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1.029_-_The_Spider

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1.029_-_The_Spider

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TERMS STARTING WITH


TERMS ANYWHERE

KEYS (10k)

   1 Upanishads
   1 Onitsura
   1 Manly P Hall
   1 Sri Ramana Maharshi

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   7 Philip K Dick
   7 J K Rowling
   5 Rachel Caine
   5 Jennifer Estep
   5 Adrian Tchaikovsky
   4 Stephen King
   4 R A Salvatore
   4 Emily Dickinson
   3 William Shakespeare
   3 Robert Lowell
   3 Louise Bourgeois
   3 Haruki Murakami
   3 Du Fu
   3 Charles Bukowski
   3 Cassandra Clare
   2 Tommy Wallach
   2 Steven Knight
   2 Sri Ramana Maharshi
   2 Sherrilyn Kenyon
   2 Scott Meyer

1:how hot the spider's webs look hanging in summer trees ~ Onitsura, @BashoSociety

2:The emergence and disappearance of the world are like the spider producing a gossamer web and then withdrawing it. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi,

3:We are like the spider. We weave our life and then move along in it. We are like the dreamer who dreams and then lives in the dream.This is true for the entire universe. ~ Upanishads,

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,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship. ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

2:The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified. ~ emily-dickinson, @wisdomtrove

3:It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel. ~ john-keats, @wisdomtrove

4:the last cigarettes are smoked, the loaves are sliced, and lest this be taken for wry sorrow, drown the spider in wine. you are much more than simply dead: I am a dish for your ashes, I am a fist for your vanished air. the most terrible thing about life is finding it gone. ~ charles-bukowski, @wisdomtrove

5:Prejudice, like the spider, makes everywhere its home. It has neither taste nor choice of place, and all that it requires is room. If the one prepares her food by poisoning it to her palate and her use, the other does the same. Prejudice may be denominated the spider of the mind. ~ thomas-paine, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Patience to the spider ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

2:The spider-woman is purring. ~ Jonathan L Howard,

3:The spider's web is a home and a trap. ~ Tommy Orange,

4:I have drunk and seen the spider. ~ William Shakespeare,

5:The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! ~ Alexander Pope,

6:I’m the Spider, bitch—I’m the best there is. ~ Jennifer Estep,

7:I too have drunk and seen the spider ~ Lawrence Ferlinghetti,

8:Time is the web, and Fate is the spider. ~ Gregory David Roberts,

9:The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship. ~ William Blake,

10:I'm not scared of spiders at all. I'm the spider killer in the house. ~ Gigi Hadid,

11:All that the spider needs to complete its web is step taking ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,

12:Harry the spider! they want me to tap dance. I don't want to tap dance! ~ J K Rowling,

13:It is a miserable thing to live in suspense; it is the life of the spider. ~ Jonathan Swift,

14:Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly. ~ Charles Addams,

15:I have danced with the spider. I have cut a caper with the dancing mad god. ~ China Mieville,

16:I have danced with the spider. I have cut a caper with the dancing mad god. ~ China Mi ville,

17:..I have danced with the spider. I have cut a caper with the dancing mad god. ~ China Mi ville,

18:I have drunk, and seen the spider." (Leontine, Act II Scene I) ~ William Shakespeare,

19:Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. I’ll eat you whole, but you’ll like it. ~ Katee Robert,

20:Victory to the spider. Patience wins the day. And today my patience ends. (Apollymi) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

21:Be kind to the spider. It’s simply working hard to be itself. And don’t tell the maids, ~ Julie Anne Long,

22:Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly. -Morticia Adams ~ Lani Lynn Vale,

23:The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified. ~ Emily Dickinson,

24:It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel. ~ John Keats,

25:She sometimes felt like the spider in the middle of the family web, trying to hold all the threads together. ~ Phaedra Patrick,

26:The spider fattens himself on flies, and the Pharisee has his reward. Foolish persons are easily entrapped. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

27:It is assumed that the woman must wait, motionless, until she is wooed. That is how the spider waits for the fly. ~ George Bernard Shaw,

28:The emergence and disappearance of the world are like the spider producing a gossamer web and then withdrawing it. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi,

29:The spider had no confusion, no despair, no regrets. No metaphysical doubt, no moral complications. Probably. Unlike me. ~ Haruki Murakami,

30:The Spider Hero lived his life by this maxim: He who possesses great power is burdened also with great responsibility. — ~ Michael Swanwick,

31:We're all terrified by rattlesnakes, but the spider we brush off our sleeve with hardly a thought is far more likely to hurt us. ~ Greg Iles,

32:The spider is an animal who eats mosquitoes. That's why I love the spider - it is the only way we have to deal with these insects. ~ Louise Bourgeois,

33:The spider literally looks into my eyes and sends me spider telepathy. He says, I'm going to have shiny, gorgeous hair when I kill you. ~ Jillian Dodd,

34:You ended up hurting as well. That's pretty obvious.” She leaned over and ruffled his hair. “Sucks when the spider falls for the fly. ~ Belinda McBride,

35:Spiders don't chew. They send a special liquid into their prey. The prey's insides turn to mush. Then the spider sucks up its tasty lunch! ~ Julie Murphy,

36:The most challenging scene for me was the spider scene, because I don't like spiders in real life. Even rubber ones I get really scared of. ~ Rupert Grint,

37:You can't get away, you can't escape. You'll jump through a plate-glass window several times and end up being right back in the spider's web. ~ Tobe Hooper,

38:Pris had now cut three legs from the spider, which crept about miserably on the kitchen table, seeking a way out, a path to freedom. It found none. ~ Philip K Dick,

39:I came from a family of repairers. The spider is a repairer. If you bash into the web of a spider, she doesn't get mad. She weaves and repairs it. ~ Louise Bourgeois,

40:(Six claws.. the Spider-God comes.) Wolverine: Spider-God? What the hell? Spider-Man: Yep, that's me, just your friendly neighborhood Spider-God! ~ Jason Aaron,

41:The snails on the pink sleds of their bodies are moving among the morning glories The spider is asleep among the red thumbs of the raspberries. ~ Mary Oliver,

42:Anekico ler aracnia" ~ Sherrilyn KenyonVictory to the spider "Ki mi ypomonitikosi teleson semerie" ~ Sherrilyn KenyonAnd today my patience ends ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

43:It was great fun to do because of the central character. With The Girl in the Spider's Web, the girl is really the central character. She's the whole thing. ~ Steven Knight,

44:Like the spider spinning its web, we create much of the outer world from within ourselves. The universe is a joint product of the observer and the observed. ~ Gloria Steinem,

45:Myrnin: "I shall name him Bob, Bob the spider" Claire: "You're insane." Myrnin: "Why Claire, I thought that was part of my charm." (something like that) ~ Rachel Caine,

46:...which causes me to wonder, my own purpose on so many days as humble as the spider's, what is beautiful that I make? What is elegant? What feeds the world? ~ Louise Erdrich,

47:...which causes me to wonder, my own purpose on so many days as h umbel as the spider's, what is beautiful that I make? What is elegant? What feeds the world? ~ Louise Erdrich,

