew possessed of their heavens, earth rose with her joy-haunted nations. The Descent of Ahana 499 Calm were we, mighty, magnificent, hunting and seizing Whatso we willed through the world in a rapture that thought not of ceasing. But thou hast turned from us, favouring gods who are slighter and fairer, Swift-footed, subtle of mind; but the sword was too great for the bearer, Heavy the sceptre weighed upon hands not created to bear it. Cruel and jealous the gods of thy choice were, cunning of spirit, Suave were their eyes of beauty that mastered thy heart, O woman! They who to govern our world, made it tarnished, sorrowful, common. Mystic and vast our world, but they hoped in their smallness to sum it Schooled and coerced in themselves and they sank an ignorant plummet Into infinity, shaping a limited beauty and power, Confident, figuring Space in an inch and Time in an hour. Therefore pleasure was troubled and beauty tarnished, madness Mated with knowledge, the heart of purity sullied with sadness. Strife began twixt the Infinite deathless within and the measure Falsely imposed from without on its thought and its force and its pleasure. We who could help were condemned in their sunless Hells to languish, Shaking the world with the heave of our limbs, for our breath was an anguish. There were we cast down, met and repulsed by the speed of their thunder, Earth piled on us, our Mother; her heart of fire burned under. Now we escape, we are free; our triumph and bliss are before us, Earth is our prey and the heavens our hunting ground; stars in their chorus Chant, wide-wheeling, our paean; the world is awake and rejoices: Hast thou not heard its trampling of strengths and its rapturous voices? Is not our might around thee yet? does not our thunder-winged fleetness Drag thee down yet to the haunts of our strength and the cups of our sweetness? There thou shalt suffer couched on our mountains, over them stretching All thy defenceless bliss, thy pangs to eternity reaching. Thou shalt be taken and whelmed in our trampling and bottomless Oceans, Chained to the rocks of the world and condemned to our giant emotions. Violent joy thou shalt have of us, raptures and ruthless revulsions Racking and tearing thee, and each thrill of thy honeyed convulsions, We, as it shakes the mountains, we as thou spurnst up the waters, Laughing shall turn to a joy for Delight and her pitiless daughters. 500 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 They shall be changed to a strength for the gods and for death-besieged natures. When we have conquered, when thou hast yielded to earth and her creatures, Boundless, thy strength, O Ahana, delivered, thy sorrowless joyaunce, Hope, if thou canst, release from the meed of thy pride and defiance. AHANA Gods irresistible, blasts of His violence, fighters eternal, Churners of Ocean, stormers of Heaven! but limits diurnal Chafe you and bonds of the Night. I know in my soul I am given, Racked, to your joys as a sacrifice, writhing, to raise you to heaven. Therefore you seize on me, vanquish and carry me swift to my falling. Fain would I linger, fain resist, to Infinity calling; But you possess all my limbs, you compel me, giants of evil. Am I then doomed to your darkness and violence, moonlight and revel? Hast thou no pity, O Earth, my soul from this death to deliver? Who are you, luminous movements? around me you glimmer and quiver, Visible, not to the eyes, and not audible, circling you call me, Teaching my soul with sound, O you joys that shall seize and befall me. What are you, lords of the brightness vague that aspires, but fulfils not? For you possess and retire, but your yearning quenches not, stills not. Yet is your touch a pleasure that thrills all my soul with its sweetness; I am in love with your whispers and snared by your bright incompleteness. Speak to me, comfort me falling. Bearing eternity follow Down to the hills of my pain and into the Ocean's hollow. VOICES We are the Ancients of knowledge, Ahana, the Sons of the Morning. Why dost thou cry to us, Daughter of Bliss, who left us with scorning? We too dwelt in delight when these were supreme in their spaces; We too were riven with pain when they fell down prone from their places. Hast thou forgotten the world as it was ere thou fledst from our nations? Dost thou remember at all the joy of the ancient creations? Thrilled were its streams with our intimate bliss and our happy contriving; Sound was a song and movement the dance of our rhythmical living. Out of our devious delight came the senses and all their deceptions; The Descent of Ahana 501 Earth was our ring of bliss and the map of our mighty conceptions. For we sustained the inert sitting secret in clod and in petal, And we awoke to a twilight of life in the leaf and the metal. Active we dreamed in the mind and we ordered our dreams to a measure, Making an image of pain and shaping an idol of pleasure. Good we have made by our thoughts and sin by our fear and recoiling; It was our weakness invented grief, O delight! reconciling Always the touch that was borne with strength that went out for possessing, Somewhere, somehow we failed; there was discord, a pang, a regressing. Goddess, His whispers bewildered us; over us vainly aspirant Galloped the throng of His strengths like the steeds of a pitiless tyrant. Since in the woods of the world we have wandered, thrust from sereneness, Erring mid pleasures that fled and dangers that coiled in the greenness, Someone surrounds and possesses our lives whom we cannot discover, Someone our heart in its hunger pursues with the moans of a lover. Knowledge faints in its toil, amasses but loses its guerdon; Strength is a worker blinded and maimed who is chained to his burden, Love a seeker astray; he finds in a seeming, then misses; Weariness hampers his feet. Desire with unsatisfied kisses Clings to each object she lights upon, loving, forsaking, returning: Earth is filled with her sobs and the cry of her fruitlessly burning. All things we sounded here. Everything leaves us or fails in the spending; Strength has its weakness, knowledge its night and joy has its ending. Is it not thou who shalt rescue us, freeing the Titans, the Graces? Hast thou not hidden thyself with the mask of a million faces? Nay, from thyself thou art hidden; thy secret intention thou shunnest And from the joy thou hast willed like an antelope fleest and runnest. Thou shalt be forced, O Ahana, to bear enjoyment and knowing Termlessly. Come, O come from thy whiteness and distance, thou glowing, Mighty and hundred-ecstasied Woman! Daughter of Heaven, Usha, descend to thy pastimes below and thy haunts that are given. She-wolf avid of cruelty, lioness eager for battle, Tigress that prowlst in the night and leapest out dire on the cattle, Sarama, dog of the heavens, thou image of grosser enjoying, Hungry slave of the worlds, incessantly pawing and toying, Snake of delight and of poison, gambolling beast of the meadows, Come to thy pastures, Ahana, sport in the sunbeams and shadows. 502 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Naiad swimming through streams and Dryad fleeing through forest Wild from the clutch of the Satyr! Ahana who breakst and restorest! Oread, mountain Echo, cry to the rocks in thy running! Nymph in recess and in haunt the pursuit and the melody shunning! Giantess, cruel and false and grand! Gandharvi that singest Heavenward! bird exultant through storm and through sapphire who wingest! Centauress galloping wild through the woods of Himaloy high-crested! Yakshini brooding o'er treasure down in earth's bowels arrested! Demoness gnashing thy teeth in the burial-ground! Titaness striding Restless through worlds for thy rest, the brain and the bosom not ridding Even one hour of the ferment-waste and the load beyond bearing, Recklessly slaying the peoples in anger, recklessly sparing, Spending the strength that is thine to inherit the doom of another! Goddess of pity who yearnst and who helpest, Durga, our Mother! Brooder in Delphi's caverns, Voice in the groves of Dodona! Goddess serene of an ancient progeny, Dian, Latona! Virgin! ascetic frank or remote, Athene the mighty! Harlot supine to the worlds, insatiate white Aphrodite! Hundred-named art thou, goddess, a hundred-formed, and thy bosom Thrills all the world with its breasts. O starlight, O mountain, O blossom! Rain that descendest kissing our lips and lightning that slayest! Thou who destroyest to save, to delight who hurtst and dismayest! Thou art our mother and sister and bride. O girdled with splendour, Cruel and bright as the sun, O moonlike, mystic and tender! Thou art the perfect peopling of Space, O Ahana; thou only Fillest Time with thy forms. Leave then thy eternity lonely, Come! from thy summits descending arrive to us, Daughter of Heaven, Usha, Dawn of the world, for our ways to thy footsteps are given. Strength thou hast built for the floor of the world and delight for its rafter. Calm are thy depths, O Ahana; above is thy hundred-mouthed laughter. Rapture can fail not in thee though he rend like a lion preying Body and soul with his ecstasies vast. Thou for ever delaying, Feigning to end, shalt renew thyself, never exhausting his blisses, Joy shall be in thy bosom satisfied never with kisses; Strength from thy breasts drawing force of the Titans shall unrelaxing Stride through the worlds at his work. One shall drive him ruthlessly taxing The Descent of Ahana 503 Sinew and nerve, though our slave, yet seized, driven, helpless to tire, Borne by unstumbling speed to the goal of a God's desire. What shall thy roof be, crown of thy building? Knowledge, sublimely, High on her vaulted arches where thought, half-lost, wings dimly, Luring the flaming heart above and the soul to its shadows, Winging wide like a bird through the night and the moonlit meadows. Vast, uncompelled we shall range released and at peace with our nature, Reconciled, knowing ourselves. To her pain and the longings that reach her Come from thy summits, Ahana; come! our desire unrelenting Hales thee down from God and He smiles at thee sweetly consenting. Lo, she is hurried down and the regions live in her tresses. Worlds, she descends to you! Peoples, she nears with her mighty caresses. Man in his sojourn, Gods in their going, Titans exultant Thrill with thy fall, O Ahana, and wait for the godhead resultant. AHANA Calm like a goddess, alarmed like a bride is my spirit descending, Falling, O Gods, to your arms. I know my beginning and ending; All I have known and I am not astonished; alarmed and attracted Therefore my soul descends foreknowing the rapture exacted, Gulf of the joys you would doom me to, torment of infinite striving, Travail of knowledge. Was I not made for your mightier living? Gods, I am falling, I am descending, cast down as for ever, Thrown as a slave at your feet and a tool for your ruthless endeavour. Yet while I fall, I will threaten you. Hope shall be yours, so it trembles. I have a bliss that destroys and the death in me wooes and dissembles. Will you not suffer then my return to my peace beyond telling? You have accepted death for your pastime, Titans rebelling! Hope then from pain delight and from death an immortal stature! Slaves of her instruments, rise to be equals and tyrants of Nature! Lay not your hands so fiercely upon me! compel me not, falling! Gods, you shall rue it who heed not the cry of my prayer and my calling. 'Tis not a merciful One that you seize. I fall and, arisen, Earth strides towards me. Gods, my possessors, kingdoms, my prison, So shall you prosper or die as you use or misuse and deceive me. Vast, I descend from God. O world and its masters, receive me! 504 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 II AHANA Lo, on the hills I have paused, on the peaks of the world I have halted Here in the middle realms of Varuna the world-wide-exalted. Gods, who have drawn me down to the labour and sobs of creation, First I would speak with the troubled hearts and the twilit nation, Speak then, I bend my ear to the far terrestrial calling, Speak, O thou toiling race of humanity, welcome me falling, Space for whose use in a boundless thought was unrolled and extended; Time in its cycles waited for man. Though his kingdom is ended, Here in a speck mid the suns and his life is a throb in the aeons, Yet, O you Titans and Gods, O Rudras, O strong Aditeians, Man is the centre and knot; he is first, though the last in the ages. I would remember your cycles, recover your vanished pages; I have the vials divine, I rain down the honey and manna; Speak, O thou soul of humanity, knowing me. I am Ahana. A VOICE Vision bright, that walkest crowned on the hills far above me, Vision of bliss, stoop down from thy calm and thy silence to love me. Only is calm so sweet? Is our end tranquillity only? Chill are your rivers of peace and their banks are leafless and lonely. Art thou not sated with sunlight only, cold in its lustre? Art thou not weary of only the stars in their solemn muster? Always the hills and the high-hung plateaus, - solitude's voices Making the silence lonelier! Only the eagle rejoices In the inhuman height of his nesting, - austerely striving, Deaf with the cry of the waterfall, only the pine there is thriving. We have the voice of the cuckoo, the nightingale sings in the branches, Human laughter leads and the cattle low in the ranches. Come to our tangled sunbeams, dawn on our twilights and shadows, Taste with us, scent with us fruits of our trees and flowers of our meadows. Art thou an angel of God in His heavens that they vaunt of, His sages? Skies of monotonous calm and His stillness filling the ages? Is He thy master, Rudra the mighty, Shiva ascetic? The Descent of Ahana 505 Has He denied thee his worlds? In His dance that they tell of, ecstatic, Slaying, creating, calm in the midst of His movement and madness, Was there no place for an earthly joy, for a human sadness? Did He not make us and thee? O Woman, joy's delicate blossom Sleeps in thy lids of delight! All Nature laughs in thy bosom Hiding her children unborn and the food of her love and her laughter. Is He then first? Was there none before Him? shall none come after? We too have gods, - the Tritons rise in the leap of the billows, Emerald locks of the Nereids stream on their foam-crested pillows, Dryads sway out from the branches, Naiads glance up through the waters; Heaven has dances of joy and the gods are ensnared by her daughters. Artemis calls as she flees through the glades and the breezes pursue her, Cypris laughs in her isles where the Ocean-winds linger to woo her. Thou shalt behold in glades forgotten the dance of the Graces, Night shall be haunted for ever with strange and delicate faces. Lo, all these peoples and who was it fashioned them? Who is unwilling Still to have done with it? laughs beyond pain and saves in the killing? Nature, you say; but is God then her enemy? Was she created, He unknowing or sleeping? Did someone transgress the fated Limits He set, outwitting God? Nay, we know it was fashioned By the Almighty One, million-ecstasied, thousand-passioned. But He created a discord within it, fashioned a limit? Fashioned or feigned? for He set completeness beyond. To disclaim it, To be content with our measure, they say, is the law of our living. Rather to follow always and, baffled, still to go striving. Yes, it is true that we dash ourselves stark on a barrier appearing, Fall and are wounded. But He insists who is in us, the fearing Conquers, the grief. We resist; His temptations leap down compelling; Virtue cheats us with noble names to a lofty rebelling. Fiercely His wrath and His jealousy strike down the rebel aspiring, Thick and persistent His night confronts our eager inquiring; Yet 'tis His strengths descend crying always, "Rebel; aspire!" Still through the night He sends rays, to our bosoms a quenchless fire. Most to our joys He sets limits, most with His pangs He perplexes; Yet when we faint it is He that spurs. Temptation vexes; Honied a thousand whispers come, in the birds, in the breezes, Moonlight, the voice of the streams; from hundreds of beautiful faces 506 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Always He cries to us, "Love me!", always He lures us to pleasure, Then escapes and leaves anguish behind for our only treasure. Shall we not say then that joy is greatest, rapture His meaning? That which He most denies, is His purpose. The hedges, the screening, Are they not all His play? In our end we have rapture for ever Careless of Time, with no fear of the end, with no need for endeavour. What was the garden He built when the stars were first set in their places, Man and woman together mid streams and in cloudless spaces, Naked and innocent? Someone offered a fruit of derision, Knowledge of good and of evil, cleaving in God a division, Though He who made all, said, "It is good; I have fashioned perfection." "Nay, there is evil," someone whispered, "'tis screened from detection." Wisest he of the beasts of the field, one cunning and creeping. "See it," he said, "be wise. You shall be as the gods are, unsleeping, They who know all," and they ate. The roots of our being were shaken; Hatred and weeping and death at once trampled a world overtaken, Terror and fleeing and wrath and shame and desire unsated; Cruelty stalked like a lion; Revenge and her brood were created. Out to the desert He drove the rebellious. Flaming behind them Streamed out the sword of His wrath; it followed, eager to find them, Stabbing at random. The pure and the evil, the strong and the tempted, All are confounded in punishment. Justly is no one exempted. Virtuous? Yes, there are many; but who is there innocent? Toiling, Therefore, we seek, but find not that Eden. Planting and spoiling, "This is the garden," we say, "lo, the trees! and this is the river." Vainly! Redeemers come, but none yet availed to deliver. Is it not all His play? Is He Rudra only, the mighty? Whose are the whispers of sweetness? Whence are the murmurs of pity? Why are we terrified then, cry out and draw back from the smiting? Blows of a lover, perhaps, intended for fiercer inciting! Yes, but the cruelty, yes, but the empty pain we go ruing! Edges of sweetness, it may be, call to a swifter pursuing. Was it not He in Brindavun? O woods divine to our yearning, Memorable always! O flowers, O delight on the treetops burning! Grasses His kine have grazed and crushed by His feet in the dancing! Yamuna flowing with sound, through the greenness always advancing! You unforgotten remind! For His flute with its sweetness ensnaring The Descent of Ahana 507 Sounds in our ears in the night and our souls of their teguments baring Hales them out naked and absolute, out to His woodlands eternal, Out to His moonlit dances, His dalliance sweet and supernal, And we go stumbling, maddened and thrilled, to His dreadful embraces, Slaves of His rapture to Brindavun crowded with amorous faces, Luminous kine in the green glades seated soft-eyed grazing, Flowers from the branches distressing us, moonbeams unearthly amazing, Yamuna flowing before us, laughing low with her voices, Brindavun arching o'er us where Shyama sports and rejoices. What though 'tis true that the river of Life through the Valley of Peril Flows! But the diamond shines on the cliffside, jacinth and beryl Gleam in the crannies, sapphire, smaragdus the roadway bejewel, Down in the jaws of the savage mountains granite and cruel. Who has not fathomed once all the voiceless threat of those mountains? Always the wide-pacing river of Life from its far-off fountains Flows down mighty and broad, like a warhorse brought from its manger Arching its neck as it paces grand to the gorges of danger. Sometimes we hesitate, often start and would turn from the trial, Vainly: a fierce Inhabitant drives and brooks no denial. Headlong, o'ercome with a stridulant horror the river descending Shudders below into sunless depths among chasms unending, - Angry, afraid, white, foaming. A stony and monstrous resistance Meets it, piling up stubborn limits, an iron insistence. Yet in the midst of our labour and weeping not utterly lonely Wander our steps, nor are terror and grief our portion only. Do we not hear in the heart of the peril a flute go before us? Are there not beckoning hands of the gods that insist and implore us? Plains are beyond; there are hamlets and fields where the river rejoices Pacing once more with a quiet step and amical voices. There in a woodl and red with berries and cool with the breezes, - Green are the leaves, all night long the heart of the nightingale eases Sweetly its burden of pity and sorrow, fragrant the flowers, - There in an arbour delightful I know we shall sport with the Hours, Lying on beds of lilies, hearing the bells of our cattle Tinkle, and drink red wine of our life and go forth to the battle And unwounded return to our beautiful home by the waters, Pledge of our joys, rear tall strong sons and radiant daughters. 508 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Shall God know? Will His spies come down to our beautiful valley? They shall grow drunk with its grapes and wander in woodl and and alley. There will His anger follow us, there will His lightnings immortal Wander around with their red eye of cruelty stabbing the portal? Yes, I shall fear then His play! I will sport with my dove from His highlands, Pleased with her laughter of bliss like a god in my Grecian islands. Daughter of Heaven, break through to me, moonlike, mystic and gleaming. Come through the margins of twilight, over the borders of dreaming. Vision bright that walkest crowned on the hills far above me, Vision of bliss, stoop down! Encircle me, madden me, love me. AHANA Voice of the sensuous mortal! heart of eternal longing! Thou who hast lived as in walls, thy soul with thy senses wronging! But I descend to thee. Fickle and terrible, sweet and deceiving, Poison and nectar One has dispensed to thee, luring thee, leaving. We two together shall capture the flute and the player relentless. Son of man, thou hast crowned thy life with flowers that are scentless, Chased the delights that wound. But I come and the darkness shall sunder. Lo, I come and behind me knowledge descends and with thunder Filling the spaces Strength the Angel bears on his bosom Joy to thy arms. Thou shalt look on her face like a child's or a blossom, Innocent, free as in Eden of old, not afraid of her playing. Pain was not meant for ever, hearts were not made but for slaying. Thou shalt not suffer always nor cry to me, lured and forsaken. I have a snare for His footsteps, I have a chain for Him taken. Come then to Brindavun, soul of the joyous; faster and faster Follow the dance I shall teach thee with Shyama for slave and for master, - Follow the notes of the flute with a soul aware and exulting, Trample Delight that submits and crouch to a sweetness insulting. Thou shalt know what the dance meant, fathom the song and the singer, Hear behind thunder its rhymes, touched by lightning thrill to His finger, Brindavun's rustle shalt understand and Yamuna's laughter, Take thy place in the Ras and thy share of the ecstasy after. ~ Sri Aurobindo, - The Descent of Ahana ,

326: Ahana Ahana (Ahana, the Dawn of God, descends on the world where amid the strife and trouble of mortality the Hunters of Joy, the Seekers after Knowledge, the Climbers in the quest of Power are toiling up the slopes or waiting in the valleys. As she stands on the mountains of the East, voices of the Hunters of Joy are the first to greet her.) Vision delightful alone on the hills whom the silences cover, Closer yet lean to mortality; human, stoop to thy lover. Wonderful, gold like a moon in the square of the sun where thou strayest Glimmers thy face amid crystal purities; mighty thou playest Sole on the peaks of the world, unafraid of thy loneliness. Glances Leap from thee down to us, dream-seas and light-falls and magical trances; Sun-drops flake from thy eyes and the heart's caverns packed are with pleasure Strange like a song without words or the dance of a measureless measure. Tread through the edges of dawn, over twilight's grey-lidded margin; Heal earth's unease with thy feet, O heaven-born delicate virgin. Children of Time whose spirits came down from eternity, seizing Joys that escape us, yoked by our hearts to a labour unceasing, Earth-bound, torn with our longings, our life is a brief incompleteness. Thou hast the stars to sport with, the winds run like bees to thy sweetness. Art thou not heaven-bound even as I with the earth? Hast thou ended All desirable things in a stillness lone and unfriended? Only is calm so sweet? is our close tranquillity only? Cold are the rivers of peace and their banks are leafless and lonely. Heavy is godhead to bear with its mighty sun-burden of lustre. Art thou not weary of only the stars in their solemn muster, Sky-hung the chill bare plateaus and peaks where the eagle rejoices In the inhuman height of his nesting, solitude's voices Making the heart of the silence lonelier? strong and untiring, Deaf with the cry of the waterfall, lonely the pine lives aspiring. Two are the ends of existence, two are the dreams of the Mother: 478 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Heaven unchanging, earth with her time-beats yearn to each other, - Earth-souls needing the touch of the heavens peace to recapture, Heaven needing earth's passion to quiver its peace into rapture. Marry, O lightning eternal, the passion of a moment-born fire! Out of thy greatness draw close to the breast of our mortal desire! Is he thy master, Rudra the mighty, Shiva ascetic? Has he denied thee his world? In his dance that they tell of, ecstatic, Slaying, creating, calm in the midst of the movement and madness, Stole there no rhythm of an earthly joy and a mortal sadness? Wast thou not made in the shape of a woman? Sweetness and beauty Move like a song of the gods in thy limbs and to love is thy duty Graved in thy heart as on tablets of fate; joy's delicate blossom Sleeps in thy lids of delight; all Nature hides in thy bosom Claiming her children unborn and the food of her love and her laughter. Is he the first? was there none then before him? shall none come after? He who denies and his blows beat down on our hearts like a hammer's, He whose calm is the silent reply to our passion and clamours! Is not there deity greater here new-born in a noble Labour and sorrow and struggle than stilled into rapture immobile? Earth has beatitudes warmer than heaven's that are bare and undying, Marvels of Time on the crest of the moments to Infinity flying. Earth has her godheads; the Tritons sway on the toss of the billows, Emerald locks of the Nereids stream on their foam-crested pillows, Dryads peer out from the branches, Naiads glance up from the waters; High are her flame-points of joy and the gods are ensnared by her daughters. Artemis calls as she flees through the glades and the breezes pursue her; Cypris laughs in her isles where the ocean-winds linger to woo her. Here thou shalt meet amid beauty forgotten the dance of the Graces; Night shall be haunted for ever with strange and delicate faces. Music is here of the fife and the flute and the lyre and the timbal, Wind in the forests, bees in the grove, - spring's ardent cymbal Thrilling, the cry of the cuckoo; the nightingale sings in the branches, Human laughter is heard and the cattle low in the ranches. Frankly and sweetly she gives to her children the bliss of her body, Breath of her lips and the green of her garments, rain-pourings heady Tossed from her cloud-carried beaker of tempest, oceans and streamlets, Dawn and the mountain-air, corn-fields and vineyards, pastures and hamlets, Ahana 479 Tangles of sunbeams asleep, mooned dream-depths, twilight's shadows, Taste and scent and the fruits of her trees and the flowers of her meadows, Life with her wine-cup of longing under the purple of her tenture, Death as her gate of escape and rebirth and renewal of venture. Still must they mutter that all here is vision and passing appearance, Magic of Maya with falsehood and pain for its only inherence. One is there only, apart in his greatness, the End and Beginning, - He who has sent through his soul's wide spaces the universe spinning. One eternal, Time an illusion, life a brief error! One eternal, Master of heaven - and of hell and its terror! Spirit of silence and purity rapt and aloof from creation, - Dreaming through aeons unreal his splendid and empty formation! Spirit all-wise in omnipotence shaping a world but to break it, - Pushed by what mood of a moment, the breath of what fancy to make it? None is there great but the eternal and lonely, the unique and unmated, Bliss lives alone with the self-pure, the single, the forever-uncreated. Truths? or thought's structures bridging the vacancy mute and unsounded Facing the soul when it turns from the stress of the figures around it? Solely we see here a world self-made by some indwelling Glory Building with forms and events its strange and magnificent story. Yet at the last has not all been solved and unwisdom demolished, Myth cast out and all dreams of the soul, and all worship abolished? All now is changed, the reverse of the coin has been shown to us; Reason Waking, detecting the hoax of the spirit, at last has arisen, Captured the Truth and built round her its bars that she may not skedaddle, Gallop again with the bit in her teeth and with Fancy in the saddle. Now have the wise men discovered that all is the craft of a superMagic of Chance and a movement of Void and inconscient Stupor. Chance by a wonderful accident ever her ripples expanding Out of a gaseous circle of Nothingness, implacably extending Freak upon freak, repeating rigidly marvels on marvels, Making a world out of Nothing, started on the arc of her travels. Nothingness born into feeling and action dies back to Nothing. Sea of a vague electricity, romping through space-curves and clothing Strangely the Void with a semblance of Matter, painfully flowered Into this giant phenomenon universe. Man who has towered Out of the plasm and struggled by thought to Divinity's level, 480 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Man, this miniature second creator of good and of evil, He too was only a compost of Matter made living, organic, Forged as her thinking tool by an Energy blind and mechanic. Once by an accident queer but quite natural, provable, simple, Out of blind Space-Nought lashed into life, wearing Mind as its wimple, Dupe of a figment of consciousness, doped with behaviour and feature, Matter deluded claimed to be spirit and sentient creature. All the high dreams man has dreamed and his hopes and his deeds, his soul's greatness Are but a food-seeking animal's acts with the mind for their witness, - Mind a machine for the flickers of thought, Matter's logic unpremissed, - Are but a singular fireworks, chemistry lacking the chemist, Matter's nervous display; the heart's passion, the sorrow and burning Fire of delight and sweet ecstasy, love and its fathomless yearning, Boundless spiritual impulses making us one with world-being, Outbursts of vision opening doors to a limitless seeing, Gases and glands and the genes and the nerves and the brain-cells have done it, Brooded out drama and epic, structured the climb of the sonnet, Studied the stars and discovered the brain and the laws of its thinking, Sculptured the cave-temple, reared the cathedral, infinity drinking Wrought manufacturing God and the soul for the uplift of Nature, - Science, philosophy, head of his mystical chemical stature, Music and painting revealing the godhead in sound and in colour, Acts of the hero, thoughts of the thinker, search of the scholar, All the magnificent planning, all the inquiry and wonder Only a trick of the atom, its marvellous magical blunder. Who can believe it? Something or someone, a Force or a Spirit Conscious, creative, wonderful shaped out a world to inherit Here for the beings born from its vast universal existence, - Fields of surprise and adventure, vistas of light-haunted distance, Play-routes of wisdom and vision and struggle and rapture and sorrow, Sailing in Time through the straits of today to the sea of tomorrow. Worlds and their wonders, suns and their flamings, earth and her nations, Voyages endless of Mind through the surge of its fate-tossed creations, Star upon star throbbing out in the silence of infinite spaces, Species on species, bodies on bodies, faces on faces, Ahana 481 Souls without number crossing through Time towards eternity, aeons Crowding on aeons, loving and battle, dirges and paeans, Thoughts ever leaping, hopes ever yearning, lives ever streaming, Millions and millions on trek through the days with their doings and dreaming, Herds of the Sun who move on at the cry of the radiant drover, - Countless, surviving the death of the centuries, lost to recover, Finished, but only to begin again, who is its tireless creator, Cause or the force of its driving, its thinker or formless dictator? Surely no senseless Vacancy made it, surely 'twas fashioned By an almighty One million-ecstasied, thousand-passioned. Self-made? then by what self from which thought could arise and emotion, Waves that well up to the surface, born from what mysteried ocean? Nature alone is the fountain. But what is she? Is she not only Figure and name for what none understands, though all feel, or a lonely Word in which all finds expression, spirit-heights, dumb work of Matter, - Vague designation filling the gaps of our thought with its clatter? Power without vision that blunders in man into thinking and sinning? Rigid, too vast inexhaustible mystery void of a meaning? Energy blindly devising, unconsciously ranging in order? Chance in the march of a cosmic Insanity crossing the border Out of the eternal silence to thought and its strangeness and splendour? Consciousness born by an accident until an accident end her? Nought else is she but the power of the Spirit who dwells in her ever, Witness and cause of her workings, lord of her pauseless endeavour. All things she knows, though she seems here unseeing; even in her slumber Wondrous her works are, design and its magic and magic of number, Plan of her mighty cosmic geometry, balance of forces, Universe flung beyond universe, law of the stars and their courses, Cosmos atomic stretched to the scale of the Infinite's measure. Mute in the trance of the Eternal she sleeps with the stone and the azure. Now she awakes; for life has just stirred in her, stretching first blindly Outward for sense and its pleasure and pain and the gifts of the kindly Mother of all, for her light and her air and the sap from her flowing, Pleasure of bloom and inconscient beauty, pleasure of growing. Then into mind she arises; heart's yearning awakes and reflection Looks out on struggle and harmony, - conscious, her will of selection 482 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Studies her works and illumines the choice of her way; last, slowly Inward she turns and stares at the Spirit within her. Holy Silences brood in her heart and she feels in her ardent recesses Passions too great for her frame, on her body immortal caresses. Into the calm of the Greatness beyond her she enters, burning Now with a light beyond thought's, towards Self and Infinity turning, Turned to beatitude, turned to eternity, spiritual grandeur, Power without limit, ecstasy imperishable, shadowless splendour. Then to her mortals come, flashing, thoughts that are wisdom's fire-kernel; Leaping her flame-sweeps of might and delight and of vision supernal Kindle the word and the act, the Divine and humanity fusing, Illuminations, trance-seeds of silence, flowers of musing, - Light of our being that yet has to be, its glory and glimmer Smiting with sunrise the soul of the sage and the heart of the dreamer. Or is it all but a vain expectation and effort ungrounded, Wings without body, sight without object, waters unsounded, Hue of a shimmer that steals through some secret celestial portal, Glory of a gleam or a dream in an animal brief-lived and mortal? Are they not radiances native to heaven's more fortunate ether, Won when we part from this body, this temporal house of a nether Mystery of life lived in vain? Upon earth is the glory forbidden, Nature for ever accursed, frustrated, grief-vexed, fate-ridden? Half of the glory she dreamed of forgotten or lost in earth's darkness, Half of it mangled and missed as the death-wheels whirl in their starkness, Cast out from heaven a goddess rebellious with mind for her mirror, Cursed with desire and self-will and doomed to self-torture and error, Came she to birth then with God for her enemy? Were we created He unwilling or sleeping? did someone transgress the fated Limits he set, outwitting God? In the too hasty vision Marred of some demiurge filmed there the blur of a fatal misprision, Making a world that revolves on itself in a circuit of failure, Aeons of striving, death for a recompense, Time for our tenure? Out of him rather she came and for him are her cry and her labour; Deep are her roots in him; topless she climbs, to his greatness a neighbour. All is himself in her, brooding in darkness, mounting the sun-ways; Air-flight to him is man's journey with heaven and earth for the runways. He is the witness and doer, he is the loved and the lover, Ahana 483 He the eternal Truth that we look in ourselves to discover. All is his travel in Time; it is he who turns history's pages, Act and event and result are the trail that he leaves through the ages; Form and idea are his signs and number and sound are his symbols, Music and singing, the word and its rhythm are Divinity's cymbals, Thunder and surge are the drums of his marching. Through us, with urges Self-ward, form-bound, mute, motionless, slowly inevitably emerges Vast as the cosmos, minute as the atom, the Spirit eternal. Often the gusts of his force illumining moments diurnal Flame into speech and idea; transcendences splendid and subtle Suddenly shoot through the weft of our lives from a magical shuttle; Hid in our hearts is his glory; the Spirit works in our members. Silence is he, with our voices he speaks, in our thoughts he remembers. Deep in our being inhabits the voiceless invisible Teacher; Powers of his godhead we live; the Creator dwells in the creature. Out of his Void we arise to a mighty and shining existence, Out of Inconscience, tearing the black Mask's giant resistance; Waves of his consciousness well from him into these bodies in Nature, Forms are put round him; his oneness, divided by mind's nomenclature, High on the summits of being ponders immobile and single, Penetrates atom and cell as the tide drenches sand-grain and shingle. Oneness unknown to us dwells in these millions of figures and faces, Wars with itself in our battles, loves in our clinging embraces, Inly the self and the substance of things and their cause and their mover Veiled in the depths which the foam of our thoughts and our life's billows cover, Heaves like the sea in its waves; like heaven with its star-fires it gazes Watching the world and its works. Interned in the finite's mazes, Still shall he rise to his vast superconscience, we with him climbing; Truth of man's thought with the truth of God's spirit faultlessly timing, That which was mortal shall enter immortality's golden precincts, Hushed breath of ecstasy, honey of lotus depths where the bee sinks, Timeless expanses too still for the voice of the hours to inveigle, Spaces of spirit too vast for the flight of the God-bearing eagle, - Enter the Splendour that broods now unseen on us, deity invading, Sight without error, light without shadow, beauty unfading, Infinite largeness, rapture eternal, love none can sever, 484 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Life, not this death-play, but a power God-driven and blissful for ever. "No," cry the wise, "for a circle was traced, there was pyloned a limit Only we escape through dream's thin passages. None can disclaim it; All things created are made by their borders, sketched out and coded; Vain is the passion to divinise manhood, humanise godhead. None can exceed himself; even to find oneself hard for our search is: Only we see as in night by a lustre of flickering torches. To be content with our measure, our space is the law of our living. All of thyself to thy manhood and Nature and Circumstance giving, Be what thou must be or be what thou canst be, one hour in an era. Knowing the truth of thy days, shun the light of ideal and chimera: Curb heart's impatience, bind thy desires down, pause from self-vexing." Who is the nomad then? who is the seeker, the gambler risking All for a dream in a dream, the old and the sure and the stable Flung as a stake for a prize that was never yet laid on the table? Always the world is expanding and growing from minute to minute; Playing the march of the adventure of Time with our lives for her spinet Maya or Nature, the wonderful Mother, strikes out surprising Strains of the spirit disprisoned; creation heavenward rising Wrestles with Time and Space and the Unknown to give form to the Formless. Bliss is her goal, but her road is through whirlwind and death-blast and storm-race. All is a wager and danger, all is a chase and a battle. Vainly man, crouched in his corner of safety, shrinks from the fatal Lure of the Infinite. Guided by Powers that surround and precede us Fearful and faltering steps are our perishing efforts that lead us On through the rooms of the finite till open the limitless spaces And we can look into all-seeing eyes and imperishable faces. But we must pass through the aeons; Space is a bar twixt our ankles, Time is a weight that we drag and the scar of the centuries rankles: Caught by the moments, held back from the spirit's timelessness, slowly Wading in shallows we take not the sea-plunge vastly and wholly. Hard is the way to the Eternal for the mind-born will of the mortal Bound by the body and life to the gait of the house-burdened turtle. Here in this world that knows not its morrow, this reason that stumbles Onward from error to truth and from truth back to error while crumbles All that it fashioned, after the passion and travail are ended, Ahana 485 After the sacrifice offered when the will and the strength are expended, Nothing is done but to have laid down one stone of a road without issue, Added our quota of evil and good to an ambiguous tissue. Destiny's lasso, its slip-knot tied by delight and repining, Draws us through tangles of failure and victory's inextricable twining. In the hard reckoning made by the grey-robed accountant at even Pain is the ransom we pay for the smallest foretaste of heaven. Ignorance darkens, death and inconscience gape to absorb us; Thick and persistent the Night confronts us, its hunger enormous Swallowing our work and our lives. Our love and our knowledge squandered Lie like a treasure refused and trod down on the ways where we wandered; All we have done is effaced by the thousands behind us arriving. Trapped in a round fixed for ever circles our thought and our living. Fiercely the gods in their jealousy strike down the heads that have neighboured Even for a moment their skies; in the sands our achievements are gravured. Yet survives bliss in the rhythm of our heart-beats, yet is there wonder, Beauty's immortal delight, and the seals of the mystery sunder. Honied a thousand whispers come, in the birds, in the breezes, Moonlight, the voices of streams; with a hundred marvellous faces Always he lures us to love him, always he draws us to pleasure Leaving remembrance and anguish behind for our only treasure. Passionate we seek for him everywhere, yearn for some sign of him, calling, Scanning the dust for his footprints, praying and stumbling and falling; Nothing is found and no answer comes from the masks that are passing. Memories linger, lines from the past like a half-faded tracing. He has passed on into silence wearing his luminous mantle. Out of the melodied distance a laugh rings pure-toned, infantile, Sole reminder that he is, last signal recalling his presence. There is a joy behind suffering; pain digs our road to his pleasance. All things have bliss for their secret; only our consciousness falters Fearing to offer itself as a victim on ecstasy's altars. Is not the world his disguise? when that cloak is tossed back from his shoulders, Beauty looks out like a sun on the hearts of the ravished beholders. Mortals, your end is beatitude, rapture eternal his meaning: Joy, which he most now denies, is his purpose: the hedges, the screening 486 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Were but the rules of his play; his denials came to lure farther. These too were magic of Maya, smiles of the marvellous Mother. Oh, but the cruelty! oh, but the empty pain we go rueing! Edges of opposite sweetness, calls to a closer pursuing. All that we meet is a symbol and gateway; cryptic intention Lurks in a common appearance, smiles from a casual mention: Opposites hide in each other; in the laughter of Nature is danger, Glory and greatness their embryos form in the womb of her anger. Why are we terrified? wherefore cry out and draw back from the smiting - Blows from the hands of a lover to direr exactions exciting, Fiery points of his play! Was he Rudra only the mighty? Whose were the whispers of sweetness, whose were the murmurs of pity? Something opposes our grasp on the light and the sweetness and power, Something within us, something without us, trap-door or tower, Nature's gap in our being - or hinge! That device could we vanquish, Once could we clasp him and hold, his joy we could never relinquish. Then we could not be denied, for our might would be single and flawless. Sons of the Eternal, sovereigns of Nature absolute and lawless, Termlessly our souls would possess as he now enjoys and possesses, Termlessly probe the delight of his laughter's lurking recesses, Chasing its trail to the apex of sweetness and secrecy. Treasured Close to the beats of Eternity's heart in a greatness unmeasured, Locked into a miracle and mystery of Light we would live in him, - seated Deep in his core of beatitude ceaselessly by Nature repeated, Careless of Time, with no fear of an end, with no need for endeavour Caught by his ecstasy dwell in a rapture enduring for ever. What was the garden he built when the stars were first set in their places, Soul and Nature together mid streams and in cloudless spaces Naked and innocent? Someone offered a fruit of derision, Knowledge of good and of evil, cleaving in God a division. Though He who made all said, "It is good; I have fashioned perfection," "No, there is evil," someone whispered, "'tis screened from detection." Wisest he of the beasts of the field, one cunning and creeping; "See it," he said, "be wise; you shall be as the gods are, unsleeping, They who know all." And they ate. The roots of our being were shaken; Hatred and weeping and wrath at once trampled a world overtaken, Terror and fleeing and anguish and shame and desires unsated; Ahana 487 Cruelty stalked like a lion; Revenge and her brood were created. Out to the desert he drove the rebellious. Flaming behind them Streamed out the sword of his wrath and it followed leaping to find them, Stabbing at random. The pure and the evil, the strong and the tempted, All are confounded in punishment; justly is no one exempted. Virtuous? yes, there are many, but who is there innocent? Toiling Therefore we seek, but find not that Eden. Planting and spoiling, "This is the garden," we say, "lo, the trees and this is the river." Vainly redeemers came, not one has availed to deliver. Never can Nature go back to her careless and childlike beginning, Laugh of the babe and the song of the wheel in its delicate spinning, Smile of the sun upon flowers and earth's beauty, life without labour Plucking the fruits of the soil and rejoicing in cottage and arbour. Once we have chosen to be as the gods, we must follow that motion. Knowledge must grow in us, might like a Titan's, bliss like an ocean, Calmness and purity born of the spirit's gaze on the Real, Rapture of his oneness embracing the soul in a clasp hymeneal. Was it not he once in Brindavan? Woods divine to our yearning, Memorable always! O flowers, O delight on the tree-tops burning, Grasses his herds have grazed and crushed by his feet in the dancing, Yamuna flowing with song, through the greenness always advancing, You unforgotten remind; for his flute with its sweetness ensnaring Sounds in our ears in the night and our souls of their teguments baring Hales us out naked and absolute, out to his woodlands eternal, Out to his moonlit dances, his dalliance sweet and supernal, And we go stumbling, maddened and thrilled to his dreadful embraces, Slaves of his rapture to Brindavan crowded with amorous faces, Luminous kine in the green glades seated, soft-eyed gazing, Flowers on the branches distressing us, moonbeams unearthly amazing, Yamuna flowing before us, laughing low with her voices, Brindavan arching o'er us where Shyama sports and rejoices. Inly the miracle trembles repeated; mist-walls are broken Hiding that country of God and we look on the wonderful token, Clasp the beautiful body of the Eternal; his flute-call of yearning Cries in our breast with its blissful anguish for ever returning; Life flows past us with passionate voices, a heavenly river, All our being goes back as a bride of his bliss to the Giver. 