48:If I'm around spiders, my fear isn't so much the spider, but my fear is that I'm somewhere rustic and that spiders are crawling around. I must be in the woods. ~ Chuck Klosterman,

49:Solving crimes is like following a spider web. Everything is connected in some way. It's just figuring out where things intersect so I can find the spider in the middle. ~ Lisa Kessler,

50:And then what seemed to Gameknight like the most beautiful thing in the world happened. Heavily armed cavalry smashed through the spider formation, crushing the monsters ~ Mark Cheverton,

51:Spiders frighten me. In response to the spider alerts for Australia, please can the Australian government remove all spiders from Australia and blow them into outer space. ~ Eddie Izzard,

52:The old man stared at me with his bright green eyes. “You’re Gin Blanco, Genevieve Snow, and the Spider all rolled into one. You can do whatever you want to, sweetheart. ~ Jennifer Estep,

53:We have to believe that everything has a cause, as the spider spins its web in order to catch flies. But it does this before it knows there are such things as flies. ~ Georg C Lichtenberg,

54:The spider Mercer gave the chickenhead, Isidore; it probably was artificial, too. But it doesn’t matter. The electric things have their lives, too. Paltry as those lives are. ~ Philip K Dick,

55:But fear and danger aren’t always directly proportional. We’re all terrified by rattlesnakes, but the spider we brush off our sleeve with hardly a thought is far more likely to hurt us. ~ Greg Iles,

56:When a spider makes a beautiful web, the beauty comes out of the spider’s nature. It’s instinctive beauty. How much of the beauty of our own lives is about the beauty of being alive? ~ Joseph Campbell,

57:It was not spite or retaliation that made Tara abandon Bim — it was the spider fear that lurked at the center of the web-world for Tara. Yet she did abandon Bim, it was true that she did. ~ Anita Desai,

58:You seem to forget, Dickon, that we are dealing with the Spider King. Louis realized, just as you have, that it would take more to mate dog to cat than a shared lust for the English crown. ~ Sharon Kay Penman,

59:I’m just wondering how exactly I went from being the Spider to the Robin fucking Hood of the greater Ashland area... Instead of stealing from the rich, I’m stabbing them to death for the poor. ~ Jennifer Estep,

60:Ten thousand times the web could be destroyed, and ten thousand times the spider would rebuild it. There was neither annoyance nor despair, nor any delight, just as it had been for a billion years. ~ Liu Cixin,

61:The spider's lesson is never to be greedy. It shows that objects of necessity can be objects of beauty and art as well. The spider teaches us that we can be too easily enraptured with ourselves. ~ Marlo Morgan,

62:Where did you get that?" Jace looked down and saw that the spider demon's poison had eaten a hole in his shirt, leaving a good deal of his left shoulder bare. "The shirt? At Macy's Winter sale. ~ Cassandra Clare,

63:Ten thousand times the web could be destroyed, and ten thousand times the spider would rebuild it. There was neither annoyance nor despair, nor any delight, just as it had been for a billion years. Luo ~ Liu Cixin,

64:She was looking, not at the spider, but at Neville, and Harry, following her gaze, saw that Neville’s hands were clenched upon the desk in front of him, his knuckles white, his eyes wide and horrified. ~ J K Rowling,

65:Where did you get that?" Jace looked down and saw that the spider demon's poison had eaten a hole in his shirt, leaving a good deal of his left shoulder bare. "The shirt? At Macy's Winter sale. ~ Cassandra Clare,

66:Like delicate lace, So the threads intertwine, Oh, gossamer web Of wond'rous design! Such beauty and grace Wild nature produces... Ughh, look at the spider Suck out that bug's juices! ~ Bill Watterson,

67:The web convulsed, splitting the dark patch into hundreds of peach-colored corpuscles that pulsed in different directions down the hollow strands. Digestion. The strands were both the spider and the web. ~ Nicola Griffith,

68:Everything that the spider needs to make a spider-web is not found in the housefly... it's right there in the spider! Whatever you need to make impacts is in you! Discover yourself and make a difference! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

69:I used to imagine the spider creeping down, crawling into my mouth, sliding down my throat, and laying loads of eggs in my belly. The Baby spiders would hatch after a while and eat me alive, from the inside out ~ Darren Shan,

70:As the web issues out of the spider, As plants sprout from the earth, As hair grows from the body, even so, The sages say, this universe springs from, The deathless Self (the Supreme Soul), the source of life. ~ Eknath Easwaran,

71:He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without reflection. Every man's work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to become an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of his life. ~ George Eliot,

72:It feels great to know that whatever you need to achieve your dreams are in you. Whatever the spider needs to make a cobweb is not in the housefly. Look to yourself; you have what it takes to weave your success! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

73:They will say ‘Agnes’ and see the spider, the witch caught in the webbing of her own fateful weaving. They might see the lamb circled by ravens, bleating for a lost mother. But they will not see me. I will not be there. ~ Hannah Kent,

74:COBWEBS. The spider as an artist    Has never been employed Though his surpassing merit    Is freely certified By every broom and Bridget    Throughout a Christian land. Neglected son of genius,    I take thee by the hand. ~ Emily Dickinson,

75:We both liked the idea but couldn't figure out a way to get up to the roof. Vince had just seen the Spider-Man movie and suggested we shoot webs out of our wrists and swing up there. We asked Vince not to contribute any more ideas. ~ Chris Jericho,

76:To ask an author who hopes to be a serious writer if his work is autobiographical is like asking a spider where he buys his thread. The spider gets his thread right out of his own guts, and that is where the author gets his writing. ~ Robertson Davies,

77:Cure dismisses resilience, survival, the spider web of fractures, cracks and seams. Its promises hold power precisely because none of us want to be broken. But I'm curious: what might happen if we were to accept, claim, embrace our brokenness? ~ Eli Clare,

78:I did it,” the guy finally said. “I did it! I killed the Spider! Woo-hoo!” Okay, I thought the woo-hoo at the end was a little much, but I let the giant enjoy his moment of victory. It was going to be the last thing he ever enjoyed. ~ Jennifer Estep,

79:Mercer held out a closed hand, palm up. 'Before I forget it, I have something of yours here.' He opened his fingers. On his hand rested the mutilated spider, but with its snipped-off legs restored. 'Thanks.' Isidore accepted the spider. ~ Philip K Dick,

80:Once a woman put her hand in a gate and it ate her fingers. A five-legged spider with red eyes crawled out. That woman put in three fingers from her other hand, so that the spider might be complete. Do you have that integrity of purpose, sister? ~ Yoon Ha Lee,

81:I’m definitely not some kind of reformed badass created by my extraordinary experiences, either. Just ask the spider that crawled on me the other night while I was reading a book in bed. Mrs. Gregory about had a heart attack I screamed so loud. ~ J A Redmerski,

82:Mercer held out a closed hand, palm up. 'Before I forget it, I have something of yours here.' He opened his fingers. On his hand rested the mutilated spider, but with its snipped-off legs restored. 'Thanks.' Isidore accepted the spider. ~ Philip K Dick,

83:The spider does not spin its web in a heartbeat, nor does the albatross fly across oceans with a few flaps of its wings. Many would consider what they do impossible, and yet, they still complete their tasks without fail, because they simply...start. ~ Julie Kagawa,