488 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Even an hour of the soul can unveil the Unborn, the Everlasting, Gaze on its mighty Companion; the load of mortality casting, Mind hushes stilled in eternity; waves of the Infinite wander Thrilling body and soul and its endless felicity squander; All world-sorrow is finished, the cry of the parting is over; Ecstasy laughs in our veins, in our heart is the heart of the Lover. As when a stream from a highl and plateau green mid the mountains Draws through broad lakes of delight the gracious sweep of its fountains, Life from its heaven of desire comes down to the toil of the earth-ways; Streaming through mire it pours still the mystical joy of its birthplace, Green of its banks and the green of its trees and the hues of the flower. Something of child-heart beauty, something of greatness and power, Dwell with it still in its early torrent laughter and brightness, Call in the youth of its floods and the voice of the wideness and whiteness. But in its course are set darkness and fall and the spirit's ordeal. Hating its narrowness, forced by an ardour to see all and be all, Dashed on the inconscient rocks and straining through mud, over gravel, Flows, like an ardent prisoner bound to the scenes of his travail, Life, the river of the Spirit, consenting to anguish and sorrow If by her heart's toil a loan-light of joy from the heavens she can borrow. Out of the sun-rays and moon-rays, the winds' wing-glimmer and revel, Out of the star-fields of wonder, down to earth's danger and evil Headlong cast with a stridulant thunder, the doom-ways descending, Shuddering below into sunless depths, across chasms unending, Baulked of the might of its waters, a thread in a mountainous vastness, Parcelled and scanted it hurries as if storming a Titan fastness, Carving the hills with a sullen and lonely gigantic labour. Hurled into strangling ravines it escapes with a leap and a quaver, Breaks from the channels of hiding it grooves out and chisels and twistens, Angry, afraid, white, foaming. A stony and monstrous resistance Meets it piling up stubborn limits. Afflicted the river Treasures a scattered sunbeam, moans for a god to deliver, Longing to lapse through the plain's green felicity, yearning to widen Joined to the ocean's shoreless eternity far-off and hidden. High on the cliffs the Great Ones are watching, the Mighty and Deathless, Soaring and plunging the roadway of the Gods climbs uplifted and breathless; Ahana 489 Ever we hear in the heart of the peril a flute go before us, Luminous beckoning hands in the distance invite and implore us. Ignorant, circled with death and the abyss, we have dreamed of a human Paradise made from the mind of a man, from the heart of a woman, Dreamed of the Isles of the Blest in a light of perpetual summer, Dreamed of the joy of an earthly life with no pain for incomer. Never, we said, can these waters from heaven be lost in the marshes, Cease in the sands of the desert, die where the simoom parches; Plains are beyond, there are hamlets and fields where the river rejoices Pacing once more with a quiet step and with amical voices: Bright amid woodlands red with the berries and cool with the breezes Glimmer the leaves; all night long the heart of the nightingale eases Sweetly its burden of pity and sorrow. There amid flowers We shall take pleasure in arbours delightful, leng thening the hours, Time for our servitor waiting our fancy through moments unhasting, Under the cloudless blue of those skies of tranquillity resting, Lying on beds of lilies, hearing the bells of the cattle Tinkle, and drink red wine of life and go forth to the battle, Fight and unwounded return to our beautiful home by the waters, Fruit of our joy rear tall strong sons and radiant daughters. Then shall the Virgins of Light come down to us clad in clear raiment Woven from sunbeam and moonbeam and lightnings, limitless payment Bring of our toil and our sorrow, carrying life-giving garlands Plucked by the fountains of Paradise, bring from imperishable star-lands Hymn-words of wisdom, visions of beauty, heaven-fruit ruddy, Wine-cups of ecstasy sending the soul like a stream through the body. Fate shall not know; if her spies come down to our beautiful valley, They shall grow drunk with its grapes and wander in woodl and and alley. There leaps the anger of Rudra? there will his lightnings immortal Circle around with their red eye of cruelty stabbing the portal? Fearless is there life's play; I shall sport with my dove from his highlands, Drinking her laughter of bliss like a god in my Grecian islands. Life in my limbs shall grow deathless, flesh with the God-glory tingle, Lustre of Paradise, light of the earth-ways marry and mingle. These are but dreams and the truth shall be greater. Heaven made woman! Flower of beatitude! living shape of the bliss of the Brahman! Art thou not she who shall bring into life and time the Eternal? 490 Pondicherry, c. 1910 - 1920 Body of the summer of the Gods, a sweetness virginal, vernal, Breathes from thy soul into Nature; Love sits dreaming in thy bosom, Wisdom gazes from thy eyes, thy breasts of God-rapture are the blossom. If but the joy of thy feet once could touch our spaces smiting Earth with a ray from the Unknown, on the world's heart heaven's script writing, All then would change into harmony and beauty, Time's doors shudder Swinging wide on their hinges into Eternity, other Voices than earth's would be fire in our speech and make deathless our thinking. One who is hidden in Light would grow visible, multitudes linking, Lyres of a single ecstasy, throbs of the one heart beating, Wonderful bodies and souls in the spirit's identity meeting Even as stars in sky-vastness know their kindred in grandeur. Yet may it be that although in the hands of our destiny stands sure Fixed to its hour the Decree of the Advent, still it is fated Only when kindling earth's bodies a mightier Soul is created. Far-off the gold and the greatness, the rapture too splendid and dire. Are not the ages too young? too low in our hearts burns the fire. Bringest thou only a gleam on the summits, a cry in the distance, Seen by the eyes that are wakened, heard by a spirit that listens? Form of the formless All-Beautiful, lodestar of Nature's aspirance, Music of prelude giving a voice to the ineffable Silence, First white dawn of the God-Light cast on these creatures that perish, Word-key of a divine and eternal truth for mortals to cherish, Come! let thy sweetness and force be a breath in the breast of the future Making the god-ways alive, immortality's golden-red suture: Deep in our lives there shall work out a honeyed celestial leaven, Bliss shall grow native to being and earth be a kin-soil to heaven. Open the barriers of Time, the world with thy beauty enamour. Trailing behind thee the purple of thy soul and the dawn-moment's glamour, Forcing the heart of the Midnight where slumber and secrecy linger, Guardians of Mystery, touching her bosom with thy luminous finger, Daughter of Heaven, break through to me moonlike, mystic and gleaming; Tread through the margins of twilight, cross over borders of dreaming. Vision delightful alone on the peaks whom the silences cover, Vision of bliss, stoop down to mortality, lean to thy lover. Ahana 491 AHANA Voice of the sensuous mortal, heart of eternal longing, Thou who hast lived as in walls, thy soul with thy senses wronging! But I descend at last. Fickle and terrible, sweet and deceiving, Poison and nectar one has dispensed to thee, luring thee, leaving. We two together shall capture the flute and the player relentless. Son of man, thou hast crowned thy life with the flowers that are scentless, Chased the delights that wound. But I come and midnight shall sunder. Lo, I come, and behind me Knowledge descends and with thunder Filling the spaces Strength, the Angel, bears on his bosom Joy to thy arms. Thou shalt look on her face like a child's or a blossom, Innocent, free as in Eden of old, not afraid of her playing, When thy desires I have seized and devoured like a lioness preying. Thou shalt not suffer always nor cry to me lured and forsaken: I have a snare for his footsteps, I have a chain for him taken. Come then to Brindavan, soul of the joyous; faster and faster Follow the dance I shall teach thee with Shyama for slave and for master. Follow the notes of the flute with a soul aware and exulting; Trample Delight that submits and crouch to a sweetness insulting. Then shalt thou know what the dance meant, fathom the song and the singer, Hear behind thunder its rhymes, touched by lightning thrill to his finger, Brindavan's rustle shalt understand and Yamuna's laughter, Take thy place in the Ras1 and thy share of the ecstasy after. 1 The dance-round of Krishna with the cowherdesses in the moonlit groves of Brindavan, type of the dance of Divine Delight with the souls of men liberated in the world of Bliss secret within us. Poems from Manuscripts Circa 1912 - 1913 ~ Sri Aurobindo, - Ahana ,

327:Last Instructions To A Painter After two sittings, now our Lady State To end her picture does the third time wait. But ere thou fall'st to work, first, Painter, see If't ben't too slight grown or too hard for thee. Canst thou paint without colors? Then 'tis right: For so we too without a fleet can fight. Or canst thou daub a signpost, and that ill? 'Twill suit our great debauch and little skill. Or hast thou marked how antic masters limn The aly-roof with snuff of candle dim, Sketching in shady smoke prodigious tools? 'Twill serve this race of drunkards, pimps and fools. But if to match our crimes thy skill presumes, As th' Indians, draw our luxury in plumes. Or if to score out our compendious fame, With Hooke, then, through the microscope take aim, Where, like the new Comptroller, all men laugh To see a tall louse brandish the white staff. Else shalt thou oft thy guiltless pencil curse, Stamp on thy palette, not perhaps the worse. The painter so, long having vexed his cloth-Of his hound's mouth to feign the raging froth-His desperate pencil at the work did dart: His anger reached that rage which passed his art; Chance finished that which art could but begin, And he sat smiling how his dog did grin. So mayst thou pérfect by a lucky blow What all thy softest touches cannot do. Paint then St Albans full of soup and gold, The new court's pattern, stallion of the old. Him neither wit nor courage did exalt, But Fortune chose him for her pleasure salt. Paint him with drayman's shoulders, butcher's mien, Membered like mules, with elephantine chine. Well he the title of St Albans bore, For Bacon never studied nature more. But age, allayed now that youthful heat, Fits him in France to play at cards and treat. 80 Draw no commission lest the court should lie, That, disavowing treaty, asks supply. He needs no seal but to St James's lease, Whose breeches wear the instrument of peace; Who, if the French dispute his power, from thence Can straight produce them a plenipotence.. Nor fears he the Most Christian should trepan Two saints at once, St Germain, St Alban, But thought the Golden Age was now restored, When men and women took each other's word. Paint then again Her Highness to the life, Philosopher beyond Newcastle's wife. She, nak'd, can Archimedes self put down, For an experiment upon the crown, She pérfected that engine, oft assayed, How after childbirth to renew a maid, And found how royal heirs might be matured In fewer months than mothers once endured. Hence Crowther made the rare inventress free Of's Higness's Royal Society-Happiest of women, if she were but able To make her glassen Dukes once malleáble! Paint her with oyster lip and breath of fame, Wide mouth that 'sparagus may well proclaim; With Chancellor's belly and so large a rump, There--not behind the coach--her pages jump. Express her study now if China clay Can, without breaking, venomed juice convey, Or how a mortal poison she may draw Out of the cordial meal of the cacao. Witness, ye stars of night, and thou the pale Moon, that o'ercame with the sick steam didst fail; Ye neighboring elms, that your green leaves did shed, And fawns that from the womb abortive fled; Not unprovoked, she tries forbidden arts, But in her soft breast love's hid cancer smarts, While she resoloves, at once, Sidney's disgrace And her self scorned for emulous Denham's face, And nightly hears the hated guards, away Galloping with the Duke to other prey. 81 Paint Castlemaine in colours that will hold (Her, not her picture, for she now grows old): She through her lackey's drawers, as he ran, Discerned love's cause and a new flame began. Her wonted joys thenceforth and court she shuns, And still within her mind the footman runs: His brazen calves, his brawny thighs--the face She slights--his feet shaped for a smoother race. Poring within her glass she readjusts Her looks, and oft-tried beauty now distrusts, Fears lest he scorn a woman once assayed, And now first wished she e'er had been a maid. Great Love, how dost thou triumph and how reign, That to a groom couldst humble her disdain! Stripped to her skin, see how she stooping stands, Nor scorns to rub him down with those fair hands, And washing (lest the scent her crime disclose) His sweaty hooves, tickles him 'twixt the toes. But envious Fame, too soon, began to note More gold in's Fob, more lace upon his coat; And he, unwary, and of tongue too fleet, No longer could conceal his fortune sweet. Justly the rogue was shipped in porter's den, And Jermyn straight has leave to come again. Ah, Painter, now could Alexander live, And this Campaspe thee, Apelles, give! Draw next a pair of tables opening, then The House of Commons clattering like the men. Describe the Court and Country, both set right On opp'site points, the black against the white. Those having lost the nation at tric-trac, These now adventuring how to win it back. The dice betwixt them must the fate divide (As chance doth still in multitudes decide). But here the Court does its advantage know, For the cheat Turner for them both must throw. As some from boxes, he so from the chair Can strike the die and still with them goes share. Here, Painter, rest a little, and survey With what small arts the public game they play. 82 For so too Rubens, with affairs of state, His labouring pencil oft would recreate. The close Cabal marked how the Navy eats, And thought all lost that goes not to the cheats, So therefore secretly for peace decrees, Yet as for war the Parliament should squeeze, And fix to the revénue such a sum Should Goodrick silence and strike Paston dumb, Should pay land armies, should dissolve the vain Commons, and ever such a court maintain; Hyde's avarice, Bennet's luxury should suffice, And what can these defray but the Excise? Excise a monster worse than e'er before Frighted the midwife and the mother tore. A thousand hands she has and thousand eyes, Breaks into shops and into cellars pries, And on all trade like cassowar she feeds: Chops off the piece wheres'e'er she close the jaw, Else swallows all down her indented maw. She stalks all day in streets concealed from sight And flies, like bats with leathern wings, by night; She wastes the country and on cities preys. Her, of a female harpy, in dog days, Black Birch, of all the earth-born race most hot And most rapacious, like himself, begot, And, of his brat enamoured, as't increased, Buggered in incest with the mongrel beast. Say, Muse, for nothing can escape thy sight (And, Painter, wanting other, draw this fight), Who, in an English senate, fierce debate Could raise so long for this new whore of state. Of early wittols first the troop marched in-For diligence renowned and discipline-In loyal haste they left young wives in bed, And Denham these by one consent did head. Of the old courtiers, next a squadron came, That sold their master, led by Ashburnham. To them succeeds a desipicable rout, But know the word and well could face about; 83 Expectants pale, with hopes of spoil allured, Though yet but pioneers, and led by Stew'rd. Then damning cowards ranged the vocal plain, Wood these command, the Knight of the Horn and Cane. Still his hook-shoulder seems the blow to dread, And under's armpit he defends his head. The posture strange men laughed at of his poll, Hid with his elbow like the spice he stole. Headless St Denys so his head does bear, And both of them alike French martyrs were. Court officers, as used, the next place took, And followed, Fox, but with disdainful look. His birth, his youth, his brokage all dispraise In vain, for always he commands that pays. Then the procurers under Progers filed-Gentlest of men-- and his lieutenant mild, Brounker--Love's squire--through all the field arrayed, No troop was better clad, nor so well paid. Then marched the troop of Clarendon, all full Haters of fowl, to teal preferring bull: Gross bodies, grosser minds, and grossest cheats, And bloated Wren conducts them to their seats. Charlton advances next, whose coif does awe The Mitre troop, and with his looks gives law. He marched with beaver cocked of bishop's brim, And hid much fraud under an aspect grim. Next the lawyers' merecenary band appear: Finch in the front, and Thurland in the rear. The troop of privilege, a rabble bare Of debtors deep, fell to Trelawney's care. Their fortune's error they supplied in rage, Nor any further would than these engage. Then marched the troop, whose valiant acts before (Their public acts) obliged them still to more. For chimney's sake they all Sir Pool obeyed, Or in his absence him that first it laid. Then comes the thrifty troop of privateers, Whose horses each with other interfered. Before them Higgons rides with brow compact, Mourning his Countess, anxious for his Act. Sir Frederick and Sir Solomon draw lots For the command of politics or sots, 84 Thence fell to words, but quarrel to adjourn; Their friends agreed they should command by turn. Carteret the rich did the accountants guide And in ill English all the world defied. The Papists--but of these the House had none Else Talbot offered to have led them on. Bold Duncombe next, of the projectors chief, And old Fitz-harding of the Eaters Beef. Late and disordered out the drinkers drew, Scarce them their leaders, they their leaders knew. Before them entered, equal in command, Apsley and Brod'rick, marching hand in hand. Last then but one, Powell that could not ride, Led the French standard, weltering in his stride. He, to excuse his slowness, truth confessed That 'twas so long before he could be dressed. The Lord's sons, last, all these did reinforce: Cornb'ry before them managed hobby-horse. Never before nor since, an host so steeled Trooped on to muster in the Tothill Field: Not the first cock-horse that with cork were shod To rescue Albemarle from the sea-cod, Nor the late feather-men, whom Tomkins fierce Shall with one breath, like thistledown disperse. All the two Coventrys their generals chose For one had much, the other nought to lose; Nor better choice all accidents could hit, While Hector Harry steers by Will the Wit. They both accept the charge with merry glee, To fight a battle, from all gunshot free. Pleased with their numbers, yet in valour wise, They feign a parley, better to surprise; They that ere long shall the rude Dutch upbraid, Who in the time of treaty durst invade. Thick was the morning, and the House was thin, The Speaker early, when they all fell in. Propitious heavens, had not you them crossed, Excise had got the day, and all been lost. For the other side all in loose quarters lay, Without intelligence, command, or pay: 85 A scattered body, which the foe ne'er tried, But oftener did among themselves divide. And some ran o'er each night, while others sleep, And undescried returned ere morning peep. But Strangeways, that all night still walked the round (For vigilance and courage both renowned) First spied he enemy and gave the 'larm, Fighting it single till the rest might arm. Such Romand Cocles strid before the foe, The falling bridge behind, the stream below. Each ran, as chance him guides to several post, And all to pattern his example boast. Their former trophies they recall to mind And to new edge their angry courage grind. First entered forward Temple, conqueror Of Irish cattle and Solicitor; Then daring Seymour, that with spear and shield Had stretched the Monster Patent on the field; Keen Whorwood next, in aid of damsel frail, That pierced the giant Mordaunt through his mail; And surly Williams, the accountants' bane; And Lovelace young, of chimney-men the cane. Old Waller, trumpet-general, swore he'd write This combat truer than the naval fight. How'rd on's birth, wit, strength, courage much presumes And in his breast wears many Montezumes. These and some more with single valour stay The adverse troops, and hold them all at bay. Each thinks his person represents the whole, And with that thought does multiply his soul, Believes himself an army, theirs, one man As easily conquered, and believing can, With heart of bees so full, and head of mites, That each, though duelling, a battle fights. Such once Orlando, famous in romance, Broached whole brigades like larks upon his lance. But strength at last still under number bows, And the faint sweat trickled down Temple's brows. E'en iron Strangeways, chafing, yet gave back, Spent with fatigue, to breathe a while toback. 86 When marching in, a seasonable recruit Of citizens and merchants held dispute; And, charging all their pikes, a sullen band Of Presyterian Switzers made a stand. Nor could all these the field have long maintained But for th' unknown reserve that still remained: A gross of English gentry, nobly born, Of clear estates, and to no faction sworn, Dear lovers of their king, and death to meet For country's cause, that glorious think and sweet; To speak not forward, but in action brave, In giving generous, but in counsel grave; Candidly credulous for once, nay twice, But sure the Devil cannot cheat them thrice. The van and battle, though retiring, falls Without dosorder in their intervals. Then, closing all in equal front, fall on, Led by great Garway and great Littleton. Lee, ready to obey or to command, Adjutant-general, was still at hand. The martial standard, Sandys displaying, shows St Dunstan in it, tweaking Satan's nose. See sudden chance of war! To paint or write Is longer work and harder than to fight. At the first charge the enemy give out, And the Excise receives a total rout. Broken in courage, yet the men the same Resolve henceforth upon their other game: Where force had failed, with stratagem to play, And what haste lost, recover by delay. St Albans straight is sent to, to forbear, Lest the sure peace, forsooth, too soon appear. The seamen's clamour to three ends they use: To cheat their pay, feign want, the House accuse. Each day they bring the tale, and that too true, How strong the Dutch their equipage renew. Meantime through all the yards their orders run To lay the ships up, cease the keels begun. The timber rots, and useless axe doth rust, Th' unpracticed saw lies buried in its dust, 87 The busy hammer sleeps, the ropes untwine, The stores and wages all are mine and thine. Along the coast and harbours they make care That money lack, nor forts be in repair. Long thus they could against the House conspire, Load them with envy, and with sitting tire. And the loved King, and never yet denied, Is brought to beg in public and to chide; But when this failed, and months enow were spent, They with the first day's proffer seem content, And to Land-Tax from the Excise turn round, Bought off with eighteen-hundred-thousand pound. Thus like fair theives, the Commons' purse they share, But all the members' lives, consulting, spare. Blither than hare that hath escaped the hounds, The House prorogued, the Chancellor rebounds. Not so decrepit Aeson, hashed and stewed, With bitter herbs, rose from the pot renewed, And with fresh age felt his glad limbs unite; His gout (yet still he cursed) had left him quite. What frosts to fruit, what arsenic to the rat, What to fair Denham, mortal chocolate, What an account to Carteret, that, and more, A Parliament is to the Chancellor. So the Sad-tree shrinks from the morning's eye, But blooms all night and shoots its branches high. So, at the sun's recess, again returns The comet dread, and earth and heaven burns. Now Mordaunt may, within his castle tower, Imprison parents, and the child deflower. The Irish herd is now let loose and comes By millions over, not by hecatombs; And now, now the Canary Patent may Be broached again for the great holiday. See how he reigns in his new palace culminant, And sits in state divine like Jove the fulminant! First Buckingham, that durst to him rebel, Blasted with lightning, struck wtih thunder, fell. Next the twelve Commons are condemned to groan 88 And roll in vain at Sisyphus's stone. But still he cared, while in revenge he braved That peace secured and money might be saved: Gain and revenge, revenge and gain are sweet United most, else when by turns they meet. France had St Albans promised (so they sing), St Albans promised him, and he the King: The Count forthwith is ordered all to close, To play for Flanders and the stake to lose, While, chained together, two ambassadors Like slaves shall beg for peace at Holland's doors. This done, among his Cyclops he retires To forge new thunder and inspect their fires. The court as once of war, now fond of peace, All to new sports their wanton fears release. From Greenwich (where intelligence they hold) Comes news of pastime martial and old, A punishment invented first to awe Masculine wives transgressing Nature's law, Where, when the brawny female disobeys, And beats the husband till for peace he prays, No concerned jury for him damage finds, Nor partial justice her behavior binds, But the just street does the next house invade, Mounting the neighbour couple on lean jade, The distaff knocks, the grains from kettle fly, And boys and girls in troops run hooting by: Prudent antiquity, that knew by shame, Better than law, domestic crimes to tame, And taught youth by spectácle innocent! So thou and I, dear Painter, represent In quick effigy, others' faults, and feign By making them ridiculous, to restrain. With homely sight they chose thus to relax The joys of state, for the new Peace and Tax. So Holland with us had the mastery tried, And our next neighbours, France and Flanders, ride. But a fresh news the great designment nips, Of, at the Isle of Candy, Dutch and ships! Bab May and Arlington did wisely scoff 89 And thought all safe, if they were so far off. Modern geographers, 'twas there, they thought, Where Venice twenty years the Turk had fought, While the first year our navy is but shown, The next divided, and the third we've none. They, by the name, mistook it for that isle Where Pilgrim Palmer travelled in exile With the bull's horn to measure his own head And on Pasiphaë's tomb to drop a bead. But Morice learn'd demónstrates, by the post, This Isle of Candy was on Essex' coast. Fresh messengers still the sad news assure; More timorous now we are than first secure. False terrors our believing fears devise, And the French army one from Calais spies. Bennet and May and those of shorter reach Change all for guineas, and a crown for each, But wiser men and well foreseen in chance In Holland theirs had lodged before, and France. Whitehall's unsafe; the court all meditates To fly to Windsor and mure up the gates. Each does the other blame, and all distrust; (That Mordaunt, new obliged, would sure be just.) Not such a fatal stupefaction reigned At London's flame, nor so the court complained. The Bloodworth_Chancellor gives, then does recall Orders; amazed, at last gives none at all. St Alban's writ to, that he may bewail To Master Louis, and tell coward tale How yet the Hollanders do make a noise, Threaten to beat us, and are naughty boys. Now Dolman's dosobedient, and they still Uncivil; his unkindness would us kill. Tell him our ships unrigged, our forts unmanned, Our money spent; else 'twere at his command. Summon him therefore of his word and prove To move him out of pity, if not love; Pray him to make De Witt and Ruyter cease, And whip the Dutch unless they'll hold their peace. But Louis was of memory but dull 90 And to St Albans too undutiful, Nor word nor near relation did revere, But asked him bluntly for his character. The gravelled Count did with the answer faint-His character was that which thou didst paint-Trusses his baggage and the camp does fly. Yet Louis writes and, lest our heart should break, Consoles us morally out of Seneque. Two letters next unto Breda are sent: In cipher one to Harry Excellent; The first instructs our (verse the name abhors) Plenipotentiary ambassadors To prove by Scripture treaty does imply Cessation, as the look adultery, And that, by law of arms, in martial strife, Who yields his sword has title to his life. Presbyter Holles the first point should clear, The second Coventry the Cavalier; But, whould they not be argued back from sea, Then to return home straight, infecta re. But Harry's ordered, if they won't recall Their fleet, to threaten--we will grant them all. The Dutch are then in proclamation shent For sin against th' eleventh commandment. Hyde's flippant style there pleasantly curvets, Still his sharp wit on states and princes whets (So Spain could not escape his laughter's spleen: None but himsef must choose the King a Queen), But when he came the odious clause to pen That summons up the Parliament again, His writing master many a time he banned And wished himself the gout to seize his hand. Never old lecher more repugnance felt, Consenting, for his rupture, to be gelt; But still then hope him solaced, ere they come, To work the peace and so to send them home, Or in their hasty call to find a flaw, Their acts to vitiate, and them overawe; But most relied upon this Dutch pretence To raise a two-endged army for's defence. 91 First then he marched our whole militia's force (As if indeed we ships or Dutch had horse); Then from the usual commonplace, he blames These, and in standing army's praise declaims; And the wise court that always loved it dear, Now thinks all but too little for their fear. Hyde stamps, and straight upon the ground the swarms Of current Myrmidons appear in arms, And for their pay he writes, as from the King-With that cursed quill plucked from a vulture's wing-Of the whole nation now to ask a loan (The eighteen-hundred-thousand pound was gone). This done, he pens a proclamation stout, In rescue of the banquiers banquerout, His minion imps that, in his secret part, Lie nuzzling at the sacremental wart, Horse-leeches circling at the hem'rrhoid vein: He sucks the King, they him, he them again. The kingdom's farm he lets to them bid least (Greater the bribe, and that's at interest). Here men, induced by safety, gain, and ease, Their money lodge; confiscate when he please. These can at need, at instant, with a scrip (This liked him best) his cash beyond sea whip. When Dutch invade, when Parliament prepare, How can he engines so convenient spare? Let no man touch them or demand his own, Pain of displeasure of great Clarendon. The state affairs thus marshalled, for the rest Monck in his shirt against the Dutch is pressed. Often, dear Painter, have I sat and mused Why he should still be 'n all adventures used, If they for nothing ill, like ashen wood, Or think him, like Herb John for nothing good; Whether his valour they so much admire, Or that for cowardice they all retire, As heaven in storms, they call in gusts of state On Monck and Parliament, yet both do hate. All causes sure concur, but most they think Under Hercúlean labours he may sink. 92 Soon then the independent troops would close, And Hyde's last project would his place dispose. Ruyter the while, that had our ocean curbed, Sailed now among our rivers undistrubed, Surveyed their crystal streams and banks so green And beauties ere this never naked seen. Through the vain sedge, the bashful nymphs he eyed: Bosoms, and all which from themselves they hide. The sun much brighter, and the skies more clear, He finds the air and all things sweeter here. The sudden change, and such a tempting sight Swells his old veins with fresh blood, fresh delight. Like am'rous victors he begins to shave, And his new face looks in the English wave. His sporting navy all about him swim And witness their complacence in their trim. Their streaming silks play through the weather fair And with inveigling colours court the air, While the red flags breathe on their topmasts high Terror and war, but want an enemy. Among the shrouds the seamen sit and sing, And wanton boys on every rope do cling. Old Neptune springs the tides and water lent (The gods themselves do help the provident), And where the deep keel on the shallow cleaves, With trident's lever, and great shoulder heaves. &Aelig;olus their sails inspires with eastern wind, Puffs them along, and breathes upon them kind. With pearly shell the Tritons all the while Sound the sea-march and guide to Sheppey Isle. So I have seen in April's bud arise A fleet of clouds, sailing along the skies; The liquid region with their squadrons filled, Their airy sterns the sun behind does gild; And gentle gales them steer, and heaven drives, When, all on sudden, their calm bosom rives With thunder and lightning from each armèd cloud; Shepherds themselves in vain in bushes shroud. Such up the stream the Belgic navy glides And at Sheerness unloads its stormy sides. 93 Spragge there, though practised in the sea command, With panting heart lay like a fish on land And quickly judged the fort was not tenáble-Which, if a house, yet were not tenantáble-No man can sit there safe: the cannon pours Thorough the walls untight and bullet showers, The neighbourhood ill, and an unwholesome seat, So at the first salute resolves retreat, And swore that he would never more dwell there Until the city put it in repair. So he in front, his garrison in rear, March straight to Chatham to increase the fear. There our sick ships unrigged in summer lay Like moulting fowl, a weak and easy prey, For whose strong bulk earth scarce could timber find, The ocean water, or the heavens wind-Those oaken giants of the ancient race, That ruled all seas and did our Channel grace. The conscious stag so, once the forest's dread, Flies to the wood and hides his armless head. Ruyter forthwith a squadron does untack; They sail securely through the river's track. An English pilot too (O shame, O sin!) Cheated of pay, was he that showed them in. Our wretched ships within their fate attend, And all our hopes now on frail chain depend: (Engine so slight to guard us from the sea, It fitter seemed to captivate a flea). A skipper rude shocks it without respect, Filling his sails more force to re-collect. Th' English from shore the iron deaf invoke For its last aid: `Hold chain, or we are broke.' But with her sailing weight, the Holland keel, Snapping the brittle links, does thorough reel, And to the rest the opened passage show; Monck from the bank the dismal sight does view. Our feathered gallants, which came down that day To be spectators safe of the new play, Leave him alone when first they hear the gun (Cornb'ry the fleetest) and to London run. 94 Our seamen, whom no danger's shape could fright, Unpaid, refuse to mount our ships for spite, Or to their fellows swim on board the Dutch, Which show the tempting metal in their clutch. Oft had he sent of Duncombe and of Legge Cannon and powder, but in vain, to beg; And Upnor Castle's ill-deserted wall, Now needful, does for ammunition call. He finds, wheres'e'er he succor might expect, Confusion, folly, treach'ry, fear, neglect. But when the Royal Charles (what rage, what grief) He saw seized, and could give her no relief! That sacred keel which had, as he, restored His exiled sovereign on its happy board, And thence the British Admiral became, Crowned, for that merit, with their master's name; That pleasure-boat of war, in whose dear side Secure so oft he had this foe defied, Now a cheap spoil, and the mean victor's slave, Taught the Dutch colours from its top to wave; Of former glories the reproachful thought With present shame compared, his mind destraught. Such from Euphrates' bank, a tigress fell After the robber for her whelps doth yell; But sees enraged the river flow between, Frustrate revenge and love, by loss more keen, At her own breast her useless claws does arm: She tears herself, since him she cannot harm. The guards, placed for the chain's and fleet's defence, Long since were fled on many a feigned pretence. Daniel had there adventured, man of might, Sweet Painter, draw his picture while I write. Paint him of person tall, and big of bone, Large limbs like ox, not to be killed but shown. Scarce can burnt ivory feign an hair so black, Or face so red, thine ocher and thy lac. Mix a vain terror in his martial look, And all those lines by which men are mistook; But when, by shame constrained to go on board, He heard how the wild cannon nearer roared, And saw himself confined like sheep in pen, 95 Daniel then thought he was in lion's den. And when the frightful fireships he saw, Pregnant with sulphur, to him nearer draw, Captain, lieutenant, ensign, all make haste Ere in the fiery furnace they be cast-Three children tall, unsinged, away they row, Like Shadrack, Meschack, and Abednego. Not so brave Douglas, on whose lovely chin The early down but newly did begin, And modest beauty yet his sex did veil, While envious virgins hope he is a male. His yellow locks curl back themselves to seek, Nor other courtship knew but to his cheek. Oft, as he in chill Esk or Seine by night Hardened and cooled his limbs, so soft, so white, Among the reeds, to be espied by him, The nymphs would rustle; he would forward swim. They sighed and said, `Fond boy, why so untame That fliest love's fires, reserved for other flame?' Fixed on his ship, he faced that horrid day And wondered much at those that ran away. Nor other fear himself could comprehend Then, lest heaven fall ere thither he ascend, But entertains the while his time too short With birding at the Dutch, as if in sport, Or waves his sword, and could he them conjúre Within its circle, knows himself secure. The fatal bark him boards with grappling fire, And safely through its port the Dutch retire. That precious life he yet disdains to save Or with known art to try the gentle wave. Much him the honours of his ancient race Inspire, nor would he his own deeds deface, And secret joy in his calm soul does rise That Monck looks on to see how Douglas dies. Like a glad lover, the fierce flames he meets, And tries his first embraces in their sheets. His shape exact, which the bright flames enfold, Like the sun's statue stands of burnished gold. Round the transparent fire about him flows, As the clear amber on the bee does close, 96 And, as on angels' heads their glories shine, His burning locks adorn his face divine. But when in this immortal mind he felt His altering form and soldered limbs to melt, Down on the deck he laid himself and died, With his dear sword reposing by his side, And on the flaming plank, so rests his head As one that's warmed himself and gone to bed. His ship burns down, and with his relics sinks, And the sad stream beneath his ashes drinks. Fortunate boy, if either pencil's fame, Or if my verse can propagate thy name, When Oeta and Alcides are forgot, Our English youth shall sing the valiant Scot. Each doleful day still with fresh loss returns: The Loyal London now the third time burns, And the true Royal Oak and Royal James, Allied in fate, increase, with theirs, her flames. Of all our navy none should now survive, But that the ships themselves were taught to dive, And the kind river in its creek them hides, Fraughting their piercèd keels with oozy tides. Up to the bridge contagious terror struck: The Tower itself with the near danger shook, And were not Ruyter's maw with ravage cloyed, E'en London's ashes had been then destroyed. Officious fear, however, to prevent Our loss does so much more our loss augment: The Dutch had robbed those jewels of the crown; Our merchantmen, lest they be burned, we drown. So when the fire did not enough devour, The houses were demolished near the Tower. Those ships that yearly from their teeming hole Unloaded here the birth of either Pole-Furs from the north and silver from the west, Wines from the south, and spices from the east; From Gambo gold, and from the Ganges gems-Take a short voyage underneath the Thames, Once a deep river, now with timber floored, And shrunk, least navigable, to a ford. 97 Now (nothing more at Chatham left to burn), The Holland squadron leisurely return, And spite of Ruperts and of Albemarles, To Ruyter's triumph lead the captive Charles. The pleasing sight he often does prolong: Her masts erect, tough cordage, timbers strong, Her moving shapes, all these he does survey, And all admires, but most his easy prey. The seamen search her all within, without: Viewing her strength, they yet their conquest doubt; Then with rude shouts, secure, the air they vex, With gamesome joy insulting on her decks. Such the feared Hebrew, captive, blinded, shorn, Was led about in sport, the public scorn. Black day accursed! On thee let no man hale Out of the port, or dare to hoist a sail, Nor row a boat in thy unlucky hour. Thee, the year's monster, let thy dam devour, And constant time, to keep his course yet right, Fill up thy space with a redoubled night. When agèd Thames was bound with fetters base, And Medway chaste ravished before his face, And their dear offspring murdered in their sight, Thou and thy fellows held'st the odious light. Sad change since first that happy pair was wed, When all the rivers graced their nuptial bed, And Father Neptune promised to resign His empire old to their immortal line! Now with vain grief their vainer hopes they rue, Themselves dishonoured, and the gods untrue, And to each other, helpless couple, moan, As the sad tortoise for the sea does groan. But most they for their darling Charles complain, And were it burnt, yet less would be their pain. To see that fatal pledge of sea command Now in the ravisher De Ruyter's hand, The Thames roared, swooning Medway turned her tide, And were they mortal, both for grief had died. The court in farthing yet itself does please, 98 (And female Stuart there rules the four seas), But fate does still accumulate our woes, And Richmond her commands, as Ruyter those. After this loss, to relish discontent, Someone must be accused by punishment. All our miscarriages on Pett must fall: His name alone seems fit to answer all. Whose counsel first did this mad war beget? Who all commands sold through the navy? Pett. Who would not follow when the Dutch were beat? Who treated out the time at Bergen? Pett. Who the Dutch fleet with storms disabled met, And rifling prizes, them neglected? Pett. Who with false news prevented the Gazette, The fleet divided, writ for Rupert? Pett. Who all our seamen cheated of their debt, And all our prizes who did swallow? Pett. Who did advise no navy out to set, And who the forts left unrepairèd? Pett. Who to supply with powder did forget Languard, Sheerness, Gravesend and Upnor? Pett. Who should it be but the Fanatic Pett? Pett, the sea-architect, in making ships Was the first cause of all these naval slips: Had he not built, none of these faults had been; If no creation, there had been no sin. But his great crime, one boat away he sent, That lost our fleet and did our flight prevent. Then (that reward might in its turn take place, And march with punishment in equal pace), Southhampton dead, much of the Treasure's care And place in council fell to Dunscombe's share. All men admired he to that pitch could fly: Powder ne'er blew man up so soon so high, But sure his late good husbandry in petre Showed him to manage the Exchequer meeter; And who the forts would not vouchsafe a corn, To lavish the King's money more would scorn. Who hath no chimneys, to give all is best, And ablest Speaker, who of law has least; 99 Who less estate, for Treasurer most fit, And for a couns'llor, he that has least wit. But the true cause was that, in's brother May, The Exchequer might the Privy Purse obey. But now draws near the Parliament's return; Hyde and the court again begin to mourn: Frequent in council, earnest in debate, All arts they try how to prolong its date. Grave Primate Sheldon (much in preaching there) Blames the last session and this more does fear: With Boynton or with Middleton 'twere sweet, But with a Parliament abohors to meet, And thinks 'twill ne'er be well within this nation, Till it be governed by Convocation. But in the Thames' mouth still De Ruyter laid; The peace not sure, new army must be paid. Hyde saith he hourly waits for a dispatch; Harry came post just as he showed his watch, All to agree the articles were clear-The Holland fleet and Parliament so near-Yet Harry must job back, and all mature, Binding, ere the Houses meet, the treaty sure, And 'twixt necessity and spite, till then, Let them come up so to go down again. Up ambles country justice on his pad, And vest bespeaks to be more seemly clad. Plain gentlemen in stagecoach are o'erthrown And deputy-lieutenants in their own. The portly burgess through the weather hot Does for his corporation sweat and trot; And all with sun and choler come adust And threaten Hyde to raise a greater dust. But fresh as from the Mint, the courtiers fine Salute them, smiling at their vain design, And Turner gay up to his perch does march With face new bleached, smoothened and stiff with starch; Tells them he at Whitehall had took a turn And for three days thence moves them to adjourn. `Not so!' quoth Tomkins, and straight drew his tongue, Trusty as steel that always ready hung, 100 And so, proceeding in his motion warm, The army soon raised, he doth as soon disarm. True Trojan! While this town can girls afford, And long as cider lasts in Herford, The girls shall always kiss thee, though grown old, And in eternal healths thy name be trolled. Meanwhile the certain news of peace arrives At court, and so reprieves their guilty lives. Hyde orders Turner that he should come late, Lest some new Tomkins spring a fresh debate. The King that day raised early from his rest, Expects (as at a play) till Turner's dressed. At last together Ayton come and he: No dial more could with the sun agree. The Speaker, summoned, to the Lords repairs, Nor gave the Commons leave to say their prayers, But like his prisoners to the bar them led, Where mute they stand to hear their sentence read. Trembling with joy and fear, Hyde them prorogues, And had almost mistook and called them rogues. Dear Painter, draw this Speaker to the foot; Where pencil cannot, there my pen shall do't: That may his body, this his mind explain. Paint him in golden gown, with mace's brain, Bright hair, fair face, obscure and dull of head, Like knife with ivory haft and edge of lead. At prayers his eyes turn up the pious white, But all the while his private bill's in sight. In chair, he smoking sits like master cook, And a poll bill does like his apron look. Well was he skilled to season any question And made a sauce, fit for Whitehall's digestion, Whence every day, the palate more to tickle, Court-mushrumps ready are, sent in in pickle. When grievance urged, he swells like squatted toad, Frisks like a frog, to croak a tax's load; His patient piss he could hold longer than An urinal, and sit like any hen; At table jolly as a country host And soaks his sack with Norfolk, like a toast; 101 At night, than Chanticleer more brisk and hot, And Sergeant's wife serves him for Pertelotte. Paint last the King, and a dead shade of night Only dispersed by a weak taper's light, And those bright gleams that dart along and glare From his clear eyes, yet these too dark with care. There, as in the calm horror all alone He wakes, and muses of th' uneasy throne; Raise up a sudden shape with virgin's face, (Though ill agree her posture, hour, or place), Naked as born, and her round arms behind With her own tresses, interwove and twined; Her mouth locked up, a blind before her eyes, Yet from beneath the veil her blushes rise, And silent tears her secret anguish speak Her heart throbs and with very shame would break. The object strange in him no terror moved: He wondered first, then pitied, then he loved, And with kind hand does the coy vision press (Whose beauty greater seemed by her distress), But soon shrunk back, chilled with her touch so cold, And th' airy picture vanished from his hold. In his deep thoughts the wonder did increase, And he divined 'twas England or the Peace. Express him startling next with listening ear, As one that some unusual noise does hear. With cannon, trumpets, drums, his door surround-But let some other painter draw the sound. Thrice did he rise, thrice the vain tumult fled, But again thunders, when he lies in bed. His mind secure does the known stroke repeat And finds the drums Louis's march did beat. Shake then the room, and all his curtains tear And with blue streaks infect the taper clear, While the pale ghosts his eye does fixed admire Of grandsire Harry and of Charles his sire. Harry sits down, and in his open side The grisly wound reveals of which he died, And ghastly Charles, turning his collar low, 102 The purple thread about his neck does show, Then whispering to his son in words unheard, Through the locked door both of them disappeared. The wondrous night the pensive King revolves, And rising straight on Hyde's disgrace resolves. At his first step, he Castlemaine does find, Bennet, and Coventry, as 't were designed; And they, not knowing, the same thing propose Which his hid mind did in its depths enclose. Through their feigned speech their secret hearts he knew: To her own husband, Castlemaine untrue; False to his master Bristol, Arlington; And Coventry, falser than anyone, Who to the brother, brother would betray, Nor therefore trusts himself to such as they. His Father's ghost, too, whispered him one note, That who does cut his purse will cut his throat, But in wise anger he their crimes forbears, As thieves reprived for executioners; While Hyde provoked, his foaming tusk does whet, To prove them traitors and himself the Pett. Painter, adieu! How well our arts agree, Poetic picture, painted poetry; But this great work is for our Monarch fit, And henceforth Charles only to Charles shall sit. His master-hand the ancients shall outdo, Himself the painter and the poet too. To the King So his bold tube, man to the sun applied And spots unknown to the bright star descried, Showed they obscure him, while too near they please And seem his courtiers, are but his disease. Through optic trunk the planet seemed to hear, And hurls them off e'er since in his career. And you, Great Sir, that with him empire share, Sun of our world, as he the Charles is there, Blame not the Muse that brought those spots to sight, 103 Which in you splendour hid, corrode your light: (Kings in the country oft have gone astray Nor of a peasant scorned to learn the way.) Would she the unattended throne reduce, Banishing love, trust, ornament, and use, Better it were to live in cloister's lock, Or in fair fields to rule the easy flock. She blames them only who the court restrain And where all England serves, themselves would reign. Bold and accursed are they that all this while Have strove to isle our Monarch from his isle, And to improve themselves, on false pretence, About the Common-Prince have raised a fence; The kingdom from the crown distinct would see And peel the bark to burn at last the tree. (But Ceres corn, and Flora is the spring, Bacchus is wine, the country is the King.) Not so does rust insinuating wear, Nor powder so the vaulted bastion tear, Nor earthquake so an hollow isle o'er whelm As scratching courtiers undermine a realm, And through the palace's foundations bore, Burrowing themselves to hoard their guilty store. The smallest vermin make the greatest waste, And a poor warren once a city rased. But they, whom born to virtue and to wealth, Nor guilt to flattery binds, nor want to wealth, Whose generous conscience and whose courage high Does with clear counsels their large souls supply; That serve the King with their estates and care, And, as in love, on Parliaments can stare, (Where few the number, choice is there less hard): Give us this court, and rule without a guard. ~ Andrew Marvell,

328:The Libelle Of Englyshe Polycye Here beginneth the Prologe of the processe of the Libelle of Englyshe polycye, exhortynge alle Englande to kepe the see enviroun and namelye the narowe see, shewynge whate profete commeth thereof and also whate worshype and salvacione to Englande and to alle Englyshe menne. The trewe processe of Englysh polycye Of utterwarde to kepe thys regne in rest Of oure England, that no man may denye Ner say of soth but it is one the best, Is thys, as who seith, south, north, est and west Cheryshe marchandyse, kepe thamyralte, That we bee maysteres of the narowe see. For Sigesmonde the grete Emperoure, Whyche yet regneth, whan he was in this londe Wyth kynge Herry the vte, prince of honoure, Here moche glorye, as hym thought, he founde, A myghty londe, whyche hadde take on honde To werre in Fraunce and make mortalite, And ever well kept rounde aboute the see. And to the kynge thus he seyde, 'My brothere', Whan he perceyved too townes, Calys and Dovere, 'Of alle youre townes to chese of one and other To kepe the see and sone for to come overe, To werre oughtwardes and youre regne to recovere, Kepe these too townes sure to youre mageste As youre tweyne eyne to kepe the narowe see'. For if this see be kepte in tyme of werre, Who cane here passe withought daunger and woo? Who may eschape, who may myschef dyfferre? What marchaundy may forby be agoo? For nedes hem muste take truse every foo, Flaundres and Spayne and othere, trust to me, Or ellis hyndered alle for thys narowe see. 949 Therfore I caste me by a lytell wrytinge To shewe att eye thys conclusione, For concyens and for myne acquytynge Ayenst God, and ageyne abusyon And cowardyse and to oure enmyes confusione; For iiij. thynges oure noble sheueth to me, Kyng, shype and swerde and pouer of the see. Where bene oure shippes, where bene oure swerdes become? Owre enmyes bid for the shippe sette a shepe. Allas, oure reule halteth, hit is benome. Who dare weel say that lordeshype shulde take kepe, (I wolle asaye, thoughe myne herte gynne to wepe, To do thys werke) yf we wole ever the, For verry shame to kepe aboute the see? Shall any prynce, what so be hys name, Wheche hathe nobles moche lyche to oures, Be lorde of see and Flemmynges to oure blame Stoppe us, take us and so make fade the floures Of Englysshe state and disteyne oure honnoures? For cowardyse, allas, hit shulde so be; Therfore I gynne to wryte now of the see. Of the commodytees of Spayne and of Flaundres. The fyrste chapitle. Knowe welle all men that profites in certayne Commodytes called commynge oute of Spayne And marchandy, who so wyll wete what that is, Bene fygues, raysyns, wyne, bastarde and dates, And lycorys, Syvyle oyle and also grayne, Whyte Castell sope and wax is not in vayne, Iren, wolle, wadmole, gotefel, kydefel also, (For poyntmakers full nedefull be the ij.) Saffron, quiksilver; wheche Spaynes marchandy Is into Flaundres shypped full craftylye Unto Bruges as to here staple fayre. The havene of Sluse they have for here repayre, 950 Wheche is cleped the Swyne, thro shyppes gydynge, Where many wessell and fayre arne abydynge. But these merchandes wyth there shyppes greet, And suche chaffare as they bye and gette By the weyes, most nede take one honde By the costes to passe of oure Englonde Betwyxt Dover and Calys, thys is no doute. Who can weell ellis suche matere bringe aboute? And whenne these seyde marchauntz discharged be Of marchaundy in Flaundres neere the see, Than they be charged agayn wyth marchaundy That to Flaundres longeth full rychelye, Fyne clothe of Ipre, that named is better than oures, Cloothe of Curtryke, fyne cloothe of all colours, Moche fustyane and also lynen cloothe. But ye Flemmyngis, yf ye be not wrothe, The grete substaunce of youre cloothe at the fulle Ye wot ye make hit of oure Englissh wolle. Thanne may hit not synke in mannes brayne But that hit most, this marchaundy of Spayne, Bothe oute and inne by oure coostes passe? He that seyth nay in wytte is lyche an asse. Thus if thys see werre kepte, I dare well sayne, Wee shulde have pease with tho growndes tweyne; For Spayne and Flaundres is as yche othere brothere, And nethere may well lyve wythowghten othere. They may not lyven to mayntene there degrees Wythoughten oure Englysshe commodytees, Wolle and tynne, for the wolle of Englonde Susteyneth the comons Flemmynges I understonde. Thane, yf Englonde wolde hys wolle restreyne Frome Flaundres, thys foloweth in certayne, Flaundres of nede muste wyth us have pease Or ellis he is distroyde wythowghten lees. Also, yef Flaundres thus distroyed bee, Some marchaundy of Spayne wolle nevere ithe. For distroyed hit is, and as in cheffe The wolle of Spayne hit cometh not to preffe But if it be tosed and menged well Amonges Englysshe wolle the gretter delle; For Spayneshe wolle in Flaundres draped is And evere hath be that mene have mynde of this. 951 And yet woll is one the cheffe marchaundy That longeth to Spayne, who so woll aspye; Hit is of lytell valeue, trust unto me, Wyth Englysshe woll but if it menged be. Thus, if the see be kepte, then herkene hedere, Yf these ij. londes comene not togedere, So that the flete of Flaundres passe nought, That in the narowe see it be not brought Into the Rochell to feche the fumose wyne, Nere into Britounse bay for salt so fyne, What is than Spayne, what is Flaundres also? As who seyth, nought; there thryfte is alle ago. For the lytell londe of Flaundres is But a staple to other londes iwys, And all that groweth in Flaundres, greyn and sede, May not a moneth fynde hem mete of brede. What hath thenne Flaundres, be Flemmynges leffe or lothe, But a lytell madere and Flemmyshe cloothe? By draperinge of oure wolle in substaunce Lyvene here comons, this is here governaunce, Wythoughten whyche they may not leve at ease; Thus moste hem sterve or wyth us most have peasse. Of the commoditees of Portingalle. The ij. capitle. The marchaundy also of Portyngale To dyverse londes torneth into sale. Portyngalers wyth us have trought on hande, Whose marchaundy cometh muche into Englande. They bene oure frendes wyth there commoditez, And wee Englysshe passen into there countrees. Here londe hathe oyle, wyne, osey, wex and greyne, Fygues, reysyns, hony and cordeweyne, Dates and salt hydes and suche marchaundy. And if they wolde to Flaundres passe forth bye, They schulde not be suffrede ones ner twyes For supportynge of oure cruell enmyes, That is to saye Flemmynges wyth here gyle, For chaungeable they are in lytel whyle. Than I conclude by resons many moo, Yf wee sufferede nethere frende nere foo, What for enmyes and so supportynge, 952 To passe forby us in tyme of werrynge, (Sethe oure frendys woll not bene in causse Of oure hyndrenge, yf reason lede thys clausse) Than nede frome Flaundres pease of us be sought, And othere londes shulde seche pease, doute nought; For Flaundres is staple, as men tell me, To alle nacyons of Crystiante. The commodytes of Pety Brytayne, wyth here revers on the see. The iij. capitle. Forthermore to wryten I hame fayne Somwhate spekynge of the Lytell Bretayne. Commodite therof there is and was Salt and wynes, crestclothe and canvasse; And the londe of Flaunderes sekerly Is the staple of there marchaundy, Wheche marchaundy may not passe awey But by the coste of Englonde, this is no nay. And of thys Bretayn, who so trewth levys, Are the gretteste rovers and the gretteste thevys That have bene in the see many a yere; And that oure marchauntes have bowght alle to dere. For they have take notable gode of oures On thys seyde see, these false coloured pelours, Called of Seynt Malouse and elles where, Wheche to there duke none obeysaunce woll bere. Wyth suche colours we have bene hindred sore, And fayned pease is called no werre herefore. Thus they have bene in dyverse costes manye Of oure England, mo than reherse can I, In Northfolke coostes and othere places aboute, And robbed and brente and slayne by many a routte; And they have also raunsouned toune by toune, That into the regnes of bost have ronne here soune, Whyche hathe bene ruthe unto thys realme and shame. They that the see shulde kepe are moche to blame; For Brytayne is of easy reputasyone, And Seynt Malouse turneth hem to reprobacione. A storie of kynge Edwarde the iiide hys ordynaunce for Bretayne. Here brynge I in a storye to me lente, 953 That a goode squyere in tyme of parlemente Toke unto me well wrytene in a scrowe, That I have comonde bothe wyth hygh and lowe; Of whyche all mene accordene into one That hit was done not monye yeris agone, But whene that noble kyng Edwarde the thride Regned in grace ryght thus hit betyde. For he hadde a manere gelozye To hys marchauntes and lowede hem hartelye. He felt the weyes to reule well the see, Whereby marchauntes myght have prosperite. Therfore Harflewe and Houndflewe dyd he makene, And grete werres that tyme were undertakene Betwyx the kynge and the duke of Bretayne. At laste to falle to pease bothe were they feyne, Upon the whyche, made by convencione, Oure marchaundys they made hem redy boune Towarde Brytayne to lede here marchaundye, Wenynge hem frendes, and wente forthe boldelye. But sone anone oure marchaundes were itake, And wee spede nevere the better for treuse sake; They loste here goode, here navy and spendynge. But when there compleynte come unto the kynge, Then wex he wrothe and to the duke he sente And compleyned that such harme was hente By convencione and pease made so refused. Whiche duke sent ageyne and hym excused, Rehersynge that the Mount of Seynte Michell And Seynt Malouse wolde nevere a dele Be subject unto his governaunce Ner be undere hys ob빳aunce, And so they did withowten hym that dede. But whan the kynge anone had takene hede, He in his herte set a jugemente, Wythoute callynge of ony parlemente Or grete tary to take longe avyse; To fortefye anone he dyd devyse Of Englysshe townes iij., that is to seye Derthmouth, Plymmouth, the thyrde it is Foweye, And gaffe hem helpe and notable puissaunce, Wyth insistence set them in governaunce Upon the Pety Bretayn for to werre. 954 Than gode seemenne wolde no more deferre, But bete theme home and made they myght not route, Tooke prysoners and lernyd hem for to loutte. And efte the duke in semblable wyse Wrote to the kynge as he fyrste dyd devyse, Hym excusynge; bot oure meny wode Wyth grete poure passed overe the floode And werred forth into the dukes londe And had neygh destrued free and bonde. But whan the duke knewe that tho townes thre Shulde have loste all hys natale cuntree, He undertoke by sewrte trewe not false For Mount Seynt Mychelle and Seinte Malouse als And othere partees of the Lytell Bretaynne, Whych to obeye, as seyde was, were nott fayne. The duke hymselfe for all dyd undertake, Wyth all hys herte a full pease dyd he make, So that in all the lyffe tyme of the kynge Marchaundes hadde pease wythowtene werrynge. He made a statute for Lumbardes in thys londe, That they shulde in no wysse take on honde Here to enhabite, to charge and to dyscharge, But xl. dayes, no more tyme had they large. Thys goode kynge be wytt of suche appreffe Kepte hys marchauntes and the see fro myscheffe. Of the commodites of Scotelonde and drapynge of here woll in Flaundres. The iiij. chapitle. Moreover of Scotlonde the commoditees Ar felles, hydes and of wolle the fleesse; And alle these muste passe bye us aweye Into Flaundres by Englonde, sothe to saye. And all here woll was draped for to sell In the townes of Poperynge and of Bell, Whyche my lorde of Glowcestre wyth ire For here falshede dyd sett upon a fyre. And yett they of Bell and Poperynge Cowde never draper her woll for any thynge But if they hadde Englysshe woll wythall, 955 Oure godely woll that is so generall, Nedeful to hem in Spayne and Scotlande als And othere costis; this sentence is not fals. Ye worthi marchauntes, I do it upon yow; I have this lerned, ye wott well where and howe. Ye wotte the staple of that marchaundye Of this Scotlonde is Flaundres sekerlye. And the Scottes bene chargede, knowene at the eye, Out of Flaundres wyth lytyll mercerye And grete plentee of haburdasshers ware; And halfe here shippes wyth carte whelys bare And wyth barowes ar laden as in substaunce. Thus moste rude ware be in here chevesaunce; So they may not forbere thys Flemyssh londe. Therefor if we wolde manly take on honde To kepe thys see fro Flaundres and fro Spayne And fro Scotelonde lych as fro Pety Bretayne, Wee schulde ryght sone have pease for all here bostes, For they muste nede passe by oure Englysshe costes. Of the commoditees of Pruse and Hyghe Duchemenne and Esterlynges. The v. chapitle. Now goo wee forthe to the commoditees That cometh fro Pruse in too manere degrees; For too manere peple have suche use, This is to sayen Highe Duchmene of Pruse And Esterlynges, whiche myghte not be forborne Oute of Flaundres but it were verrely lorne. For they bringe in the substaunce of the beere That they drynken fele to goode chepe not dere. Ye have herde that twoo Flemmynges togedere Wol undertake, or they goo ony whethere Or they rise onys, to drinke a barell fulle Of gode berkyne; so sore they hale and pulle, Undre the borde they pissen as they sitte. This cometh of covenaunt of a worthy witte. Wythoute Calise in ther buttere they cakked, Whan they flede home and when they leysere lakked To holde here sege; they wente lyke as a doo, Wel was that Flemmynge that myght trusse and goo. For fere they turned bake and hyede faste, 956 Milorde of Gloucestre made hem so agaste Wyth his commynge and sought hem in here londe And brente and slowe as he hadde take on honde, So that oure enmyse durste not byde nor stere; They flede to mewe, they durste no more appere. [Thene his meyn頳eidene that he was dede. Tille we were goo, ther was no bettir reede; For cowardy knyghthode was aslepe, As dede there duke in mewe they dide hym kepe,] Rebukede sore for evere so shamefully Unto here uttere everelastinge vylany. After bere and bacone odre gode commodites ensuene. Now bere and bacone bene fro Pruse ibroughte Into Flaundres, as loved and fere isoughte, Osmonde, coppre, bowstaffes, stile and wex, Peltreware and grey, pych, terre, borde and flex, And Coleyne threde, fustiane and canvase, Carde, bokeram; of olde tyme thus it wase. But the Flemmynges amonge these thinges dere In comen lowen beste bacon and bere. [Thus are they hoggishe and drynkyn wele ataunte. Farewel, Flemmynges, hay haro, hay avaunt.] Also Pruse mene maken here aventure Of plate of sylvere, of wegges gode and sure In grete plente, whiche they bringe and bye Oute of the londes of B顬me and Hungrye; Whiche is encrese ful grete unto thys londe. And thei bene laden agayn, I understonde, Wyth wollen clothe all manere of coloures By dyers crafted ful dyverse that bene ours. And they aventure ful gretly unto the baye For salte, that is nedefull wythoute naye. Thus, if they wolde not oure frendys bee, Wee myght lyghtlye stope hem in the see. They shulde not passe oure stremes wythoutene leve; It wolde not be but if we shulde hem greve. Of the commoditees of the Januays and here grette karekkys. The vi. chapitle. The Janueys comyne in sondre wyses 957 Into this londe wyth dyverse marchaundyses In grete karrekkis arrayde wythouten lake Wyth clothes of golde; silke and pepir blake They bringe wyth hem and of woad grete plente, Woll-oyle, wood-aschen by vessell in the see, Coton, roche-alum and gode golde of Jene. And they be charged wyth woll ageyne, I wene, And wollene clothe of owres of colours all. And they aventure, as ofte it dothe byfall, Into Flaundres wyth suche thynge as they bye; That is here cheffe staple sykerlye. And if they wold be oure full ennemyse, They shulde not passe oure stremez with marchaundyse. The commodites and nycetees of Venicyans and Florentynes with there galees. The vij. capitle. The grete galees of Venees and Florence Be wel ladene wyth thynges of complacence, All spicerye and other grocers ware, Wyth swete wynes, all manere of chaffare, Apes and japes and marmusettes taylede, Nifles, trifles, that litell have availed, And thynges wyth whiche they fetely blere oure eye, Wyth thynges not endurynge that we bye. For moche of thys chaffare that is wastable Mighte be forborne for dere and dyssevable; And that I wene as for infirmitees In oure Englonde are suche comoditees Wythowten helpe of any other londe, Whych ben by wytte and prattike bothe ifounde, That all ill humors myght be voyded sure, Whych that we gadre wyth oure Englysh cure, That wee shulde have no nede to skamonye, Turbit, euforbe, correcte, diagredie, Rubarbe, sen鬠and yet they bene to nedefulle. But I knowe wele thynges also spedefull That growene here as these thynges forseyde. Lett of this matere no mane be dysmayde, But that a man may voyde infirmytee Wythoute drugges fet fro beyonde the see. And yf there shulde excepte be ony thynge, 958 It were but sugre, truste to my seyinge; And he that trustith not to my sentence Lett hym better serche experience. In this mater I woll not ferthere prese; Who so not beleveth let hym leve and cease. Thus these galeise for this lykynge ware And etynge ware bere hens oure beste chaffare, Clothe, woll and tynne, whiche, as I seyde beforne, Oute of this londe werste myght be forborne; For eche other londe of necessite Have grete nede to by some of the thre. And wee resseyve of hem into this coste Ware and chaffare that lyghtlye wol be loste. And wolde Ihesu that oure lordis wolde Considre this wel, both the yonge and olde, Namelye the olde that have experience, That myghte the yonge exorten to prudence. What harme, what hurte and what hinderaunce Is done to us unto oure grete grevaunce Of suche londes and of suche nacions, As experte men knowe by probacions! By wretynge ar discured oure counsayles And false coloured alwey the countertayles Of oure enmyes, that dothe us hinderinge Unto oure goodes, oure realme and to the kynge, As wysse men have shewed well at eye, And alle this is colowred by marchaundye. Ane emsampelle of deseytte. Also they bere the golde oute of thys londe And souke the thryfte awey oute of oure honde; As the waffore soukethe honye fro the bee, So myn? oure commodite. Now woll ye here how they in Cotteswolde Were wonte to borowe, or they schulde be solde, Here wolles gode (as als fro yere to yere Of clothe and tynne they did in lych manere), And in her galeys schyppe this marchaundye; Then sone at Venice of them men wol it bye. 959 They utterne ther the chaffare be the payse, And lyghtlye also ther they make her reys. And whan tho gode bene at Venice solde, Than to carrye her chaunge they ben full bolde Into Flaundres; whan they this money have, They wyll it profre, ther sotelte to save, To Englysshe marchaundis to yeve it oute by eschaunge. To be paide agayne they make it nothing straunge Here in Englonde, semynge for the better, At the receyvyng and sighte of a letter, By iiij. penyes losse in the noble rounde, That is xij. penyes in the golden pounde. And yf we woll have of paymente A full monythe, than moste hym nedes assente To viij. penyes losse, that is shellynges tweyne In the Englysshe pounde; as efte sones agayne For ij. monythes xij. penyes muste he paye. In the Englysshe pounde what is that to seye But iij. shyllinges? So that in pounde felle For hurte and harme harde is wyth hem to delle. And whene Englysshe marchaundys have contente This eschaunge in Englonde of assente, Than these seyde Venecians have in wone And Florentynes to bere here golde sone Overe the see into Flaundres ageyne; And thus they lyve in Flaundres, sothe to sayne, And in London wyth suche chevesaunce That men call usure to oure losse and hinderaunce. Anothere exemple of disceytte. Now lestene welle how they made us a baleys, Whan they borowed at the toune of Caleys, As they were wonte, ther woll that was hem lente; For yere and yere they schulde make paymente, And sometyme als for too yere and too yere. This was fayre lone; but yett woll ye here How they to Bruges wolde her wolles carye And for hem take paymente wythowten tarye And sell it faste for redy money in honde (For fifty pounde of losse thei wolde not wonde In a thowsande pounde) and lyve therebye 960 Tyll the day of paymente easylye, Some gayne ageyne in exchaunge makynge, Full lyke usurie as men make undertakynge. Than whan thys payment of a thowsande pounde Was well contente, they shulde have chaffare sounde Yff they wolde fro the staple at the full Reseyve ageyne ther thousande pounde in woll. [And thus they wolde, if ye will so beleve, Wypen our nose with our owne sleve. Thow this proverbe be homly and undew, Yet be liklynesse it is for soth full trew.] In Cotteswolde also they ryde aboute And al Englonde and bien wythouten doute What them liste wythe fredome and fraunchise, More then we Englisshe may getyn in any wyse. But wolde God that wythoute lenger delayse These galeise were unfraught in xl. daies And in tho xl. dayes were charged ageyne, And that they myght be put to certeyne To go to oste, as wee there wyth hem doo. It were expediente that they did right soo, As wee do there; for, if the kynge wolde itt, A! what worschip wold fall to Englysshe witte! What profite also to oure marchaundye, Whiche wolde of nede be cherisshed hartelye! For I wolde wete why nowe owre navey fayleth, Whan many a foo us at oure dorre assayleth, Now in these dayes that, if there come a nede, What navey shulde wee have it is to drede. In Denmarke were full noble conquerours In tyme passed, full worthy werriours, Whiche when they had here marchaundes destroyde, To poverte they fell, thus were they noyede, And so they stonde at myscheffe at this daye. This lerned I late well wryten, this is no naye. Therefore beware, I can no better wylle, Yf grace it woll, of other mennys perylle. For yef marchaundes were cherysshede to here spede, We were not lykelye to fayle in ony nede; Yff they bee riche, thane in prosperite Schalbe oure londe, lordes and comonte. And in worship nowe think I on the sonne 961 Of marchaundy Richarde of Whitingdone, That loodes sterre and chefe chosen floure. Whate hathe by hym oure England of honoure, And whate profite hathe bene of his richesse, And yet lasteth dayly in worthinesse, That penne and papere may not me suffice Him to describe, so high he was of prise, Above marchaundis to sett him one the beste! I can no more, but God have hym in reste. Nowe the principalle matere. What reason is it that wee schulde go to oste In there cuntrees and in this Englisshe coste They schulde not so, but have more liberte Than wee oure selfe? Now, all so mot I the, I wolde men shulde to geftes take no hede, That lettith oure thinge publique for to spede. For this wee see well every day at eye, Geftes and festes stopene oure pollicye. Now se that fooles bene eyther they or wee; But evere wee have the warse in this contre. Therefore lett hem unto ooste go wyth us here, Or be wee free wyth hem in like manere In there cuntres; and if it woll not bee, Compelle them unto ooste and ye shall see Moche avauntage and muche profite arise, Moche more than I write can in any wyse. Of oure charge and discharge at here martes. Conseyve well here that Englyssh men at martes Be discharged, for all her craftes and artes, In the Braban of all here marchaundy In xiiij. dayes and ageyne hastely In the same dayes xiiij. are charged efte. And yf they byde lengere, alle is berefte; Anone they schulde forfet here godes all Or marchaundy, it schulde no bettere fall. And wee to martis of Braban charged bene Wyth Englyssh clothe, full gode and feyre to seyne. Wee bene ageyne charged wyth mercerye, 962 Haburdasshere ware and wyth grocerye. To whyche martis, that Englissh men call feyres, Iche nacion ofte maketh here repayeres. Englysshe and Frensh, Lumbardes, Januayes, Cathᬯnes, theder they take here wayes; Scottes, Spaynardes, Iresshmen there abydes, Whiche grete plente bringen of salte hydes. And I here saye that wee in Braban bye Flaundres and Seland more of marchaundy In comon use then done all other nacions; This have I herde of marchaundes relacions. And yff the Englysshe be not in the martis, They bene febell and as noughte bene here partes; For they bye more and more fro purse put oute For marchaundy than all the othere route. Kepte than the see, shyppes schulde not bringe ne feche, And than the carreys wolde not theder streche; And so tho martes wolde full evel thee, Yf wee manly kepte aboute the see. Of the commoditees of Brabane and Selande and Henaulde and marchaundyses caryed by londe to the martes. The viij. chapitle. The marchaundy of Brabane and Selande Be madre and woade, that dyers take one hande To dyen wythe, garleke and onyons, And saltfysche als for husbond and comons. But they of Holonde at Caleyse byene oure felles And oure wolles that Englysshe men hem selles, And the chefare that Englysshe men do byene In the martis, that no man may denyene, It is not made in Brabane that cuntre. It commeth frome oute of Henaulde, not be the see But all by londe by carris and frome Fraunce, Burgoyne, Coleyn, Camerete in substaunce. Therfore at martis yf there be a restereynte, Men seyne pleynly, that liste no fables peynte, Yf Englysshe men be wythdrawene awey, Is grete rebuke and losse to here affraye, As thoughe wee sent into the londe of Fraunce Tenne thousande peple, men of gode puissaunce, To werre unto her hynderynge multiphary; 963 So bene oure Englysshe marchauntes necessary. Yf it be thus assay and ye schall weten Of men experte by whome I have this wryten. For seyde is that this carted marchaundye Drawethe in valew as moche verralye As all the gode that commethe in shippes thedyre, Whyche Englisshe men bye moste and bryng it hedire; For here martis bene feble, shame to saye, But if Englisshe men thedir dresse here waye. Conclusione of this deppendinge of kepinge of the see. Than I conclude, yff nevere so moche by londe Werre by carres ibrought unto there honde, Yff well the see were kepte in governaunce, They shulde by see have no delyveraunce. Wee shulde hem stoppe and wee shulde hem destroy, As prysoners wee shulde hem brynge to noy. And so wee shulde of oure cruell enmysse Maken oure frendes for fere of marchaundysse, Yff they were not suffred for to passe Into Flaundres; but wee be frayle as glasse And also bretyll, not tough, nevere abydynge. But when grace shyneth sone are wee slydynge; Wee woll it not reseyve in any wysse, That maken luste, envye and covetysse. Expoune me this and ye shall sothe it fynde; Bere it aweye and kepe it in youre mynde. The nayle of thys conclusione. Than shulde worshyp unto oure noble be, In feet and forme to lorde and mageste. Liche as the seale, the grettest of thys londe, On the one syde hathe, as I understonde, A prince rydynge wyth hys swerde idrawe, In the other syde sittynge, sothe is this sawe, Betokenynge goode reule and ponesshynge In verry dede of Englande by the kynge (And hit is so, God blessyd mote he bee); So one lychewysse I wolde were on the see. By the noble that swerde schulde have powere 964 And the shippes one the see aboute us here. What nedeth a garlande whyche is made of ivye Shewe a taverne wynelesse? Nowe, also thryve I, Yf men were wyse, the Frenshemen and Flemmynge Shulde bere no state in the see by werrynge. Of Hankyne Lyons. Thane Hankyn Lyons shulde not be so bolde To stoppe us and oure shippes for to holde Unto oure shame; he hadde be betene thens. Allas, allas, why dede wee this offence Fully to shende the olde Englisshe fames And the profittes of Englonde and there names? Why is this powdre called of covetise Wyth fals colours caste thus beforne oure eyes? That, if goode men called werryours Wolde take in hand for the comon socours To purge the see unto oure grete avayle And wynne hem gode, and to have up the sayle And one oure enmyes there lives to juparte, So that they myght there pryses well departe, As reason wolde, justice and equite, To make this lande have lordeshyp of the sea, Than shall Lumbardes and other feyned frendes Make her chalenges by coloure false of fendes And sey ther chafare in the shippes is And chalenge all. Loke yf this be amisse. For thus may all that men have bought to sore Ben sone excused and saved by false coloure. Beware ye men that bere the grete on honde, That they destroy the polycye of this londe By gifte and goode and the fyne golden clothes And silke and othere. Sey ye not this sothe is? Bot if ye hadde verry experience That they take mede wyth pryve violence, Carpettis and thynges of price and of pleysaunce, Whereby stopped shulde be gode governaunce, And if it were as ye seye unto me, Than wolde I seye, allas, cupidite, That they that have here lyves put in drede Schalbe sone oute of wynnynge al for mede, 965 And lese here costes and brought to poverte, That they shall nevere have luste to go to see. Sterynge to an ordinaunce ayens coloure of maynteners and excusers. For thys colour, that muste be seyde alofte And be declared of the grete fulle ofte, That oure seemen woll by many wyse Spoylle oure frendys in stede of oure enmyseFor thys coloure and Lumbardes mayntenaunce The kynge it nedeth to make an ordinaunce Wyth hys counsell, that may not fayle, I trowe, That frendes shuld frome enmyes well be knowe, Oure enmyes taken and oure frendes spared; The remedy of hem muste be declared. Thus may the see be kept now in no sele, For, if ought be taken, wotte ye weel, Wee have the strokes and enmyes have the wynnynge; But maynteners ar parteners of the synnynge. Wee lyve in luste and byde in covetyse; This is oure reule to mayntene marchaundyse, And polycye that we have on the see, And, but God helpe, it woll none other bee. Of the commoditees of Irelonde and policye and kepynge therof and conquerynge of wylde Iryshe, wyth an incident of Walys. The ix. chapitle. I caste to speke of Irelonde but a lytelle. Commoditees of it I woll entitell Hydes and fish, samon, hake and herynge; Irish wollen and lynyn cloth, faldynge, And marterns gode bene in here marchaundye; Hertys hydes and other hydes of venerye, Skynnes of oter, squerel and Irysh hare, Of shepe, lambe and fox is here chaffare, Felles of kydde and conyes grete plente. So that yf Irelond halpe us to kepe the see, Because the kynge clepid is rex Anglie And is dominus also Hibernie, Of old possessyd by progenitours, The Yrichemen have cause lyke to oures Oure londe and herres togedre to defende, 966 So that none enmye shulde hurte ne offende Yrelonde ne us, but as one comonte Shulde helpe to kepe well aboute the see. For they have havenes grete and godely bayes, Sure, wyde and depe and of ryght gode assayes Att Waterforde and coostes monye one; And, as men seyn, in England be there none Better havenes for shyppes in to ryde, Ne none more sure for enmyes to abyde. Why speke I thus so muche of Yrelonde? For also muche as I can understonde, It is fertyle for thynge that there do growe And multiplyen, loke who so lust to knowe, So large, so gode and so comodyouse That to declare is straunge and merveylouse. For of sylvere and golde there is the oore Amonge the wylde Yrishe, though they be pore, For they ar rude and can thereone no skylle; So that, if we had there pese and gode wylle To myne and fyne and metall for to pure, In wylde Yrishe myght we fynde the cure. As in Londone seyth a juellere, Whych brought from thens gold oore to us here, Wherof was fyned metalle gode and clene, That at the touche no bettere coude be sene. Nowe here beware and hertly take entente, As ye woll answere at the laste jugemente, That, but for sloughe and for recheleshede, Ye remembere and wyth all youre myghte take hede To kepen Yrelond that it be not loste, For it is a boterasse and a poste Undre England, and Wales is another. God forbede but eche were othere brothere, Of one ligeaunce dewe unto the kynge. But I have pite in gode feythe of thys thynge, That I shall saye wythe gode avysemente I ham aferde that Yrelonde wol be shente; It muste awey, it woll be loste frome us, But if thow helpe, thow Ihesu graciouse, And yeve us grase all sloughte to leve bysyde. 967 For myche thynge in my harte is ihyde, Whyche in another tretyse I caste to wrytte, Made all onelye for that soyle and site Of fertile Yerelonde, whiche myghte not be forborne But if Englond were nyghe as gode as lorne. God forebede that a wylde Yrishe wyrlynge Shulde be chosene for to be there kynge Aftere here conqueste of oure laste puisshaunce And hyndere us by other londes allyaunce. Wyse mene seyne, whyche folyne not ne dotyne, That wylde Yrishe so muche of grounde have gotyne There upon us, as lykelynesse may be, Lyke as England to shires two or thre Of thys oure londe is made comparable; So wylde Yrishe have wonne on us unable It to defenden and of none powere, That oure grounde there is a lytell cornere To all Yrelonde in treue comparisone. It nedeth no more this matere to expone. Which if it be loste, as Criste Ihesu forbede, Farewell Wales; than Englond cometh to drede For alliaunce of Scotlonde and of Spayne And other moo, as the Pety Bretayne, And so to have enmyes environ aboute. I beseche God that some prayers devoute Mutt lett the seyde apparaunce probable. Thys is disposed wythought feyned fable, But alle onely for parelle that I see Thus ymynent as lykely for to be. And well I wott that frome hens to Rome, And, as men sey, in alle Cristendome, There ys no grounde ne land to Yreland lyche, So large, so gode, so plenteouse, so riche, That to this worde Dominus dothe longe. Than me semyth that ryght were and not wronge To gete that lond, and it were piteouse To us to lese thys hygh name Dominus; And all this worde Dominus of name Shulde have the grounde obeisaunte, wylde and tame, That name and peple togedere myght accorde, And all the grounde be subjecte to the lorde. And that it is possible to be subjecte 968 Unto the kynge well shall it be detecte In the lytell boke that I of spake; I trowe reson all this woll undertake. And I knowe well with Irland howe it stant. Allas, fortune begynneth so to scant, Or ellis grace, that dede is governaunce; For so mynusshyth partyes of oure puissaunce In that land that we lesen every yere More grounde and more, as well as ye may here. I herde a man speke unto me full late, Whyche was a lorde and of ful grete astate, That exspenses of one yere don in Fraunce, Werred on men well wylled of puissaunce Thys seyde grounde of Yrelonde to conquere, (And yit because Englonde myght not forbere These seyde exspenses gedred in one yere, But in iij. yere or iiij. gadred up here) Myght wynne Yrelonde to a fynall conquest In one soole yere, to sett us all in reste. And how sone wolde thys be payde ageyne, What were it worthe yerely, yf wee not feyne, I wylle declaren, who so luste to looke, I trowe ful pleynly in my lytell boke. But covetyse and singularite Of owne profite, envye, carnalite Hathe done us harme and doo us every daye, And mustres made that shame it is to saye, Oure money spente all to lytell avayle; And oure enmyes so gretely done prevayle, That what harme may falle and overthwerte I may unneth wrytte more for sore of herte. An exhortacione to the kepynge of Walys. Beware of Walys, Criste Ihesu mutt us kepe, That it make not oure childes childe to wepe, Ne us also, if so it go his waye By unwarenesse; sethen that many a day Men have be ferde of here rebellione By grete tokenes and ostentacione. Seche the menys wyth a discrete avyse, And helpe that they rudely not aryse 969 For to rebellen; that Criste it forbede Loke well aboute, for God wote we have nede, Unfayllyngly, unfeynynge and unfeynte, That conscience for slought you not atteynte. Kepe well that grounde for harme that may ben used, Or afore God mutt ye bene accused. Of the comodius stokfysshe of Yselonde and kepynge of the see, namely the narowe see, wyth an incident of the kepynge of Calyse. The tenne chapitule. Of Yseland to wryte is lytill nede Save of stokfische; yit for sothe in dede Out of Bristow and costis many one Men have practised by nedle and by stone Thiderwardes wythine a lytel whylle, Wythine xij. yeres, and wythoute parille, Gone and comen, as men were wonte of olde Of Scarborowgh, unto the costes colde. And now so fele shippes thys yere there were That moche losse for unfraught they bare. Yselond myght not make hem to be fraught Unto the hawys; this moche harme they caught. Thene here I ende of the comoditees For whiche grete nede is well to kepe the sees. Este and weste and sowthe and northe they be, And chefely kepe sharply the narowe see Betwene Dover and Caleise, and as thus That foes passe not wythought godewyll of us, And they abyde oure daunger in the lenghte, What for oure costis and Caleise in oure strenghte. An exortacion of the sure kepynge of Calise. And for the love of God and of his blisse Cherishe ye Caleise better than it is. See well therto and here the grete compleynte That trewe men tellen, that woll no lies peynte, And as ye knowe that writynge commyth from thens. Do not to England for sloughte so grete offens But that redressed it be for ony thynge, 970 Leste a songe of sorow that wee synge. For lytell wenythe the fole, who so myght chese, What harme it were gode Caleise for to lese, What woo it were for all this Englysshe grounde. Whiche well conceyved the emperoure Sigesmounde, That of all joyes made it one the moste That Caleise was soget unto Englyssh coste. Hym thought it was a jewel moste of alle, And so the same in latyn did it calle. And if ye woll more of Caleise here and knowe, I caste to writte wythine a litell scrowe, Lyke as I have done byforene by and bye In othir parties of oure pollicie. Loke well how harde it was at the firste to gete, And by my counsell lyghtly be it not lete. For, if wee leese it wyth shame of face, Wylfully it is, it is for lake of grace. Howe was Hareflewe cryed upon at Rone That it were likely for slought to be gone! How was it warened and cryed on in Englonde! I make recorde wyth this penne in myne honde, It was warened pleynly in Normandye And in England, and I thereone dyd crye. The worlde was deef, and it betid ryght soo. Farewell Hareflewe, leudely it was agoo. Now ware Caleise, for I can sey no bettere; My soule discharge I by this presente lettere. Aftere the chapitles of commoditees of dyuerse landes shewyth the conclusione of kepynge of the see environ by a storye of kynge Edgare and ij. incidentes of kynge Edwarde the iijde and kynge Herry the vth. The xi. chapitle. Now see well thane that in this rounde see To oure noble be paryformytee. Within the shypp is shewyd there the sayle And oure kynge of royall apparaylle, Wyth swerde drawen, bryght, sharp and extente, For to chastisen enmyes vyolente; So shulde he be lorde of the see aboute, To kepe enmyes fro wythine and wythoute, And to be holde thorowgh Cristianyte Master and lorde environ of the see, 971 For all lyvinge men suche a prince to drede, Of suche a regne to be aferde indede. Thus prove I well that it was thus of olde, Whiche by a cronicle anone shalbe tolde, Ryght curiouse (but I woll interprete Hit into Englishe as I did it gete) Of kynge Edgare, oo the moste merveyllouse Prince lyvynge, wytty and moste chevalrouse, So gode that none of his predecessours Was to hym lyche in prudens and honours. He was fort?and more gracious Then other before and more glorious; He was benethe no man in holinesse; He passed alle in vertuuse swetenesse. Of Englysshe kynges was none so commend᢬e To Englysshe men, ne lasse memori᢬e Than Cirus was to Perse by puissaunce; And as grete Charlis was to them of Fraunce, And as to Romains was grete Romulus, So was to England this worthy Edgarus. I may not write more of his worthynesse For lake of tyme ne of his holynesse, But to my mater I hym examplifie Of condicions tweyne of his policie. Wythine his land was one, this is no doute, And anothere in the see wythoute, That in the tyme of wynter and of vere, Whan boistous wyndes put seemen into fere, Wythine his lande aboute by all provinces He passyd thorowghe, perceyvynge his princes, Lordes and othir of the commontee, Who was oppressoure, and who to poverte Was drawe and broughte, and who was clene in lyffe, And who was falle by myscheffe and by stryffe Wyth overeledynge and extorcione; And gode and bad of eche condicione He aspied and his mynisters als, Who did trought and whiche of hem was fals, And how the ryght and lawes of his londe Were execute, and who durste take on honde To disobeye his statutes and decrees, And yf they were well kepte in all cuntrees. 972 Of these he made subtile investigacione By hys owyne espye and other mens relacione. Amonge othyr was his grete besines Well to bene ware that grete men of rycchesse And men of myght in citee ner in toune Shuld to the pore doo none oppressione. Thus was he wonte as in this wynter tyde One suche enserchise busily to abyde. This was his laboure for the publique thinge; This occupied a passynge holy kynge. Now to the purpose, in the somer fayre Of lusty season, whan clered was the eyre, He had redy shippes made by him before, Grete and huge, not fewe but manye a score, Full thre thousande and sex hundred also, Statelye inowgh on any see to goo. The cronicle seyth these shippes were full boisteous; Suche thinges longen to kynges victorious. In somere tide wolde he have in wone And in custome to be full redy sone Wyth multitude of men of gode array And instrumentis of werre of beste assay. Who coude hem well in ony wyse descrive? Hit were not lyght for ony man on lyve. Thus he and his wolde entre shippes grete, Habilementis havynge and the fete Of see werres, that joyfull was to see Suche a naveie and lord of mageste There present in persone hem amonge, To saile and rowe environ all alonge So regaliche aboute the Englisshe yle, To all straungeours a terroure and perille. Whose soune wente oute in all the world aboute Unto grete ferre of all that be wythoute, And exercise to knyghtes and his meyn鼢r> To hym longynge of his natall contr鬼br> (For corage muste of nede have exercise) Thus occupied for esshewynge of vise. This knewe the kynge, that policie espied; Wynter and somer he was thus occupied. And thus conclude I by auctorite 973 Of cronicle that environ the see Shulde bene oures subjecte unto the kynge, And he be lorde therof for ony thynge, For grete worship and for profite also, And to defende his londe fro every foo. That worthy kynge I leve, Edgar by name, And all the cronique of his worthy fame; Save onely this, I may not passe awey A word of myghty strenght til that I seye, That grauntyd hym God suche worship here For his meritis he was wythouten pere, That sumtyme at his grete festivite Kynges and yerles of many a contre And of provinces fele were there presente, And mony lordes come thidere by assente To his worship. But in a certayne daye He bade shippes be redy of arraye, For to visite seynte Jonys chyrche he lyste, Rowynge unto the gode holy Baptiste. He assyned to yerles, lordes, knyghtes Many shippes ryght godely to syghtes; And for hymselfe and for viij. kynges mo Subdite to hym he made kepe one of tho, A gode shipp, and entred into it Wyth tho viij. kynges, and doune did they sit. And eche of them an ore toke in honde At the ore holes, as I understonde, And he hymselfe satte in the shipp behynde As sterisman; it hym becam of kynde. Suche another rowynge, I dare well saye, Was not sene of princes many a day. Lo than how he on waters had the price, In land, in see, that I may not suffice To tell aright the magnanimite That this kynge Edgar had upon the see. An incident of the lorde of the see kynge Edwarde the thredde. Of kynge Edwarde I passe and his prowesse; On londe, on see ye knowe his worthynesse. 974 The siege of Caleise ye wote well all the mater, Rounde aboute by londe and by the water How it lasted not yeres many agoo, After the bataille of Crecy was idoo How it was closed environ aboute. Olde men sawe it whiche lyven, this is no doute. Olde knyghtis sey that the duke of Burgoyne, Late rebuked for all his golden coyne, Of shipp and see made no besegynge there. For wante of shippes, that durste not come for fere, It was no thynge beseged by the see; Thus calle they it no seage for honeste. Gonnes assayled, but assaute was there none, No sege but fuge; well was he that myght gone. This manere carpynge have knyghtes ferre in age, Experte of olde in this manere langage. But kynge Edwarde made a sege royall And wanne the toune, and in especiall The see was kepte and thereof he was lorde; Thus made he nobles coigned of recorde. In whose tyme was no navey in the see That myght wythstonde the power of hys mageste. The bataylle of Sluce ye may rede every day; How it was done I leve and go my way. Hit was so late done that ye it knowe, In comparison wythine a lytel throwe. For whiche to God yeve we honoure and glorye, For lorde of see the kynge was wyth vict󲹥. Anothere incident of kepynge of the see in the tyme of the merveillouse werroure and victorius prince kynge Herry the vth and of his grete shippes. And yf I shulde conclude al by the kynge Henry the fifte, what was hys purposynge Whan at Hampton he made the grete dromons, Which passed other grete shippes of all the comons, The Trinite, the Grace Dieu, the Holy Goste And other moo, whiche as now be loste? What hope ye was the kynges grette entente Of tho shippes and what in mynde he mente? It was not ellis but that he caste to be Lorde rounde aboute environ of the see. 975 And whan Harflew had his sege aboute, There came carikkys orrible, grete and stoute, In the narowe see wyllynge to abyde, To stoppe us there wyth multitude of pride. My lorde of Bedeforde came one and had the cure; Destroyde they were by that discomfiture, (This was after the kynge Hareflew had wonne, Whane oure enmyes to besege had begonne) That all was slayne or take by treue relacione To his worship and of his Englisshe nacione. Ther was presente the kynges chamburleyne At bothe batayles, whiche knowethe this in certayne; He can it tell other wyse than I. Aske hym and witt; I passe forthe hastelye. What had this kynge of high magnificens, Of grete corage, of wysdome and prudence, Provision, forewitte, audacite, Of fortitude, justice, agilite, Discrecion, subtile avisifenesse, Atemperaunce, noblesse and worthynesse, Science, proesce, devocion, equyte, Of moste estately magnanimite, Liche to Edgare and the seyd Edwarde, A braunche of bothe, lyche hem as in regarde! Where was on lyve man more victoriouse, And in so shorte tyme prince so mervelouse? By lande and see so well he hym acquite, To speke of hym I stony in my witte. Thus here I leve the kynge wyth his noblesse, Henry the fifte, wyth whome all my processe Of this trewe boke of the pure pollicie Of see kepinge entendynge victorie I leve endely, for aboute in the see No better was prince of strenuite. And if he had to this tyme lyved here, He had bene prince named wythouten pere; His grete shippes shulde have bene put in preffe Unto the ende that he mente of in cheffe. For doute it nat but that he wolde have be Lorde and master aboute the rounde see, 976 And kepte it sure, to stoppe oure enmyes hens, And wonne us gode and wysely brought it thens, That no passage shulde be wythought daungere And his licence on see to meve and stere. Of unit頳hewynge of oure kepynge of the see, wyth ane endely processe of pease by auctorite. The xij. chapitule. Now than, for love of Cryste and of his joye, Brynge yit Englande out of troble and noye; Take herte and witte and set a governaunce, Set many wittes wythouten variaunce To one acorde and unanimite Put to gode wylle for to kepe the see, Furste for worshyp and for profite also, And to rebuke of eche evyl-wylled foo. Thus shall richesse and worship to us longe, Than to the noble shall wee do no wronge, To bere that coigne in figure and in dede, To oure corage and to oure enmyes drede; For whiche they muste dresse hem to pease in haste, Or ellis there thrifte to standen and to waste, As this processe hathe proved by and bye, All by reason and experte policie, And by stories whiche preved well this parte, And elles I woll my lyffe put in jeparte. But many landes wolde seche her peace for nede; The see well kepte, it must be do for drede. Thus muste Flaundres for nede have unite And pease wyth us, it woll none other bee, Wythine shorte while, and ambassiatours Wolde bene here sone to trete for ther socours. This unit頩s to Goddes plesaunce, And pease after the werres variaunce; The ende of bataile is pease sikerlye, And power causeth pease finall verily. Kepe than the see abought in speciall, Whiche of England is the rounde wall, As thoughe England were lykened to a cite And the wall environ were the see. 977 Kepe than the see, that is the wall of Englond, And than is Englond kepte by Goddes sonde; That, as for ony thinge that is wythoute, Englande were than at ease wythouten doute, And thus shuld everi lande, one with another, Entrecomon as brother wyth his brother, And live togedre werreles in unite Wythoute rancoure in verry charite, In reste and pese to Cristis grete plesaunce, Wythouten striffe, debate and variaunce. Whiche pease men shulde enserche with besinesse And knytt it sadely, holdyng in holynesse. The apostil seyth, if that ye liste to see, 'Be ye busy for to kepe unite Of the spirite in the bonde of pease,' Whiche is nedefull to all wythouten lees. The profete bideth us pease for to enquere; To purseue it, this is holy desire. Oure lord Ihesu seith 'Blessid mot they be That maken pease', that is tranquillite; For 'peasemakers', as Mathew writeth aryght, 'Shall be called the sonnes of God Allmight'. God yeve us grace the weyes for to kepe Of his preceptis and slugly not to slepe In shame of synne, that oure verry foo Mow be to us convers and torned too. For in Proverbis a texte is to purpose And pleyne inowgh wythouten ony glose, 'Whan mennes weyes please unto oure Lorde, It shall converte and brynge to accorde Mannes enmyes unto the pease verray', In unit頴o live to Goddis pay. Whiche unit鬠pease, reste and charite He that was here cladde in humanite, That came from hevyne and stiede with our nature (Or he ascendid he yafe to oure cure And lefte us pease ageyne striffe and debate), Mote gefe us-pease so well iradicate Here in this worlde that after att his feste Wee mowe have pease in the londe of beheste, Jerusalem, which of pease is the sight, Wyth the bryghtnes of his eternall lighte, 978 There glorified in reste wyth his tuicione, The Deite to see wyth full fruicione. He secunde persone in divinenesse is; He us assume and brynge us to his blisse. Amen. Here endithe the trewe processe of the libelle of Englysshe policie, exhortynge all Englande to kepe the see environ and namely the narowe see, shewynge whate worshipe, profite and salvacione commeth thereof to the reigne of Englonde, etc. Go furthe, libelle, and mekely shewe thy face, Apperynge ever wyth humble contynaunce, And pray my lordes thee to take in grace In opposaile and, cherishynge thee, avaunce To hardynesse, if that not variaunce Thow haste fro troughte by full experience, Auctours and reasone; yif ought faile in substaunce, Remitte to heme that yafe thee this science. Sythen that it is sothe in verray feythe That the wyse lorde baron of Hungerforde Hathe thee oversene, and verrily he seithe That thow arte trewe, and thus he dothe recorde, Nexte the Gospell: God wotte it was his worde, Whanne he thee redde all over in a nyghte. Go forthe, trewe booke, and Criste defende thi ryghte. Explicit libellus de policia conservativa maris. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