84:1012 The Spider as an Artist The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified By every Broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian Land Neglected Son of Genius I take thee by the Hand ~ Emily Dickinson,

85:[The Girl in the Spider's Web] can't be anything other than a sequel, but a couple of books have been skipped, so it is different, in that sense. It's really taking a very strong central character and thinking, how do you execute this? It's quite different. ~ Steven Knight,

86:A falcon hovers at the edge of the sky.Two gulls drift slowly up the river.Vulnerable while they ride the wind,they coast and glide with ease.Dew is heavy on the grass below,the spider's web is ready.Heaven's ways include the human:among a thousand sorrows, I stand alone. ~ Du Fu,

87:It's only a hunting spider, it won't hurt you." -Myrnin "So not the point!" -Claire "Oh, pish. It's just another living creature. Nothing to be frightened of, if handled properly. I think I'll call him Bob. Bob the spider." -Myrnin "You're insane." -Claire ~ Rachel Caine,

88:Oh gosh, it's moving! It's so gross! Can't you just, like, flex your butt or something? Why, yes. Travis clenched his teeth. Why don't I just clench my butt muscles in hopes that it will shock the spider enough to crawl back into the hellhole it came out of? ~ Rachel Van Dyken,

89:There is a patience of the wild--dogged, tireless, persistent as life itself--that holds motionless for endless hours the spider in its web, the snake in its coils, the panther in its ambuscade; this patience belongs peculiarly to life when it hunts its living food; ~ Jack London,

90:Nothing—Elder, Next Generation, immortal or human—was completely indestructible. Not even Areop-Enap. Perenelle herself had once brought an ancient temple down on the spider’s head and it had shrugged off the attack—yet could it survive billions of poisonous flies? ~ Michael Scott,

91:See here, look at my hands. Say there’s a cobweb spun between them. It’s my ambition. And at its centre there’s a spider, a color of a jewel. The spider is you. This is how I shall bear you--so gently, so carefully and without jar, you shall not know you are being taken. ~ Sarah Waters,

92:gardening mysteries: The Grub-and-Stakers Move a Mountain, by Alisa Craig; The Spider-Orchid, by Celia Fremlin (definitely a collectible); The Murder of My Aunt, by Richard Hull; Death of a Garden Pest, by Ann Ripley; and Suddenly, While Gardening, by Elizabeth Lemarchand. ~ Carolyn G Hart,

93:the last cigarettes are smoked, the loaves are sliced, and lest this be taken for wry sorrow, drown the spider in wine. you are much more than simply dead: I am a dish for your ashes, I am a fist for your vanished air. the most terrible thing about life is finding it gone. ~ Charles Bukowski,

94:Pray for me, Arathis signed. But not to Lolth! Despite the tense situation, Jarlaxle managed a smile at that, a saying that was becoming litany for his band of mercenaries, all of them outcasts from the matriarchal society of Menzoberranzan and the misandry of the Spider Queen. ~ R A Salvatore,

95:Prejudice, like the spider, makes everywhere its home. It has neither taste nor choice of place, and all that it requires is room. If the one prepares her food by poisoning it to her palate and her use, the other does the same. Prejudice may be denominated the spider of the mind. ~ Thomas Paine,

96:This history has for so long lived like a spider in my breast. The spider spins and spins, catching memories in its web, threatening to devour every final happiness. With this letter I hope to sweep away the terror and the sadness and to have my heart made pure again by God's grace. ~ Kathleen Kent,

97:People won't admit it, they're too busy grabbing to see that the lights have fused. They can't see the darkness and the spider-face beyond and the great web of it all. That there's always this if you scratch at the surface of happiness and goodness. The black and the black and the black. ~ John Fowles,

98:Heather the midwife, the herb woman, the loudmouth, the witch, the crone, the horrible hag, the deadly poisoner. A very busy and bossy old woman, small and bent and proud to have three teeth left, two opposed. The spider was her animal, and it was said she turned into one sometimes. ~ Kim Stanley Robinson,

99:The spider dances her web without knowing there are flies that will get caught in it. The fly, dancing nonchalantly on a sunbeam gets caught without knowing what lies in store. But through both of them "It" dances. So, too, the archer hits the target without having aimed-more I cannot say. ~ Eugen Herrigel,

100:I came to hear the screams: the screams of protest against murderous treachery; the screams of rage from the leaders of drow society, the high priestesses of the Spider Queen, echoing down the paths of my mind, ever to hold a place within my mind. The screams of dying children. —Drizzt Do’Urden ~ R A Salvatore,

101:For me, there were a few things in the Spider-Man comics that I thought were really interesting. There's this story about Peter's parents and where he came from, and I thought that it was really interesting to explore the emotional consequence of someone whose parents had left them, at a very young age. ~ Marc Webb,

102:The spider was a little over ten feet tall and at least thirty feet across, with long, spindly legs and a body covered with thick black fur. It cast away the roof of its burrow as easily as a man in a sauna casts off his towel, and like the other men in the sauna, the wizards instantly wished it hadn’t. ~ Scott Meyer,

103:A falcon hovers at the edge of the sky. Two gulls drift slowly up the river. Vulnerable while they ride the wind, they coast and glide with ease. Dew is heavy on the grass below, the spider's web is ready. Heaven's ways include the human: among a thousand sorrows, I stand alone. ~ Du Fu,

104:Curran stood in the middle of the street, his hands still locked on the insect’s front pair of legs. The spider-scorpion was lunging at him again and again, trying to grip him with its pincers. If those mandibles closed on Curran, they’d slice his arms off. Oh no, you don’t. I charged the spider. ~ Ilona Andrews,

105:the last cigarettes are smoked, the loaves are sliced, and lest this be taken for wry sorrow, drown the spider in wine. you are much more than simply dead: I am a dish for your ashes, I am a fist for your vanished air. the most terrible thing about life is finding it gone. ~ Charles Bukowski,

106:There may be in the cup A spider steep'd, and one may drink, depart, And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge Is not infected: but if one present The abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make known How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides, With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider. ~ William Shakespeare,

107:Unless... " Now he looked at her in surprise. "Unless what?" She jabbed a finger at his shoulder. "When did you get that?" Jace looked down and saw that the spider demon's poison had eaten a hole in his shirt, leaving a good deal of his left shoulder bare. "The shirt? At Macy's Winter sale. ~ Cassandra Clare,

108:Imperio!” Moody jerked his wand, and the spider rose onto two of its hind legs and went into what was unmistakably a tap dance. Everyone was laughing — everyone except Moody. “Think it’s funny, do you?” he growled. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?” The laughter died away almost instantly. ~ J K Rowling,

109:…words have been all my life, all my life--this need is like the Spider's need who carries before her a huge Burden of Silk which she must spin out--the silk is her life, her home, her safety--her food and drink too--and if it is attacked or pulled down, why, what can she do but make more, spin afresh, design anew…. ~ A S Byatt,

110:...but if there was one thing that all my years as the Spider, all the battles, all the brushes with my own death, had taught me, then it was THIS. That THIS was what was important. This moment right now and all the ones that we are lucky enough to have after it. Today, tomorrow, hell, maybe even forever. ~ Jennifer Estep,

111:Only the spider paid no mind when the unicorn called softly to her through the open door. Arachne was busy with a web which looked to her as though the Milky Way had begun to fall like snow. The unicorn whispered, 'Weaver, freedom is better, freedom is better,' but the spider fled unhearing up and down her iron loom. ~ Peter S Beagle,

112:The slurred voice came from down at the end of the bar. Manderson had his hands around his drink as though it were a baby bird that had fallen out of a nest and needed protection. His eyes were rheumy. He had one of those spider veins on his nose, though it looked as if someone had stepped on the spider and squashed it. ~ Harlan Coben,

113:I Stand Alone A falcon hovers at the edge of the sky. Two gulls drift slowly up the river. Vulnerable while they ride the wind, they coast and glide with ease. Dew is heavy on the grass below, the spider’s web is ready. Heaven’s ways include the human: among a thousand sorrows, I stand alone. ~ Du Fu,

114:Ever since the spider had befriended him, he had done his best to live up to his reputation. When Charlotte’s web said SOME PIG, Wilbur had tried hard to look like some pig. When Charlotte’s web said TERRIFIC, Wilbur had tried to look terrific. And now that the web said RADIANT, he did everything possible to make himself glow. ~ E B White,

115:The Spider is an ode to my mother. She was my best friend. Like a spider, my mother was a weaver. . . Like spiders, my mother was very clever. Spiders are friendly presences that eat mosquitoes. We know that mosquitoes spread diseases and are therefore unwanted. So, spiders are helpful and protective, just like my mother. ~ Louise Bourgeois,

116:I didn’t care. The spider was still alive and that was not cool. “What am I supposed to kill it with?” he demanded, looking harassed. My hysteria rising to titanic proportions, I shrieked, “With your big freaking foot, you idiot. You have what, like, a size twenty shoe. Smash that thing.” “I wear a size twelve.” He scowled, clearly ~ Linda Kage,

117:I make mistakes, but I am on the side of Good," the Golux said, "by accident and happenchance. I had high hopes of being Evil when I was two, but in my youth I came upon a firefly burning in a spider's web. I saved the victim's life." "The firefly's ?" said the minstrel. "The spider's. The blinking arsonist had set the web on fire. ~ James Thurber,

118:Huh,” I say. “This was up for four seconds? Who pulled it down?” “Unknown. Sauron’s Eye, if I had to guess.” “Who?” “Sauron’s Eye,” Gary says. “The spider in the middle of the web, right? The all-seeing queen of the panopticon.” “The what?” He looks at me like I’ve just admitted that I do not, in fact, know my ass from a hole in the wall. ~ Edward Ashton,

119:Prose-it might be speculated-is discourse; poetry ellipsis. Prose is spoken aloud; poetry overheard. The one is presumably articulate and social, a shared language, the voice of "communication"; the other is private, allusive, teasing, sly, idiosyncratic as the spider's delicate web, a kind of witchcraft unfathomable to ordinary minds. ~ Joyce Carol Oates,

120:With every morn my life afresh must break The crust of self, gathered about me fresh; That thy wind-spirit may rush in and shake The darkness out of me, and rend the mesh The spider-devils spin out of the flesh- Eager to net the soul before it wake, That it may slumberous lie, and listen to the snake. George MacDonald ~ George MacDonald,

121:The traces of worry, sorrow, fear, all of them smoothed over as she slips into the code, the network, the world where she doesn’t need a pair of legs to run. She lets loose her defenses, the spider god at her back spewing one million glittering minions onto her datawalls, defending their mistress’s layer with swords and shields of ones and zeros. ~ Amie Kaufman,

122:Dinin nodded. “Ten years ago,” he began, wondering why he was telling all this to Jarlaxle, “I watched as Zaknafein was sacrificed to the Spider Queen. Rarely has any house in all of Menzoberranzan seen a greater waste.” “The weapon master of House Do’Urden had a mighty reputation,” the mercenary put in. “Well earned, do not doubt,” replied Dinin. ~ R A Salvatore,

123:The spider-mind acquires a faculty of memory, and, with it, a singular skill of analysis and synthesis, taking apart and putting together in different relations the meshes of its trap. Man had in the beginning no power of analysis or synthesis approaching that of the spider, or even of the honey-bee; but he had acute sensibility to the higher forces. ~ Henry Adams,

124:Myrnin to Claire: "Claire, there are things to do." "Here, too, and I'm staying here, believe me." Myrnin was silent for a beat, and then he said, "Bob would be very disappointed in you." "Bob the spider?" "He looks at you like a mother, you know. I'm surprised at your lack of work ethic. Think of the example you set for -" She hung up. ~ Rachel Caine,

125:Together, they were legend tripping, the age old practice of visiting strange locations of urban myths. Places such as the Baird chair monument, the Screaming Beaches, or the Spider Gates Cemetery. Popular sites frequently visited by tour groups or rowdy teenagers, locations with a history of the tragic, the horrific, or just plain old supernatural acclaim ~ Anonymous,

126:They will see the whore, the madwoman, the murderess, the female dripping blood into the grass and laughing with her mouth choked with dirt. They will say “Agnes” and see the spider, the witch caught in the webbing of her own fateful weaving. They might see the lamb circled by ravens, bleating for a lost mother. But they will not see me. I will not be there. ~ Hannah Kent,

127:After a long time and many questions, Satan said, "The spider kills the fly, and eats it; the bird kills the spider and eats it; the wildcat kills the goose; the -- well, they all kill each other. It is murder all along the line. Here are countless multitudes of creatures, and they all kill, kill, kill, they are all murderers. And they are not to blame, Divine One? ~ Mark Twain,

128:A spider had no special skill other than building its web, and no lifestyle choice other than sitting still. It would stay in one place waiting for its prey until, in the natural course of things, it shriveled up and died. This was all genetically predetermined. The spider had no confusion, no despair, no regrets. No metaphysical doubt, no moral complications. Probably. ~ Haruki Murakami,

129:Spiders can tell from the vibrations what sort of insect they have caught, and home in on it. There is a reason why the webs are radial, and the spider plants itself at the convergence of the radii. The strands are an extension of its nervous system. Information propagates down the gossamer and into the spider, where it is processed by some kind of internal Turing machine. ~ Neal Stephenson,

130:She asks me to kill the spider. Instead, I get the most peaceful weapons I can find. I take a cup and a napkin. I catch the spider, put it outside and allow it to walk away. If I am ever caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, just being alive and not bothering anyone, I hope I am greeted with the same kind of mercy. ~ Rudy Francisco,

131:1013 The Spider Holds A Silver Ball The spider holds a Silver Ball In unperceived Hands-And dancing softly to Himself His Yarn of Pearl--unwinds-He plies from Nought to Nought-In unsubstantial Trade-Supplants our Tapestries with His-In half the period-An Hour to rear supreme His Continents of Light-Then dangle from the Housewife's Broom-His Boundaries--forgot-~ Emily Dickinson,

132:When we die, we die. No more. Once the spider-thread of life is severed, the human body is but a mass of corrupting vegetable matter. A feast for worms. That is all. Tell me, what is more ridiculous than the notion of an immortal soul; than the belief that when a man is dead, he remains alive, that when his life grinds to a halt, his soul -- or whatever you call it -- takes flight? ~ Marquis de Sade,