329:Lancelot And Elaine Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam; Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it A case of silk, and braided thereupon All the devices blazoned on the shield In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower, And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. Nor rested thus content, but day by day, Leaving her household and good father, climbed That eastern tower, and entering barred her door, Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms, Now made a pretty history to herself Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, And every scratch a lance had made upon it, Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh; That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle; That at Caerleon; this at Camelot: And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there! And here a thrust that might have killed, but God Broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down, And saved him: so she lived in fantasy. How came the lily maid by that good shield Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name? He left it with her, when he rode to tilt For the great diamond in the diamond jousts, Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. For Arthur, long before they crowned him King, Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 290 Like its own mists to all the mountain side: For here two brothers, one a king, had met And fought together; but their names were lost; And each had slain his brother at a blow; And down they fell and made the glen abhorred: And there they lay till all their bones were bleached, And lichened into colour with the crags: And he, that once was king, had on a crown Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. And Arthur came, and labouring up the pass, All in a misty moonshine, unawares Had trodden that crowned skeleton, and the skull Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown Rolled into light, and turning on its rims Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn: And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, And set it on his head, and in his heart Heard murmurs, 'Lo, thou likewise shalt be King.' Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems Plucked from the crown, and showed them to his knights, Saying, 'These jewels, whereupon I chanced Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's-For public use: henceforward let there be, Once every year, a joust for one of these: For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow In use of arms and manhood, till we drive The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land Hereafter, which God hinder.' Thus he spoke: And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, With purpose to present them to the Queen, When all were won; but meaning all at once To snare her royal fancy with a boon Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. Now for the central diamond and the last And largest, Arthur, holding then his court Hard on the river nigh the place which now Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 291 Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere, 'Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move To these fair jousts?' 'Yea, lord,' she said, 'ye know it.' 'Then will ye miss,' he answered, 'the great deeds Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, A sight ye love to look on.' And the Queen Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. He thinking that he read her meaning there, 'Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more Than many diamonds,' yielded; and a heart Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen (However much he yearned to make complete The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 'Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, And lets me from the saddle;' and the King Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. No sooner gone than suddenly she began: 'To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame! Why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd Will murmur, "Lo the shameless ones, who take Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!"' Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain: 'Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise, My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. Then of the crowd ye took no more account Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, And every voice is nothing. As to knights, Them surely can I silence with all ease. But now my loyal worship is allowed Of all men: many a bard, without offence, Has linked our names together in his lay, Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, The pearl of beauty: and our knights at feast Have pledged us in this union, while the King Would listen smiling. How then? is there more? Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself, Now weary of my service and devoir, 292 Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?' She broke into a little scornful laugh: 'Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, That passionate perfection, my good lord-But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven? He never spake word of reproach to me, He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, He cares not for me: only here today There gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes: Some meddling rogue has tampered with him--else Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, And swearing men to vows impossible, To make them like himself: but, friend, to me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth; The low sun makes the colour: I am yours, Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond. And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts: The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream When sweetest; and the vermin voices here May buzz so loud--we scorn them, but they sting.' Then answered Lancelot, the chief of knights: 'And with what face, after my pretext made, Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I Before a King who honours his own word, As if it were his God's?' 'Yea,' said the Queen, 'A moral child without the craft to rule, Else had he not lost me: but listen to me, If I must find you wit: we hear it said That men go down before your spear at a touch, But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name, This conquers: hide it therefore; go unknown: Win! by this kiss you will: and our true King Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, As all for glory; for to speak him true, Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem, No keener hunter after glory breathes. He loves it in his knights more than himself: 293 They prove to him his work: win and return.' Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known, He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, Chose the green path that showed the rarer foot, And there among the solitary downs, Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; Till as he traced a faintly-shadowed track, That all in loops and links among the dales Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, Who let him into lodging and disarmed. And Lancelot marvelled at the wordless man; And issuing found the Lord of Astolat With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, Moving to meet him in the castle court; And close behind them stept the lily maid Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house There was not: some light jest among them rose With laughter dying down as the great knight Approached them: then the Lord of Astolat: 'Whence comes thou, my guest, and by what name Livest thou between the lips? for by thy state And presence I might guess thee chief of those, After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round, Known as they are, to me they are unknown.' Then answered Sir Lancelot, the chief of knights: 'Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known, What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. But since I go to joust as one unknown At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, Hereafter ye shall know me--and the shield-I pray you lend me one, if such you have, Blank, or at least with some device not mine.' Then said the Lord of Astolat, 'Here is Torre's: Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. 294 And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. His ye can have.' Then added plain Sir Torre, 'Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it.' Here laughed the father saying, 'Fie, Sir Churl, Is that answer for a noble knight? Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here, He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour, And set it in this damsel's golden hair, To make her thrice as wilful as before.' 'Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not Before this noble knight,' said young Lavaine, 'For nothing. Surely I but played on Torre: He seemed so sullen, vext he could not go: A jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt That some one put this diamond in her hand, And that it was too slippery to be held, And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, The castle-well, belike; and then I said That IF I went and IF I fought and won it (But all was jest and joke among ourselves) Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. But, father, give me leave, an if he will, To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: Win shall I not, but do my best to win: Young as I am, yet would I do my best.' 'So will ye grace me,' answered Lancelot, Smiling a moment, 'with your fellowship O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, Then were I glad of you as guide and friend: And you shall win this diamond,--as I hear It is a fair large diamond,--if ye may, And yield it to this maiden, if ye will.' 'A fair large diamond,' added plain Sir Torre, 'Such be for queens, and not for simple maids.' Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, Flushed slightly at the slight disparagement Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus returned: 295 'If what is fair be but for what is fair, And only queens are to be counted so, Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, Not violating the bond of like to like.' He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine, Won by the mellow voice before she looked, Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, In battle with the love he bare his lord, Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time. Another sinning on such heights with one, The flower of all the west and all the world, Had been the sleeker for it: but in him His mood was often like a fiend, and rose And drove him into wastes and solitudes For agony, who was yet a living soul. Marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man That ever among ladies ate in hall, And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. However marred, of more than twice her years, Seamed with an ancient swordcut on the cheek, And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes And loved him, with that love which was her doom. Then the great knight, the darling of the court, Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, But kindly man moving among his kind: Whom they with meats and vintage of their best And talk and minstrel melody entertained. And much they asked of court and Table Round, And ever well and readily answered he: But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, Heard from the Baron that, ten years before, The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. 'He learnt and warned me of their fierce design Against my house, and him they caught and maimed; But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 296 From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods By the great river in a boatman's hut. Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.' 'O there, great lord, doubtless,' Lavaine said, rapt By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth Toward greatness in its elder, 'you have fought. O tell us--for we live apart--you know Of Arthur's glorious wars.' And Lancelot spoke And answered him at full, as having been With Arthur in the fight which all day long Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem; And in the four loud battles by the shore Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war That thundered in and out the gloomy skirts Of Celidon the forest; and again By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, Carved of one emerald centered in a sun Of silver rays, that lightened as he breathed; And at Caerleon had he helped his lord, When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse Set every gilded parapet shuddering; And up in Agned-Cathregonion too, And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, Where many a heathen fell; 'and on the mount Of Badon I myself beheld the King Charge at the head of all his Table Round, And all his legions crying Christ and him, And break them; and I saw him, after, stand High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, "They are broken, they are broken!" for the King, However mild he seems at home, nor cares For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts-For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs Saying, his knights are better men than he-Yet in this heathen war the fire of God Fills him: I never saw his like: there lives No greater leader.' 297 While he uttered this, Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 'Save your own great self, fair lord;' and when he fell From talk of war to traits of pleasantry-Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind-She still took note that when the living smile Died from his lips, across him came a cloud Of melancholy severe, from which again, Whenever in her hovering to and fro The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness Of manners and of nature: and she thought That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. And all night long his face before her lived, As when a painter, poring on a face, Divinely through all hindrance finds the man Behind it, and so paints him that his face, The shape and colour of a mind and life, Lives for his children, ever at its best And fullest; so the face before her lived, Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. First in fear, step after step, she stole Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating: Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 'This shield, my friend, where is it?' and Lavaine Past inward, as she came from out the tower. There to his proud horse Lancelot turned, and smoothed The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew Nearer and stood. He looked, and more amazed Than if seven men had set upon him, saw The maiden standing in the dewy light. He had not dreamed she was so beautiful. Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, For silent, though he greeted her, she stood Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire, That he should wear her favour at the tilt. 298 She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 'Fair lord, whose name I know not--noble it is, I well believe, the noblest--will you wear My favour at this tourney?' 'Nay,' said he, 'Fair lady, since I never yet have worn Favour of any lady in the lists. Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.' 'Yea, so,' she answered; 'then in wearing mine Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, That those who know should know you.' And he turned Her counsel up and down within his mind, And found it true, and answered, 'True, my child. Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me: What is it?' and she told him 'A red sleeve Broidered with pearls,' and brought it: then he bound Her token on his helmet, with a smile Saying, 'I never yet have done so much For any maiden living,' and the blood Sprang to her face and filled her with delight; But left her all the paler, when Lavaine Returning brought the yet-unblazoned shield, His brother's; which he gave to Lancelot, Who parted with his own to fair Elaine: 'Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield In keeping till I come.' 'A grace to me,' She answered, 'twice today. I am your squire!' Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, 'Lily maid, For fear our people call you lily maid In earnest, let me bring your colour back; Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:' So kissed her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand, And thus they moved away: she stayed a minute, Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there-Her bright hair blown about the serious face Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss-Paused by the gateway, standing near the shield In silence, while she watched their arms far-off Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. Then to her tower she climbed, and took the shield, There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. Meanwhile the new companions past away 299 Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs, To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight Not far from Camelot, now for forty years A hermit, who had prayed, laboured and prayed, And ever labouring had scooped himself In the white rock a chapel and a hall On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave, And cells and chambers: all were fair and dry; The green light from the meadows underneath Struck up and lived along the milky roofs; And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees And poplars made a noise of falling showers. And thither wending there that night they bode. But when the next day broke from underground, And shot red fire and shadows through the cave, They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away: Then Lancelot saying, 'Hear, but hold my name Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,' Abashed young Lavaine, whose instant reverence, Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, But left him leave to stammer, 'Is it indeed?' And after muttering 'The great Lancelot, At last he got his breath and answered, 'One, One have I seen--that other, our liege lord, The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of kings, Of whom the people talk mysteriously, He will be there--then were I stricken blind That minute, I might say that I had seen.' So spake Lavaine, and when they reached the lists By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes Run through the peopled gallery which half round Lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass, Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat Robed in red samite, easily to be known, Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, And from the carven-work behind him crept Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them Through knots and loops and folds innumerable 300 Fled ever through the woodwork, till they found The new design wherein they lost themselves, Yet with all ease, so tender was the work: And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. Then Lancelot answered young Lavaine and said, 'Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat, The truer lance: but there is many a youth Now crescent, who will come to all I am And overcome it; and in me there dwells No greatness, save it be some far-off touch Of greatness to know well I am not great: There is the man.' And Lavaine gaped upon him As on a thing miraculous, and anon The trumpets blew; and then did either side, They that assailed, and they that held the lists, Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move, Meet in the midst, and there so furiously Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive, If any man that day were left afield, The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw Which were the weaker; then he hurled into it Against the stronger: little need to speak Of Lancelot in his glory! King, duke, earl, Count, baron--whom he smote, he overthrew. But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight Should do and almost overdo the deeds Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, 'Lo! What is he? I do not mean the force alone-The grace and versatility of the man! Is it not Lancelot?' 'When has Lancelot worn Favour of any lady in the lists? Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.' 'How then? who then?' a fury seized them all, A fiery family passion for the name Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. They couched their spears and pricked their steeds, and thus, 301 Their plumes driven backward by the wind they made In moving, all together down upon him Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, And him that helms it, so they overbore Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear Pricked sharply his own cuirass, and the head Pierced through his side, and there snapt, and remained. Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully; He bore a knight of old repute to the earth, And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. He up the side, sweating with agony, got, But thought to do while he might yet endure, And being lustily holpen by the rest, His party,--though it seemed half-miracle To those he fought with,--drave his kith and kin, And all the Table Round that held the lists, Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights, His party, cried 'Advance and take thy prize The diamond;' but he answered, 'Diamond me No diamonds! for God's love, a little air! Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death! Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not.' He spoke, and vanished suddenly from the field With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. There from his charger down he slid, and sat, Gasping to Sir Lavaine, 'Draw the lance-head:' 'Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said Lavaine, 'I dread me, if I draw it, you will die.' But he, 'I die already with it: draw-Draw,'--and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank For the pure pain, and wholly swooned away. Then came the hermit out and bare him in, 302 There stanched his wound; and there, in daily doubt Whether to live or die, for many a week Hid from the wide world's rumour by the grove Of poplars with their noise of falling showers, And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, His party, knights of utmost North and West, Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, 'Lo, Sire, our knight, through whom we won the day, Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize Untaken, crying that his prize is death.' 'Heaven hinder,' said the King, 'that such an one, So great a knight as we have seen today-He seemed to me another Lancelot-Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot-He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise, O Gawain, and ride forth and find the knight. Wounded and wearied needs must he be near. I charge you that you get at once to horse. And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given: His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him No customary honour: since the knight Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take This diamond, and deliver it, and return, And bring us where he is, and how he fares, And cease not from your quest until ye find.' So saying, from the carven flower above, To which it made a restless heart, he took, And gave, the diamond: then from where he sat At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose, With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince In the mid might and flourish of his May, Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong, And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot, Nor often loyal to his word, and now 303 Wroth that the King's command to sally forth In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. So all in wrath he got to horse and went; While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, Past, thinking 'Is it Lancelot who hath come Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain Of glory, and hath added wound to wound, And ridden away to die?' So feared the King, And, after two days' tarriance there, returned. Then when he saw the Queen, embracing asked, 'Love, are you yet so sick?' 'Nay, lord,' she said. 'And where is Lancelot?' Then the Queen amazed, 'Was he not with you? won he not your prize?' 'Nay, but one like him.' 'Why that like was he.' And when the King demanded how she knew, Said, 'Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us, Than Lancelot told me of a common talk That men went down before his spear at a touch, But knowing he was Lancelot; his great name Conquered; and therefore would he hide his name From all men, even the King, and to this end Had made a pretext of a hindering wound, That he might joust unknown of all, and learn If his old prowess were in aught decayed; And added, "Our true Arthur, when he learns, Will well allow me pretext, as for gain Of purer glory."' Then replied the King: 'Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee. Surely his King and most familiar friend Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, Albeit I know my knights fantastical, So fine a fear in our large Lancelot Must needs have moved my laughter: now remains But little cause for laughter: his own kin-Ill news, my Queen, for all who love him, this!-His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him; 304 So that he went sore wounded from the field: Yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mine That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. He wore, against his wont, upon his helm A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls, Some gentle maiden's gift.' 'Yea, lord,' she said, 'Thy hopes are mine,' and saying that, she choked, And sharply turned about to hide her face, Past to her chamber, and there flung herself Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it, And clenched her fingers till they bit the palm, And shrieked out 'Traitor' to the unhearing wall, Then flashed into wild tears, and rose again, And moved about her palace, proud and pale. Gawain the while through all the region round Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, Touched at all points, except the poplar grove, And came at last, though late, to Astolat: Whom glittering in enamelled arms the maid Glanced at, and cried, 'What news from Camelot, lord? What of the knight with the red sleeve?' 'He won.' 'I knew it,' she said. 'But parted from the jousts Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her breath; Through her own side she felt the sharp lance go; Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swooned: And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince Reported who he was, and on what quest Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find The victor, but had ridden a random round To seek him, and had wearied of the search. To whom the Lord of Astolat, 'Bide with us, And ride no more at random, noble Prince! Here was the knight, and here he left a shield; This will he send or come for: furthermore Our son is with him; we shall hear anon, Needs must hear.' To this the courteous Prince Accorded with his wonted courtesy, Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, 305 And stayed; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine: Where could be found face daintier? then her shape From forehead down to foot, perfect--again From foot to forehead exquisitely turned: 'Well--if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!' And oft they met among the garden yews, And there he set himself to play upon her With sallying wit, free flashes from a height Above her, graces of the court, and songs, Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence And amorous adulation, till the maid Rebelled against it, saying to him, 'Prince, O loyal nephew of our noble King, Why ask you not to see the shield he left, Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your King, And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove No surer than our falcon yesterday, Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went To all the winds?' 'Nay, by mine head,' said he, 'I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes; But an ye will it let me see the shield.' And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crowned with gold, Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mocked: 'Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!' 'And right was I,' she answered merrily, 'I, Who dreamed my knight the greatest knight of all.' 'And if I dreamed,' said Gawain, 'that you love This greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it! Speak therefore: shall I waste myself in vain?' Full simple was her answer, 'What know I? My brethren have been all my fellowship; And I, when often they have talked of love, Wished it had been my mother, for they talked, Meseemed, of what they knew not; so myself-I know not if I know what true love is, But if I know, then, if I love not him, I know there is none other I can love.' 'Yea, by God's death,' said he, 'ye love him well, But would not, knew ye what all others know, And whom he loves.' 'So be it,' cried Elaine, 306 And lifted her fair face and moved away: But he pursued her, calling, 'Stay a little! One golden minute's grace! he wore your sleeve: Would he break faith with one I may not name? Must our true man change like a leaf at last? Nay--like enow: why then, far be it from me To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves! And, damsel, for I deem you know full well Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave My quest with you; the diamond also: here! For if you love, it will be sweet to give it; And if he love, it will be sweet to have it From your own hand; and whether he love or not, A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well A thousand times!--a thousand times farewell! Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two May meet at court hereafter: there, I think, So ye will learn the courtesies of the court, We two shall know each other.' Then he gave, And slightly kissed the hand to which he gave, The diamond, and all wearied of the quest Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. Thence to the court he past; there told the King What the King knew, 'Sir Lancelot is the knight.' And added, 'Sire, my liege, so much I learnt; But failed to find him, though I rode all round The region: but I lighted on the maid Whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her, Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, I gave the diamond: she will render it; For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.' The seldom-frowning King frowned, and replied, 'Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more On quest of mine, seeing that ye forget Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.' He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe, 307 For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, Lingered that other, staring after him; Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzzed abroad About the maid of Astolat, and her love. All ears were pricked at once, all tongues were loosed: 'The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.' Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all Had marvel what the maid might be, but most Predoomed her as unworthy. One old dame Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. She, that had heard the noise of it before, But sorrowing Lancelot should have stooped so low, Marred her friend's aim with pale tranquillity. So ran the tale like fire about the court, Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared: Till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat With lips severely placid, felt the knot Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen Crushed the wild passion out against the floor Beneath the banquet, where all the meats became As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. But far away the maid in Astolat, Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, Crept to her father, while he mused alone, Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said, 'Father, you call me wilful, and the fault Is yours who let me have my will, and now, Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?' 'Nay,' said he, 'surely.' 'Wherefore, let me hence,' She answered, 'and find out our dear Lavaine.' 'Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine: Bide,' answered he: 'we needs must hear anon Of him, and of that other.' 'Ay,' she said, 'And of that other, for I needs must hence And find that other, wheresoe'er he be, And with mine own hand give his diamond to him, 308 Lest I be found as faithless in the quest As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, My father, to be sweet and serviceable To noble knights in sickness, as ye know When these have worn their tokens: let me hence I pray you.' Then her father nodding said, 'Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child, Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole, Being our greatest: yea, and you must give it-And sure I think this fruit is hung too high For any mouth to gape for save a queen's-Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone, Being so very wilful you must go.' Lightly, her suit allowed, she slipt away, And while she made her ready for her ride, Her father's latest word hummed in her ear, 'Being so very wilful you must go,' And changed itself and echoed in her heart, 'Being so very wilful you must die.' But she was happy enough and shook it off, As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us; And in her heart she answered it and said, 'What matter, so I help him back to life?' Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs To Camelot, and before the city-gates Came on her brother with a happy face Making a roan horse caper and curvet For pleasure all about a field of flowers: Whom when she saw, 'Lavaine,' she cried, 'Lavaine, How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?' He amazed, 'Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir Lancelot! How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot?' But when the maid had told him all her tale, Then turned Sir Torre, and being in his moods Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, Where Arthur's wars were rendered mystically, 309 Past up the still rich city to his kin, His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve, Though carved and cut, and half the pearls away, Streamed from it still; and in her heart she laughed, Because he had not loosed it from his helm, But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. And when they gained the cell wherein he slept, His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream Of dragging down his enemy made them move. Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Uttered a little tender dolorous cry. The sound not wonted in a place so still Woke the sick knight, and while he rolled his eyes Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 'Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:' His eyes glistened: she fancied 'Is it for me?' And when the maid had told him all the tale Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest Assigned to her not worthy of it, she knelt Full lowly by the corners of his bed, And laid the diamond in his open hand. Her face was near, and as we kiss the child That does the task assigned, he kissed her face. At once she slipt like water to the floor. 'Alas,' he said, 'your ride hath wearied you. Rest must you have.' 'No rest for me,' she said; 'Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.' What might she mean by that? his large black eyes, Yet larger through his leanness, dwelt upon her, Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself In the heart's colours on her simple face; And Lancelot looked and was perplext in mind, And being weak in body said no more; But did not love the colour; woman's love, Save one, he not regarded, and so turned Sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept. 310 Then rose Elaine and glided through the fields, And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates Far up the dim rich city to her kin; There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past Down through the dim rich city to the fields, Thence to the cave: so day by day she past In either twilight ghost-like to and fro Gliding, and every day she tended him, And likewise many a night: and Lancelot Would, though he called his wound a little hurt Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, Milder than any mother to a sick child, And never woman yet, since man's first fall, Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love Upbore her; till the hermit, skilled in all The simples and the science of that time, Told him that her fine care had saved his life. And the sick man forgot her simple blush, Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, Would listen for her coming and regret Her parting step, and held her tenderly, And loved her with all love except the love Of man and woman when they love their best, Closest and sweetest, and had died the death In any knightly fashion for her sake. And peradventure had he seen her first She might have made this and that other world Another world for the sick man; but now The shackles of an old love straitened him, His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. These, as but born of sickness, could not live: For when the blood ran lustier in him again, Full often the bright image of one face, Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, 311 Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace Beamed on his fancy, spoke, he answered not, Or short and coldly, and she knew right well What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant She knew not, and the sorrow dimmed her sight, And drave her ere her time across the fields Far into the rich city, where alone She murmured, 'Vain, in vain: it cannot be. He will not love me: how then? must I die?' Then as a little helpless innocent bird, That has but one plain passage of few notes, Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er For all an April morning, till the ear Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid Went half the night repeating, 'Must I die?' And now to right she turned, and now to left, And found no ease in turning or in rest; And 'Him or death,' she muttered, 'death or him,' Again and like a burthen, 'Him or death.' But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, To Astolat returning rode the three. There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deemed she looked her best, She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought 'If I be loved, these are my festal robes, If not, the victim's flowers before he fall.' And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid That she should ask some goodly gift of him For her own self or hers; 'and do not shun To speak the wish most near to your true heart; Such service have ye done me, that I make My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I In mine own land, and what I will I can.' Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, But like a ghost without the power to speak. And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, And bode among them yet a little space Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced He found her in among the garden yews, And said, 'Delay no longer, speak your wish, 312 Seeing I go today:' then out she brake: 'Going? and we shall never see you more. And I must die for want of one bold word.' 'Speak: that I live to hear,' he said, 'is yours.' Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: 'I have gone mad. I love you: let me die.' 'Ah, sister,' answered Lancelot, 'what is this?' And innocently extending her white arms, 'Your love,' she said, 'your love--to be your wife.' And Lancelot answered, 'Had I chosen to wed, I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine: But now there never will be wife of mine.' 'No, no,' she cried, 'I care not to be wife, But to be with you still, to see your face, To serve you, and to follow you through the world.' And Lancelot answered, 'Nay, the world, the world, All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue To blare its own interpretation--nay, Full ill then should I quit your brother's love, And your good father's kindness.' And she said, 'Not to be with you, not to see your face-Alas for me then, my good days are done.' 'Nay, noble maid,' he answered, 'ten times nay! This is not love: but love's first flash in youth, Most common: yea, I know it of mine own self: And you yourself will smile at your own self Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age: And then will I, for true you are and sweet Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, More specially should your good knight be poor, Endow you with broad land and territory Even to the half my realm beyond the seas, So that would make you happy: furthermore, Even to the death, as though ye were my blood, In all your quarrels will I be your knight. This I will do, dear damsel, for your sake, And more than this I cannot.' While he spoke She neither blushed nor shook, but deathly-pale 313 Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied: 'Of all this will I nothing;' and so fell, And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. Then spake, to whom through those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced, her father: 'Ay, a flash, I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot. I pray you, use some rough discourtesy To blunt or break her passion.' Lancelot said, 'That were against me: what I can I will;' And there that day remained, and toward even Sent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid, Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield; Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, Unclasping flung the casement back, and looked Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound; And she by tact of love was well aware That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. This was the one discourtesy that he used. So in her tower alone the maiden sat: His very shield was gone; only the case, Her own poor work, her empty labour, left. But still she heard him, still his picture formed And grew between her and the pictured wall. Then came her father, saying in low tones, 'Have comfort,' whom she greeted quietly. Then came her brethren saying, 'Peace to thee, Sweet sister,' whom she answered with all calm. But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field Approaching through the darkness, called; the owls Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. And in those days she made a little song, 314 And called her song 'The Song of Love and Death,' And sang it: sweetly could she make and sing. 'Sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 'Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 'Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 'I fain would follow love, if that could be; I needs must follow death, who calls for me; Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.' High with the last line scaled her voice, and this, All in a fiery dawning wild with wind That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought With shuddering, 'Hark the Phantom of the house That ever shrieks before a death,' and called The father, and all three in hurry and fear Ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawn Flared on her face, she shrilling, 'Let me die!' As when we dwell upon a word we know, Repeating, till the word we know so well Becomes a wonder, and we know not why, So dwelt the father on her face, and thought 'Is this Elaine?' till back the maiden fell, Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. At last she said, 'Sweet brothers, yesternight I seemed a curious little maid again, As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, And when ye used to take me with the flood Up the great river in the boatman's boat. Only ye would not pass beyond the cape That has the poplar on it: there ye fixt 315 Your limit, oft returning with the tide. And yet I cried because ye would not pass Beyond it, and far up the shining flood Until we found the palace of the King. And yet ye would not; but this night I dreamed That I was all alone upon the flood, And then I said, "Now shall I have my will:" And there I woke, but still the wish remained. So let me hence that I may pass at last Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, Until I find the palace of the King. There will I enter in among them all, And no man there will dare to mock at me; But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me; Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me, Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one: And there the King will know me and my love, And there the Queen herself will pity me, And all the gentle court will welcome me, And after my long voyage I shall rest!' 'Peace,' said her father, 'O my child, ye seem Light-headed, for what force is yours to go So far, being sick? and wherefore would ye look On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?' Then the rough Torre began to heave and move, And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 'I never loved him: an I meet with him, I care not howsoever great he be, Then will I strike at him and strike him down, Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead, For this discomfort he hath done the house.' To whom the gentle sister made reply, 'Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault Not to love me, than it is mine to love Him of all men who seems to me the highest.' 'Highest?' the father answered, echoing 'highest?' 