133:Spider Crystal Ascension" The spider, juiced crystal and Milky Way, drifts on his web through the night sky And looks down, waiting for us to ascend … At dawn he is still there, invisible, short of breath, mending his net. All morning we look for the white face to rise from the lake like a tiny star. And when it does, we lie back in our watery hair and rock. ~ Charles Wright,

134:It actually did remind him of a spider, in fact. One particular genus that had become legendary among invertebrate zoologists and computational physicists alike: a problem-solver that improvised and drew up plans far beyond anything that should have been able to fit into such a pinheaded pair of ganglia. Portia. The eight-legged cat, some had called it. The spider that thought like a mammal. ~ Peter Watts,

135:With a tremendous effort, Areop-Enap opened all its eyes. " I am sorry to leave you alone and defenseless." Perenelle sealed the spider Elder into the huge cocoon of web, then turned and strode across the room. The tiniest breeze swept the floor clean before her. " I am Perenelle Flamel, the Sorceress,"she said aloud, unsure whether Aerop-Enap could hear her. "And I am never defenseless. ~ Michael Scott,

136:This is what I am: watching the spider rebuild - "patiently", they say, but I recognise in her impatience - my own- the passion to make and make again where such unmaking reigns the refusal to be a victim we have lived with violence so long Am I to go on saying for myself, for her This is my body, take it and destroy it? ~ Adrienne Rich,

137:Mercerism isn’t finished,” Isidore said. Something ailed the three androids, something terrible. The spider, he thought. Maybe it had been the last spider on Earth, as Roy Baty said. And the spider is gone; Mercer is gone; he saw the dust and the ruin of the apartment as it lay spreading out everywhere—he heard the kipple coming, the final disorder of all forms, the absence which would win out. ~ Philip K Dick,

138:The spider's web: She finds an innocuous corner in which to spin her web. The longer the web takes, the more fabulous its construction. She has no need to chase. She sits quietly, her patience a consummate force; she waits for her prey to come to her on their own, and then she ensnares them, injects them with venom, rendering them unable to escape. Spiders – so needed and yet so misunderstood. ~ Donna Lynn Hope,

139:Cutter and I were there when they opened the Sycamore Glen pool for the summer. So I actually saw, with my own eyes, the spider web that was woven across the gate, keeping all the people from just walking right on in like they’d done every year. Our new neighbors shuffled their feet and sighed real loud as they waited for the lifeguards to figure out what to do. They held their towels and ~ Marybeth Mayhew Whalen,

140:Apart from thoughts, there is no independent entity called the world. In deep sleep there are no thoughts, and there is no world. In the states of waking and dream, there are thoughts, and there is a world also. Just as the spider emits the thread (of the web) out of itself and again withdraws it into itself, likewise the mind projects the world out of itself and again resolves it into itself. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi,

141:If you’re going to learn to drive, you’re going to need to be able to reach the pedals.” The wolf spider elongated, and two of his middle legs extended to the floor of the vehicle, gently touching the pedals. “And see the road too, Josh.” A human head with the face and hair of a fifteen-year-old boy emerged from the body of the spider, and the abdomen filled out into something of a primate-like torso. ~ Joseph Fink,

142:I closed my eyes against the glare and remembered the spider silk. I had walked all over it and had not seen it. I had not known it was there. It struck me then that perhaps the bareness and wrongness of the world was an illusion; that things might still be real, and right, and beautiful, even if I could not see them - that if I stood in the right place, and was lucky, this might somehow be revealed to me. ~ Helen Macdonald,

143:Evan chuckled and shook his head. “I should have known it would be another owl. What is it with you and owls? I’m surrounded by the bloody things. There’s more of them than the spider plants.” “Don’t listen to him,” Rai said, standing and swivelling around to take in all his menagerie. Owlery? I made a mental note to Google the collective noun for owls later. “You’re all precious snowflakes, my lovelies. ~ Josephine Myles,

144:Penny: PROBLEM. Spider in the clean laundry basket and now it’s gone. I have to burn down the house. Gray: No. Penny: You’re not grasping the severity of this situation. The spider is huge and it’s going to eat the cat. Gray: Then the spider will rightfully take our cat’s place and become our beloved spider cat. Penny: This is on you. And remember that thing I said you could do to me tonight? It’s off the table. ~ Jill Shalvis,

145:Those last nights in Paris, walking home with her father at midnight, the huge book clasped against her chest, Marie-Laure thinks she can sense a shiver beneath the air, in the pauses between the chirring of the insects, like the spider cracks of ice when too much weight is set upon it. As if all this time the city has been no more than a scale model built by her father and the shadow of a great hand has fallen over it. ~ Anthony Doerr,

146:To what degree was the intention of the artist what we would call “aesthetic” or to what degree expressive? And to what degree is the art something that they had simply learned to do that way? When a spider makes a beautiful web, the beauty comes out of the spider’s nature. It’s instinctive beauty. How much of the beauty of our own lives is about the beauty of being alive? How much of it is conscious and intentional? That is ~ Joseph Campbell,

147:A human head with the face and hair of a fifteen-year-old boy emerged form the body of the spider, and the abdomen filled out into something of a primate-like torso. The legs remained spindly and long. He thought he looked cool driving a car as a wolf spider. He did look cool, although it was difficult to control the car. It was important to him that he look cool while driving, although he would not have been able to articulate why. ~ Joseph Fink,

148:I am the unseen. For centuries I have been here, beneath this great city, this metropolis. I know your language. I know all languages. . . . My cave is broad and cool. The sun cannot send its heat down here. The damp soil is rich and fragrant. I turn softly on my back and place my eight legs to the cave ceiling. Then, I listen. I am the spider. I see sound. I feel taste. I hear touch. I spin this story. This is the story I’ve spun. ~ Nnedi Okorafor,

149:The interview process tests not what the applicant knows, but how well they can process tricky questions: If you wanted to figure out how many times on average you would have to flip the pages of the Manhattan phone book to find a specific name, how would you approach the problem? If a spider fell to the bottom of a 50-foot well, and each day climbed up 3 feet and slipped back 2, how many days would it take the spider to get out of the well? . ~ Bill Gates,

150:Should we take my car or yours to the marina?" Sienna asked. "yours definitely" jason answered. "you know the spider is temperamental" Sienna warned. "we could end up breaking down." "thats what im hoping for,"Jason confessed "nothing betterthan breaking down with you, and getting stuck somewhere." he leaned close and whispered in her ear. "all alone." Sienna gave him that slow, sexy smile of hers and grabbed his hand. "my car it is. ~ Alex Duval,

151:4. PERCEPTIVENESS: Send them to their room to get dressed and they’ll never make it. Something along the way—perhaps a commercial on the television—will catch their attention as they walk by and they’ll forget about getting dressed. It can take ten minutes to get them from the house to the car. They notice everything—the latest oil spill, the white feather in the bird’s nest, and the dew in the spider web. They’re often accused of not listening. ~ Mary Sheedy Kurcinka,