316 (He meant to break the passion in her) 'nay, Daughter, I know not what you call the highest; But this I know, for all the people know it, He loves the Queen, and in an open shame: And she returns his love in open shame; If this be high, what is it to be low?' Then spake the lily maid of Astolat: 'Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I For anger: these are slanders: never yet Was noble man but made ignoble talk. He makes no friend who never made a foe. But now it is my glory to have loved One peerless, without stain: so let me pass, My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, Not all unhappy, having loved God's best And greatest, though my love had no return: Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, Thanks, but you work against your own desire; For if I could believe the things you say I should but die the sooner; wherefore cease, Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.' So when the ghostly man had come and gone, She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven, Besought Lavaine to write as she devised A letter, word for word; and when he asked 'Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? Then will I bear it gladly;' she replied, 'For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world, But I myself must bear it.' Then he wrote The letter she devised; which being writ And folded, 'O sweet father, tender and true, Deny me not,' she said--'ye never yet Denied my fancies--this, however strange, My latest: lay the letter in my hand A little ere I die, and close the hand Upon it; I shall guard it even in death. And when the heat is gone from out my heart, Then take the little bed on which I died For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's 317 For richness, and me also like the Queen In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. And let there be prepared a chariot-bier To take me to the river, and a barge Be ready on the river, clothed in black. I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. There surely I shall speak for mine own self, And none of you can speak for me so well. And therefore let our dumb old man alone Go with me, he can steer and row, and he Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.' She ceased: her father promised; whereupon She grew so cheerful that they deemed her death Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died. So that day there was dole in Astolat. But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow through the field, that shone Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the lifelong creature of the house, Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her 'Sister, farewell for ever,' and again 'Farewell, sweet sister,' parted all in tears. Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, Oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood-In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter--all her bright hair streaming down-And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 318 All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled. That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved Audience of Guinevere, to give at last, The price of half a realm, his costly gift, Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow, With deaths of others, and almost his own, The nine-years-fought-for diamonds: for he saw One of her house, and sent him to the Queen Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed With such and so unmoved a majesty She might have seemed her statue, but that he, Low-drooping till he wellnigh kissed her feet For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye The shadow of some piece of pointed lace, In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. All in an oriel on the summer side, Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream, They met, and Lancelot kneeling uttered, 'Queen, Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy, Take, what I had not won except for you, These jewels, and make me happy, making them An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's Is tawnier than her cygnet's: these are words: Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words Perchance, we both can pardon: but, my Queen, I hear of rumours flying through your court. Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, Should have in it an absoluter trust To make up that defect: let rumours be: When did not rumours fly? these, as I trust That you trust me in your own nobleness, I may not well believe that you believe.' While thus he spoke, half turned away, the Queen 319 Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, Till all the place whereon she stood was green; Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand Received at once and laid aside the gems There on a table near her, and replied: 'It may be, I am quicker of belief Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, It can be broken easier. I for you This many a year have done despite and wrong To one whom ever in my heart of hearts I did acknowledge nobler. What are these? Diamonds for me! they had been thrice their worth Being your gift, had you not lost your own. To loyal hearts the value of all gifts Must vary as the giver's. Not for me! For her! for your new fancy. Only this Grant me, I pray you: have your joys apart. I doubt not that however changed, you keep So much of what is graceful: and myself Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy In which as Arthur's Queen I move and rule: So cannot speak my mind. An end to this! A strange one! yet I take it with Amen. So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls; Deck her with these; tell her, she shines me down: An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck O as much fairer--as a faith once fair Was richer than these diamonds--hers not mine-Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself, Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will-She shall not have them.' Saying which she seized, And, through the casement standing wide for heat, Flung them, and down they flashed, and smote the stream. Then from the smitten surface flashed, as it were, Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdain 320 At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, Close underneath his eyes, and right across Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge. Whereon the lily maid of Astolat Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away To weep and wail in secret; and the barge, On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. There two stood armed, and kept the door; to whom, All up the marble stair, tier over tier, Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that asked 'What is it?' but that oarsman's haggard face, As hard and still as is the face that men Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks On some cliff-side, appalled them, and they said 'He is enchanted, cannot speak--and she, Look how she sleeps--the Fairy Queen, so fair! Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood? Or come to take the King to Fairyland? For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, But that he passes into Fairyland.' While thus they babbled of the King, the King Came girt with knights: then turned the tongueless man From the half-face to the full eye, and rose And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid; And reverently they bore her into hall. Then came the fine Gawain and wondered at her, And Lancelot later came and mused at her, And last the Queen herself, and pitied her: But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all: 'Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, I, sometime called the maid of Astolat, Come, for you left me taking no farewell, Hither, to take my last farewell of you. I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death. 321 And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, And to all other ladies, I make moan: Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, As thou art a knight peerless.' Thus he read; And ever in the reading, lords and dames Wept, looking often from his face who read To hers which lay so silent, and at times, So touched were they, half-thinking that her lips, Who had devised the letter, moved again. Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all: 'My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, Know that for this most gentle maiden's death Right heavy am I; for good she was and true, But loved me with a love beyond all love In women, whomsoever I have known. Yet to be loved makes not to love again; Not at my years, however it hold in youth. I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave No cause, not willingly, for such a love: To this I call my friends in testimony, Her brethren, and her father, who himself Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, To break her passion, some discourtesy Against my nature: what I could, I did. I left her and I bad her no farewell; Though, had I dreamt the damsel would have died, I might have put my wits to some rough use, And helped her from herself.' Then said the Queen (Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) 'Ye might at least have done her so much grace, Fair lord, as would have helped her from her death.' He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, He adding, 'Queen, she would not be content Save that I wedded her, which could not be. Then might she follow me through the world, she asked; 322 It could not be. I told her that her love Was but the flash of youth, would darken down To rise hereafter in a stiller flame Toward one more worthy of her--then would I, More specially were he, she wedded, poor, Estate them with large land and territory In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, To keep them in all joyance: more than this I could not; this she would not, and she died.' He pausing, Arthur answered, 'O my knight, It will be to thy worship, as my knight, And mine, as head of all our Table Round, To see that she be buried worshipfully.' So toward that shrine which then in all the realm Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went The marshalled Order of their Table Round, And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see The maiden buried, not as one unknown, Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, And mass, and rolling music, like a queen. And when the knights had laid her comely head Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, Then Arthur spake among them, 'Let her tomb Be costly, and her image thereupon, And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet Be carven, and her lily in her hand. And let the story of her dolorous voyage For all true hearts be blazoned on her tomb In letters gold and azure!' which was wrought Thereafter; but when now the lords and dames And people, from the high door streaming, brake Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, Who marked Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, Drew near, and sighed in passing, 'Lancelot, Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love.' He answered with his eyes upon the ground, 'That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven.' But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, Approached him, and with full affection said, 323 'Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have Most joy and most affiance, for I know What thou hast been in battle by my side, And many a time have watched thee at the tilt Strike down the lusty and long practised knight, And let the younger and unskilled go by To win his honour and to make his name, And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man Made to be loved; but now I would to God, Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems, By God for thee alone, and from her face, If one may judge the living by the dead, Delicately pure and marvellously fair, Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons Born to the glory of thine name and fame, My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.' Then answered Lancelot, 'Fair she was, my King, Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, To doubt her pureness were to want a heart-Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.' 'Free love, so bound, were fre st,' said the King. 'Let love be free; free love is for the best: And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, What should be best, if not so pure a love Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee She failed to bind, though being, as I think, Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.' And Lancelot answered nothing, but he went, And at the inrunning of a little brook Sat by the river in a cove, and watched The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes And saw the barge that brought her moving down, Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said Low in himself, 'Ah simple heart and sweet, Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love 324 Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul? Ay, that will I. Farewell too--now at last-Farewell, fair lily. "Jealousy in love?" Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride? Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, May not your crescent fear for name and fame Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? Why did the King dwell on my name to me? Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake Caught from his mother's arms--the wondrous one Who passes through the vision of the night-She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn She kissed me saying, "Thou art fair, my child, As a king's son," and often in her arms She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. Would she had drowned me in it, where'er it be! For what am I? what profits me my name Of greatest knight? I fought for it, and have it: Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain; Now grown a part of me: but what use in it? To make men worse by making my sin known? Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man Not after Arthur's heart! I needs must break These bonds that so defame me: not without She wills it: would I, if she willed it? nay, Who knows? but if I would not, then may God, I pray him, send a sudden Angel down To seize me by the hair and bear me far, And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.' So groaned Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, Not knowing he should die a holy man. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

330:The Victories Of Love. Book I From Frederick Graham Mother, I smile at your alarms! I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms, But, like all nursery maladies, Love is not badly taken twice. Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes, My playmate in the pleasant days At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne, The twins, so made on the same plan, That one wore blue, the other white, To mark them to their father's sight; And how, at Knatchley harvesting, You bade me kiss her in the ring, Like Anne and all the others? You, That never of my sickness knew, Will laugh, yet had I the disease, And gravely, if the signs are these: As, ere the Spring has any power, The almond branch all turns to flower, Though not a leaf is out, so she The bloom of life provoked in me; And, hard till then and selfish, I Was thenceforth nought but sanctity And service: life was mere delight In being wholly good and right, As she was; just, without a slur; Honouring myself no less than her; Obeying, in the loneliest place, Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace Assured that one so fair, so true, He only served that was so too. For me, hence weak towards the weak, No more the unnested blackbird's shriek Startled the light-leaved wood; on high Wander'd the gadding butterfly, Unscared by my flung cap; the bee, 242 Rifling the hollyhock in glee, Was no more trapp'd with his own flower, And for his honey slain. Her power, From great things even to the grass Through which the unfenced footways pass, Was law, and that which keeps the law, Cherubic gaiety and awe; Day was her doing, and the lark Had reason for his song; the dark In anagram innumerous spelt Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt; 'Twas the sad summit of delight To wake and weep for her at night; She turn'd to triumph or to shame The strife of every childish game; The heart would come into my throat At rosebuds; howsoe'er remote, In opposition or consent, Each thing, or person, or event, Or seeming neutral howsoe'er, All, in the live, electric air, Awoke, took aspect, and confess'd In her a centre of unrest, Yea, stocks and stones within me bred Anxieties of joy and dread. O, bright apocalyptic sky O'erarching childhood! Far and nigh Mystery and obscuration none, Yet nowhere any moon or sun! What reason for these sighs? What hope, Daunting with its audacious scope The disconcerted heart, affects These ceremonies and respects? Why stratagems in everything? Why, why not kiss her in the ring? 'Tis nothing strange that warriors bold, Whose fierce, forecasting eyes behold The city they desire to sack, Humbly begin their proud attack By delving ditches two miles off, Aware how the fair place would scoff 243 At hasty wooing; but, O child, Why thus approach thy playmate mild? One morning, when it flush'd my thought That, what in me such wonder wrought Was call'd, in men and women, love, And, sick with vanity thereof, I, saying loud, ‘I love her,’ told My secret to myself, behold A crisis in my mystery! For, suddenly, I seem'd to be Whirl'd round, and bound with showers of threads As when the furious spider sheds Captivity upon the fly To still his buzzing till he die; Only, with me, the bonds that flew, Enfolding, thrill'd me through and through With bliss beyond aught heaven can have And pride to dream myself her slave. A long, green slip of wilder'd land, With Knatchley Wood on either hand, Sunder'd our home from hers. This day Glad was I as I went her way. I stretch'd my arms to the sky, and sprang O'er the elastic sod, and sang ‘I love her, love her!’ to an air Which with the words came then and there; And even now, when I would know All was not always dull and low, I mind me awhile of the sweet strain Love taught me in that lonely lane. Such glories fade, with no more mark Than when the sunset dies to dark. They pass, the rapture and the grace Ineffable, their only trace A heart which, having felt no less Than pure and perfect happiness, Is duly dainty of delight; A patient, poignant appetite For pleasures that exceed so much 244 The poor things which the world calls such, That, when these lure it, then you may The lion with a wisp of hay. That Charlotte, whom we scarcely knew From Anne but by her ribbons blue, Was loved, Anne less than look'd at, shows That liking still by favour goes! This Love is a Divinity, And holds his high election free Of human merit; or let's say, A child by ladies call'd to play, But careless of their becks and wiles, Till, seeing one who sits and smiles Like any else, yet only charms, He cries to come into her arms. Then, for my Cousins, fear me not! None ever loved because he ought. Fatal were else this graceful house, So full of light from ladies' brows. There's Mary; Heaven in her appears Like sunshine through the shower's bright tears; Mildred's of Earth, yet happier far Than most men's thoughts of Heaven are; But, for Honoria, Heaven and Earth Seal'd amity in her sweet birth. The noble Girl! With whom she talks She knights first with her smile; she walks, Stands, dances, to such sweet effect, Alone she seems to move erect. The brightest and the chastest brow Rules o'er a cheek which seems to show That love, as a mere vague suspense Of apprehensive innocence, Perturbs her heart; love without aim Or object, like the sunlit flame That in the Vestals' Temple glow'd, Without the image of a god. And this simplicity most pure She sets off with no less allure Of culture, subtly skill'd to raise The power, the pride, and mutual praise 245 Of human personality Above the common sort so high, It makes such homely souls as mine Marvel how brightly life may shine. How you would love her! Even in dress She makes the common mode express New knowledge of what's fit so well 'Tis virtue gaily visible! Nay, but her silken sash to me Were more than all morality, Had not the old, sweet, feverous ill Left me the master of my will! So, Mother, feel at rest, and please To send my books on board. With these, When I go hence, all idle hours Shall help my pleasures and my powers. I've time, you know, to fill my post, And yet make up for schooling lost Through young sea-service. They all speak German with ease; and this, with Greek, (Which Dr. Churchill thought I knew,) And history, which I fail'd in too, Will stop a gap I somewhat dread, After the happy life I've led With these my friends; and sweet 'twill be To abridge the space from them to me. II From Mrs. Graham My Child, Honoria Churchill sways A double power through Charlotte Hayes. In minds to first-love's memory pledged The second Cupid's born full-fledged. I saw, and trembled for the day When you should see her beauty, gay And pure as apple-blooms, that show Outside a blush and inside snow, Her high and touching elegance Of order'd life as free as chance. 246 Ah, haste from her bewitching side, No friend for you, far less a bride! But, warning from a hope so wild, I wrong you. Yet this know, my Child: He that but once too nearly hears The music of forefended spheres, Is thenceforth lonely, and for all His days like one who treads the Wall Of China, and, on this hand, sees Cities and their civilities, And, on the other, lions. Well, (Your rash reply I thus foretell,) Good is the knowledge of what's fair, Though bought with temporal despair! Yes, good for one, but not for two. Will it content a wife that you Should pine for love, in love's embrace, Through having known a happier grace; And break with inward sighs your rest, Because, though good, she's not the best? You would, you think, be just and kind, And keep your counsel! You will find You cannot such a secret keep; 'Twill out, like murder, in your sleep; A touch will tell it, though, for pride, She may her bitter knowledge hide; And, while she accepts love's make-believe, You'll twice despise what you'd deceive. I send the books. Dear Child, adieu! Tell me of all you are and do. I know, thank God, whate'er it be, 'Twill need no veil 'twixt you and me. III From Frederick The multitude of voices blythe Of early day, the hissing scythe Across the dew drawn and withdrawn, The noisy peacock on the lawn, 247 These, and the sun's eye-gladding gleam, This morning, chased the sweetest dream That e'er shed penitential grace On life's forgetful commonplace; Yet 'twas no sweeter than the spell To which I woke to say farewell. Noon finds me many a mile removed From her who must not be beloved; And us the waste sea soon shall part, Heaving for aye, without a heart! Mother, what need to warn me so? I love Miss Churchill? Ah, no, no. I view, enchanted, from afar, And love her as I love a star, For, not to speak of colder fear, Which keeps my fancy calm, I hear, Under her life's gay progress hurl'd, The wheels of the preponderant world, Set sharp with swords that fool to slay Who blunders from a poor byway, To covet beauty with a crown Of earthly blessing added on; And she's so much, it seems to me, Beyond all women womanly, I dread to think how he should fare Who came so near as to despair. IV From Frederick Yonder the sombre vessel rides Where my obscure condition hides. Waves scud to shore against the wind That flings the sprinkling surf behind; In port the bickering pennons show Which way the ships would gladly go; Through Edgecumb Park the rooted trees Are tossing, reckless, in the breeze; On top of Edgecumb's firm-set tower, As foils, not foibles, of its power, 248 The light vanes do themselves adjust To every veering of the gust: By me alone may nought be given To guidance of the airs of heaven? In battle or peace, in calm or storm, Should I my daily task perform, Better a thousand times for love, Who should my secret soul reprove? Beholding one like her, a man Longs to lay down his life! How can Aught to itself seem thus enough, When I have so much need thereof? Blest in her place, blissful is she; And I, departing, seem to be Like the strange waif that comes to run A few days flaming near the sun, And carries back, through boundless night, Its lessening memory of light. Oh, my dear Mother, I confess To a deep grief of homelessness, Unfelt, save once, before. 'Tis years Since such a shower of girlish tears Disgraced me? But this wretched Inn, At Plymouth, is so full of din, Talkings and trampings to and fro. And then my ship, to which I go To-night, is no more home. I dread, As strange, the life I long have led; And as, when first I went to school, And found the horror of a rule Which only ask'd to be obey'd, I lay and wept, of dawn afraid, And thought, with bursting heart, of one Who, from her little, wayward son, Required obedience, but above Obedience still regarded love, So change I that enchanting place, The abode of innocence and grace And gaiety without reproof, For the black gun-deck's louring roof, 249 Blind and inevitable law Which makes light duties burdens, awe Which is not reverence, laughters gain'd At cost of purities profaned, And whatsoever most may stir Remorseful passion towards her, Whom to behold is to depart From all defect of life and heart. But, Mother, I shall go on shore, And see my Cousin yet once more! 'Twere wild to hope for her, you say. l've torn and cast those words away. Surely there's hope! For life 'tis well Love without hope's impossible; So, if I love, it is that hope Is not outside the outer scope Of fancy. You speak truth: this hour I must resist, or lose the power. What! and, when some short months are o'er, Be not much other than before? Drop from the bright and virtuous sphere In which I'm held but while she's dear? For daily life's dull, senseless mood, Slay the fine nerves of gratitude And sweet allegiance, which I owe Whether the debt be weal or woe? Nay, Mother, I, forewarn'd, prefer To want for all in wanting her. For all? Love's best is not bereft Ever from him to whom is left The trust that God will not deceive His creature, fashion'd to believe The prophecies of pure desire. Not loss, not death, my love shall tire. A mystery does my heart foretell; Nor do I press the oracle For explanations. Leave me alone, And let in me love's will be done. 250 V From Frederick Fashion'd by Heaven and by art So is she, that she makes the heart Ache and o'erflow with tears, that grace So lovely fair should have for place, (Deeming itself at home the while,) The unworthy earth! To see her smile Amid this waste of pain and sin, As only knowing the heaven within, Is sweet, and does for pity stir Passion to be her minister: Wherefore last night I lay awake, And said, ‘Ah, Lord, for Thy love's sake, Give not this darling child of Thine To care less reverent than mine!’ And, as true faith was in my word, I trust, I trust that I was heard. The waves, this morning, sped to land, And shouted hoarse to touch the strand, Where Spring, that goes not out to sea, Lay laughing in her lovely glee; And, so, my life was sunlit spray And tumult, as, once more to-day, For long farewell did I draw near My Cousin, desperately dear. Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was none Gleam'd like the lightning in the sun; Yet hope I had, and joy thereof. The father of love is hope, (though love Lives orphan'd on, when hope is dead,) And, out of my immediate dread And crisis of the coming hour, Did hope itself draw sudden power. So the still brooding storm, in Spring, Makes all the birds begin to sing. Mother, your foresight did not err: I've lost the world, and not won her. And yet, ah, laugh not, when you think 251 What cup of life I sought to drink! The bold, said I, have climb'd to bliss Absurd, impossible, as this, With nought to help them but so great A heart it fascinates their fate. If ever Heaven heard man's desire, Mine, being made of altar-fire, Must come to pass, and it will be That she will wait, when she shall see, This evening, how I go to get, By means unknown, I know not yet Quite what, but ground whereon to stand, And plead more plainly for her hand! And so I raved, and cast in hope A superstitious horoscope! And still, though something in her face Portended ‘No!’ with such a grace It burthen'd me with thankfulness, Nothing was credible but ‘Yes.’ Therefore, through time's close pressure bold, I praised myself, and boastful told My deeds at Acre; strain'd the chance I had of honour and advance In war to come; and would not see Sad silence meant, ‘What's this to me.’ When half my precious hour was gone, She rose to greet a Mr. Vaughan; And, as the image of the moon Breaks up, within some still lagoon That feels the soft wind suddenly, Or tide fresh flowing from the sea, And turns to giddy flames that go Over the water to and fro, Thus, when he took her hand to-night, Her lovely gravity of light Was scatter'd into many smiles And flattering weakness. Hope beguiles No more my heart, dear Mother. He, By jealous looks, o'erhonour'd me. 252 With nought to do, and fondly fain To hear her singing once again, I stay'd, and turn'd her music o'er; Then came she with me to the door. ‘Dearest Honoria,’ I said, (By my despair familiar made,) ‘Heaven bless you!’ Oh, to have back then stepp'd And fallen upon her neck, and wept, And said, ‘My friend, I owe you all ‘I am, and have, and hope for. Call ‘For some poor service; let me prove ‘To you, or him here whom you love, ‘My duty. Any solemn task, ‘For life's whole course, is all I ask!’ Then she must surely have wept too, And said, ‘My friend, what can you do!’ And I should have replied, ‘I'll pray ‘For you and him three times a-day, ‘And, all day, morning, noon, and night, ‘My life shall be so high and right ‘That never Saint yet scaled the stairs ‘Of heaven with more availing prayers!’ But this (and, as good God shall bless Somehow my end, I'll do no less,) I had no right to speak. Oh, shame, So rich a love, so poor a claim! My Mother, now my only friend, Farewell. The school-books which you send I shall not want, and so return. Give them away, or sell, or burn. I'll write from Malta. Would I might But be your little Child to-night, And feel your arms about me fold, Against this loneliness and cold! VI From Mrs. Graham The folly of young girls! They doff Their pride to smooth success, and scoff 253 At far more noble fire and might That woo them from the dust of fight! But, Frederick, now the storm is past, Your sky should not remain o'ercast. A sea-life's dull, and, oh, beware Of nourishing, for zest, despair. My Child, remember, you have twice Heartily loved; then why not thrice, Or ten times? But a wise man shuns To cry ‘All's over,’ more than once. I'll not say that a young man's soul Is scarcely measure of the whole Earthly and heavenly universe, To which he inveterately prefers The one beloved woman. Best Speak to the senses' interest, Which brooks no mystery nor delay: Frankly reflect, my Son, and say, Was there no secret hour, of those Pass'd at her side in Sarum Close, When, to your spirit's sick alarm, It seem'd that all her marvellous charm Was marvellously fled? Her grace Of voice, adornment, movement, face Was what already heart and eye Had ponder'd to satiety; And so the good of life was o'er, Until some laugh not heard before, Some novel fashion in her hair, Or style of putting back her chair, Restored the heavens. Gather thence The loss-consoling inference. Yet blame not beauty, which beguiles, With lovely motions and sweet smiles, Which while they please us pass away, The spirit to lofty thoughts that stay And lift the whole of after-life, Unless you take the vision to wife, Which then seems lost, or serves to slake Desire, as when a lovely lake 254 Far off scarce fills the exulting eye Of one athirst, who comes thereby, And inappreciably sips The deep, with disappointed lips. To fail is sorrow, yet confess That love pays dearly for success! No blame to beauty! Let's complain Of the heart, which can so ill sustain Delight. Our griefs declare our fall, But how much more our joys! They pall With plucking, and celestial mirth Can find no footing on the earth, More than the bird of paradise, Which only lives the while it flies. Think, also, how 'twould suit your pride To have this woman for a bride. Whate'er her faults, she's one of those To whom the world's last polish owes A novel grace, which all who aspire To courtliest custom must acquire. The world's the sphere she's made to charm, Which you have shunn'd as if 'twere harm. Oh, law perverse, that loneliness Breeds love, society success! Though young, 'twere now o'er late in life To train yourself for such a wife; So she would suit herself to you, As women, when they marry, do. For, since 'tis for our dignity Our lords should sit like lords on high, We willingly deteriorate To a step below our rulers' state; And 'tis the commonest of things To see an angel, gay with wings, Lean weakly on a mortal's arm! Honoria would put off the charm Of lofty grace that caught your love, For fear you should not seem above Herself in fashion and degree, As in true merit. Thus, you see, 'Twere little kindness, wisdom none, 255 To light your cot with such a sun. VII From Frederick Write not, my Mother, her dear name With the least word or hint of blame. Who else shall discommend her choice, I giving it my hearty voice? Wed me? Ah, never near her come The knowledge of the narrow home! Far fly from her dear face, that shows The sunshine lovelier than the rose, The sordid gravity they wear Who poverty's base burthen bear! (And all are poor who come to miss Their custom, though a crown be this.) My hope was, that the wheels of fate, For my exceeding need, might wait, And she, unseen amidst all eyes, Move sightless, till I sought the prize, With honour, in an equal field. But then came Vaughan, to whom I yield With grace as much as any man, In such cause, to another can. Had she been mine, it seems to me That I had that integrity And only joy in her delight— But each is his own favourite In love! The thought to bring me rest Is that of us she takes the best. 'Twas but to see him to be sure That choice for her remain'd no more! His brow, so gaily clear of craft; His wit, the timely truth that laugh'd To find itself so well express'd; His words, abundant yet the best; His spirit, of such handsome show You mark'd not that his looks were so; His bearing, prospects, birth, all these 256 Might well, with small suit, greatly please; How greatly, when she saw arise The reflex sweetness of her eyes In his, and every breath defer Humbly its bated life to her; Whilst power and kindness of command, Which women can no more withstand Than we their grace, were still unquell'd, And force and flattery both compell'd Her softness! Say I'm worthy. I Grew, in her presence, cold and shy. It awed me, as an angel's might In raiment of reproachful light. Her gay looks told my sombre mood That what's not happy is not good; And, just because 'twas life to please, Death to repel her, truth and ease Deserted me; I strove to talk, And stammer'd foolishness; my walk Was like a drunkard's; if she took My arm, it stiffen'd, ached, and shook: A likely wooer! Blame her not; Nor ever say, dear Mother, aught Against that perfectness which is My strength, as once it was my bliss. And do not chafe at social rules. Leave that to charlatans and fools. Clay graffs and clods conceive the rose, So base still fathers best. Life owes Itself to bread; enough thereof And easy days condition love; And, kindly train'd, love's roses thrive, No more pale, scentless petals five, Which moisten the considerate eye To see what haste they make to die, But heavens of colour and perfume, Which, month by month, renew the bloom Of art-born graces, when the year In all the natural grove is sere. Blame nought then! Bright let be the air 257 About my lonely cloud of care. VIII From Frederick Religion, duty, books, work, friends,— 'Tis good advice, but there it ends. I'm sick for what these have not got. Send no more books: they help me not; I do my work: the void's there still Which carefullest duty cannot fill. What though the inaugural hour of right Comes ever with a keen delight? Little relieves the labour's heat; Disgust oft crowns it when complete; And life, in fact, is not less dull For being very dutiful. ‘The stately homes of England,’ lo, ‘How beautiful they stand!’ They owe How much to nameless things like me Their beauty of security! But who can long a low toil mend By looking to a lofty end? And let me, since 'tis truth, confess The void's not fill'd by godliness. God is a tower without a stair, And His perfection, love's despair. 'Tis He shall judge me when I die; He suckles with the hissing fly The spider; gazes calmly down, Whilst rapine grips the helpless town. His vast love holds all this and more. In consternation I adore. Nor can I ease this aching gulf With friends, the pictures of myself. Then marvel not that I recur From each and all of these to her. For more of heaven than her have I No sensitive capacity. Had I but her, ah, what the gain 258 Of owning aught but that domain! Nay, heaven's extent, however much, Cannot be more than many such; And, she being mine, should God to me Say ‘Lo! my Child, I give to thee All heaven besides,’ what could I then, But, as a child, to Him complain That whereas my dear Father gave A little space for me to have In His great garden, now, o'erblest, I've that, indeed, but all the rest, Which, somehow, makes it seem I've got All but my only cared-for plot. Enough was that for my weak hand To tend, my heart to understand. Oh, the sick fact, 'twixt her and me There's naught, and half a world of sea. IX From Frederick In two, in less than two hours more I set my foot on English shore, Two years untrod, and, strange to tell, Nigh miss'd through last night's storm! There fell A man from the shrouds, that roar'd to quench Even the billows' blast and drench. Besides me none was near to mark His loud cry in the louder dark, Dark, save when lightning show'd the deeps Standing about in stony heaps. No time for choice! A rope; a flash That flamed as he rose; a dizzy splash; A strange, inopportune delight Of mounting with the billowy might, And falling, with a thrill again Of pleasure shot from feet to brain; And both paced deck, ere any knew Our peril. Round us press'd the crew, With wonder in the eyes of most. 259 As if the man who had loved and lost Honoria dared no more than that! My days have else been stale and flat. This life's at best, if justly scann'd, A tedious walk by the other's strand, With, here and there cast up, a piece Of coral or of ambergris, Which, boasted of abroad, we ignore The burden of the barren shore. I seldom write, for 'twould be still Of how the nerves refuse to thrill; How, throughout doubly-darken'd days, I cannot recollect her face; How to my heart her name to tell Is beating on a broken bell; And, to fill up the abhorrent gulf, Scarce loving her, I hate myself. Yet, latterly, with strange delight, Rich tides have risen in the night, And sweet dreams chased the fancies dense Of waking life's dull somnolence. I see her as I knew her, grace Already glory in her face; I move about, I cannot rest, For the proud brain and joyful breast I have of her. Or else I float, The pilot of an idle boat, Alone, alone with sky and sea, And her, the third simplicity. Or Mildred, to some question, cries, (Her merry meaning in her eyes,) ‘The Ball, oh, Frederick will go; ‘Honoria will be there!’ and, lo, As moisture sweet my seeing blurs To hear my name so link'd with hers, A mirror joins, by guilty chance, Either's averted, watchful glance! Or with me, in the Ball-Room's blaze, Her brilliant mildness thrids the maze; Our thoughts are lovely, and each word 260 Is music in the music heard, And all things seem but parts to be Of one persistent harmony. By which I'm made divinely bold; The secret, which she knows, is told; And, laughing with a lofty bliss Of innocent accord, we kiss; About her neck my pleasure weeps; Against my lip the silk vein leaps; Then says an Angel, ‘Day or night, ‘If yours you seek, not her delight, ‘Although by some strange witchery ‘It seems you kiss her, 'tis not she; ‘But, whilst you languish at the side ‘Of a fair-foul phantasmal bride, ‘Surely a dragon and strong tower ‘Guard the true lady in her bower.’ And I say, ‘Dear my Lord, Amen!’ And the true lady kiss again. Or else some wasteful malady Devours her shape and dims her eye; No charms are left, where all were rife, Except her voice, which is her life, Wherewith she, for her foolish fear, Says trembling, ‘Do you love me, Dear?’ And I reply, ‘Sweetest, I vow ‘I never loved but half till now.’ She turns her face to the wall at this, And says, ‘Go, Love, 'tis too much bliss.’ And then a sudden pulse is sent About the sounding firmament In smitings as of silver bars; The bright disorder of the stars Is solved by music; far and near, Through infinite distinctions clear, Their twofold voices' deeper tone Utters the Name which all things own, And each ecstatic treble dwells On one whereof none other tells; And we, sublimed to song and fire, Take order in the wheeling quire, Till from the throbbing sphere I start, 261 Waked by the heaving of my heart. Such dreams as these come night by night, Disturbing day with their delight. Portend they nothing? Who can tell! God yet may do some miracle. 'Tis nigh two years, and she's not wed, Or you would know! He may be dead, Or mad, and loving some one else, And she, much moved that nothing quells My constancy, or, simply wroth With such a wretch, accept my troth To spite him; or her beauty's gone, (And that's my dream!) and this man Vaughan Takes her release: or tongues malign, Confusing every ear but mine, Have smirch'd her: ah, 'twould move her, sure, To find I loved her all the more! Nay, now I think, haply amiss I read her words and looks, and his, That night! Did not his jealousy Show—Good my God, and can it be That I, a modest fool, all blest, Nothing of such a heaven guess'd? Oh, chance too frail, yet frantic sweet, To-morrow sees me at her feet! Yonder, at last, the glad sea roars Along the sacred English shores! There lies the lovely land I know, Where men and women lordliest grow; There peep the roofs where more than kings Postpone state cares to country things, And many a gay queen simply tends The babes on whom the world depends; There curls the wanton cottage smoke Of him that drives but bears no yoke; There laughs the realm where low and high Are lieges to society. And life has all too wide a scope, Too free a prospect for its hope, For any private good or ill, 262 Except dishonour, quite to fill! —Mother, since this was penn'd, I've read That ‘Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed ‘The beautiful Miss Churchill.’ So That's over; and to-morrow I go To take up my new post on board The ‘Wolf,’ my peace at last restored; My lonely faith, like heart-of-oak, Shock-season'd. Grief is now the cloak I clasp about me to prevent The deadly chill of a content With any near or distant good, Except the exact beatitude Which love has shown to my desire. Talk not of ‘other joys and higher,’ I hate and disavow all bliss As none for me which is not this. Think not I blasphemously cope With God's decrees, and cast off hope. How, when, and where can mine succeed? I'll trust He knows who made my need. Baseness of men! Pursuit being o'er, Doubtless her Husband feels no more The heaven of heavens of such a Bride, But, lounging, lets her please his pride With fondness, guerdons her caress With little names, and turns a tress Round idle fingers. If 'tis so, Why then I'm happier of the two! Better, for lofty loss, high pain, Than low content with lofty gain. Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from me Her happiness and dignity! From Frederick I thought the worst had brought me balm: 'Twas but the tempest's central calm. Vague sinkings of the heart aver 263 That dreadful wrong is come to her, And o'er this dream I brood and dote, And learn its agonies by rote. As if I loved it, early and late I make familiar with my fate, And feed, with fascinated will, On very dregs of finish'd ill. I think, she's near him now, alone, With wardship and protection none; Alone, perhaps, in the hindering stress Of airs that clasp him with her dress, They wander whispering by the wave; And haply now, in some sea-cave, Where the ribb'd sand is rarely trod, They laugh, they kiss. Oh, God! oh, God! There comes a smile acutely sweet Out of the picturing dark; I meet The ancient frankness of her gaze, That soft and heart-surprising blaze Of great goodwill and innocence, And perfect joy proceeding thence! Ah! made for earth's delight, yet such The mid-sea air's too gross to touch. At thought of which, the soul in me Is as the bird that bites a bee, And darts abroad on frantic wing, Tasting the honey and the sting; And, moaning where all round me sleep Amidst the moaning of the deep, I start at midnight from my bed— And have no right to strike him dead. What world is this that I am in, Where chance turns sanctity to sin! 'Tis crime henceforward to desire The only good; the sacred fire That sunn'd the universe is hell! I hear a Voice which argues well: ‘The Heaven hard has scorn'd your cry; ‘Fall down and worship me, and I ‘Will give you peace; go and profane ‘This pangful love, so pure, so vain, 264 ‘And thereby win forgetfulness ‘And pardon of the spirit's excess, ‘Which soar'd too nigh that jealous Heaven ‘Ever, save thus, to be forgiven. ‘No Gospel has come down that cures ‘With better gain a loss like yours. ‘Be pious! Give the beggar pelf, ‘And love your neighbour as yourself! ‘You, who yet love, though all is o'er, ‘And she'll ne'er be your neighbour more, ‘With soul which can in pity smile ‘That aught with such a measure vile ‘As self should be at all named 'love!' ‘Your sanctity the priests reprove; ‘Your case of grief they wholly miss; ‘The Man of Sorrows names not this. ‘The years, they say, graff love divine ‘On the lopp'd stock of love like thine; ‘The wild tree dies not, but converts. ‘So be it; but the lopping hurts, ‘The graff takes tardily! Men stanch ‘Meantime with earth the bleeding branch, ‘There's nothing heals one woman's loss, ‘And lighten's life's eternal cross ‘With intermission of sound rest, ‘Like lying in another's breast. ‘The cure is, to your thinking, low! ‘Is not life all, henceforward, so?’ Ill Voice, at least thou calm'st my mood. I'll sleep! But, as I thus conclude, The intrusions of her grace dispel The comfortable glooms of hell. A wonder! Ere these lines were dried, Vaughan and my Love, his three-days' Bride, Became my guests. I look'd, and, lo, In beauty soft as is the snow And powerful as the avalanche, She lit the deck. The Heav'n-sent chance! She smiled, surprised. They came to see The ship, not thinking to meet me. 265 At infinite distance she's my day: What then to him? Howbeit they say 'Tis not so sunny in the sun But men might live cool lives thereon! All's well; for I have seen arise That reflex sweetness of her eyes In his, and watch'd his breath defer Humbly its bated life to her, His wife. My Love, she's safe in his Devotion! What ask'd I but this? They bade adieu; I saw them go Across the sea; and now I know The ultimate hope I rested on, The hope beyond the grave, is gone, The hope that, in the heavens high, At last it should appear that I Loved most, and so, by claim divine, Should have her, in the heavens, for mine, According to such nuptial sort As may subsist in the holy court, Where, if there are all kinds of joys To exhaust the multitude of choice In many mansions, then there are Loves personal and particular, Conspicuous in the glorious sky Of universal charity, As Phosphor in the sunrise. Now I've seen them, I believe their vow Immortal; and the dreadful thought, That he less honour'd than he ought Her sanctity, is laid to rest, And, blessing them, I too am blest. My goodwill, as a springing air, Unclouds a beauty in despair; I stand beneath the sky's pure cope Unburthen'd even by a hope; And peace unspeakable, a joy Which hope would deaden and destroy, Like sunshine fills the airy gulf 266 Left by the vanishing of self. That I have known her; that she moves Somewhere all-graceful; that she loves, And is belov'd, and that she's so Most happy, and to heaven will go, Where I may meet with her, (yet this I count but accidental bliss,) And that the full, celestial weal Of all shall sensitively feel The partnership and work of each, And thus my love and labour reach Her region, there the more to bless Her last, consummate happiness, Is guerdon up to the degree Of that alone true loyalty Which, sacrificing, is not nice About the terms of sacrifice, But offers all, with smiles that say, 'Tis little, but it is for aye! XI From Mrs. Graham You wanted her, my Son, for wife, With the fierce need of life in life. That nobler passion of an hour Was rather prophecy than power; And nature, from such stress unbent, Recurs to deep discouragement. Trust not such peace yet; easy breath, In hot diseases, argues death; And tastelessness within the mouth Worse fever shows than heat or drouth. Wherefore take, Frederick, timely fear Against a different danger near: Wed not one woman, oh, my Child, Because another has not smiled! Oft, with a disappointed man, The first who cares to win him can; For, after love's heroic strain, Which tired the heart and brought no gain, 267 He feels consoled, relieved, and eased To meet with her who can be pleased To proffer kindness, and compute His acquiescence for pursuit; Who troubles not his lonely mood; And asks for love mere gratitude. Ah, desperate folly! Yet, we know, Who wed through love wed mostly so. At least, my Son, when wed you do, See that the woman equals you, Nor rush, from having loved too high, Into a worse humility. A poor estate's a foolish plea For marrying to a base degree. A woman grown cannot be train'd, Or, if she could, no love were gain'd; For, never was a man's heart caught By graces he himself had taught. And fancy not 'tis in the might Of man to do without delight; For, should you in her nothing find To exhilarate the higher mind, Your soul would deaden useless wings With wickedness of lawful things, And vampire pleasure swift destroy Even the memory of joy. So let no man, in desperate mood, Wed a dull girl because she's good. All virtues in his wife soon dim, Except the power of pleasing him, Which may small virtue be, or none! I know my just and tender Son, To whom the dangerous grace is given That scorns a good which is not heaven; My Child, who used to sit and sigh Under the bright, ideal sky, And pass, to spare the farmer's wheat, The poppy and the meadow-sweet! He would not let his wife's heart ache For what was mainly his mistake; 268 But, having err'd so, all his force Would fix upon the hard, right course. She's graceless, say, yet good and true, And therefore inly fair, and, through The veils which inward beauty fold, Faith can her loveliness behold. Ah, that's soon tired; faith falls away Without the ceremonial stay Of outward loveliness and awe. The weightier matters of the law She pays: mere mint and cumin not; And, in the road that she was taught, She treads, and takes for granted still Nature's immedicable ill; So never wears within her eyes A false report of paradise, Nor ever modulates her mirth With vain compassion of the earth, Which made a certain happier face Affecting, and a gayer grace With pathos delicately edged! Yet, though she be not privileged To unlock for you your heart's delight, (Her keys being gold, but not the right,) On lower levels she may do! Her joy is more in loving you Than being loved, and she commands All tenderness she understands. It is but when you proffer more The yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore. It's weary work enforcing love On one who has enough thereof, And honour on the lowlihead Of ignorance! Besides, you dread, In Leah's arms, to meet the eyes Of Rachel, somewhere in the skies, And both return, alike relieved, To life less loftily conceived. Alas, alas! Then wait the mood 269 In which a woman may be woo'd Whose thoughts and habits are too high For honour to be flattery, And who would surely not allow The suit that you could proffer now. Her equal yoke would sit with ease; It might, with wearing, even please, (Not with a better word to move The loyal wrath of present love); She would not mope when you were gay, For want of knowing aught to say; Nor vex you with unhandsome waste Of thoughts ill-timed and words ill-placed; Nor reckon small things duties small, And your fine sense fantastical; Nor would she bring you up a brood Of strangers bound to you by blood, Boys of a meaner moral race, Girls with their mother's evil grace, But not her chance to sometimes find Her critic past his judgment kind; Nor, unaccustom'd to respect, Which men, where 'tis not claim'd, neglect, Confirm you selfish and morose, And slowly, by contagion, gross; But, glad and able to receive The honour you would long to give, Would hasten on to justify Expectancy, however high, Whilst you would happily incur Compulsion to keep up with her. XII From Frederick Your letter, Mother, bears the date Of six months back, and comes too late. My Love, past all conceiving lost, A change seem'd good, at any cost, From lonely, stupid, silent grief, Vain, objectless, beyond relief, 270 And, like a sea-fog, settled dense On fancy, feeling, thought, and sense. I grew so idle, so despised Myself, my powers, by Her unprized, Honouring my post, but nothing more, And lying, when I lived on shore, So late of mornings: weak tears stream'd For such slight cause,—if only gleam'd, Remotely, beautifully bright, On clouded eves at sea, the light Of English headlands in the sun,— That soon I deem'd 'twere better done To lay this poor, complaining wraith Of unreciprocated faith: And so, with heart still bleeding quick, But strengthen'd by the comfort sick Of knowing that She could not care, I turn'd away from my despair, And told our chaplain's daughter, Jane,— A dear, good girl, who saw my pain, And look'd as if she pitied me,— How glad and thankful I should be If some kind woman, not above Myself in rank, would give her love To one that knew not how to woo. Whereat she, without more ado, Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closed With what she thought I had proposed. And, trust me, Mother, I and Jane, We suit each other well. My gain Is very great in this good Wife, To whom I'm bound, for natural life, By hearty faith, yet crossing not My faith towards—I know not what! As to the ether is the air, Is her good to Honoria's fair; One place is full of both, yet each Lies quite beyond the other's reach And recognition. If you say, 271 Am I contented? Yea and nay! For what's base but content to grow With less good than the best we know? But think me not from life withdrawn, By passion for a hope that's gone, So far as to forget how much A woman is, as merely such, To man's affection. What is best, In each, belongs to all the rest; And though, in marriage, quite to kiss And half to love the custom is, 'Tis such dishonour, ruin bare, The soul's interior despair, And life between two troubles toss'd, To me, who think not with the most; Whatever 'twould have been, before My Cousin's time, 'tis now so sore A treason to the abiding throne Of that sweet love which I have known, I cannot live so, and I bend My mind perforce to comprehend That He who gives command to love Does not require a thing above The strength He gives. The highest degree Of the hardest grace, humility; The step t'ward heaven the latest trod, And that which makes us most like God, And us much more than God behoves, Is, to be humble in our loves. Henceforth for ever therefore I Renounce all partiality Of passion. Subject to control Of that perspective of the soul Which God Himself pronounces good, Confirming claims of neighbourhood, And giving man, for earthly life, The closest neighbour in a wife, I'll serve all. Jane be much more dear Than all as she is much more near! I'll love her! Yea, and love's joy comes Ever from self-love's martyrdoms! 272 Yet, not to lie for God, 'tis true That 'twas another joy I knew When freighted was my heart with fire Of fond, irrational desire For fascinating, female charms, And hopeless heaven in Her mild arms. Nor wrong I any, if I profess That care for heaven with me were less But that I'm utterly imbued With faith of all Earth's hope renew'd In realms where no short-coming pains Expectance, and dear love disdains Time's treason, and the gathering dross, And lasts for ever in the gloss Of newness. All the bright past seems, Now, but a splendour in my dreams, Which shows, albeit the dreamer wakes, The standard of right life. Life aches To be therewith conform'd; but, oh, The world's so stolid, dark, and low! That and the mortal element Forbid the beautiful intent, And, like the unborn butterfly, It feels the wings, and wants the sky. But perilous is the lofty mood Which cannot yoke with lowly good. Right life, for me, is life that wends By lowly ways to lofty ends. I well perceive, at length, that haste T'ward heaven itself is only waste; And thus I dread the impatient spur Of aught that speaks too plain of Her. There's little here that story tells; But music talks of nothing else. Therefore, when music breathes, I say, (And urge my task,) Away, away! Thou art the voice of one I knew, But what thou say'st is not yet true; Thou art the voice of her I loved, 273 And I would not be vainly moved. So that which did from death set free All things, now dons death's mockery, And takes its place with things that are But little noted. Do not mar For me your peace! My health is high. The proud possession of mine eye Departed, I am much like one Who had by haughty custom grown To think gilt rooms, and spacious grounds, Horses, and carriages, and hounds, Fine linen, and an eider bed As much his need as daily bread, And honour of men as much or more. Till, strange misfortune smiting sore, His pride all goes to pay his debts, A lodging anywhere he gets, And takes his family thereto Weeping, and other relics few, Allow'd, by them that seize his pelf, As precious only to himself. Yet the sun shines; the country green Has many riches, poorly seen From blazon'd coaches; grace at meat Goes well with thrift in what they eat; And there's amends for much bereft In better thanks for much that's left! Jane is not fair, yet pleases well The eye in which no others dwell; And features somewhat plainly set, And homely manners leave her yet The crowning boon and most express Of Heaven's inventive tenderness, A woman. But I do her wrong, Letting the world's eyes guide my tongue! She has a handsomeness that pays No homage to the hourly gaze, And dwells not on the arch'd brow's height And lids which softly lodge the light, Nor in the pure field of the cheek 274 Flow'rs, though the soul be still to seek; But shows as fits that solemn place Whereof the window is the face: Blankness and leaden outlines mark What time the Church within is dark; Yet view it on a Festal night, Or some occasion else for light, And each ungainly line is seen A special character to mean Of Saint or Prophet, and the whole Blank window is a living scroll. For hours, the clock upon the shelf, Has all the talking to itself; But to and fro her needle runs Twice, while the clock is ticking once; And, when a wife is well in reach, Not silence separates, but speech; And I, contented, read, or smoke, And idly think, or idly stroke The winking cat, or watch the fire, In social peace that does not tire; Until, at easeful end of day, She moves, and puts her work away, And, saying ‘How cold 'tis,’ or ‘How warm,’ Or something else as little harm, Comes, used to finding, kindly press'd, A woman's welcome to my breast, With all the great advantage clear Of none else having been so near. But sometimes, (how shall I deny!) There falls, with her thus fondly by, Dejection, and a chilling shade. Remember'd pleasures, as they fade, Salute me, and colossal grow, Like foot-prints in the thawing snow. I feel oppress'd beyond my force With foolish envy and remorse. I love this woman, but I might Have loved some else with more delight; And strange it seems of God that He 275 Should make a vain capacity. Such times of ignorant relapse, 'Tis well she does not talk, perhaps. The dream, the discontent, the doubt, To some injustice flaming out, Were't else, might leave us both to moan A kind tradition overthrown, And dawning promise once more dead In the pernicious lowlihead Of not aspiring to be fair. And what am I, that I should dare Dispute with God, who moulds one clay To honour and shame, and wills to pay With equal wages them that delve About His vines one hour or twelve! XIII From Lady Clitheroe To Mary Churchill I've dreadful news, my Sister dear! Frederick has married, as we hear, Oh, such a girl! This fact we get From Mr. Barton, whom we met At Abury once. He used to know, At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe, And writes that he ‘has seen Fred Graham, ‘Commander of the 'Wolf,'—the same ‘The Mess call'd Joseph,—with his Wife ‘Under his arm.’ He ‘lays his life, ‘The fellow married her for love, ‘For there was nothing else to move. ‘H. is her Shibboleth. 'Tis said ‘Her Mother was a Kitchen-Maid.’ Poor Fred! What will Honoria say? She thought so highly of him. Pray Tell it her gently. I've no right, I know you hold, to trust my sight; But Frederick's state could not be hid! And Felix, coming when he did, 276 Was lucky; for Honoria, too, Was half in love. How warm she grew On ‘worldliness,’ when once I said I fancied that, in ladies, Fred Had tastes much better than his means! His hand was worthy of a Queen's, Said she, and actually shed tears The night he left us for two years, And sobb'd, when ask'd the cause to tell, That ‘Frederick look'd so miserable.’ He did look very dull, no doubt, But such things girls don't cry about. What weathercocks men always prove! You're quite right not to fall in love. I never did, and, truth to tell, I don't think it respectable. The man can't understand it, too. He likes to be in love with you, But scarce knows how, if you love him, Poor fellow. When 'tis woman's whim To serve her husband night and day, The kind soul lets her have her way! So, if you wed, as soon you should, Be selfish for your husband's good. Happy the men who relegate Their pleasures, vanities, and state To us. Their nature seems to be To enjoy themselves by deputy, For, seeking their own benefit, Dear, what a mess they make of it! A man will work his bones away, If but his wife will only play; He does not mind how much he's teased, So that his plague looks always pleased; And never thanks her, while he lives, For anything, but what he gives! 'Tis hard to manage men, we hear! Believe me, nothing's easier, Dear. The most important step by far Is finding what their colours are. The next is, not to let them know 277 The reason why they love us so. The indolent droop of a blue shawl, Or gray silk's fluctuating fall, Covers the multitude of sins In me. Your husband, Love, might wince At azure, and be wild at slate, And yet do well with chocolate. Of course you'd let him fancy he Adored you for your piety. XIV From Jane To Her Mother Dear Mother, as you write, I see How glad and thankful I should be For such a husband. Yet to tell The truth, I am so miserable! How could he—I remember, though, He never said he loved me! No, He is so right that all seems wrong I've done and thought my whole life long! I'm grown so dull and dead with fear That Yes and No, when he is near, Is all I have to say. He's quite Unlike what most would call polite, And yet, when first I saw him come To tea in Aunt's fine drawing-room, He made me feel so common! Oh, How dreadful if he thinks me so! It's no use trying to behave To him. His eye, so kind and grave, Sees through and through me! Could not you, Without his knowing that I knew, Ask him to scold me now and then? Mother, it's such a weary strain The way he has of treating me As if 'twas something fine to be A woman; and appearing not To notice any faults I've got! I know he knows I'm plain, and small, Stupid, and ignorant, and all 278 Awkward and mean; and, by degrees, I see a beauty which he sees, When often he looks strange awhile, Then recollects me with a smile. I wish he had that fancied Wife, With me for Maid, now! all my life To dress her out for him, and make Her looks the lovelier for his sake; To have her rate me till I cried; Then see her seated by his side, And driven off proudly to the Ball; Then to stay up for her, whilst all The servants were asleep; and hear At dawn the carriage rolling near, And let them in; and hear her laugh, And boast, he said that none was half So beautiful, and that the Queen, Who danced with him the first, had seen And noticed her, and ask'd who was That lady in the golden gauze? And then to go to bed, and lie In a sort of heavenly jealousy, Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'd She slept, nor knew how she was bless'd. Pray burn this letter. I would not Complain, but for the fear I've got Of going wild, as we hear tell Of people shut up in a cell, With no one there to talk to. He Must never know he is loved by me The most; he'd think himself to blame; And I should almost die for shame. If being good would serve instead Of being graceful, ah, then, Fred— But I, myself, I never could See what's in women's being good; For all their goodness is to do Just what their nature tells them to. Now, when a man would do what's right, 279 He has to try with all his might. Though true and kind in deed and word, Fred's not a vessel of the Lord. But I have hopes of him; for, oh, How can we ever surely know But that the very darkest place May be the scene of saving grace! XV From Frederick ‘How did I feel?’ The little wight Fill'd me, unfatherly, with fright! So grim it gazed, and, out of the sky, There came, minute, remote, the cry, Piercing, of original pain. I put the wonder back to Jane, And her delight seem'd dash'd, that I, Of strangers still by nature shy, Was not familiar quite so soon With her small friend of many a moon. But, when the new-made Mother smiled, She seem'd herself a little child, Dwelling at large beyond the law By which, till then, I judged and saw; And that fond glow which she felt stir For it, suffused my heart for her; To whom, from the weak babe, and thence To me, an influent innocence, Happy, reparative of life, Came, and she was indeed my wife, As there, lovely with love she lay, Brightly contented all the day To hug her sleepy little boy, In the reciprocated joy Of touch, the childish sense of love, Ever inquisitive to prove Its strange possession, and to know If the eye's report be really so. 280 XVI From Jane To Mrs. Graham Dear Mother,—such if you'll allow, In love, not law, I'll call you now,— I hope you're well. I write to say Frederick has got, besides his pay, A good appointment in the Docks; Also to thank you for the frocks And shoes for Baby. I, (D.V.,) Shall soon be strong. Fred goes to sea No more. I am so glad; because, Though kinder husband never was, He seems still kinder to become The more he stays with me at home. When we are parted, I see plain He's dull till he gets used again To marriage. Do not tell him, though; I would not have him know I know, For all the world. I try to mind All your advice; but sometimes find I do not well see how. I thought To take it about dress; so bought A gay new bonnet, gown, and shawl; But Frederick was not pleased at all; For, though he smiled, and said, ‘How smart!’ I feel, you know, what's in his heart. But I shall learn! I fancied long That care in dress was very wrong, Till Frederick, in his startling way, When I began to blame, one day, The Admiral's Wife, because we hear She spends two hours, or something near, In dressing, took her part, and said How all things deck themselves that wed; How birds and plants grow fine to please Each other in their marriages; And how (which certainly is true— It never struck me—did it you?) 281 Dress was, at first, Heaven's ordinance, And has much Scripture countenance. For Eliezer, we are told, Adorn'd with jewels and with gold Rebecca. In the Psalms, again, How the King's Daughter dress'd! And, then, The Good Wife in the Proverbs, she Made herself clothes of tapestry, Purple and silk: and there's much more I had not thought about before! But Fred's so clever! Do you know, Since Baby came, he loves me so! I'm really useful, now, to Fred; And none could do so well instead. It's nice to fancy, if I died, He'd miss me from the Darling's side! Also, there's something now, you see, On which we talk, and quite agree; On which, without pride too, I can Hope I'm as wise as any man. I should be happy now, if quite Sure that in one thing Fred was right. But, though I trust his prayers are said, Because he goes so late to bed, I doubt his Calling. Glad to find A text adapted to his mind,— That where St. Paul, in Man and Wife, Allows a little worldly life,— He smiled, and said that he knew all Such things as that without St. Paul! And once he said, when I with pain Had got him just to read Romaine, ‘Men's creeds should not their hopes condemn. ‘Who wait for heaven to come to them ‘Are little like to go to heaven, ‘If logic's not the devil's leaven!’ I cried at such a wicked joke, And he, surprised, went out to smoke. But to judge him is not for me, Who myself sin so dreadfully As half to doubt if I should care 282 To go to heaven, and he not there. He must be right; and I dare say I shall soon understand his way. To other things, once strange, I've grown Accustom'd, nay, to like. I own 'Twas long before I got well used To sit, while Frederick read or mused For hours, and scarcely spoke. When he For all that, held the door to me, Pick'd up my handkerchief, and rose To set my chair, with other shows Of honour, such as men, 'tis true, To sweethearts and fine ladies do, It almost seem'd an unkind jest; But now I like these ways the best. They somehow make me gentle and good; And I don't mind his quiet mood. If Frederick does seem dull awhile, There's Baby. You should see him smile! I'm pretty and nice to him, sweet Pet, And he will learn no better yet: Indeed, now little Johnny makes A busier time of it, and takes Our thoughts off one another more, I'm happy as need be, I'm sure! XVII From Felix To Honoria Let me, Beloved, while gratitude Is garrulous with coming good, Or ere the tongue of happiness Be silenced by your soft caress, Relate how, musing here of you, The clouds, the intermediate blue, The air that rings with larks, the grave And distant rumour of the wave, The solitary sailing skiff, The gusty corn-field on the cliff, The corn-flower by the crumbling ledge, Or, far-down at the shingle's edge, 283 The sighing sea's recurrent crest Breaking, resign'd to its unrest, All whisper, to my home-sick thought, Of charms in you till now uncaught, Or only caught as dreams, to die Ere they were own'd by memory. High and ingenious Decree Of joy-devising Deity! You whose ambition only is The assurance that you make my bliss, (Hence my first debt of love to show, That you, past showing, indeed do so!) Trust me, the world, the firmament, With diverse-natured worlds besprent, Were rear'd in no mere undivine Boast of omnipotent design, The lion differing from the snake But for the trick of difference sake, And comets darting to and fro Because in circles planets go; But rather that sole love might be Refresh'd throughout eternity In one sweet faith, for ever strange, Mirror'd by circumstantial change. For, more and more, do I perceive That everything is relative To you, and that there's not a star, Nor nothing in't, so strange or far, But, if 'twere scanned, 'twould chiefly mean Somewhat, till then, in you unseen, Something to make the bondage strait Of you and me more intimate, Some unguess'd opportunity Of nuptials in a new degree. But, oh, with what a novel force Your best-conn'd beauties, by remorse Of absence, touch; and, in my heart, How bleeds afresh the youthful smart Of passion fond, despairing still To utter infinite good-will 284 By worthy service! Yet I know That love is all that love can owe, And this to offer is no less Of worth, in kind speech or caress, Than if my life-blood I should give. For good is God's prerogative, And Love's deed is but to prepare The flatter'd, dear Belov'd to dare Acceptance of His gifts. When first On me your happy beauty burst, Honoria, verily it seem'd That naught beyond you could be dream'd Of beauty and of heaven's delight. Zeal of an unknown infinite Yet bade me ever wish you more Beatified than e'er before. Angelical were your replies To my prophetic flatteries; And sweet was the compulsion strong That drew me in the course along Of heaven's increasing bright allure, With provocations fresh of your Victorious capacity. Whither may love, so fledged, not fly? Did not mere Earth hold fast the string Of this celestial soaring thing, So measure and make sensitive, And still, to the nerves, nice notice give Of each minutest increment Of such interminable ascent, The heart would lose all count, and beat Unconscious of a height so sweet, And the spirit-pursuing senses strain Their steps on the starry track in vain! But, reading now the note just come, With news of you, the babes, and home, I think, and say, ‘To-morrow eve ‘With kisses me will she receive;’ And, thinking, for extreme delight Of love's extremes, I laugh outright. 285 XVIII From Frederick Eight wedding-days gone by, and none Yet kept, to keep them all in one, Jane and myself, with John and Grace On donkeys, visited the place I first drew breath in, Knatchley Wood. Bearing the basket, stuff'd with food, Milk, loaves, hard eggs, and marmalade, I halted where the wandering glade Divides the thicket. There I knew, It seem'd, the very drops of dew Below the unalter'd eglantine. Nothing had changed since I was nine! In the green desert, down to eat We sat, our rustic grace at meat Good appetite, through that long climb Hungry two hours before the time. And there Jane took her stitching out, And John for birds'-nests pry'd about, And Grace and Baby, in between The warm blades of the breathing green, Dodged grasshoppers; and I no less, In conscientious idleness, Enjoy'd myself, under the noon Stretch'd, and the sounds and sights of June Receiving, with a drowsy charm, Through muffled ear and folded arm. And then, as if I sweetly dream'd, I half-remember'd how it seem'd When I, too, was a little child About the wild wood roving wild. Pure breezes from the far-off height Melted the blindness from my sight, Until, with rapture, grief, and awe, I saw again as then I saw. As then I saw, I saw again The harvest-waggon in the lane, 286 With high-hung tokens of its pride Left in the elms on either side; The daisies coming out at dawn In constellations on the lawn; The glory of the daffodil; The three black windmills on the hill, Whose magic arms, flung wildly by, Sent magic shadows o'er the rye. Within the leafy coppice, lo, More wealth than miser's dreams could show, The blackbird's warm and woolly brood, Five golden beaks agape for food; The Gipsies, all the summer seen Native as poppies to the Green; The winter, with its frosts and thaws And opulence of hips and haws; The lovely marvel of the snow; The Tamar, with its altering show Of gay ships sailing up and down, Among the fields and by the Town; And, dearer far than anything, Came back the songs you used to sing. (Ah, might you sing such songs again, And I, your Child, but hear as then, With conscious profit of the gulf Flown over from my present self!) And, as to men's retreating eyes, Beyond high mountains higher rise, Still farther back there shone to me The dazzling dusk of infancy. Thither I look'd, as, sick of night, The Alpine shepherd looks to the height, And does not see the day, 'tis true, But sees the rosy tops that do. Meantime Jane stitch'd, and fann'd the flies From my repose, with hush'd replies To Grace, and smiles when Baby fell. Her countenance love visible Appear'd, love audible her voice. Why in the past alone rejoice, Whilst here was wealth before me cast 287 Which, I could feel, if 'twere but past Were then most precious? Question vain, When ask'd again and yet again, Year after year; yet now, for no Cause, but that heaven's bright winds will blow Not at our pray'r but as they list, It brought that distant, golden mist To grace the hour, firing the deep Of spirit and the drowsy keep Of joy, till, spreading uncontain'd, The holy power of seeing gain'd The outward eye, this owning even That where there's love and truth there's heaven. Debtor to few, forgotten hours Am I, that truths for me are powers. Ah, happy hours, 'tis something yet Not to forget that I forget! And now a cloud, bright, huge and calm, Rose, doubtful if for bale or balm; O'ertoppling towers and bulwarks bright Appear'd, at beck of viewless might, Along a rifted mountain range. Untraceable and swift in change, Those glittering peaks, disrupted, spread To solemn bulks, seen overhead; The sunshine quench'd, from one dark form Fumed the appalling light of storm. Straight to the zenith, black with bale, The Gipsies' smoke rose deadly pale; And one wide night of hopeless hue Hid from the heart the recent blue. And soon, with thunder crackling loud, A flash reveal'd the formless cloud: Lone sailing rack, far wavering rim, And billowy tracks of stormland dim. We stood, safe group'd beneath a shed. Grace hid behind Jane's gown for dread, Who told her, fondling with her hair, ‘The naughty noise! but God took care 288 ‘Of all good girls.’ John seem'd to me Too much for Jane's theology, Who bade him watch the tempest. Now A blast made all the woodland bow; Against the whirl of leaves and dust Kine dropp'd their heads; the tortured gust Jagg'd and convuls'd the ascending smoke To mockery of the lightning's stroke. The blood prick'd, and a blinding flash And close coinstantaneous crash Humbled the soul, and the rain all round Resilient dimm'd the whistling ground, Nor flagg'd in force from first to last, Till, sudden as it came, 'twas past, Leaving a trouble in the copse Of brawling birds and tinkling drops. Change beyond hope! Far thunder faint Mutter'd its vast and vain complaint, And gaps and fractures, fringed with light, Show'd the sweet skies, with squadrons bright Of cloudlets, glittering calm and fair Through gulfs of calm and glittering air. With this adventure, we return'd. The roads the feet no longer burn'd. A wholesome smell of rainy earth Refresh'd our spirits, tired of mirth. The donkey-boy drew friendly near My Wife, and, touch'd by the kind cheer Her countenance show'd, or sooth'd perchance By the soft evening's sad advance, As we were, stroked the flanks and head Of the ass, and, somewhat thick-voiced, said, ‘To 'ave to wop the donkeys so ‘'Ardens the 'art, but they won't go ‘Without!’ My Wife, by this impress'd, As men judge poets by their best, When now we reach'd the welcome door, Gave him his hire, and sixpence more. 289 XIX From Jane Dear Mrs. Graham, the fever's past, And Fred is well. I, in my last, Forgot to say that, while 'twas on, A lady, call'd Honoria Vaughan, One of his Salisbury Cousins, came. Had I, she ask'd me, heard her name? 'Twas that Honoria, no doubt, Whom he would sometimes talk about And speak to, when his nights were bad, And so I told her that I had. She look'd so beautiful and kind! And just the sort of wife my mind Pictured for Fred, with many tears, In those sad early married years. Visiting, yesterday, she said, The Admiral's Wife, she learn'd that Fred Was very ill; she begg'd to be, If possible, of use to me. What could she do? Last year, his Aunt Died, leaving her, who had no want, Her fortune. Half was his, she thought; But he, she knew, would not be brought To take his rights at second hand. Yet something might, she hoped, be plann'd. What did I think of putting John To school and college? Mr. Vaughan, When John was old enough, could give Preferment to her relative; And she should be so pleased.—I said I felt quite sure that dearest Fred Would be most thankful. Would we come, And make ourselves, she ask'd, at home, Next month, at High-Hurst? Change of air Both he and I should need, and there At leisure we could talk, and then Fix plans, as John was nearly ten. 290 It seemed so rude to think and doubt, So I said, Yes. In going out, She said, ‘How strange of Frederick, Dear,’ (I wish he had been there to hear,) ‘To send no cards, or tell me what ‘A nice new Cousin I had got!’ Was not that kind? When Fred grew strong, I had, I found, done very wrong. Anger was in his voice and eye. With people born and bred so high As Fred and Mrs. Vaughan and you, It's hard to guess what's right to do; And he won't teach me! Dear Fred wrote, Directly, such a lovely note, Which, though it undid all I had done, Was, both to me and Mrs. Vaughan, So kind! His words, I can't say why, Like soldiers' music, made me cry. ~ Coventry Patmore,

331:Knyghthode And Bataile A XVth Century Verse Paraphrase of Flavius Vegetius Renatus' Treatise 'DE RE MILITARI' Proemium. Salue, festa dies i martis, Mauortis! auete Kalende. Qua Deus ad celum subleuat ire Dauid. Hail, halyday deuout! Alhail Kalende Of Marche, wheryn Dauid the Confessour Commaunded is his kyngis court ascende; Emanuel, Jhesus the Conquerour, This same day as a Tryumphatour, Sette in a Chaire & Throne of Maiestee, To London is comyn. O Saviour, Welcome a thousand fold to thi Citee! And she, thi modir Blessed mot she be That cometh eke, and angelys an ende, Wel wynged and wel horsed, hidir fle, Thousendys on this goode approche attende; And ordir aftir ordir thei commende, As Seraphin, as Cherubyn, as Throne, As Domynaunce, and Princys hidir sende; And, at o woord, right welcom euerychone! But Kyng Herry the Sexte, as Goddes Sone Or themperour or kyng Emanuel, To London, welcomer be noo persone; O souuerayn Lord, welcom! Now wel, Now wel! Te Deum to be songen, wil do wel, And Benedicta Sancta Trinitas! 364 Now prosperaunce and peax perpetuel Shal growe,-and why? ffor here is Vnitas. Therof to the Vnitee 'Deo gracias' In Trinitee! The Clergys and Knyghthode And Comynaltee better accorded nas Neuer then now; Now nys ther noon abode, But out on hem that fordoon Goddes forbode, Periurous ar, Rebellovs and atteynte, So forfaytinge her lyif and lyvelode, Although Ypocrisie her faytys peynte. Now, person of Caleys, pray euery Seynte In hevenys & in erth of help Thavaile. It is, That in this werk nothing ne feynte, But that beforn good wynde it go ful sayle; And that not oonly prayer But travaile Heron be sette, Enserche & faste inquere. Thi litil book of knyghthode & bataile, What Chiualer is best, on it bewere. Whil Te Deum Laudamus vp goth there At Paulis, vp to Westmynster go thee; The Kyng comyng, Honor, Virtus the Quene, So glad goth vp that blisse it is to see. Thi bille vnto the Kyng is red, and He Content withal, and wil it not foryete. What seith my lord Beaumont? 'Preste, vnto me Welcom.' (here is tassay, entre to gete). 'Of knyghthode & Bataile, my lord, as trete The bookys olde, a werk is made now late, And if it please you, it may be gete.' 'What werk is it?' 'Vegetius translate Into Balade.' 'O preste, I pray the, late Me se that werk.' 'Therto wil I you wise. Lo, here it is!' Anon he gan therate To rede, thus: 'Sumtyme it was the gise'- 365 And red therof a part. 'For my seruyse Heer wil I rede (he seith) as o psaultier.' 'It pleaseth you right wel; wil your aduyse Suppose that the kyng heryn pleasier May haue?' 'I wil considir the matier; I fynde it is right good and pertynente Vnto the kyng; his Celsitude is hier; I halde it wel doon, hym therwith presente. Almyghti Maker of the firmament, O mervailous in euery creature, So singuler in this most excellent Persone, our Souuerayn Lord! Of what stature Is he, what visagynge, how fair feture, How myghti mad, and how strong in travaile! In oonly God & hym it is tassure As in a might, that noo wight dar assaile. Lo, Souuerayn Lord, of Knyghthode & bataile This litil werk your humble oratour, Ye, therwithal your Chiualers, travaile, Inwith your hert to Crist the Conquerour Offreth for ye. Ther, yeueth him thonour; His true thought, accepte it, he besecheth, Accepte; it is to this Tryumphatour, That myghti werre exemplifying techeth. He redeth, and fro poynt to poynt he secheth, How hath be doon, and what is now to done; His prouidence on aftirward he strecheth, By see & lond; he wil provide sone To chace his aduersaryes euerychone; Thei hem by lond, thei hem by see asseyle;The Kyng his Oratoure, God graunt his bone, Ay to prevaile in knyghthode & bataile. 366 Amen. I. Sumtyme it was the gise among the wise To rede and write goode and myghti thingis, And have therof the dede in exercise; Pleasaunce heryn hadde Emperour and Kingis. O Jesse flour, whos swete odour our Kinge is, Do me to write of knyghthode and bataile To thin honour and Chiualers tavaile. Mankyndys lyfe is mylitatioun, And she, thi wife, is named Militaunce, Ecclesia; Jhesu, Saluatioun, My poore witte in thi richesse avaunce, Cast out therof the cloude of ignoraunce, Sette vp theryn thi self, the verrey light, Therby to se thi Militaunce aright. O Lady myn, Maria, Lode sterre, Condite it out of myst & nyght, that dark is, To write of al by see & lond the werre. Help, Angelys, of knyghthode ye Ierarkys In heven & here; o puissaunt Patriarkys, Your valiaunce and werre in see & londe Remembering, to this werk putte your honde. Apostolys, ye, with thalmyghti swoorde Of Goddis woord, that were Conquerourys Of al the world, and with the same woorde Ye Martirys that putte of sharpe shourys, Ye Virgynys pleasaunt and Confessourys That with the same sworde haue had victory, Help heer to make of werre a good memory. And euery werreour wil I beseche, Impropurly where of myn ignoraunce 367 Of werre I write, as putte in propre speche And mende me, prayinge herof pleasaunce To God be first, by Harry Kyng of Fraunce And Englond, and thenne ereither londe, Peasibilly that God putte in his honde. Thus seide an humble Inuocatioun To Criste, his Modir, and his Sayntis alle, With confidence of illustratioun, Criste me to spede, and prayer me to walle, Myn inwit on this werk wil I let falle, And sey what is kynyghthode, and in bataile, By lond & see, what feat may best prevaile. Knyghthode an ordir is, the premynent; Obeysaunt in God, and rather deye Then disobeye; and as magnificent As can be thought; exiled al envye; As confident the right to magnifie As wil the lawe of Goddis mandement, And as perseueraunt and patient. The premynent is first thalmyghti Lord, Emanuel, that euery lord is vndir And good lyver; but bataile and discord With him hath Sathanas; thei are asondir As day & nyght, and as fier wasteth tundir, So Sathanas his flok; and Cristis oste In gemmy gold goth ardent, euery cooste. Themanuel, this Lord of Sabaoth, Hath ostis angelik that multitude, That noon of hem, nor persone erthly, woote Their numbir or vertue or pulcritude; Our chiualers of hem similitude Take as thei may, but truely ? fer is, As gemmys are ymagyned to sterrys. 368 Folk angelik, knyghthode archangelike, And the terrible tourmys pryncipaunt, The Potestates myght, ho may be like,The vigoroux vertue so valyaunt, The Regalye of thordir domynaunt, The Thronys celsitude of Cherubyn? Who hath the light or flamme of Seraphyn? Yit true it is, Man shal ben angelike; Forthi their hosteyinye the Lord hath shewed Ofte vnto man, the crafte therof to pike, In knyghthode aftir hem man to be thewed: By Lucyfer falling, rebate and fewed Her numbir was, and it is Goddis wille, That myghti men her numbir shal fulfille. Of myghty men first is thelectioun To make, & hem to lerne, & exercise An ooste of hem for his perfectioun, Be numbred thenne; and aftir se the gise Of strong bataile, fighting in dyuers wise; In craft to bilde, and art to make engyne For see & lond, this tretys I wil fyne. Thelectioun of werreours is good In euery londe; and southward ay the more, The more wit thei haue & lesse blood, Forthi to blede thei drede it, and therfore Reserue theim to labour & to lore, And northeward hath more blood and lesse Wit, and to fight & blede an hardinesse. But werreours to worthe wise & bolde, Is good to take in mene atwix hem twayne, Where is not ouer hote nor ouer colde; And to travaile & swete in snow & rayne, In colde & hete, in wode & feeldys playne, 369 With rude fode & short, thei that beth vsed, To chere it is the Citesens seclused. And of necessitee, if thei be take To that honour as to be werreourys, In grete travaile her sleuth is of to shake, And tolleraunce of sonne & dust & shourys, To bere & drawe, & dayes delve and hourys First vse thei, and reste hem in a cave, And throute among, and fode a smal to haue. In soden case emergent hem elonge Fro their Cite, streyt out of that pleasaunce; So shal thei worthe, ye, bothe bolde & stronge; But feithfully the feld may most avaunce A myghti ooste; of deth is his doubtaunce Ful smal, that hath had smal felicite. To lyve, and lande-men such lyuers be. Of yonge folk is best electioun, In puberte thing lightlier is lerned, Of tendre age vp goth perfectioun Of chiualers, as it is wel gouerned; Alacrite to lepe & renne vnwerned, Not oonly be, but therto sette hem stronge And chere theim therwith, whil thei beth yonge. For better is ?ge men compleyne On yerys yet commyng and nat fulfilled, Then olde men dolorouxly disdeyne, That thei here yougthe in negligence haspilde. The yonge may seen alle his daies filde In disciplyne of were and exercise, That age may not haue in eny wise. Not litil is the discipline of werre, O fote, on hors, with sword or shild or spere, 370 The place & poort to kepe and not to erre, Ne truble make, and his shot wel bewere, To dike and voyde a dike, and entir there, As is to do; lerned this gouernaunce, No fere is it to fight, but pleasaunce. The semelyest, sixe foote or litil lesse, The first arayes of the legyoun, Or wyngys horsyd, it is in to dresse; Yet is it founde in euery regioun, That smale men have had myght & renoun: Lo, Tideus, as telleth swete Homere, That litil man in vigour had no pere. And him, that is to chese, it is to se The look, the visagynge, the lymys stronge, That thei be sette to force & firmytee; For bellatours, men, horsis, hondis yonge, As thei be wel fetured, is to fonge, As in his book seith of the bee Virgile, Too kyndis are, a gentil and a vile. The gentil is smal, rutilaunt, glad-chered, That other horribil, elenge and sloggy, Drawinge his wombe abrede, and vgly-hered, To grete the bolk, and tremulent and droggy, The lymes hery, scabious & ruggy; That be wil litil do, but slepe & ete, And al deuoure, as gentil bees gete. So for bataile adolescentys yonge Of grym visage and look pervigilaunt, Vpright-necked, brod-brested, boned stronge. Brawny, bigge armes, fyngeres elongaunt, Kne deep, smal wombe, and leggys valiaunt, To renne & lepe: of these and suche signys Thelectioun to make ascribed digne is. 371 For better is, of myghti werryourys To haue ynogh, then ouer mych of grete.What crafty men tabide on werrys shourys, It is to se; fisshers, foulers, forlete Hem alle, and pigmentaryes be foryete, And alle they that are of idil craftys, Their insolence & feet to be forlafte is. The ferrour and the smyth, the carpenter, The huntere of the hert & of the boor, The bocher & his man, bed hem com nere, For alle tho may do and kepe stoor. An old prouerbe is it: Stoor is not soor, And commyn wele it is, a werreour To have aswel good crafte as grete vigour. The reaumys myght, the famys fundament, Stont in the first examynatioun Or choys, wheryn is good be diligent. Of the provynce that is defensioun; A wysdom and a just intensioun Is him to have, an ost that is to chese, Wheryn is al to wynne or al to lese. If chiualers, a land that shal defende, Be noble born, and have lond & fee, With thewys goode, as can noman amende, Thei wil remembir ay their honeste, And shame wil refreyne hem not to fle; Laude & honour, hem sporynge on victory, To make fame eternal in memory. What helpeth it, if ignobilitee Have exercise in werre and wagys large; A traitour or a coward if he be, Thenne his abode is a disceypt & charge; If cowardise hym bere away by barge 372 Or ship or hors, alway he wil entende To marre tho that wolde make or mende. Ciuilians or officers to make Of hem that have habilite to werre, Is not the worship of a lond tawake, Sumtyme also lest noughti shuld com nerre, Thei sette hym to bataile, & theryn erre; Therfore it is by good discretioun And grete men to make electioun. And not anoon to knyghthode is to lyft A bacheler elect; let first appare And preve it wel that he be stronge & swift And wil the discipline of werrys lere, With confidence in conflict as he were. Ful oftyn he that is right personabil, Is aftir pref reported right vnabil. He putte apart, putte in his place an other; Conflicte is not so sure in multitude, As in the myght. Thus proved oon & other Of werre an entre or similitude, In hem to shewe. But this crafte dissuetude Hath take away; here is noon exercise Of disciplyne, as whilom was the gise. How may I lerne of hym that is vnlerned, How may a thing informal fourme me? Thus I suppose is best to be gouerned: Rede vp thistories of auctoritee, And how thei faught, in theym it is to se, Or better thus: Celsus Cornelius Be red, or Caton, or Vegetius. Vegetius it is, that I entende Aftir to goon in lore of exercise, 373 Besechinge hem that fynde a faut, amende It to the best, or me tamende it wise; As redy wil I be with my seruyce Tamende that, as ferther to procede. Now wel to go, the good angel vs lede. First is to lerne a chiualerys pace, That is to serue in journey & bataile; Gret peril is, if they theryn difface, That seyn: our enemye wil our oste assaile And jumpe light; to goon is gret availe, And pace in howrys fyve Wel may they goon, and not goon ouer blyve. And wightly may thei go moo, But faster and they passe, it is to renne; In rennyng exercise is good also, To smyte first in fight, and also whenne To take a place our foomen wil, forrenne, And take it erst; also to serche or sture, Lightly to come & go, rennynge is sure. Rennynge is also right good at the chace, And forto lepe a dike, is also good, To renne & lepe and ley vppon the face, That it suppose a myghti man go wood And lose his hert withoute sheding blood; For myghtily what man may renne & lepe, May wel devicte and saf his party kepe. To swymme is eek to lerne in somer season; Men fynde not a brigge as ofte as flood, Swymmyng to voide and chace an oste wil eson; Eeke aftir rayn the ryueres goth wood; That euery man in thoost can swymme, is good. Knyght, squyer, footman, cook & cosynere And grome & page in swymmyng is to lere. 374 Of fight the disciplyne and exercise Was this: to haue a pale or pile vpright Of mannys hight, thus writeth olde wyse; Therwith a bacheler or a yong knyght Shal first be taught to stonde & lerne fight; A fanne of doubil wight tak him his shelde, Of doubil wight a mace of tre to welde. This fanne & mace, which either doubil wight is Of shelde & sword in conflicte or bataile, Shal exercise as wel swordmen as knyghtys, And noo man (as thei seyn) is seyn prevaile In felde or in gravel though he assaile, That with the pile nath first gret exercise; Thus writeth werreourys olde & wise. Have vche his pile or pale vpfixed faste, And, as in werre vppon his mortal foo, With wightynesse & wepon most he caste To fighte stronge, that he ne shape him fro,On him with shild & sword avised so, That thou be cloos, and prest thi foo to smyte, Lest of thin owne deth thou be to wite. Empeche his hed, his face, have at his gorge, Bere at the breste, or serue him on the side With myghti knyghtly poort, eue as Seynt George, Lepe o thi foo, loke if he dar abide; Wil he nat fle, wounde him; mak woundis wide, Hew of his honde, his legge, his thegh, his armys; It is the Turk: though he be sleyn, noon harm is. And forto foyne is better then to smyte; The smyter is deluded mony oonys, The sword may nat throgh steel & bonys bite, Thentrailys ar couert in steel & bonys, But with a foyn anoon thi foo fordoon is; 375 Tweyne vnchys entirfoyned hurteth more Then kerf or ege, although it wounde sore. Eek in the kerf, thi right arm is disclosed, Also thi side; and in the foyn, couert Is side & arm, and er thou be supposed Redy to fight, the foyn is at his hert Or ellys where, a foyn is euer smert; Thus better is to foyne then to kerve; In tyme & place ereither is tobserue. This fanne & mace ar ay of doubil wight, That when the Bacheler hath exercise Of hevy gere, and aftir taketh light Herneys, as sheeld & sword of just assise, His hert avaunceth, hardynes tarise. My borthon is delyuered, thinketh he, And on he goth, as glad as he may be. And ouer this al, exercise in armys The doctour is to teche and discipline, For double wage a wurthi man of armys Was wont to take, if he wer proved digne Aforn his prince, ye, tymes VIII or IX; And whete he had, and barly had the knyght That couthe nat as he in armys fight. Res publica right commendabil is, If chiualers and armys there abounde, For, they present, may nothing fare amys, And ther thei are absent, al goth to grounde; In gemme, in gold, in silk be thei fecounde, It fereth not; but myghti men in armys, They fereth with the drede of deth & harmys. Caton the Wise seith: where as men erre In other thinge, it may be wel amended; 376 But emendatioun is noon in werre; The cryme doon, forthwith the grace is spended, Or slayn anoon is he that there offended, Or putte to flight, and euer aftir he Is lesse worth then they that made him fle. But turne ageyn, Inwit, to thi preceptys! With sword & sheld the lerned chiualer At pale or pile, in artilaunce excepte is; A dart of more wight then is mester, Tak him in honde, and teche hym it to ster, And caste it at that pile, as at his foo, So that it route, and right vppon hym go. Of armys is the doctour heer tattende, That myghtily this dart be take & shake, And shot as myghtily, forthright on ende, And smyte sore, or nygh, this pile or stake; Herof vigour in tharmys wil awake And craft to caste & smyte shal encrece; The werreours thus taught, shal make peax. But bachilers, the thridde or firthe part, Applied ar to shote in bowes longe With arowys; heryn is doctryne & art, The stringys vp to breke in bowes stronge, And swift and craftily the taclis fonge, Starkly the lifte arm holde with the bowe, Drawe with the right, and smyte, and ouerthrowe. Set hert & eye vppon that pile or pale, Shoot nygh or on, and if so be thou ride On hors, is eek the bowys bigge vp hale; Smyte in the face or breste or bak or side, Compelle fle, or falle, if that he bide. Cotidian be mad this exercise, On fote & hors, as writeth olde wise. 377 That archery is grete vtilitee, It nedeth not to telle eny that here is; Caton, therof in bookys writeth he, Among the discipline of chiualerys, And Claudius, that werred mony yeres, Wel seide, and Affricanus Scipio With archerys confounded ofte his foo. Vse eek the cast of stoon with slynge or honde; It falleth ofte, if other shot ther noon is, Men herneysed in steel may not withstonde The multitude & myghti caste of stonys; It breketh ofte & breseth flesh & bonys, And stonys in effecte are euerywhere, And slyngys ar not noyous forto bere. And otherwhile in stony stede is fight, A mountayn otherwhile is to defende, An hil, a toun, a tour, and euery knyght And other wight may caste stoon on ende. The stonys axe, if other shot be spende, Or ellys thus: save other shot with stonys, Or vse hem, as requireth, both atonys. The barbulys that named ar plumbatys, Set in the sheld is good to take fyve, That vsed hem of old, wer grete estatys; As archerys, they wolde shote and dryve Her foo to flight, or leve him not alyve; This shot commended Dioclisian And his Coemperour Maxymyan. The Chiualers and werreourys alle, Quicly to lepe on hors, and so descende Vppon the right or lyft side, if it falle, That exercise is forto kepe an ende; Vnarmed first, and armed thenne ascende, 378 And aftir with a spere or sword & shelde, This feet is good, when troubled is the felde. And LX pounde of weght it hade to bere And go therwith a chiualerys pace, Vitaile & herneysing and sword & spere, Frely to bere; al this is but solace; Thinge exercised ofte in tyme & space, Hard if it be, with vse it wil ben eased, The yonge men herwith beth best appesed. And exercise him vche in his armure, As is the gise adayes now to were, And se that euery peece herneys be sure, Go quycly in, and quyk out of the gere, And kepe it cler, as gold or gemme it were; Corraged is that hath his herneys bright, And he that is wel armed, dar wel fight. To warde & wacche an oste it is to lerne Both holsom is that fvlly and necessary, Withinne a pale an oste is to gouerne, That day & nyght saftly theryn they tary And take reste, and neuer oon myscary; For faute of wacch, ha worthi not myscheved Now late, and al to rathe? Is this nat preved? To make a fortresse, if the foon be nygh, Assure a grounde, and se that ther be fode For man & beest, and watir deep mydthigh, Not fer; and se there wode or grovys goode. Now signe it, lyne it out by yerde or rode, An hil if ther be nygh, wherby the foo May hurte, anoon set of the ground therfro. Ther flood is wont the felde to ouer flete, Mak ther noo strength; and as is necessary 379 Vnto thyn oste, as mych is out to mete, And cariage also theryn most tary; Men dissipat, here enemy may myscary, And combred is an oste that is compressed; Tak eue ynough, and hoom have vch man dressed. Trianguler, or square, or dymyrounde The strength it is to make of hosteyinge; Thavis therof is taken at the grounde;And estward, or vppon thi foo comynge, The yatys principal have vssuynge, To welcom him; and if an ost journey, The yatis ar to sette vppon his wey. The centenaryes thervppon shal picche Her pavilons, and dragonys and signys Shal vp be set, and Gorgona the wicche Vpsette they; to juste batail condigne is Vch helply thing; another yate & signe is, Ther trespassers shal go to their juesse, That oponeth north, or westward, as I gesse. In maneer a strengthe is to be walled, If ther oppresse noo necessitee: Delve vp the torf, have it togedir malled, Therof the wal be mad high footys Above grounde; the dike withouten be IX foote brode, and deep dounright; Thus dike & wal is wel fote in hight. This werk they calle a dike tumultuary; To stynte a rore, and if the foo be kene, Legytymat dykinge is necessary; XII foote brod that dike is to demene, And nyne deep; his sidys to sustene, And hege it as is best on either side, That diked erth vpheged stonde & bide. 380 Above grounde arise it foure foote; Thus hath the dike in brede footys XII, And XIII is it high fro crop to roote, That stake of pith which euery man him selve Hath born, on oneward is it forto delve. And this to do, pikens, mattok and spade And tole ynough ther most be redy made. But and the foo lene on forwith to fight, The hors men alle, and half the folk ofoote Embataile hem, to showve away their myght, That other half, to dike foot by foote, Be sette, and an heraude expert by roote, The Centrions other the Centenaryis In ordre forth hem calle, as necessary is. And ay among the centrions enserch, The werk, if it be wrought, kept the mesure, In brede & deep & high, perch aftir perch, And chastise him, that hath nat doon his cure. An hoste thus exercised may ensure In prevalence, whos debellatioun Shal not be straught by perturbatioun. Wel knowen is, nothinge is more in fight Then exercise and daily frequentaunce; Vch werreour therfore do his myght To knowe it wel and kepe his ordynaunce; An ooste to thicke, I sette, is encombraunce, And also perilous is ouer thynne, Thei sone fle that be to fer atwynne. We werreours, forthi go we to feelde; And as our name in ordir in the rolle is, Our ordynaunt, so sette vs, dart & sheelde And bowe & axe, and calle vs first by pollys; Triangulys, quadrangulys, and rollys, 381 We may be made; and thus vs embataile, Gouerned, vndir grate to prevaile. A sengil ege is first to strecch in longe, Withoute bosomynge or curuature, With dowbeling forwith let make it stronge, That also fele assiste, in like mesure, And with a woord turne hem to quadrature, And efte trianguler, and then hem rounde, And raunge hem efte, and keep euerych his grounde. This ordynaunce of right is to prevaile; Doctryne hem eek, whenne it is best to square, And when a triangul may more availe, And orbys, how they necessary are; How may be to condense, and how to rare; The werreours that ha this exercise, Be preste with hardynesse, & stronge & wise. And ouer this, an olde vsage it was To make walk thryes in euery mone, And tho they wente a chiualerys paas X myle outward, the men of armys, none Vnharneysed; the footmen euerychone Bowed, tacled, darted, jacked, saladed; Vitaile eke born withal, her hertis gladed. In hom comynge, among thei wente faste And ranne among. Eek tourmys of ryderys Sumtyme journeyed on foote in haste, Shelded & herneysed with myghti sperys; Not oonly in the playn, but also where is A mountayn or a clif or streyt passagys. Thus hadde thei both exercise and wagys. Ereithre ege in this wise exercised Was by & by, so that no chaunce of newe 382 Nas to be thought, that thei nere of avised, And hadde way the daungerys teschewe Vndaungered; and this wisdom thei knewe By discipline of their doctour of armys, To wynne honour withouten hate or harmys. Thelectioun and exercise anended, An ooste is now to numbre & dyvide, And seen vch officer his part commended, And how to sette a feeld to fight & bide. Goode Angelys and Sayntys, ye me gide And lighte me, o Lady Saynte Mary! To write wel this werk & not to tary.