152:The web of hypocrisy of today hangs on the frontiers of two domains, between which our time swings back and forth, attaching its fine threads of deception and self-deception. No longer vigorous enough to serve morality without doubt or weakening, not yet reckless enough to live wholly to egoism, it trembles now toward the one and now toward the other in the spider-web of hypocrisy, and, crippled by the curse of halfness, catches only miserable, stupid flies. ~ Max Stirner,

153:Referring to Jumper the spider, who needs to hide himself in human form, and he's learning to act like a human. "I'm sure I can learn to walk faster than that," he said desperately. "But you'll also need to learn the nuances of human behavior. Such as not going around naked." "What's wrong with being natural?" he demanded. "Humans aren't natural. They are girt about by all manner of conventions. It will take time for you to catch up with them all. ~ Piers Anthony,

154:Myrnin was silent for a beat, and then he said, “Bob would be very disappointed in you.” “Bob the spider?” “He looks at you like a mother, you know. I’m surprised at your lack of work ethic. Think of the example you set for—” She hung up on him and turned the phone on vibrate and relaxed in Shane’s arms. “You’re not leaving,” he said. He sounded surprised. “You always leave when he calls.” “Not now,” she said. And kissed him again, sweetly and gently. ~ Rachel Caine,

155:Don’t worry about that,” her Maker said. “For now, all I need you to do is watch for the villagers and continue to command your spiders to come here, to Dragon’s Teeth.” “I undersssstand, Maker,” Shaikulud said. “Very good, now go!” The spider closed her purple eyes for just an instant. Herobrine knew she was sending out psychic commands to her spiders. A group of the fuzzy monsters crawled out of the dark hole that sat between the Teeth of the Dragon, and moved to her, their ~ Mark Cheverton,

156:At first I wasn’t all that tempted by him, but then he killed the spider. Which was a huge point in his favor.” “Absolutely. I love men who kill bugs.” “And then when I was freaking out and couldn’t breathe, he was so…gentle.” Zoe sighed and colored, remembering. “He was holding me, and talking to me in that voice…you know, sort of low and rough around the edges…” “All the Nolans sound like that,” Justine said reflectively. “Like they’ve got a mild case of bronchitis. Totally hot. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

157:Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web. ~ Don DeLillo,

158:The Arthashastra does not forget to warn the tyrant that he can never win. He may rise to eminence through ambition or the call of duty, but the more absolute his power, the more he is hated, and the more he is the prisoner of his own trap. The web catches the spider. He cannot wander at leisure in the streets and parks of his own capital, or sit on a lonely beach listening to the waves and watching the gulls. Through enslaving others he himself becomes the most miserable of slaves. ~ Alan W Watts,

159:It’s true that when we get caught in the spider’s web—between the first chance event and the second—we fantasize endlessly and are, at the same time, willing to make do with the tiniest crumb, with hearing him—as if he were the time itself that exists between those two chance events—smelling him, glimpsing him, sensing his presence, knowing that he is still on our horizon, from which he has not entirely vanished, and that we cannot yet see, in the distance, the dust from his fleeing feet. ~ Javier Mar as,

160:Outside the moon had come out. It was full, a disk of bright silver. I saw a large, dramatic spider web on my back porch that must have been made while I was in the house with my mind in turmoil; the spider was just finishing the outer circle of it. The moon illuminated the strands of the big taut web so that it seemed to be made of pure light. It was dazzling, geometric and mysterious, and it calmed me just to stop and look at it, at the elaboration and power of life that could make such a design. ~ Walter Tevis,

161:At first I wasn’t all that tempted by him, but then he killed the spider. Which was a huge point in his favor.” “Absolutely. I love men who kill bugs.” “And then when I was freaking out and couldn’t breathe, he was so…gentle.” Zoe sighed and colored, remembering. “He was holding me, and talking to me in that voice…you know, sort of low and rough around the edges…” “All the Nolans sound like that,” Justine said reflectively. “Like they’ve got a mild case of bronchitis. Totally hot. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

162:You are the author of your own fate. You yourself have created this. You yourself are entirely responsible for this. You are the architect of your joys and sorrows. Just as the spider or the silkworm creates a web or cocoon for its own destruction, so also you have created this cage of flesh by your own actions, attractions, repulsions and false egoism. You have become the slave of the flesh, slave of your body and mind, slave of countless desires. You are sunk in the quagmire of deepest ignorance. ~ Sri Swami Sivananda,

163:Somewhere, in some shadowy bedroom of a leaf-strewn town, a father bolts the door to a child's room, then steps closer to the bed. In a neighbor's garden lurks a weed with a funny, blade-petaled flower, its poison choking the red roses. Somewhere a car is crashing; a phone is ringing in the center of night. The spider waits poised in the slipper. The bird swoops headlong into glass it thought was farther air. The strangler envisions a neighborhood of throats. The head finds the noose; the foot kicks the chair. ~ Scott Heim,

164:Man had in the beginning no power of analysis or synthesis approaching that of the spider, or even of the honey-bee; he had acute sensibility to the higher forces. Fire taught him secrets that no other animal could learn; running water probably taught him even more, especially in his first lessons of mechanics; the animals helped to educate him, trusting themselves into his hands merely for the sake of their food, and carrying his burdens or supplying his clothing; the grasses and grains were academies of study. ~ Henry Adams,

165:Every web began with a single thread that connected everything. He thought about the spider as patient and persistent, picking its way along delicate threads around the world. And he knew well what happened when you tried to forget about that connection or try to inflict your own will too much. You just got tangled in the spiderweb. He’d had his years of fighting the world, and that had landed him in juvie and back to drinking. You think you’re punching at the world but all you’re doing is knocking yourself out. ~ Lynn Lipinski,

166:I knew she overre--holy shit!” he yelled, falling back on his ass and scooting away from the largest spider he’d ever seen. When it decided to come after him, he was left with little choice but to grab one of Zoe’s magazines off the neat pile near the toilet and beat the shit out of the spider as Toby barked encouragingly. Even after he was pretty sure that it was dead he kept up the attack, afraid that it was just a trick and the spider was biding its time before it attacked him and dragged him beneath the sink. ~ R L Mathewson,

167:You remind me of the Siberian hunting spider, which adopts a highly convincing limp in three of its eight legs in order to attract its main prey, the so-called Samaritan squirrel, which takes pity on the spider, and then the spider jumps on it and injects the paralyzing venom, while the squirrel remains bafflingly philosophical about the whole thing. Not to be confused with the Ukrainian hunting spider, which actually has got a limp and is, as such, completely harmless, and a little bit bitter about the whole thing. ~ Bill Bailey,

168: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,

169:A.E.F. There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart, The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust. A spider will make a silver string nest in the darkest, warmest corner of it. The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty. And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall. Forefingers and thumbs will point casually toward it. It will be spoken among half-forgotten, whished-to-be-forgotten things. They will tell the spider: Go on, you're doing good work. ~ Carl Sandburg,

170:Her phone rang again. “What?” she snapped as she answered it. Myrnin, of course. “Are you on your way?” “No!” “Claire, there are things to do.” “Here, too,” she said. “And I’m staying here, believe me.” Myrnin was silent for a beat, and then he said, “Bob would be very disappointed in you.” “Bob the spider?” “He looks at you like a mother, you know. I’m surprised at your lack of work ethic. Think of the example you set for—” She hung up on him and turned the phone on vibrate and relaxed in Shane’s arms. ~ Rachel Caine,