- II. Electrix ita Milicie pars prima recedit, Et pars partitrix ecce secunda subit. The firste parte of IIII is here at ende; Now to the part secounde! er we procede To knowe this, His grace God vs sende! Myn auctour ofte aduiseth vs to rede And to the sense of it to taken hede; To rede a thinge withoute intelligence, As seith Cato the Wise, is negligence. But this I leve vnto the sapience Of chiualers, and to my werk retorne, Theryn to do my feithful diligence For their pleasaunce, out of this prosis storne The resonaunce of metris wolde I borne. As myghti herte in ryngynge herneysinge, So gentil wit wil in good metris springe. And for thonour of theuerlastyng kynge, Our saviour Jhesus and his Ierarkys, 383 His Angelys, and for that swete thinge, His Modre, patronesse of al my warkys, For His prophetys love and patriarkys, And for thapostolis that made our Crede, As do me fauour, ye that wil me rede. Virgile seith (an high poete is he) That werre in armys stont and mannys myght, The man on hors, o fote, or on the see; Riders be wyngis clept, for swift & light, On either half of thege eke ar thei dight; But now that ege is called the banere Or banerye, hauyng his banereer. Also ther are riders legyonaryis; Thei are annexed to the legioun. In too maner of shippes men to cary is, Their namys ar couth in this regioun; Orthwart go they the flood, and vp & doun; Riders in playn, footmen goth euery where, By theyme the commyn wele is to conquere; Riders a fewe, and haue o foote fele, Thei spende smal, and horsmen spende fre. Footmen o tweyne is to dyuide & dele: Or legiaunt or aydaunt for to be. Confederat men aydaunt is to se, That is to say, by trewce or toleraunce, As Frensh ar suffred here, and we in Fraunce. Aydaunt be they, but in the legioun Lith thordinaunce in werre to prevaile. A legioun out of electioun Hath take his name, as elect to bataile. Her diligence and feith is not to faile; Thi legyaunt forthi to multiplie Is right, but aydauntys a fewe applie. 384 Thousant werreours was a phalange In dayis olde, and of men Was a caterve, but this diagalange Is, as to this, not worth a pulled hen. The legioun, departed into X, Is vs to lerne, and legions how fele It is to haue, and how asondir dele. The consules legiounys ladden, Al aldermeest; but thei hadde exercise, Wherof the felde victoriously thei hadden; To chose a legioun, this was the gise, In bookys as they seyn, these olde wise: Wyis, hardy, strong, doctryned, high statured, In feet of werre ofte vsed & wel vred. That was the man, he was mad mylitaunt, When al the world to the Romayn Empire Was made obey, by knyghthod valiaunt;A sacramental oth doth it requyre, To write pleyn this matere I desire, By God & Criste and Holy Goost swar he, And by that Emperourys maiestee. Next God is hym to drede and hym to honour is; Right as to God ther bodily present, To themperour, when he mad Emperour is, Devotioun; vch loyal ympendent Is to be vigilaunt, his seruyent; God serueth he, both knyght & comynere, That loueth him, to God that regneth here. God, Criste Jhesus, and Holy Goste; was sworn By theim, and themperourys maiestee, That his commaundementys shuld be born And strenuously be doon, be what thei be; Fro mylitaunce that thei shal neuer fle 385 Ner voyde deth, but rather deth desire For themperour, and wele of his Empire. Thus sworn, vch knyght is of the legioun. The legioun stont in cohortys; Cohors the Latyn is, this regioun Tenglish it fore, help vs, good Lord! Amen. The dignite and number of the men Hath in the firste cohors an excellence Of noble blood, manhode and sapience. This feleshepe, most worshipful, most digne, Bar thegil and thymage of themperour; As God present was holden either signe, Thei hadde both attendaunce & honour; Of chiualers heryn was doon the flour, A an and footmen, And of wight horsmen. The military cohors, or the choors, Thus named it the wise, and the secounde Cohors, like as the bonet to his coors Is set, thei sette it footmen stronge & sounde, And an half, and abounde In hit, with sixe & sixti hors, and it The Quyngentary called men of wit. As fele & myghty choys putte in the thridde is, For in their honde espeyre is al to thryve; Her place in ordynaunce is in the myddys, And for the firth choors is to discrive Footmen and an half, With sixe & sixti hors, and eue as fele, With better hors, vnto the fifthe dele. For as the first cohors is the right horn, So in the lift horn is the fifthe choors; 386 For V choors stonde in the frounte aforn, Or the vawarde; of termys is noo foors, So the conceyt be had. The sixt cohors Hath, as the fifthe, yet lusty men & yonge; To thegil next to stonde it is to fonge, That is the right horn; in the myddil warde The nexte choors hath eue as mony as she, The nexte as fele, and therto is tawarde The myghti men, amyddis forto be; The nynth is of the same quantitie, The tenth is eue as is the choors beforn, But make it strong, for it is the lift horn. The legioun in ten is thus cohorted, And an see men on foote, Hors, and therty therto soorted, Of fewer hors is not to speke or moote In eny legioun; yet, crop & roote To seyn, of hors ther may be take moo, Commaundement if ther be so to do. Exployed heer thusage and ordynaunce Of legyoun, vnto the principal Of chiualers retourne our remembraunce; The dignitie and name in special Of euery prince enrolled, and who shal Do what, and whenne, and where, it is to write; Good angel, help vs al this werk tendite. The grete Trybune is mad by Themperour, And by patent, and send by jugement; Thundir Trybune is hent of his labour.An Ordyner for fighters forth present Is forto sette; eek Themperour content Is ofte to sende and make secoundaryis; What name is heer for hem? Coordinaryis. 387 An Egiller bar thegil, and thymage Of themperour bar an Ymaginary; And moo then oon ther were of those in wage; A Banereer, tho clept a Draconary, A Kyng Heralde, tho clept a Tesserary,The baner he, he bar commaundement, Al thoost tobeye her princys hole entent. Campigeners made exercise in feeldys, Campymeters mesured out the grounde, To picche pavilons, tentys and teeldys, The forteresse triangeler or rounde Or square to be made or dymyrounde, His part hit was; and he that was Library, Thaccomptys wrot, that rekenyng ne vary. The Clarioner, Trompet, and Hornycler, With horn, & trompe of bras, and clarioun, In terribil batailis bloweth cleer, That hors & man reioyceth at the soun; The firmament therto making resoun Or resonaunce; thus joyneth thei bataile; God stonde with the right, that it prevaile! A Mesurer, that is our Herbagere, For paviloun & tent assigneth he The grounde, and seith: 'Be ye ther, be ye here!' Vch hostel eek, in castel and citee, Assigneth he, vch aftir his degre. A wreth o golde is signe of grete estate; That wered it, was called a Torquate. Sengil ther were of these, and duplicate And triplicate, and so to for and fiv, That hadde wage, vche aftir his estate. Tho namys goon, such personys alyve, It may be thought, therof wil I not scryve. 388 Ther were eek worthymen clept Candidate, And last, the souldeours, vch othrys mate. The principal prince of the legioun, Sumtyme it was, and yet is a like gise, To make a Primypile, a centurioun; A Lieutenaunt men calle him in our wise; And him beforn is Thegil forto arise; Four hudred knyghtis eek of valiaunce This prymypile hadde in his gouernaunce. He in the frounte of al the legioun Was as a vicaptayn, a gouernour, And took availe at vch partitioun. The First Spere was next, a lusty flour; Two hundred to gouerne is his honour, Wherof thei named him a Ducennary, The name fro the numbir not to vary. The Prince an hundred and an half gouerned, Eek he gouerned al the legioun In ordynaunce; oueral he went vnwerned. The nexte spere, of name and of renoun, As mony hadde in his directioun; The First Triari hadde an hundred men; A Chevetayn was eke of euery ten Thus hath the first cohors fyve Ordinayris, And euery ten an hed, a Cheveteyne, To rewle theim; and so it necessayr is, An hundred and fyve on this choors to reigne: Four Ordinayris and the cheef Captayne, That is their Ordinary General, And seyde is ofte of him: He rewleth al. So high honour, so gret vtilitee Hath euerych estate of this renoun 389 Prouided hem by sage Antiquitee, That euery persone in the legioun With al labour, with al deuotioun To that honour attended to ascende, And that avail to wynne, her bodyis bende. The nexte choors, named the Quyngentary, Hath Centurions or Centenerys fyve; Thridde choors as fele hath necessary; The firthe fyve, and, forto spede vs blyve, In euery choors the Centyners oo fyve In numbir make, and so the legioun Of hem hath fyvty-fyve vp & doun. Not fyvty-fyve Whi? For fyve thordinayrys In their Estate and stede of fyve stonde; To graunte this, me semeth, noo contrary is; Though in my book so wryton I ne fonde, Of LV, wel I vndirstonde And fynde cleer, so that it most appere, That vndir Ordynayrys V were. The consulys, for themperour Legatys Sende vnto the oste; to thaim obtemperaunt Was al the legioun, and al the statys; They were of al the werres ordynaunt; To theim obeyed euerych aydaunt; In stede of whom illustres Lordes, Peerys, Be substitute, Maistrys of Chiualerys; By whom not oonly legiounys twayn, But grete numbrys hadde gouernaunce. The propre juge is the Provost, certayn, With worthinesse of the first ordynaunce; The vilegate is he by mynystraunce Of his power, to hym the Centeners Obey, and the Trybune and Chiualers. 390 Of him the rolle of wacch and of progresse Thei crave and haue, and if a knyght offende, At his precepte he was put to juesse By the trybune, in payne or deth tanende. Hors, herneys, wage & cloth, vitail to spende, His cure it was tordeyn, and disciplyne Vnto euery man, seuerous or benygne. His justising, with sobre diligence, And pite doon vppon his legioun, Assured hem to longh obedience And reuerence, and high deuotioun; Good gouernaunce at his promotioun Kept euery man; and his honour, him thoughte It was, when euery man dede as him oughte. The Maister or Provost of Ordynaunce, Although he were of lower dignitie, His estimatioun & gouernaunce, The bastilys, dich, & pale is to se; And wher the tabernaculys shal be And tent & teelde & case & paviloun And cariage of al the legioun. For seeke men the leche and medycyne Procureth he, for larderye and toolys; Of euery werk cartyng he most assigne, For bastile or engyne or myne. And fole is He noon, that is expert in these scolys; This was a wise, appreved chiualere, That, as he dede himself, couth other lere. And ouer this, the ferrour & the smyth, The tymbre men, hewer & carpenter, The peyntour, and vch other craft goth with, To make a frame or engyne euerywhere, Hem to defense and her foomen to fere; 391 Tormentys olde and carrys to repare And make newe, as they to broken are. Foregys and artelryis, armeryis, To make tole, horshoon, shot & armurre; And euery thing that nede myght aspie, is In thooste; and eek mynours that can go sure Vndir the dich, and al the wal demure Or brynge in thoost; herof the Maister Smyth Had al the rule, and euer went he with. The legioun is seide haue choorsis X. The military first, or miliary, The best and gentilest and wisest men And myghtiest, therto be necessary; Eek letterure is good & light to cary. Her gouernour was a Trybune of Armys, Wise & honest, that body strong & arm is. The choorsys aftir that, Trybunys cured Or Maysterys, as it the prince pleased; Vch chiualeer in exercise assured So was, that God & man therwith was pleased; And first to se the prince do, mych eased The hertys alle. Fresh herneys, armur bright, Wit, hardinesse & myght had euery knyght. The firste signe of al the legioun An Egil is, born by an Egeler, And thenne in euery Choors is a Dragoun, Born by a Draconair or Banereer; A baner eek had euery Centener Other a signe, inscrived so by rowe, His Chevetayn that euery man may knowe. The Centeners had also werreourys, Hardy, wel harneysed, in their salet 392 That had a creste of fetherys or lik flourys, That noon errour were in the batail set, To his Cristate and to his Baneret And to his Decanair euerych his sight May caste, and in his place anoon be pight. Right as the footmen haue a Centurion, That hath in rewle an C men & X, So haue the riders a Decurion, That hath in rewle XXXII horsmen. By his banere him knoweth alle his men, And ouer that, right as it is to chese A myghti man for thaym, so is for these. For theim a stronge & wel fetured man, That can a spere, a dart, a sword wel caste, And also fight, and rounde a sheld wel can, And spende his wepon wel withoute waste, Redier to fight then flite, and ner agaste, That can be sobre, sadde, & quyk & quyver, And with his foo com of and him delyuer; Obeyssaunt his premynentys wille, And rather do the feat then of it crake, Impatient that day or tyme spille In armys exercise and art to wake, And of himself a sampeler to make Among his men, wel shod, honestly dight, And make hem fourbe her armure euer bright. Right so it is, for these men to chese A Decurioun, thorugh lik to him in fourme, Impatient that thei the tyme lese, Wel herneysed, and euerych of hys tourme In euery poynt of armys wil enfourme, And armed wil his hors so sone ascende, That mervaile is, and course hym stronge anende, 393 And vse wel a dart, a shaft, a spere, And teche chiualers vndir his cure, Right as himself to torne hem in her gere, The brigandyn, helmet, and al procure, It oftyn wipe clene,-and knowe sure, With herneysing and myghti poort affrayed Is ofte a foo, and forto fight dismayed. Is it to sey: 'he is a werrely knyght,' Whos herneys is horribil & beduste, Not onys vsed in a fourte nyght, And al that iron is or steel, beruste; Vnkept his hors, how may he fight or juste? The knyghtis and her horsys in his tourme This Capitayn shal procure & refourme. III. Tercia bellatrix pars est et pacificatrix, In qua quosque bonos concomitatur honos. Comprised is in smal this part secounde, An ooste to numbir, and a legioun; In foylis is it fewe, in fruyt fecounde; The saluature of al religioun Is founde heryn for euery regioun. Wel to digeste this God graunte vs grace, And by the werre his reste to purchace. O gracious our Kyng! Thei fleth his face. Where ar they now? Summe are in Irelonde, In Walys other are, in myghti place, And other han Caleys with hem to stonde, Thei robbeth & they reveth see & londe; The kyng, or his ligeaunce or amytee, Thei robbe anende, and sle withoute pitee. 394 The golden Eagle and his briddys III, Her bellys ha they broke, and jessys lorne; The siluer Bere his lynkys al to fle, And bare is he behinde & eke beforne; The lily whit lyoun, alas! forsworne Is his colour & myght; and yet detrude Entende thei the lond, and it conclude. Of bestialite, lo, ye so rude, The Noblis alle attende on the Antilope; Your self & youris, ye yourself exclude, And lose soule & lyif. Aftir your coope Axe humble grace, and sette yourself in hope, For and ye wiste, hou hard lyif is in helle, No lenger wolde ye with the murthre melle. Ye se at eye, it nedeth not you telle, Hou that the beestis and the foulys alle, That gentil are, ar sworn your wrong to quelle; Ypocrisie of oothis wil not walle You fro the sword, but rather make it falle On your auarous evel gouernaunce, That may be called pride & arrogaunce. This yeve I theim to kepe in remembraunce; Goode Antilop, that eny blood shal spille, Is not thi wille; exiled is vengeaunce From al thi thought; hemself, alas, thei kille. O noble pantere! of thi breth the smylle, Swete and pleasaunt to beest & briddis alle, It oonly fleth the dragon fild with galle. What helpeth it, lo, thangelis wil falle On him with al our werreours attonys; Thei muste nede his membris al to malle.Of this matere I stynte vntil eftsonys, And fast I hast to write as it to doone is, 395 That myght in right vppon the wrong prevaile In londe & see, by knyghthode & bataile. Lo, thus thelectioun with exercise And ordynaunce, as for a legioun, Exployed is, as writeth olde wise. What ha we next? Belligeratioun. O Jesse flour! Jhesu, Saluatioun And Savyour, commaunde that my penne To thin honour go right heryn & renne. An oste of exercise 'exercitus' Hath holde of olde his name; a legioun As an electioun is named thus, And a choors of cohortatioun. The princys of her mynystratioun Her namys have, and aftir her degre The Chevetaynys vndir named be. Exercitus, that is to seyn an Ooste, Is legiounys, or a legioun; Tweyne is ynough, and IIII is with the moste, And oon suffiseth in sum regioun; Therof, with ayde and horsmen of renoun, As needful is, groweth good gouernaunce In euery londe, and parfit prosperaunce. What is an ayde? It is stipendiaryis Or souldiours conduct of straunge londe, To such a numbir as it necessary is, Aftir the legioun thei for to stonde In ordynaunce, to make a myghti honde; Heryn who wil be parfit and not erre, Tak Maysterys of armys and of werre. This was the wit of Princys wel appreved, And ofte it hath be seid and is conclude, 396 That oostis ouer grete be myscheved More of her owne excessif multitude Then of her foon, that thenne wil delude Her ignoraunce, that can not modifie The suffisaunce, an ooste to geder & gye. To gret an oost is hurt in mony cace: First, slough it is in journeyinge & longe; Forthi mysaventure it may difface, Passagis hard, and floodis hye amonge; Expense eek of vitaile is ouer stronge, And if thei turne bak and onys fle, They that escape, aferd ay aftir be. Therfore it was the gise amonge the wise, That of ?es had experience, Oonly to take an oost as wil suffice, Of preved & acheved sapience, In chiualerys that han done diligence In exercise of werre; a lerned ooste Is sure, an vnlerned is cost for loste. In light bataile, oon legioun with ayde, That is, X Ml. men o fote, and too Thousand on hors, sufficed as thei saide; They with a lord no grete estat to goo, And with a gret Estate as mony mo; And for an infinit rebellioun Twey dukys and tweyn oostys went adoun. Prouisioun be mad for sanytee In watre, place & tyme & medycyne And exercise. In place ?h be The pestilence, his place anoon resigne, To weet marice and feeld to hard declyne; To high, to lough, to light, to derk, to colde, To hoot, is ille; attemperaunce be holde. 397 In snow & hail & frost & wintir shouris, An ooste beyng, most nedes kacche colde; For wyntir colde affrayeth somer flourys, And mareys watir is vnholsom holde; Good drinke and holsom mete away wil folde Infirmytee; and fer is he fro wele, That with his foon & sekenesse shal dele. Cotidian at honde ha medycyne, First for the prince; as needful is his helth To thooste, as to the world the sonne shyne; His prosperaunce procureth euery welth; But let not exercise goon o stelthe; Holde euer it. Ful seelde be thei seek That euer vppon exercise seeke. In ouer colde & hoot, kepe the couert, And exercise in tymes temperate; Footmen in high & lough, feeld & desert; An hors to lepe a dich, an hege, a yate. Tranquillite with peax & no debate Be sadly kept, exiled al envie; Grace in this gouernaunce wil multiplie. Ha purviaunce of forage & vitaile For man & hors; for iron smyteth not So sore as honger doth, if foode faile. The colde fyer of indigence is hoote, And wood theron goth euery man, God woot; For other wepen is ther remedie, But on the dart of hongir is to deye. Or have ynough, or make a litil werre, And do the stuf in placys stronge & sure; In more then ynough, me may not erre; The moneyles by chevishaunce procure, As lauful is, I mene, nat vsure; 398 But tak aforn the day of payment; It loseth not, that to the prince is lent. What man is hool in his possessioun, If he ha no defense of men of armys? Beseged if me be, progressioun That ther be noon, and noo vitail in arm is, O woful wight, ful careful thin alarm is! Honger within, and enmytee abowte, A warse foo withinn is then withoute. And though thi foo withoute an honger be, He wil abide on honger thee to sle; Forthi comynge a foo, vitaile the, And leve hym noght, or lite, vnworth a stre; Whete and forage and flesh, fissh of ? Wyn, salt & oyle, fewel and euery thinge That helpeth man or beest to his lyvinge: Tak al, thi foo comyng, and mak an oye That euery man to strengthes ha ther goodis, As thei of good & lyves wil ha joye, And negligentys to compelle it good is. The feriage be take away fro flodis, The briggis on the ryverys to breke, And passagis with falling tymbour steke. The yatis and the wallys to repare, The gunnys and engynys & tormente, And forge newe, ynowe if that ther nare; Ful late is it, if thi foo be presente, And fere ingoth, if hardinesse absente. Be war of this, and euery thing prouide, That fere fle, and good corage abide. Golde it is good to kepe, and make stoor Of other thing, and spende in moderaunce; 399 More and ynough to haue, it is not soor, And spare wel, whil ther is aboundaunce; To spare of litil thing may lite avaunce. By pollys dele, and not by dignitee, So was the rewle in sage antiquytee. And best be war, when that thin aduersary Wil swere grete, ye by the Sacrament, And vse that, ye and by seint Mary, And al that is vndir the firmament: Beleve nat his othe, his false entent Is this: thi trewe entent for to begile. The pref herof nys passed but a while. Wel ofter hath fals simulatioun Desceyved vs, then opon werre; and where Me swereth ofte, it is deceptioun. Judas, away from vs! cum thou no nere: Thou gretest, Goddis child as thaugh thou were; But into the is entred Sathanas, And thou thi self wilt hange! an hevy cas. Sumtyme amonge an ooste ariseth roore. Of berth, of age, of contre, of corage Dyuers thei are, and hoom thei longe sore, And to bataile thei wil, or out of wage. What salue may this bolnyng best aswage? Wherof ariseth it? Of ydilnesse. What may aswage it best? Good bisinesse. With drede in oost to fight thei are anoyed, And speke of fight, when theim wer leuer fle, And with the fode and wacch thei are acloyed. 'Where is this felde? Shal we no batail see? Wil we goon hoom? What say ye, sirs?' 'Ye, ye!' And with her hed to fighting are thei ripe Al esily, but he the swellinge wipe. 400 A remedie is, when thei are asonder, The graunt Tribune, or els his lieutenaunt, With discipline of armys holde hem vndir Seuerously, tech hem be moderaunte, To God deuout, and fait of werrys haunte, The dart, baliste, and bowe, and cast of stoon, And swymme & renne & leep, tech euerychoon. Armure to bere, and barrys like a sworde, To bere on with the foyn, and not to shere, And smyte thorgh a plank other a boorde, And myghtily to shake and caste a spere, And loke grym, a Ml. men to fere, And course a myghti hors with spere & shelde, And daily se ho is flour of the feelde. To falle a grove or wode, and make a gate Thorgh it, and make a dike, and hewe a doun A cragge, or thurl an hil, other rebate A clyf, to make an even regioun, Or dowbil efte the dike abowte a toun; To bere stoon, a boolewerk forto make, Other sum other gret werk vndirtake. The chiualer, be he legionary, As seide it is beforn, on hors or foote, Or aydaunt, that is auxiliary, On hors or foote,-if that thei talk or mote Of werre, and reyse roore, vp by the roote Hit shal be pulde with myghti exercise Of werreourys, gouerned in this wise. Commende, and exercise, and holde hem inne, For when thei ha the verrey craft to fight, Thei wil desire it, wel this for to wynne. He dar go to, that hath both art & myght. And if a tale is tolde that eny knyght 401 Is turbulent other sedicious, Examyne it the duke, proceding thus: The envious man, voide his suggestioun, And knowe the trowth of worthi & prudent Personys, that withouten questioun Wil say the soth, of feith and trewe entent, And if the duke so fynde him turbulent, Disseuer him, and sende hym ellys where, Sum myghti feet to doon as thaugh it were: To kepe a castel, make a providence, Or warde a place, and do this by thaduyce Of counsel, and commende his sapience, That he suppose hym self heryn so wise, That therof hath he this honour & price; So wittily do this, that he, reiecte, Suppose that to honour he is electe. For verreily, the hole multitude Of oon assent entendeth not rebelle, But egged ar of theim that be to rude, And charge not of heven or of helle, With mony folk myght thei her synnys melle; Thei were at ease her synnys forto wynne, Suppose thei, if mony be ther inne. But vse not the medycyne extreme Save in thin vtterest necessitee, That is, the crymynous to deth to deme, The principals; by hem that other be Aferd to roore, yet better is to se An oost of exercise in temperaunce Obeysaunt, then for feere of vengeaunce. The werriours ha myche thing to lerne; And grace is noon, to graunte negligence, 402 Wher mannys helth is taken to gouerne; To lose that, it is a gret offense; And sikerly, the best diligence Vnto thonour of victory tascende, The seygnys is or tokenys tattende. For in bataile, when al is on a roore, The kynge or princys precept who may here In such a multitude? And euermore Is thinge of weght in hond, & gret matere, And how to doon, right nedful is to lere; Therfore in euery oste antiquitee Hath ordeyned III signys forto be. Vocal is oon, and that is mannys voys, Semyvocal is trompe & clarioun And pipe or horn; the thridde macth no noys, And mute it hight or dombe, as is dragoun Or thegil or thimage or the penoun, Baner, pensel, pleasaunce or tufte or creste Or lyuereys on shildir, arm or breste. Signys vocal in wacch and in bataile Be made, as wacch woordis: 'Feith, hope & grace,' Or 'Help vs God,' or 'Shipman, mast & saile,' Or other such, aftir the tyme and place; Noo ryme or geeste in hem be, ner oon trace, Ne go thei not amonge vs, lest espyes With wepon of our owne out putte our eyis. Semyvocals, as Trumpe and Clarioun And pipe or horn, an hornepipe thoo It myghte be; the trumpe, of gretter soun, Toward batail blewe vp 'Go to, go to!'; The clarions techeth the knyghtys do, And signys, hornys move; and when thei fight, Attonys vp the soun goth al on hight. 403 To wacch or worch or go to felde, a trumpe Hem meved out, and to retourne; and signys Were moved, how to do, by hornys crompe, First to remeve, and fixe ayeyn ther digne is. Oonly the clarioun the knyghtis signe is; Fight & retrayt and chace or feer or neer, The clarion his voys declareth cleer. What so the duke commaundeth to be doon In werk or wacch or feeld, or frith or werre, At voys of these it was fulfild anoon.The signys mute, in aventure a sterre, A portcolys, a sonne, it wil not erre, In hors, in armature, and in array They signifie, and make fresh & gay. Al this in exercise and longe vsage Is to be knowe; and if a dust arise, Theere is an oost, or sum maner outrage; With fiyr a signe is mad in dyuers wise Or with a beem, vche in his contre gise His signys hath; and daily is to lerne, That aftir hem men gide hem & gouerne. Tho that of werre have had experience, Afferme that ther is in journeyinge Gretter peril, then is in resistence Of fers batail; for in the counterynge Men armed are oonly for yeynstondinge And expugnatioun of hem present In fight; theron oonly ther bowe hath bent. Their sword & hert al preste ereither fight, In journeyinge ereither lesse attente is; Assault sodeyne a day other by nyght, For vnavised men ful turbulent is. Wherfore avised wel and diligent is 404 The duke to be purveyed for vnwist, And redy is the forseyn to resiste. A journal is in euery regioun First to be had, wheryn he thinketh fight, Wheryn haue he a pleyn descriptioun Of euery place, and passage a forsight, The maner, wey, both turnyng & forthright, The dale & hil, the mountayn & the flood; Purtreyed al to have is holdon good. This journal is to shewe dukys wise Of that province, or as nygh as may be, The purtreyture & writing forto advise; And of the contrey men a serch secre Himself he make, and lerne in veritee Of hem, that on her lyf wil vndirtake, That thus it is, and vnder warde hem make. Tak gidis out of hem, beheste hem grete, As to be trewe, her lyif and grete rewarde, And other if thei be, with deth hem threte, And sette a wayt secret on hem, frowarde Whethor thei thinke be other towarde; Thei, this seynge, wil wel condite & lede, Of grete rewarde & deth for hope & drede. Tak wise and vsed men, and not to fewe; Good is it not to sette on II or III The doubte of al, though thei be parfit trewe; The simpil man supposeth ofte he be Weywiser then he is, and forthi he Behesteth that he can not bringe aboute; And such simpilnesse is forto doubte. And good it is, that whidirward goth thooste, Secret it be. The Mynotaurys mase 405 Doctryned hem to sey: 'Whidir thou gooste, Kepe it secret; whil thi foomen go gase Aboute her bekenys, to tende her blase, Go thou the way that thei suppose leeste Thou woldest go; for whi? it is sureste.' Espyis are, of hem be war! also The proditours that fle from oost to ooste, Be war of hem; for swere thei neuer so, They wil betray, and make of it their booste. Escurynge is to haue of euery cooste; Men wittiest on wightiest hors by nyght May do it best, but se the hors be wight. In a maner himself betrayeth he, Whos taken is by negligence thespie; Forthi be war, and quicly charge hem se On euery side, and fast ayeyn hem hye; Horsmen beforn eke euer haue an eye; On vch an half footmen, and cariage Amyddis is to kepe in the viage. Footmen it is to haue & of the beste Horsmen behinde; vppon the tail a foo Wil sette among, and sumtyme on the breste, And on the sidis wil he sette also. With promptitude it is to putte him fro; Light herneysed, and myghtiest that ride, Doubte if ther is, putte hem vppon that side. And archery withal is good to take; And if the foo falle on on euery side, Good wacch on euery side it is to make; Charge euery man in herneys fast abide, And wepynys in hondys to prouide. Selde hurteth it, that is wel seyn beforn, And whos is taken sleping, hath a scorn. 406 Antiquitee prouided eek, that roore Arise not in thoost, for trowbelinge The chiualers behinde other before, As when the folk that cariage bringe, Ar hurt, or are aferd of on comynge, And make noyse; herfore helmettis wight A fewe vppon the cariours were dight. A baner hadde thei togedre to, Alway CC vndir oon banere; The forfighters a-sondred so ther-fro, That no turbatioun amonge hem were, If that ther felle a conflicte enywhere. And as the journeyinge hadde variaunce, So the defense had diuers ordynaunce. In open felde horsmen wold rather falle On then footmen; in hil, mareys & woodis, Footmen rather. In feeld & frith to walle An oost with myght, as wil the place, it good is, And to be war that slough viage or floodis Asondre not the chiualerys; for thynne If that me be, ther wil the foo bygynne. Therfore amonge it is to sette wyse Doctours, as of the feelde, or other grete; The forgoer to sette vnto his sise, And hem that beth to slough, forthward to gete. To fer aforn, and sole, a foo may bete; He may be clipped of, that goth behinde; And to goon hole as o man, that is kynde. In placys as him semeth necessary, And aduersaunt wil sette his busshement, Not in apert, but in couert to tary, And falle vppon; the duke heer diligent It is to be, to haue his foomen shent; 407 But euery place it is the duke to knowe, So that his witte her wylis ouerthrowe. If thei dispose in mountayn oponly Tassaulte, anoon ha prevely men sent To an herre hil, that be therto neer by, And so sette on, that of the busshement Aboue her hed, and of thi self present Thei be aferd, and sech away to fle, When ouer hede and in the frount thei se. And if the way be streyt and therwith sure, Let hewe adoun aboute, and make it large; In large way, peril is noo good vre; Also this is tattende as thinge of charge, Ye rather then gouerne ship or barge, That wher the foo by nyght other by day Is vsed oon to falle and make affray. And, voyde that, it is to seen also, What is his vse, on hors outher o foote, With fele or fewe his feetys for to doo, That sapience his werkys alle vnroote. Of balys also grete is this the boote, Dayly to gynne go in such an hour As may be sure both oost & gouernour: And yet bewar of simulatioun; To festeyng call in sum fugitif And here him wel with comendatioun, And lerne first, hou fellen thei in strif, And him beheste an honorabil lif; Lerne of him al, and thenne aday or nyght, When thei suppose leest, mak hem afright. Agreved ofte are oostis negligent, When it is hard passage ouer the floodys, 408 For if the cours be ouer violent Or ouer deep, gret peril in that flood is. A remedy to fynde heryn right good is, For hevy men, pagis and cariage Ar drowned oftyn tyme in such a rage. The depth assay, and make of horsys hye Tweyne eggys; oon be sette ayenst the streem, The myght therof to breke; another plye Benethe that, tawayte vppon the fleem And charge theim, that thei attende on hem That faile foote, and brynge theim alonde, And thus til thooste be ouer, shal they stonde. The flood is ouer deep in playn cuntre, Departe it ofte, and make it transmeabil: That most be doon with dykis gret plente, And wil it not be so, sette ore a gabil, On empti vesselling ley mony a tabil Fro lond to lond a brigge is made anoon, And sure ynough it is for hors & mon. Horsmen haue had of reed or seggis shevys, Theron carying their armure as thei swymme, But better is, to voiden al myschevys, Ha skafys smale, and hem togedir trymme With coorde alonge, atteynynge either brymme, And anchore it and tabil it at large, And sure it is as arch or shippe or barge. Yet war the foo; for vppon this passage He leyt awayt; anoon thin ooste dyuide And stakys picch, encounter their viage, And in that stede, if good is thought tabide, Mak vp a strong bastel on eyther side, And there, as axeth chaunce, it is to stonde And ha vitaile out of ereither londe. 409 Now castellinge in journey is to write. Not euerywhere is founden a citee, An ooste to loge, and vilagis to lite For it ther ar, and siker thei ne be, As, to be sure, it is necessitee To take a grounde as good as may be fonde, And thervppon to make our castel stonde. Leve not the better grounde vnto thi foo, Be war of that; se, watir, ayer & londe Holsom be there, and foode ynough ther to For man & hors, and woode ynough at honde. No force if rounde or anguler it stonde, But feyrest is the place and moost of strengthe, When twey in brede is thryis in the lengthe. Mesure a grounde, as wil thin ooste suffice; To wide it is: thin ooste therin is rare; To streyt: thei be to thicke; a myddil sise Is beste.-Now make it vp, no labour spare; It mot be doon, theryn is our welfare; As for a nyght, mak vp of turf a wale And stake it on our foo, the poyntis tavale. A turf it is, when gras & herbe is grave Vp with the grounde, with irons mad therfore; A foote brode, a foote & half it haue In lengthe, and half a foote thick, no more. But if the lond solute be, not herfore Turf like a brik to make of necessary, Thenne is to make a dike tumultuary. Make it III foote deep, and V obrede, And stake it as beforn, vtward to stonde; O nyght to dwelle heryn it is no drede. And if thi foo be nygh, him to yeynstonde, A gretter werk it is to take on honde. 410 Sette vp in ordir euery man his sheeld, Whil princys and prudentys parte a feeld. Vch centyner take vp the werk footmel, With sword igord, anoon caste vp the dich, And IX foote obrede wil do wel, XI is as good; but poore and rich Most on this werk, & even worch ilich, XIII foote obrede or XVII Is best of alle a werre to sustene. The numbir odde is euer to obserue, And hege it other stake it vp to stonde, Therto ramayle and bowys ar to kerve, Areyse it to his hegth aboue londe, And make it castellike with myghti honde, With loupis, archeturis, and with tourys. O Chiualers! in this werk your honour is. X footemel the centeneris take This werk to doon, and ther vppon attende, That euery company his cant vp make And stynte not, vntil a parfit ende Of al be mad; and who doth mys, is shende. Forwhi? the prince himself goth al aboute And by & by behaldeth euery rowte. But lest assault felle on hem labouringe, The hors, and thei on foote of dignitee, That shal not worch, in circuyte a rynge Shal make, and kepe of al hostilitie; And first, as for the signys maiestie Assigne place; for more venerabil Then thei, ther is nothing, this is notabil. And aftir that, the Duke & Erlys have The pretory, a grounde out set therfore, 411 And for Trybunys out a grounde thei grave, Her tabernaclis thei theryn tenstore For legions & aydis, lesse & more, On hors other o foote; a regioun And place is had to picch her paviloun. And IIII on hors and IIII o foote anyght In euery centeyn hadde wacch to kepe, And it departed was, to make it light, That reasonabil tymys myght thei slepe; For right as houris aftir houris crepe, So went the wach, and kept his cours aboute, Footmen withinne, & horsed men withoute. Thei go to wacch by warnyng of the trumpe, And there abide vntil their houris ende; Away thei go by voys of hornys crumpe. A wacch of serch also ther was tattende That wel the tyme of wacchinge were spende; Trybunys made of theim thelectioun, That hadde of al the wacch directioun. And twye a day the contrey was escured By horsmen, in the morn and aftir noon; Not by the same alway, for that endured Shuld not ha been. This feleship hath doon: They most reste, and other wynne her shoon; Thus bothe man & hors may be releved, Ye, ofte ynough, and not but litil greved. And on the duk hangeth the gouernaunce, That in this castellinge he ha vitaile For euery wight withoutyn variaunce, Clooth, wepon, herneysing, that nothing faile; And in fortressis nygh it is availe Footmen to haue & hors; ferde is thi foo, If thou on euery side vppon him goo. 412 Mortal bataile in hourys II or III Termyned is, and hope on that oon side Is al agoon; but a good prince is he, That can him & his ooste so wisely gide, With litil slaught to putte his foo fro pride; Pluck him vnwar and fray his folk to renne Away, and myghtily sette aftir thenne. On this behalve it is ful necessary, That olde & exercised sapience The duke to counsel have, and with hem tary, As wil the tyme, and here their sentence Of vinqueshinge couertly by prudence Or by apert conflict, that is, bataile; The surer way to take and moost availe. Here hem heryn, and what folk hath thi foo, And charge that thei glose not, for it Doth oftyn harm; and here theim also Speke of her exercise, her strength & wit, And to their aduersayrys how thei quyt Hemself aforn, and whether his horsmen Be myghtier in fight, or his footmen. Also the place of conflicte is to lerne, And what thi foo himself is, what his frendis; Wher he be wys a werre to gouerne, And whar thei lyue as angelis or fendis; Wher variaunt, or vchon others frend is, And wher thei vse fight in ordynaunce Or foliously, withoute gouernaunce. And euery poynt forseyd, and other moo, Considir in thin oost, and tak avis Of hem, what is the beste to be do; And peyse al in balaunce, and ay be wys; And if thin ooste is ace, and his is syis, 413 What so thei sey, couertly by prudence Dispose the to make resistence. Dischere nat thi folk in eny wise; The ferde anoon is redy for to fle; Be vigilaunt and holde inne exercise, And se thin hour; ful oftyn tyme hath he The herre hand, that kepeth him secre; Avaunte not for colde nor for hete, For smale dooth that speketh ouer grete. Certeyn it is, that knyghthode & bataile So stronge is it, that therby libertee Receyued is with encreste and availe; Therby the Croune is hol in Maiestee And vche persone in his dignitee, Chastised is therby rebellioun, Rewarded and defensed is renoun. Forthi the duke, that hath the gouernaunce, Therof may thinke he is a Potestate, To whom betakyn is the prosperaunce Of al a lond and euerych Estate. The Chiualers, if I be fortunate, The Citesens, and alle men shal be If I gouerne wel, in libertee. And if a faut is founden in my dede, Not oonly me, but al the commyn wele So hurteth it, that gretly is to drede Dampnatioun, though noman with me dele; And forthi, negligence I wil repele And do my cure in feithful diligence With fauoraunce of Goddis excellence. If al is out of vse and exercise, As forto fight in euery legioun 414 Chese out the myghtiest, the wight & wise And aydis with, of like condicioun; With their avice vnto correctioun Reduce it al by his auctorite The duke, & vse a grete seueritee. Amended al as sone as semeth the, Make out of hem a stronge electioun; Disparpiled lerne if thi foomen bee, And when thei lest suppose in their reasoun, Fal on, and putte hem to confusioun. Therof thi folk shal take an hardinesse And daily be desirous on prowesse. At brigge or hard passage, or hillis browe, Is good to falle vppon; or if ther be Mire or mareys or woode or grovis rowe Or aggravaunt other difficultee, To falle vppon is thenne vtilitee; The hors to sech vnarmed or aslepe To falle vppon is good to take kepe. Thus hardy hem; for whos is vnexpert Of werre, and woundis seeth, and summe slayn, He weneth euery strok go to his hert, And wiste he how, he wolde fle ful fayn. But and he fle, retourne him fast agayn. Thus with seueritee and good vsage Ther wil revive in theim a fyne corage. Dissensioun among foomen to meve, Be thei rebellious or myscreaunt, It is to do, theim selven thei myscheve. The traditour Judas was desperaunt, Him self he hynge: so wulle thei that haunt Rebellioun or ellis heresie. Alas! to fele thus wil lyve & deye. 415 Oon thinge heryn is wisely to be seyn, Of this matier that ther noman dispayre; As hath be doon, it may be doon ayeyn; A desolat Castel man may repayre. In wynter colde, in somer dayis fayre Is good to se. So fareth exercise Of knyghthode & of werre, as seyn the wise. In Engelond til now was ther no werre This LX yere, savynge at Seynt Albane, And oon bataile aftir the blasing sterre, And longe on hem that whirleth as the fane. Is not their owne cryme her owne bane? Ther leve I that, and sey that exercise Of werre may in peax revyue & rise. Seyde ofte it is: the wepon bodeth peax, And in the londe is mony a chiualere, That ha grete exercise doubtlesse And think I wil that daily wil thei lere, And of antiquitee the bokys here, And that thei here, putte it in deuoyre, That desperaunce shal fle comynge espoyre. More esily a thing is al mad newe In many cas, then is an olde repared; The plauntys growe, as olde tren vp grewe, And otherwhile a riche thing is spared. It nedeth not to crave this declared, But go we se, what helpeth to prevaile Vppon the feelde in sette apert bataile. Here is the day of conflict vncerteyn, Here is to se deth, lif, honour & shame. Glade vs, o Lord, this day & make vs fayn, And make vs of this grete ernest a game! Lord, make in vs magnificent thi name, 416 Thin angelis commaunde in vs tattende, And she, thi modir, have vs recommende. Now is the Duke the rather diligent, That forth he goth bytwene espoyre & drede; Now glorious the Prince is sapient, Now thignoraunt shal deye or harde spede. In this moment manhode & knyghtly dede With Goddis honde is oonly to prevaile; Now let se first, how wil our foon assaile. The chiualers set forth first at the yate, Whether ye dwelle in Castell or Citee, And sette a frount or eny foo come ate, Til thooste come out vndir securitee. Go not to fer ne faste, for ye se, A wery wyght hath spended half his myght, And with the fresh is hard for him to fight. And if thi foo the yatis ha forsette, Delay it and attende what thei mene; Let hem revile and gnaste & gomys whette, And breke her ordynaunce, and when thei wene Ye be aslepe, and they foryeton clene, Breke on hem vnavised day or nyght; This wisdom is to do, manhode & myght. It is to frayne also with diligence, Wher chiualerys think it be to fight, Her countynaunce of fere or confidence Wil be the juge, and truste not the knyght That is aferd, ner hym ?his myght Presumeth, inexpert what is bataile, Conforte hem yet, telle hem thei shal prevaile. And reasounynge reherce rebellioun Or myscreaunce, and how thei be forsake 417 Of alle goode, a Prynce as a lyoun May telle that aforn thei ha be shake; And if he may with reasounynge awake An hardinesse in hem he may procede And ellys vttirly he stont in drede. The first sight is ferdfullest for tho That neuer were in fight; and remedie Is in beholdinge ofte vppon her foo Out of a siker place or placys heye; Confort therof comyng, dispayr wil deye, Eke issuynge on hem with a prevaile Is hardyinge to falle to bataile. Part of the victory is for to chese The herre grounde, and ay the herre it be, The more myght thou hast thi foo to ceese, And more sharp dounward the taclys fle, Thi foon her fight is with the grounde & the; Yet footmen hors, and hors footmen tassaile, Theire is the cleef, the playn is hem tavaile. And if thou may ha with the sonne & wynde, Ereither on the bak is grete availe, Ereither also wil thi foomen blynde; Ayeinst the wynde to fight, it is travaile, A cloude of dust wil therwithal assaile Thi foomen in the frount, and stony hem so That they her wit shal seke what to do. Forthi the Prince it is be prouident And haue a sight to wynde & dust & sonne, And on the turnyng take avisement, Remembering hou certeyn hourys ronne. It wil not stonde, as stood when thei begonne; West wil the sonne and happely the wynde, But seen he wil that thei come ay behinde, 418 And euer smyte his foomen in the face; And there an ende of that. Now wil we se, This ooste embateled vch in his place, That noon errour in eny parti be; Therof wel ordeyned vtilitee Wil nede arise, and his inordynaunce May brynge (as God defende) vs to myschaunce. First is to sette a frounte, an Ege his name Is. Whi? The foon it shal behalde & bite; Ther chiualers, the worthiest of fame, That wil with wisdom & with wepon smyte, Noo knyght apostata, noon ypocrite, Feers, feithful, ofte appreved, olde & wise Knyghtys be thei, none other in no wise. This ege in dayis olde a principaunt Of wurthi men, as princys, had his name; In thordre next personys valiaunt, Such as ha sought honour and voyded shame That vre haue had, to make her foomen tame, Sette hem theryn, armure and shot & spere That myghtily can vse and wel bewere. Next to the firste frount this is secounde, And as of old thei called hem hastate By cause of vse of spere & shaftis rounde, Of armure is noon of hem desolate. III foote atwene had euery man his state, So in a Ml. pace olength stood fixe A Ml CC LX and VI Footmen were alle these, and stode in kynde In duble raunge, and euerych hadde III Foote, as byforn is seide, and VI behinde The raungis hadde a sondir, so that he That stood beforn, vnlatted shulde be 419 To drawe & welde his wepon, and to take His veer to lepe or renne, assaut to make. In tho tweyn orderys wer ripe & olde Appreved werryours of confidence, That worthi men of armys had ben holde, With wighti herneysing for to defense; These as a wal to make resistence Ay stille stode, hem may noo man constreyne Tavaunce forth or reere o foote ayeyne. Thei trouble not, lest other troubled were, But fixe abide, and welcom thaduersary With sword & axe, with shot & cast of spere, Vntil thei yeve her coors to seyntewary, Or fle; for whi? thei dar no lenger tary. Thenne aftir hem that ar to go for al, For these stille abide as doth a wal. Tho tweyne eggys ar clept 'the grete armure,' And aftir hem the thridde cours is sette Of wighte & yonge and light herneysed sure, With dartys and with taclis sharpply whette, In dayis olde thei ferentayris hette; The firthe cours was called the scutate, Spedy to renne and glad to go therate. Wight archery with hem to shote stronge, The yongest and the best and lustyeste Archers with crankelons & bowys longe; The ferenters and thei to gedir keste Named the light armure, as for the beste Thorgh shulde passe and first with shot prouoke The aduerse part, and on hem reyse a smoke. If foomen fle, thei and horsmen the chase Go swift vppon, and ellis thei retrete 420 And thorgh the frount indresse hem to their place. The grete armure, if thei com on an hete, Is hem to yeve of sword and axis grete, On hem the feeld is now for to defende. Thei gynne wel, God graunte hem a good ende! The fifthe cours was the carrobaliste, Manubalistys and fundibulary And funditours; but now it is vnwiste, Al this aray, and bumbardys thei cary, And gunne & serpentyn that wil not vary, Fouler, covey, crappaude and colueryne And other soortis moo then VIII or IXne. Heer faughte thei, that hadde as yet no sheelde, As bachelers, with shot of dart or spere. The sixte cours, and last of al the feelde Wer sheeldys, of the myghtiest that were, The bellatourys beste in euery gere; Antiquytee denamed hem Triayrys, In theym, as in the thridde, al to repayre is. Thei to be sadde in strength and requyete, More feruently to make inuasioun, To take her ease in ordir alwey seete, And if aforn wer desolatioun, In theym therof was reparatioun; In eny part if ther wer desperaunce, Thei turned it anoon to prosperaunce. Now the podisme, as whos wil sey, the space Of grounde, vpon to fight; it to se, Aforn is seide, hou in a Ml. pace XVI C LX and VI may be, So chiualers euerych ha footis III To stonde vpon a foote and VI abacke That for his veer and leep no rowme hym lacke. 421 VI eggys heer sette in a Ml. pace Shal holde II and XLti. feet in brede, And so X Ml. wil this grounde embrace; Thus tembataile is sure, and fer fro drede; And to II Ml. pas III cours for nede In long goth out, so that the latitute In XXI foote it self enclude. As here is taught, X Ml. men may stonde In oon or ellys in II Ml. pace, And XXti. Ml. in the double londe, And XXXti. Ml. in the threfolde space, And XL Ml IIII folde is tembrace; And this mesure is named the Pidisme, Vntaught in doctrinal or in Grecisme. A prince heryn expert, and hath to fight His feelde and of his folk the multitude, Shal seen anoon how thei shal stonde aright, And if the feeld is short & brod, conclude On rangis IX, and by this similitude, Be short and huge in brede, or longe & rare, But myghtier is brede, and mo may spare. And rare, an ooste if thaduersary seeth, He breketh on with hurt peraventure, Wher thicke outholdeth him ayenst his teeth; And ther an ende of that; but hoo shal cure Ereither, horn and myddis, to be sure, Ordeyne that, or aftir dignitee Or aftir thaduersayris qualitee. The feelde ofoote ordeyned in this gise, To sette it is these hors at eyther horn, As writeth in her werkys olde wise, That herneysed sperys be sette aforn, Vnharneysed abak, that of be born 422 The storm fro theym, whil myghti hors defende Stronge archerye o foote to shote on ende. For to defende haue horsis myghtieste, Tho hornys in attempting is to sende Out hors the swiftest & the wightieste, To trouble theym sette on a pace on ende. The duke it is to knowe & comprehende, What hors ayenst what throngys ar to goon, And whar he have hors as goode as his foon. Their hors ar ouer vs; theryn is boote: Tak wight and yonge men with sheeldis light, With twene on hors, sette one of theim o foote; With hem resiste our aduersayrys myght. But this to take effecte and spede aright, These yonge men herof grete exercise Moste have, as telleth werreourys wise. And aftir al his ooste, a duke shal haue A myghti choyce of men on hors & foote, Ereither horn and breste for to save, That if the boorys hed in wolde wrote, A sharre shere his groyn of by the roote. (The boorys hed is a triangulere Of men, a boorys hed as thaugh it were). If that come on, with tuskys forto breke The breste or egge or wynge or outher horn, A sharre clippe hem of, right by the cheke, And with the same his wrot away be shorn; And set it al in ordir as beforn, And if a place feynte, anoon a yawe Of myghti men aforn it is to drawe. Tribunys, Erlis or their lieutenauntys, Of these, myghtiest to renne & ride 423 Wer mad the Capitayns & gouernauntys, And werriours hem named the subside; For thei releved thoost on euery side, So that noman remeued from his place, For so to doon, myght al an oost difface. Eek out herof thei make a Boorys hed And Cuneus thei name it, or a wege; As thondirynge with leyting flammys red It russheth on our aduersayrys egge And shaketh of, ye mony a myghti segge, And if it falle on either of the hornys, It cracketh hem, as fier tocracketh thornys. This stood behinde al other ordynaunce. Now is to se the place of vche estate: On the right honde, withoute variaunce The principal Captayn or potestate, That al the gouernaunce is taken ate, There as the footmen and the hors dyuide, He hath his place, al to gouerne & gide. Footmen and hors to rewle heer stondeth he, The potestate and al this oost to gide, By premynence of his auctorite, To chere theim that myghtily shal ride, And theim o foote, as myghtily tabide. A wynge is him to bringe aboute the horn Him counteringe and on comynge beforn, That is the lift horn of our aduersary, Aboute a wynge, and on the backe hem clappe, And thei of their comyng the tyme wary; And if (as God defende) amys it happe, Anoon the subside is to stoppe a gappe; For soueraynly on hym that is tattende, And, as the cas requyreth, come on ende. 424 The Duke secounde, and next in gouernaunce, Amydde the frounte or forfrount is to stonde And sustene it tabide in ordinaunce; The boorys hed his part is to withstonde, A sharre out of the subside is at honde, Clappe it theron, and if ther nede a yawe, Out of the same anoon it is to drawe. The thridde Duke, right wys & vigorous, His part it is to stonde on the lift horn And myghti men with hym, for dangerous Is that to kepe, as writon is beforn. His wynge he muste extende, and hadde thei sworn It, let hem not her wynge aboute hym clappe, Subside at him be sone, if ought mys happe. A clamour, clept an harrow or a shout, Vntil the fight begynne, noon is to rere; No werreour that wise is, out of doubt, Wil shoute afer, therwith his foo to fere; But when the shoute & shaftys fille his ere, Then voyce yfere is so fel & horribil, That for to fere, it is not incredibil. Be redy first, and first to sette vppon, And first to shote & shoute & make affray, With myghti countynaunce, that is the mon, That mornynge is to haue a ful fayr day. This promptitude & wit & stronge aray Thi foo seynge, is trembeling to fle, The palme of victory goynge with the. And ay bewar, lest his right wynge clappe Aboute thi lift horn; this is remedie: To rech it out; and if that wil not happe, The wynge aboute thyn horn bacward replie And fende hem of; now fight for the maistrye, 425 And if a bosh come on on eny side, A better bosh on hem from our subside. Here angelike valiaunce, here is puissaunce Archangelik in ooste and legioun, And it gouerneth Dukys principaunce With myght, power, and dominatioun. Omnipotens, this is his champioun; God loueth this, his throne & sapience Is sette heron, justice to dispence. What is this oost, aduerse, rebelliouns Presumptuous, periurious, mischevous, Heresious with circumcelliouns? A legioun attaynte, vntaken thevous, That, as thei ar myscheved, wold myscheve vs. Her lord is Lucifer, the kyng of pride, In euery feeld with him doun goth his side. Thei ha no breste, here hornys & her wyngis Ful febil are and out of ordynaunce; Subside is goon, no socour in their kynge is, And moost amonge hem self is variaunce. They wil away, now fle they to myschaunce; Goon is their herte, and if the body dwelle, Their hope is aftir deth and aftir helle. Here is .o. breste, here hornys are & wyngys And myghtieste in raunge & ordynaunce; Subside is here, and socour in our kynge is, Amonge vs is ther noo contrariaunce. We wil abide vndir our gouernaunce, Here is noo drede of deth or peyne of helle; Here or with angelys is vs to dwelle. Therfore our eye is to the kyngis signe, We here his voys, as trumpe & clarioun, 426 His eyes are obeyed, we enclyne Attonys vnto hym, his legioun We are, and aftir God, his regioun. His capitayn and his vicapitaynys Tobey euerych of vs right glad & fayn is. This champioun, this ooste & Goddis knyght With fele and also fewe may prevaile, Miraclis here & there God sheweth myght; But first (as seide is erste) is hem tassaile. The gretter ooste is this; now moste availe Is ordinat bataile, as is beforn Seide, and with wyngys clappe in eyther horn. With wyngis wight hem vmbego, ley on Behinde and holde hem streyt on euery side, And cleche hem vp; whi wolde they be foon? Tech hem obeyssaunce; sey: 'Fy! o pride! Com on your way, we wil our self you gide.' This way is good, so that this bestes ride Be not a gret horribil multitude. With multitude we myght been vmbegoon, War that perile; holde of on other side With wyngis wight, and strengthe hem faste anoon; With myghtiest elect of the subside Prevaile on hem; yet more is to prouide, That if the boorys hed com in, a sharre Be made for him, his tuskys forto marre. But wurthi men are in this ooste afewe, Sette hem in wise and myghti gouernaunce; For heer the Lord wil his myracle shewe, Their multitude or myght be noo turbaunce; Truste in thi Lord and mak good ordynaunce; Ordeyned wel, in fewe is to prevaile, So that theryn no poynt or poyntis faile. 427 Do thus when thegys are at the congresse; Thi lift hond, hold it from thin aduersary, That of his shot it have noo distresse And thi ryght wynge vppon hem wightly cary. Theer to begynne it is most necessary; Sette on in circuyte, and bringe abowte, And to prevaile it nedeth nat to doubte. But do this with thin horsmen myghtyeste And footmen of the beste, and ha noo drede, Thi foomen vndir foote to be keste; And if thi foo to the the same bede, A myghtiest subside vppon hym lede Of horsmen and footmen, and thus delude Hir arte with arte, and thervppon conclude. Or otherwise, if men be myghtieste On the lift hond, the right is to retrete And fal on her right horn with wightieste Footmen & hors; and til thei yelde hem, bete Hem on the bak and breeste, and ouergete Hem myghtily; but the right honde elonge, That of thi foo noo forfeture it fonge. War heer the boorys hed and euerywhere, Or otherwise al putte in ordynaunce CCCC or D pace yfere Aforn the counteringe it is tavaunce Our wyngis wight vppon their ignoraunce. Prudence it is on hem to make affray, Whil thei beth out of reule and of aray. If hors be myghtiest, this wey is best And doon anoon, and ellis is grete drede; A remedy therfore is to be keste, That al the light armure wightly procede, And archerye, as sparkil out of glede. 428 And embataile anoon the frounte aforn, The breste to defende, and either horn. If this be doon, the frounte alonge is sure, Vnlabored with fight, or otherwise, Like as beforn is seyde, it is to cure, That thi right wynge vppon his lift horn rise; But myghtiest and wittiest dyuise Vnto that feat, and archers with hem fonge Of wighte men, ofoote that be stronge. And this doyng, retrete thi lifte horn Fer, al abak, and raunge it like a spere, Dyuers heryn vnto the way beforn, So that the foo noo strook theron bewere. This wil devicte anoon withoute fere. In this manere a smal & myghti ooste Shal ouerthrowe a multitude of booste; Or finally, this ooste is but of fewe And not so myghti men as hath the foo: Heer hath the werreour his craft to shewe, And embataile hym nygh a flood that goo On outher half; a cragge is good also, Lake or marice or castel or citee, A side to defende is good to se. There embataile and putte ereither wynge On oon side, and herwith pul of his horn, But fro behinde aboute is beste it brynge, And with the boorys hede route in beforn. The myghtiest to this be not forborn, Ner they, theryn that haue had exercise, Thus hath be seyde of werryourys wise. The foo peraventure is ferde and fled Into sum holde, and ferther wolde he fle 429 Fayn, wiste he how. What is the beste reed That he go forth, or heer beseged be? To lete hem goon is moste vtilitee And no perile is it that foo to chace That turneth vs the bak & nat the face. Yet heer be wys and sende a fewe aforn, Right aftir hem, and with a myghty honde Another way on even or amorn Caste to come in and in their light to stonde. When thei that aftir go, wynne on hem londe, Her part it is tattempte hem esily And so departe, aferd to bide therby. This seyn, thei wil, suppose a wayt be goon, And disolute anoon be negligent, Thenne is the wit, that myghti honde come on And take hem vp aslepe or vynolent; Thus easily we haue our owne entent, Therof to God the commendatioun Be madde, and doon sacrificatioun. If part of thooste be fled, & part prevaile, Heryn the Prince exploye his valiaunce, Hem myghtily retournyng to bataile. Forwhi? the foon be fled vnto myschaunce. Arere anoon vnto your ordynaunce; The feelde is youre, and trumpe & clarioun And scryis make of victory resoun. Of knyghthode and bataile in special Thus seide thelectioun & ordynaunce, Here is to sette vp rewlys general, As this: The gracious good gouernaunce Obserueth euerywhere; al suffisaunce Hath he that is content; al may be born Saue wele; and: scorned is that vseth scorn; 430 Thi disavaile availe is to thi foo, His hurt availeth the; voide his advice, Do thin availe; do not as he hath do; In thin electioun se thou be wys, War negligence, do euery man justice, Be vigilaunt, attende thin honour, Thi prouidence be to thin oost socour. Ha not to fight a knyght vnexercised; Ha confidence in preved thing; secre Thi counsel have; lerne of thi self disgised; The fugitif herd and vntrested be; Be gided wel by folk of that contre, That thou wilt ouer ride; haue in writynge Euery passage, and eke in purtreyinge. Better is brede in oost to fight then lengthe; Good is in stoor to haue a grete subside; With sapience socoure a feebil strength, Sende of thi foo; Let not thin oost diuide; Whette vp thin ege; bidde horsmen wightly ride; Fight in a raunge aforn with multitude Ayenst a fewe, and hem anoon detrude. A fewer oost falle on with the right horn, And crokyng of the lift horn is telonge, So that the myghtiest be sette beforn; And if the lift horn be both wyce and stronge, Sette it beforn, and bak the right be wronge; Or on thin vnaduised foo with wight And myghti wyngis go beforn & fight. The light armure and euery ferentary Aforn thi frount in nede anoon procede With subside on the wyngys for to tary; And he that hath a litil ooste, hath nede Of mych wit, and myghti men in dede, 431 And on his honde a flood or place of strengthe, And either wynge on his oon horn tenlengthe. Ye truste in hors: the playn is beste; ye truste Vppon footmen: the cleef is good. Espie Amongis vs to be ther is distruste: That euery man go hoom, anoon do crye, And which is he, forwith me shal espie. But sodenly this most be doon be day, The yatis shitte, lest he go stele away. What is to doon, with mony take advice; What shalbe doon, tak fewe or be alone; Tak his advice that is secret & wyce, Be juste, indifferent to euerychone; For idelnesse haue ay sumwhat to doone; To straunge not, not to familier, Make of a lord; chere a good Chiualeer. And here anende I thus the thridde part In this Tretice of knyghthode & bataile. What ha we next ? Forsothe, a subtil art To bilde a stronge Citee, and for tassaile It and defense; and aftir, fight Navayle, That is bataile in ship, I here entende For chiualers to write, and make an ende. IV. Vltima pars vrbes parat, obsidet atque tuetur, Bello nauali finit & ornat opus. This IIIde part, as long as othre tweyne, Halt prouidence of myghtiest bataile, The morthereer to bringe vndir the cheyne. There al his olde craft shal nought availe, But hate of ire and angush of travaile To fynde; and aftir al that to descende 432 To theuerlasting deth, if he namende. In Brutis Albion is not to spende This myghti knyghthode & bataile alone; To Normandie and Fraunce it is tassende, Til Cristis & the kyngis foos vchone Be dryven out or chastised, and noone Alyve ylefte, that wil not wel beleve And vttirly the myscreaunt myscheve. Here ende I that, and to my werk releve The laste part, anoon to bringe an ende, And aftir in correctioun it preve; Criste truste I, that the kyng it wil attende And werreours to knowe it condescende; That leve I there, and write as is thavaile To bilde and sette assege, and see bataile. Nature or art assureth a Citee, A dongeoun, a castel, or a tour, In lake or in mareys or in the see Sette it, that element is thi socour; And if the lond shalbe propugnatour, A mountayne or a clyef, a cragge, a rok Sette it vppon, and saf it is fro strok. And in foreste, in feelde or in champayne, With craft or art it is tomake a strengthe, And if nature assiste, it is tattayne Effect anoon, as when the brede or lenghe A rok, ryuer, mareys or see wil strengthe; But art alone if noon herof availe, Shal make it stronge with wisdam & travaile. Mak bosumy and angulous the wal, And so sette out therof the fundament With touris and turrettis oueral, 433 That scale, engyne or rammer therto sent Be ouer sette, and faile of his entent, When he is vnbegon and al to donge With al that may be kest fro wallis stronge. In this manere a wal it is to make, To stonde an infallibil thing for euer: An interualle of XXti feet be take, A wal on either side herof dissevre, Caste in the moolde, sadde it with mal & lever, Out of the dich caste it bitwix the wallys, And ramme it doun with punchonys & mallis. Mak the inner wal wel lower then withoute, That esily, as by the clif, ascende Me may vnto the loupis al aboute, Or by an esi grice hem to defende; Thus mad a wal, the ram may nat offende; For thaugh he fronte awey this vttir cruste, The grounde is stronge ynough with him to juste. For firing of the yatis make obstacle, Couer hem with hidys and with iron plate, And make aforn a myghti propugnacle, A portcolys to plumpe adoun therate, Aftir thi foon atwixte it and the yate Thei checked ar. The machcoling may thenne Chastise hem that thei shal nat sle ner brenne. The dichis ar to make brode at al And deep at al, so that me may not fille Hem in no wise, and renne vppon the wal; The myner is his labour heer to spille, And rathest if the watir hem fulfille; For now hath he twey grete Impedymentys; Depnesse is oon, another thelement is. 434 The multitude of shot is to repelle With sheeld, pavice an here and duble say; Shot perceth not ther thorgh; eek wittis felle Han cratys fild with stoon at euery bay, And if thassault come vp, adoun go they Out of the crate, at euery loup is oon Of these. It quelleth ordynaunce & mon. In mony wise assault is and defense; And on manere is by enfameyinge. Hoolde foode away, and watir, kepe it thens, And hem to honde anoon shal honger bringe. But if we wite a seege on vs comynge, Anoon gete al the foode within our wonys And faste haue in the multitude of stonys. Corn euerydel, larder, fisch, foul, forage, And that may not be brought in, is to brenne, Wyn, aysel, herbe, & fruyt and cariage, Logyng, let brenne it vp, or cary it thenne; So bare it for our foon that whenne thei renne, Thei fynde nought; and vse we vitaile With such attemperaunce, that it ne faile. Glew, tar & picch and oyle incendiary, And sulphour herwithal to brenne engyne, Charcole & cole, and al that necessary Is forto make armure and arowys fyne And shelde & spere, hundirdys VIII or IX, And coggys, cogulys & pibblis rounde, Fil vp the wal with hem by roof & grounde. Stoon of the flood is saddest and so best, For fourneysinge a wal & euery loupe, And outher with engynys to be kest On hegh, adoun to falle on hed or croupe, Or fro the scalyng forto make hem stoupe And have of grene tymbour grete rollys 435 And loggys leyd to route vppon her pollys. And beemys is to haue of euery sise And boord of euery soort, and also nayl. Ayenst engyne, engyne is to devise, And that the stuf be prest, is thin availe. High if it be, pulle ouer their top sail, And if thei come in touris ambulary, Hem myghtily to mete is necessary. Nerf is to haue or senewis aboundaunce, The crosbowyng to stringe and bowe of brake; Hors her of mane & tail, if suffisaunce Therof ther is, therto good is to take; Of wymmen here tho stryngis eke thei make: With stryngys of their her Romaynys wyvis Saved her owne & her husbondis lyvis. Raw hidis ar to kepe, and euery horn The portcolis to couere, eek sheeld & targe And mony a thing, it may not be forborn; And if so be your watir be not large, To synke a welle anoon it is to charge, For lak therof; theym that the water brynge, With shot defende outward & hoom comynge. And if the welle is out of our shotinge, Make vp a tour and putte archerys there, For to defende tho that watir brynge; Cisternys who can make, it is tenquere; Make vp of theym in placis euerywhere, Rayn watir kepe in hem; when wellys faile, Rayn watir in cisternys may availe. A See Citee this is, and salt is geson: Kest watre salt in vesselling that sprede, Salt wil the sonne it make in litil season; 436 But thus we dar not fette it in for drede, The see gravel, gete it vp in this nede, Fresh watir it, and let it drie in sonne, And salt withoute doubte herof is wonne. They that the wal assaulteth, bith terribil A multitude, and trumpis proudly rynge; The Citee nys but simpil and paisibil, And ferde thei are at this first counteringe, And in goth they; but if the spritis springe And putte hem of, in comth an hardinesse, And egal is fro now forth the congresse. The tortoys or the snayl, the rammys grete, The sekel or the sithe, and vyneyerd, The cagys pluteal it is to gete And tourys ambulary nere aferd; The musculys eke with the pety berde, Lo alle these wil this Citee assaile With crafte, and yet with craft shal it prevaile. Of tymbir and of boord it is to make A tortoys or a shelled snail, and so They name it; whi? for when hem liste awake It, out therof the hed & hornys go And in and out ayein; oon horn or too, Croked or streght, hath it, right as a snaile, Right as it semeth hem their moost availe. The bak of this tortoys, snail or testude, Wherof it hath figure and also name, With felt & heere & hidis rawe or crude, Lest theron fier doun cast, brenne vp the frame. Wel couered is, the sidis beth the same; Pendaunt theryn, ther goth a beem alonge, Therof the hed is iron steeled stronge. 437 Tweyne hornys if it have, it is a snaile; Streght may thei stonde, or the lifte horn may croke Outher the right, as may be moost availe, The wal to breke & stonys out to Rooke; And if it haue but oon horn, & it hooke A croche, it is a sikel or a sithe, It breketh and out bringeth stonys swithe. And when the frount is mad to breke & brese, It is a ram for that similitude, To rush vppon the wal and al to crese The stuf in it; yet wil thei this delude, And with oo crafte thoo craftis III conclude: Of quylt & felt a trusse thei depende, Ther as the ram entendeth for toffende. Or by the hed they kecch it with a gnare And hale it vp, or by the wal endlonge, Or turne it vpsodoun thei wil not spare; Hem semeth it to hurte it is no wronge; And other haue a wulf, this ram to fonge: That wulf is as a payre of smythis tongys, Toothed, that in a wayt alway to honge is. That wulf gooth on the ram, and by the hed Or necke anoon pulde is he vp so doun, Or so suspended that his myght is deed, And other fro the wallis of the town Or out of tourys hye or of dongeoun Wil caste an huge ston or a pilere Of marbil, and so breke it al yfere. And if the wal be thorled therwithal, As happeth ofte, or doun it gooth anoon: Awey with euery hous, and mak a wal Withinne that of planke or lyme & ston; And if thin aduersayris come vppon, Conclude theym bitwixt the wallis tweyne, 438 And so be quyte of this perile & peyne. The vyneyerde is lighter tymburynge, VIII foote brode, VI footys high, XVI Footys in length, and dubil couertinge Hath it of boord & fleyk; of twyggis grene The sidis are, and fier for to sustene, With felt & hidis grene it couere they, So that to brenne or breke it, is no wey. And made ynowe of these, ar sette yfere Vnto the wal, as summe sette a vyne, And tre pilers vpsetting heer & there, To make it falle, vndir the wal thei myne, That, puld away the stulpis VIII or IXne, Doun go the wal, this vyneyerd remeved, Lest it and al ther vndir be myscheved. The cage pluteal of twiggis plat, Of heerys hath couert and hidis grene; Not ouer high the roof ner ouer flatte, That shot & fier suffice it to sustene. On whelis III to go thei thise demene, As goth a cart; and fele herof thei make With mony a wit the wallis forto awake. The muscle shelle is but a smal engyne, Mightily mad on whelis for to go, And bere away the wallis when thei myne; Thei bringe stuf the dich to fille also; And on the werk it may go to & fro And sadde it vp, that tourys ambulary May men ynowe vppon the wallis cary. The muscul eke is good, the way to mende, For eny thing, of tourys ambulary. To se the crafte is now to condescende, 439 Thartificeer it nedeth not to vary; Make hem like other housing necessary, A XXXti foote or XL foote square, And otherwhile of Lti feet thei are. Of bemys and of boord be thei compacte, And competent the brede hath altitude, With hidis, grene or felt sadly coacte The robinge & the sidis are enclude. Their apparaile ashameth wallys rude, At euery lyme herof ar huge whelys And brood withal the sole of euery whel is. Present perile is, if this tour ammoeve Vnto the wal, the place is in a doubte; And impossibil is it of to shove. Of myghtieste theryn is mony a route, And briggis in, to renne on from withoute, And scalis of al maner farsioun, From eny part to renne on vp & doun. The rammys are alongh as first engyne, And not a fewe, a wal to ouerthrowe, And vndir as a vyneyerd they myne And briggis in the myddis are a rowe, And fro the toppe they shote & stonys throwe; Thus vndir and above and euerywhere The wall besette; who dar abide there? Yet here ayenst is diuers medycyne: First, if the Chiualers with confidence Go myghti out, and fire this engyne, First pulde away the firys resistence, And if thei ha not this magnificence, Shote at hem molliols, also fallayrys; But what thei ar, to knowe it necessayir is. 440 A malliol, a bolt of wilde fier is, A fallary, a shafte is of the same; Thorgh felt & hide hem shoote: al on a fier is; But shoote hem thorgh into the tymber frame; With myghti alblastris go to this game, Brymston, rosyn, glewe, oyle incendiary With flax doon on this shafte is necessary. Or preuely with fier out of the toun Ouer the wal, whil this tour is asclepe, A feleship of fewe is let adoun, That fiere it, as noo watir may it kepe; And triced vp at hoom thei skippe & lepe To se this ambulary touris brenne; This hath be doon, & yet ful seelde whenne. And otherwise is doun, the wal tarise, And ouer go the touris altitude; Yet ther ayenst is vsed to deuise A subtiltee, tho wallis to delude; In the vtter tour, an inner tour tenclude, And when thei sette vppon this wallis blynde With gabils & polifs hem ouerwynde. And beemys otherwhile, ye ouerlonge, Ordeyne thei, and sette on iron hornys, And as a rammys hed thei make hem honge; This tour with hem forbeton and throgh born is, And sette ofiere, and vtturly for lorn is; Yet otherwise, out of the toun a myne, Vndir the way therof, sleth this engyne. When this engyne on that concavitee Goth with his wight vppon his myghti whelis, Doun goth it, into helle as it wold fle; And this to se, the toun in joy & wele is. But thooste withoute al in dolour & deel is, Al desperate of help by their engyne, 441 And al by witty makyng of a myne. But if this tour sauf sette vppon the wallis With euery shot of dart, of shaft, of spere, And dynt of axe, of swoord, billys & mallys, And caste of stoon thei ley on euerywhere, That fro the wal awey they fle for fere, Now to the wal, the briggis forto avale is, And mony oon goth doun anoon by scalys. Thei trice in other with the Tollenon: The tollenon a tymbir pece on ende Is sette, another twye as long theron, The lighter ende of it adoun thei bende; A cageful of men therwith thei sende Vppon the wal, when they with cordis drawe Adoun that other ende, as is the lawe. Sumtyme ayen this werk, the bowe of brake, Carribalistys and Arcubalistis, Onagris and fustibulis wer take, And mony a dart that vncouth & vnwiste is Amonge vs heer. The taberinge of the fistis Vppon the bowe, and trumpyng of the gunne Hath famed vs as fer as shyneth sonne. Thei trumpe adoun the tourys ambulary, Thei ouerthrowe as wel ram as tortoys, The cage and vyneyerd therby myscary, The muscul may not with his dynt & voys; And countir as it goth, ther is noo choys, But deed or quyt; for and it onys touche, It goth for al that hangeth in the pouche. A conynger, that now they calle a myne, Goth vndir erth vnwist; by that cauerne Come in tatoun, ye, tourmys VIII or IXne, 442 And prevely they rise in sum tauerne Or desolat hous, so noo wight hem werne; And sodenly by nyght vppon the yate They hewe, and leet their frendis in therate. And ther ayenst, if that the dwellers be In touris, on the wal, or housys hye, Vppon the strete,-is ther yit comfort? Ye, So stonys out of numbir on hem flye, As thaugh the buldir hailed from the skye; They wil anoon retrete out at the yatis, Now steke hem out; and stynted this debate is. And if thei do not thus, anoon their foo Of prouidence her yatis may lete stonde, Vntil as fele as fle, wil been ago, And thenne in ease have hous & toun & londe; But God defende vs that we be not fonde Aslepe so that foon lede vs away Withoute strook, or seide hem onys nay! Lo, man, womman and childe may keste stoon Vppon his foo from euery place o lofte, And ther to redy sone are euerychon By day & nyght; this holpen hath full ofte. Ha stonys out of flood or feeld or crofte, Store hem on high, that in a sodeyn fere Fynde hem ye may, and on your foo bewere. This conynger hath eek another gise, Vndir the wal to crepe pryvely, And sette vp postis heer, & ther by sise And pike away the fundament wightly, Ramayle it wel. the postis by & by, And when their ooste was redy, make it brenne; Doun goth the wall; in and vppon hem thenne! 443 Peraventure ther is a countir myne, So that thei faile, and feyneth a dispayre, And hem remeveth mylys VIII or IXne; Now best be war, at market or at fayre, Or day or nyght, thei thinketh to repayre, If there appere among hem negligence; Therfore now do grettest diligence. Now se the wacch abide vppon the wall, And houndis wise & grete is good to kepe; Eek gees is good to haue in special, For thei wil wake folke that ar aslepe, The foo comynge her welth away to repe; The mavlard in the dich and in the wallis, The martilet at scaling wont to calle is. The toun eke on thassege sodenly Is wont to falle, if it be negligent; Therfore a dich thei make vp myghtily, Without shot of euerych instrument, And stake it, pale it, toure it to thentent, Ther to be sure hem self and holde hem inne; Thus wayteth vch an other for to wynne. The craft tassaulte a citee and defende By myght and wit of knyghthode & bataile, Honour to God, therof is mad an ende. Now go we forth vnto this fight navaile, That is fight on the see, no light travaile, And not o londe; as there is so grete drede, Therfore of gouernaunce hath it gret nede. To make an hous, good stuf it is to take Good farsioun, and good stuf is the hous; But rather he that shippis is to make, Se that his stuffe ne be nat vicious; A feebil hous nys not so perilous As is a feebil ship, other a barge, 444 Forthy therof the more it is to charge. Fir and cipresse and the pynappul tre Therfore is good, as seyn the bookys olde, And ook is holden good in this cuntre; The nayles are of bras wel better holde Then iron. Whi? For ruste thei wil & olde And kanker and consume, there as bras, Consumed al the ship, is as it was. Fro Juyl Kalendis vnto the Kalende Of Janyveer, that is by monthis sixe The seson is, tymbur to falle an ende; Thumour dryinge in treen, now sad & fixe Is euery pith; but fallinge is bitwixe XV and XXIIti, when the mone Is wanyng, dayis VII is this to done. In other tyme or seson if me falle, Wormeton wil it ben, eek it wil rote; The tymbourmen of craft this knoweth alle; Of rynde or bark is rende away the cote And dryed thorgh, er it be put to note, For tymbir weet, so wroght, wil aftir shrynke And ryve and with right grete disconfort drynke. For if the shippe vnto the maryner Drynke of the see, sone aftir of the same Thei drinketh al, and are of hevy cher; Forthi, the carpenter is wurthi blame That into shippis wil weet tymbour frame, And wurthi thonk is he, that frameth drye, So that in his defaulte no men deye. The namys of the shippis as for werre Myn auctour writeth not, save a liburne He writeth of as mightier & herre 445 Of boord, and wight of foote, and light to turne. As to the wastom of this shippis storne, Thei hadde V or IIII ordris of ooris, Or fewer, as the vessel lesse or more is. And euery grete liburne a balynger Hath had, and that a scafe exploratory Was named, for to aspie fer & neer; Of oorys hadde thei not but oon story. But wight it was to go for a victory; The seyl, the maste, and euery marynere With see colour wer clad for to vnnapere. A navey and an oost that wil gouerne Vppon the see, him nedeth forto knowe The wyndis, and the wedir to discerne; He moste ha wit, leste he be ouerthrowe; And first the foure cardinals arowe Be knowe, as Est & West & North & South, How thei amonge hem self discorde, is couth. Theest cardinal is called subsolan, And on his lifte hond hath he Sir Vulturne, And Colchyas is on his right hond tan, Septentrion, that cardinal so storne Out of the North the see wil ouer torne, Thocastias his right, and his lift side Halt Aquylo, what se may theim abide. Auster is cardinal meridian, Nothus ful grymly goth on his right side, And Chorus on the lift hond forth thei han, And Zephirus that cardinal, abide Wil in the west, and when him list to ride, Grete Affricus shal ride on his right honde, And Duk Fauonius on his lift honde. 446 If III or oon or tweyne of these vp blowe, Tethis, of hir nater that is tranquylle, Thei lene vppon, oppresse and ouerthrowe, And causeth al crye out that wold be stille; Thei ror ayeyn, of her thei haue her wille; The shippe that this conflict seeth & hereth (Heryn beleve me) his hert it fereth. Sum varyaunce of tyme will refreyne Her cruelous & feers rebellioun, A nothir helpith hem to shake her cheyne As all the firmament shuld falle adoun And Occian lepe ouer Caleys Toun; And after in a while it is tranquylle And playne & calme, as whos seith 'husht, be stille!' Therfore a storme is whisedom to preuyde, And good it is forse serenyte, And fro the storme abide or stopp atide, And with meanabil wynd sette on the see; Ful hard it is in peril hym to se, That of the wyndes had inspeccioun, Is raysonabil in direccioun. Thenne is to se the monthis & the dayes Of Nauygaunce, forwhy? not al the yere The wyndis on the shippis make affrayes, Sum monthis euer are of mery cheer, And summe loure a while, & after cleer Ynough they loke, & summe ar intractabil And ragy wood, ancour to breke & gabil. The VIth kalende of Juyn, when Pliades Appereth: what is that? the sterrys VII;The wyndes alle ar bounden to the pees, So that ther nys no truble vndir heuen, Vntil the berth of Arcture al is even, That is of Octobir the XVIIIth kalende, 447 Seecraft plesaunt hath at this day an ende. Tho dayis euer are of mery cheer, And thenne vnto the IIIde Ide of Nouembre The dayis wil now loure and now be cleer; For vnto now, as bookys me remembre, Arcture, as from the first Ide of Septembre, His reigne he hath, and in this meane while The firmament wil loure amonge & smyle. Nouembir in tempest is al to shake, And aftir vnto Marchis Idus VI, Viage thenne on see nys noon to take, But in the woose it is tabide fixe; Also by londe vnvsed is betwixe Alhaleweday & March to goon or ride, But if a grete necessitee betide. Short is the day, the nyght is ouerlonge, Thicke is the myst, and thestir is the mone, And aftir in ther comth of wynde a thronge, That forto stonde he hath ynough to done, That is o londe; a strom is aftir sone Of leyt, of wynd, of rayn, of hail, of thondir, That woful is the wight that goth thervndir. And, ovir this, in Marche, Aprile & May, Antiquytee of Navigatioun Dyuers sollemnytee and grete aray Was vsed have in high deuotioun, And eke of arte exercitatioun To kepe in honde, and as for feat of werre, Thei bood vntil the sonne ascended herre. And tokenys of tranquille and tempeste, Of wynde and rayn, thei hadden in the moone; Of tokenys this was surest & best: 448 Reed is the mone, it wil be wynde right sone, To take see theryn is good to shone; The pale mone is lyke to haue a rayn, The pale rede is wynde & storm, thei sayn And when the mone ariseth glad & bright, And namely the day that is the pryme, Withoute humour, in hornys sharpe & light, To take a grete viage is right good tyme. But if the sonne telle of eny cryme, As is if he arise vndir a cloude, That day in rayn & wynd is wont to croude. His bright aristh is like a mery day, His rede aristh is like a breef to blowe, And maculous, is shour or cloudis ay, And pale aristh wil reyn or ellis snowe; A tokyn eke of rayn is the raynbowe. In wynde and ayer, in fish & foule, Virgile The signys seyth that may noman begile. The maryners, thei sayn, haue al this art Of wydiringe, and thei be wedir wise, By discipline of it ha thei no part, But of a longe vsage or exercise. Wel knowe thei, the Reume if it arise, An aker is it clept, I vndirstonde, Whos myght ther may no ship or wynd withstonde. This Reume in Thoccian of propur kynde Withoute wynde hath his commotioun, The maryner therof may not be blinde, But whenne & where in euery regioun It regneth, he moste haue inspectioun; For in viage it may both hast & tary And vnaduised therof al mys cary. 449 The marinere, er he come at congresse Or counturinge, vppon the see bataile, Wil his Navey so for the Reume adresse, As may been his aduerser dissavaile And hindiraunce, and also his availe. This may be doon anoon, for a liburne With wynde or oorys, as me wil, may turne. The Maister Marynere, the gouernour, He knoweth euery cooste in his viage And port saluz; and forthi grete honour He hath, as worthi is, and therto wage. The depper see, the gladder he; for rage Of wynde or of bataile if ther abounde, The surer he, the ferre he be fro grounde. He knoweth euery rok and euery race, The swolewys & the starrys, sonde & sholde, And where is deep ynough his foo to chace; And chese a feeld he can, bataile to holde, And myghtily sette on liburnys bolde, First with the frounte al vndir see to route, And as a thought, anoon be brought aboute. The maister of the shippe, he muste be wyis; The mariners most be ful diligent, And myghti rowing vp at point device Is to been had at his commaundement, That storne and ooris go by oon assent Forth right to sette vppon, and light to turne, Ful gret avauntage haldeth this liburne. And as o londe an oost may be prevent And leyde awayt vppon, right so by see At ilis or in streytys pertynent A bushement to falle vppon may be Rathest; out of aray is good to se When that thei be; the reume & strem & wynde 450 With you & countour hem is good to fynde. Or wayte on hem, for wery or aslepe, Or when thei leest of thi comynge suppose, Or in a rode as is no wey to crepe Away, but that ye must been in their nose. Al that is you to wynne, is hem to lose, And if thei can avoyde alle your cautelis, Thenne vch his right, the feeld & fight to dele is. Thenne in a feelde a frounte of this liburnys It is to sette, and not as on the londe An oost; and whi? for inward it to turne is, The hornys as a sharp cressaunt to stonde, A bosomynge amyddis to be founde, That vmbego ye may your aduersary And close hem enviroun, and with you cary. But on the hornys be liburnys sturne With myghtiest & booldest men of werre, Aboute our foon of myscreaunce to turne, With confidence hem for to seyn: 'Ye erre; Com vndir vs, and knowe your ouer herre Moost gracioux, knowe him your souuerayne; And wil ye not? At youre perile & peyne!' The beemys, vp thei goth out of the trumpe And euery brayn astonyeth their reson; The firmament, lo! clariounys crumpe To crye vppon, and lo! it comth adoun With angelis, ye, mony a legioun, To countour periurie & myscreaunce And surquydrye and disobeyssaunce. In euery man thei setteth fortitude And high magnificence and confidence, Perseueraunt for trouth to conclude 451 With adiuuaunce of myghti patience, And on the part aduerse, an impotence With couwardise & diffident dispayre Wil ferdfully with trembelyng repayre. The canonys, the bumbard & the gunne, Thei bloweth out the voys & stonys grete, Thorgh maste & side & other be thei runne, In goth the serpentyne aftir his mete; The colueryne is besy for to gete An hole into the top, and the crappaude Wil in; the fouler eek wil haue his laude. The covey fleeth as foulis thorgh the sayle, The pavice are accombred with coventys, Yet on thei come, and vs thei wil assaile; The bowe vnnumerabil redy bent is, The shaft fro there an ende it goth. Apprentys Thonagir is and the carribaliste, The fundubal and the manubaliste. The catafract, plumbate & scorpioun, The dart and arpagoun in dayis olde Were had, and are amonge vs leyde adoun; Crosbowys yet and crankelons ar bolde With wilde fier to brenne al in the folde, The malliol goth out with the fallary, The wildefier to bere our aduersary. Yet on they come: awaite vppon the toppe Good archery; the storm of shot as hail So rayketh on, thei dar not shewe her croppe Ner in the mastys topp, ner vndir sail, Yet haile hem in a myghti voys: 'hail, hail! Come vndir your Kyng Harry! fy! o pride!' Thei wil not throf attonys on hem ride. 452 Bende vp, breke euerych oore in the mytside That hath a rash; help hem, lo, thei goth vndir; To this mysaventure hemself thei gide; Lo, how thei cracke on euery side a sondir, What tempest is on hem, what leyt & thondir! On grapesinge anoon let se their fleete, What hertys are in hem with vs to mete! Armure & axe & spere of ouer wight Is ouer light; as sparkelys in rede, So sparkel they on helm & herneys bright The rammys and twibil the side out shrede Of ship & mast; doun goth the sail in dede, Vp goth our hook, now it is on their gabil; Lo, ther it lyeth; this batail is notabil. Summe into se go, fisshes forto fede, Summe vndir hacch ar falde adoun for fere, And summe above, her hert blood to bleede, And summe seke, hem self they wote ner where; And summe crye 'alas, that we come there! Myschefe vpon mysgouernaunce betide! Lo, pride hath vs betrapped! Fy, o pride!' 'Com on! with vs ye shal go se the kyng, The gracious,-have of anoon this gere! Ye muste have on another herneysing: A gyngeling of jessis shal ye were. Ye shal no lenger stondyn in this fere. O siluer bere, o lilial lioun, O goldon Eagle! where is your renoun!' Thus may be doon, if that it be forseyn Of our meryte in souuerayn providence; Forthi forwith do euery wight his peyne, Sleuth out to holde, and haue in diligence, Sette vp the werk, and spare noon expense; Of Goddis honde although ye have victory, 453 Yet in the knotte is al thonour & glory. Knytte vp the werk, and say: 'Hail haliday!' The werre intraneous of al this londe Is at an ende, here nys no more affray; Justice is heer peasibilly to stonde, And al the world shal telle of Engelonde And of the kyngis high magnificence, And been adred tattempte it with offense. But forto knytte a knotte vppon this book, That is to sey, therof to make an ende, What is the ram, this twibil & this hook, That helpeth vs this shippis thus to shende? The ram, a beem is, by the mast suspende, That as a saylis yerde is smal & longe, On either ende an iron hed to fonge. A rammys or a snailis hed theron Ther may be sette, with streght or caumber horn, On either side it may sette on our foon, With myghti hand adoun that thei be born. Ther nys nothing may stonde ther beforn; For of the shippe it breketh out the side, Vnnethe may the mast his myght abide. The hook of iron kene is & of strengthe, And like a sithe vppon a myghti sperre, And not to gret, but of an huge lengthe, And polissed to bace & make it herre; The gabelis that in a ship of werre Bere vp the sail, herwith may be fordone, So may the stay & shroudis euerychone. The twibil is an axe with double bite, And therwithal in myddis of the maste; What maryneris dede, is hard to wite, 454 But fele it hurte, and fele it made agaste.Now faste vntil and ende I wil me haste, Yet first thonagir and carribaliste, What thing it was, it were good we wiste. Thonagir was an huge & myghti bowe, Strynged with nerf, therwith the stonys grete, In maner of a thonderynge were throwe, And for defaute of nerf, hors heer was gete To strynge hem with, and rather then forlete The help therof, their heer Romaynys wyvis Kitte of, to strynge hem with, and saue her lyvys. Theim leuer was to haue her goode husbandis With honestee, & with their hedis bare, Then dishonest be led to straunge londys, Dispareged, her mariage forfare. O, mony oon of yon goode wyvys are, That charge more vertue and honestee Then worldly good or bodily beautee. In carris had for hem, carribalistis Wer sette; thei were, as bowis are, of brake; Oon more of hem then X manubalistis; Of nerf or heer stringes for hem wer take. Their myghti shot made herte & herneys quake; They and thonagre bowys myghtieste, Tymbir that oon, stonys that other keste. Of tholde world the brightest herneysinge, Best ordinaunce and myghtieste mad were; O Chiualers, to you this is to bringe; The beste ye chese, and yet a point go nerre. O Lady myn, Maria, lode sterre, Licence me toward the lond; beholde, See seke am I, fulfayn o lande I wolde! 455 Hail, porte saluz! with thi pleasaunt accesse, Alhail Caleis! ther wolde I faynest londe; That may not I - oo, whi so? for thei distresse Alle, or to deye or with her wrong to stonde. That wil I not, to wynne al Engelonde! What myght availe, a litil heer to dwelle, And world withouten ende abide in helle. O litil case, o pouere hous, my poort Saluz thou be, vntil that ayer amende, That is to sey, vntil an other soort Gouerne there, that by the kyng be sende. Yit let me se, what way my wit is wende: In this tretys, first is thelectioun Of werreours, as for the legioun, Yonge, and statured wel, of vp o londe And laborers be taught to pace & renne And lepe and shote and with a dart in honde Shakyng vppon the Sarrasins that grenne, To shote quyk, and to swymme ouer, whenne The ryuer is to deep, there euery gise Of hosteyinge & fight hath exercise. The part secounde hath the diuisioun Of al an oost, wheryn is tolde of thaide, That subsequent is to the legioun, Wherin teuerych office his part is leyde; Theer of a feeld al ordinaunce is seyde, With evitatioun of al perile; Who redeth it, therate among wil smyle. The IIIde part prouideth and vitaileth And paeseth thooste, and voydeth al myschaunce, And al that in the journeyinge availeth, Is here to rede, and what feeld may avaunce An ooste to fighte, and euery ordinaunce How is to sette, and in conflicte how VII 456 Weyis ther ar the quyckest vndir heven. The firthe part in crafte & in nature Strengtheth a place and techeth it tassaile, Engynys eek to make & putte in vre, And to resiste hemself to disavaile; And on the see to make a stronge bataile, Where euery feat of werre it is to spende, And of this werk theryn is mad an ende. Go, litil book, and humbilly beseche The werriourys, and hem that wil the rede, That where a fault is or impropir speche, Thei vouchesafe amende my mysdede. Thi writer eek, pray him to taken hede Of thi cadence and kepe Ortographie, That neither he take of ner multiplye. Finis ~ Anonymous Olde English,