171:I remembered Grandam telling me about an early Old Earth scientist, one Charles Darwin, who had come up with one of the early theories of evolution or gravitation or somesuch, and how—although raised a devout Christian even before the reward of the cruciform—he had become an atheist while studying a terrestrial wasp that paralyzed some large species of spider, planted its embryo, and let the spider recover and go about its business until it was time for the hatched wasp larvae to burrow its way out of the living spider’s abdomen. ~ Dan Simmons,

172:All fine and good,” she whispered, after ensuring they were alone, “but how are we supposed to leave the house? Unlike you, I’m not part spider.” “But the spider is strong, and more than happy to carry a ladybug on his back on his way down.” She stared at him. “Now I know you’re mad. You can’t possibly carry me and climb down the building at the same time.” “I can, and I will.” He sounded utterly confident. “All you need to do is hold tight. Unless,” he added, “you want me to search the ruin on my own.” “Just tell me what to do,” she answered. ~ Zoe Archer,

173:The word nature has given rise to a multitude of errors. Let me repeat that the nature of any being is the sum of the qualities attributed to it by the Creator. With immeasurable profundity, Burke said that art is man's nature. This is beyond doubt; man with all his affections, all his knowledge, all his arts is the true natural man, and the weaver's cloth is as natural as the spider's web. Man's natural state is therefore to be what he is today and what he has always been, that is to say, sociable. All human records attest to this truth.. ~ Joseph de Maistre,

174:Even at that early date, the basic building blocks of web search had been already set in stone. Search was a four-step process. First came a sweeping scan of all the world’s web pages, via a spider. Second was indexing the information drawn from the spider’s crawl and storing the data on racks of computers known as servers. The third step, triggered by a user’s request, identified the pages that seemed best suited to answer that query. That result was known as search quality. The final step involved formatting and delivering the results to the user. ~ Steven Levy,

175:Once when I was a little child of six or so, I watched a spider spinning its web in a corner of the house. Before the spider had even finished its job, a mosquito flew right into the web and was trapped there. The spider didn't pay it any attention at first, but went on with what it was doing; only when it was finished did it creep over on its pointy toes and sting that poor mosquito to death. As I sat there on that wooden floor and watched Hatsumomo come reaching for me with her delicate fingers, I knew I was trapped in a web she had spun for me. ~ Arthur Golden,

176:The Promise" Stay, I said to the cut flowers. They bowed their heads lower. Stay, I said to the spider, who fled. Stay, leaf. It reddened, embarrassed for me and itself. Stay, I said to my body. It sat as a dog does, obedient for a moment, soon starting to tremble. Stay, to the earth of riverine valley meadows, of fossiled escarpments, of limestone and sandstone. It looked back with a changing expression, in silence. Stay, I said to my loves. Each answered, Always. ~ Jane Hirshfield,

177:Think about the spider, Joe Fernwright. He makes his web. Then he makes a little silk cave at the end of the web to sit in. He holds strands that lead to every part of the web, so that he will know when something to eat, something he must have to live, arrives. He waits. A day goes by. Two days. A week. He waits on; there is nothing he can do but wait. The little fisherman of the night . . . and perhaps something comes, and he lives, or nothing comes, and he waits and he thinks, ‘It won’t come in time. It is too late.’ And he is right; he dies still waiting. ~ Philip K Dick,

178:MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE MIDNIGHT DOG THE MYSTERY OF THE SCREECH OWL THE SUMMER CAMP MYSTERY THE COPYCAT MYSTERY THE HAUNTED CLOCK TOWER MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE TIGER’S EYE THE DISAPPEARING STAIRCASE MYSTERY THE MYSTERY ON BLIZZARD MOUNTAIN THE MYSTERY OF THE SPIDER’S CLUE THE CANDY FACTORY MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE MUMMY’S CURSE THE MYSTERY OF THE STAR RUBY THE STUFFED BEAR MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF ALLIGATOR SWAMP THE MYSTERY AT SKELETON POINT THE TATTLETALE MYSTERY THE COMIC BOOK MYSTERY THE GREAT SHARK MYSTERY THE ICE CREAM MYSTERY THE MIDNIGHT MYSTERY T ~ Gertrude Chandler Warner,

179:It was in Durmond that I made the wonderful discovery of interlibrary loan, the greatest invention since the light bulb. […] All the libraries were linked together, so no matter where I moved, as long as I had a library card I would be part of a web as powerful and beautiful as the one in Charlotte’s Web. Just as Charlotte the spider wrote messages in her web that transformed Wilbur the ordinary pig into “some pig,” this web would transform me. I would eventually collect nearly fifty different library cards. I was snagged forever in the wonderful web of the public library system. ~ Kathryn Lasky,

180:so we went up the hill. then we got into my room and I looked at them both. my pure and beautiful slim and magic little girl glorious fuck with the hair dangling down to the asshole, and next to her the tragedy of the ages: slime and horror, the machine gone wrong, frogs tortured by little boys and head-on car collisions and the spider taking in the ball-less buzzing fly and the landscape brain of Primo Carnera going down under the dull playboy guns of cocksure Maxie Baer — new heavyweight champ of America — I, I rushed at the Tragedy of the Ages — that fat slob of accumulated shit. ~ Charles Bukowski,

181:an enormous round egg snatching and castrating the agile sperm; monstorous and stuffed, the queen termite reigning over the servile males; the praying mantis and the spider, gorged on love, crushing their partners and gobbling them up; the dog in heat running through back alleys, leaving perverse smells in her wake; the monkey showing herself off brazenly, sneaking away with flirtatious hypocrisy. And the most splendid wildcats, the tigress, lioness, and panther, lie down slavishly under the male’s imperial embrace, inert, impatient, shrewd, stupid, insensitive, lewd, fierce, and humiliated ~ Simone de Beauvoir,

182:This Desirable Mansion THE long white windows blankly stare Across the sodden, tangled grass, Weed-covered are the pathways where No footsteps ever pass; No whispers wake, no kisses die, No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers, Only the night hears sigh on sigh From ghosts of long-dead hours. None come here now to laugh or weep; The spider spins on stair and hall, And round the windows shadows creep, And loathly creatures crawl. Cold is the hearth; the door is fast; No guest the silent threshold sees Save ghosts out of the happy past,-And one who is as these. ~ Edith Nesbit,

183:Nobody goes "AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" when they sing it. Maybe because it puts the life adventure in such clear and simple terms. The small creature is alive and looks for adventure. Here's the drainpipe--a long tunnel going up toward some light. The spider doesn't even think about it--just goes. Disaster befalls it--rain, flood, powerful foces. And the spider is knocked down and out beyond where it started. Does the spider say, "To hell with that"? No. Sun comes out--clears things up--dries off the spider. And the small creature goes over to the drainpipe and looks up and thinks it really wants to know what is up there. ~ Robert Fulghum,

184:The tomb in the daytime, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been imagined. It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life - animal life - was not the only thing that could pass away. ~ Bram Stoker,

185:It was cruel," said Dumbledore softly, "that you and Sirius had such a short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship." Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing Dumbledore's hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might even suspect that until his letter arrived Harry had spent nearly all his time at the Dursleys' lying on his bed, refusing meals and staring at the misted window, full of the chill emptiness that he had come to associate with the Dementors. "It's just hard," Harry said finally, in a low voice, "to realise he won't write to me again. ~ J K Rowling,

186:Judging from the spiderwebs clinging to it, the emergency stairway was hardly ever used. To each web clung a small black spider, patiently waiting for its small prey to come along. Not that the spiders had any awareness of being "patient". A spider had no special skill other than building its web, and no lifestyle choice other than sitting still. It would stay in one place waiting for its prey until, in the natural course of things, it shriveled up and died. This was all genetically predetermined. The spider had no confusion, no despair, no regrets. No metaphysical doubt, no moral complications. Probably. Unlike me. I move,therefore I am. ~ Haruki Murakami,

187:The Home-Coming This was our house. To this we came Lighted by love with torch aflame, And in this chamber, door locked fast, I held you to my heart at last. This was our house. In this we knew The worst that Time and Fate can do. You left the room bare, wide the door; You did not love me any more. Where once the kind warm curtain hung The spider's ghostly cloth is flung; The beetle and the woodlouse creep Where once I loved your lovely sleep. Yet so the vanished spell endures, That this, our house, still, still is yours. Here, spite of all these years apart, I still can hold you to my heart! ~ Edith Nesbit,

188:way to tell what for.” “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you—about it being electrical.” She put her hand out, touched his arm; she felt guilty, seeing the effect it had on him, the change. “No,” Rick said. “I’m glad to know. Or rather—” He became silent. “I’d prefer to know.” “Do you want to use the mood organ? To feel better? You always have gotten a lot out of it, more than I ever have.” “I’ll be okay.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, still bewildered. “The spider Mercer gave the chickenhead, Isidore; it probably was artificial, too. But it doesn’t matter. The electric things have their lives, too. Paltry as those lives are. ~ Philip K Dick,

189:Small Wire My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web, as doth the vine, twiggy and wooden, hold up grapes like eyeballs, as many angels dance on the head of a pin. God does not need too much wire to keep Him there, just a thin vein, with blood pushing back and forth in it, and some love. As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love. So if you have only a thin wire, God does not mind. He will enter your hands as easily as ten cents used to bring forth a Coke. ~ Anne Sexton,

190:I resolved to do what I could, in a quiet way, to improve our proceedings myself, but I foresaw that my utmost would be very little, or I must degenerate into the spider again, and be for ever lying in wait. And the shadow I have mentioned, that was not to be between us any more, but was to rest wholly on my own heart? How did that fall? The old unhappy feeling pervaded my life. It was deepened, if it were changed at all; but it was as undefined as ever, and addressed me like a strain of sorrowful music faintly heard in the night. I loved my wife dearly, and I was happy; but the happiness I had vaguely anticipated, once, was not the happiness I enjoyed, and there was always something wanting. ~ Various,

191:It's a spider!" Tyler yelling again. "What else can it do? Did you teach it kung fu?!" Phillip leaned to Garry and said, "Ooh, a spider that knows kung fu. That'd actually be quite cool, wouldn't it? I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of an eight-legged roundhouse kick." Gary said, "Nah, man. Aren't you listening? Spiders have two legs and six arms." Jimmy said, "That's octopuses." Gary rolled his eyes. "And octopuses are the spider of the sea. Come on, keep up, guys." Jimmy was about to respond when he, Gary, and Philip became aware that both Tyler and Todd were staring at them. "Sorry," Jimmy said. "We'll discuss this later. Please, continue bickering. ~ Scott Meyer,

192:The parable of the spider was not invented by Scott. There is a much older storytelling tradition, spanning many cultures, about their industry and perseverance. Spiders and caves come up again and again, often in tales to comfort children. One old fable has the holy family fleeing Herod’s men soon after Christ’s birth. They take shelter in a cave and a spider, understanding the importance of the child, spins a web across the cave mouth to make it look as if no one has entered in a long time. Overnight the strands are covered by glittering frost and by the time the soldiers arrive, the illusion is complete. Tinsel is hung on Christmas trees in memory of the crucial role played by another spider and another web. ~ Neil Oliver,

193:He stood a moment or two at the door after his wife had gone, drinking in reassurance from that glorious vision of solid sense that spread itself before his eyes: the endless house-roofs; the high glass vaults of the public baths and gymnasiums; the pinnacled schools where Citizenship was taught each morning; the spider-like cranes and scaffoldings that rose here and there; and even the few pricking spires did not disconcert him. There it stretched away into the grey haze of London, really beautiful, this vast hive of men and women who had learned at least the primary lesson of the gospel that there was no God but man, no priest but the politician, no prophet but the schoolmaster. Then he went back once more to ~ Robert Hugh Benson,

194:Doctor Nye," Clarabelle said. The spider-like being turned to them. "Zombies," it said, mildly surprised. "And a blue-haired girl." "My name is Clarabelle. I'm here looking for a job... I have no medical or scientific training to speak of, and no inclination to learn, and I pick up things fairly slowly because of my short attention span..." "Clarabelle... Clarabelle... You worked as Kenspeckle Grouse's assistant, did you not?" "One of them. He fired all the others." "But not you?" "He fired me on the second day, but I kept coming in. I had nowhere else to go." "And then you killed him." "Yes." "A Remnant squirmed inside you, and you killed Kenspeckle Grouse." "Yes." It grinned. "You're hired. ~ Derek Landy,

195:How monotonous our speaking becomes when we speak only to ourselves! And how insulting to the other beings – to foraging black bears and twisted old cypresses – that no longer sense us talking to them, but only about them, as though they were not present in our world…Small wonder that rivers and forests no longer compel our focus or our fierce devotion. For we walk about such entities only behind their backs, as though they were not participant in our lives. Yet if we no longer call out to the moon slipping between the clouds, or whisper to the spider setting the silken struts of her web, well, then the numerous powers of this world will no longer address us – and if they still try, we will not likely hear them. ~ David Abram,

196:No, this is serious, Ollie. So I'm watching this spider building its web in the corner of the window. First it does the main parts, then the little connector rods. It's like so careful and precise, right? And then just when it's done, Mrs. Halverson comes over and says, 'It's so stuffy in here I can hardly breathe. Let's have some air,' and opens the window. And boom, all the spider's work was gone." He paused. "Made me think, man, that was just like life." I touched his cheek. "What do you mean, silly boy?" "You work and work, and all it takes is one bitch to ruin everything." Ollie stared ahead steadily and said, "I think it shows that sometimes for one person to keep breathing, something else has to stop. ~ Michele Jaffe,

197:I walk the straight lines. I walk through the summer nights. I walk the silver rope of dreams. I walk through dawns of dawns. There’s not a lot that isn’t dying. I see people parading in front of each other like insects in a killing jar, watching each other die. I walk the straight lines through the Christ machines. Through the eyes of the throwaway people. Through the wards and the shores and the cracks in the skulls of the sidewalks. Through love’s howling vacancy. I am the freedom soil. I dig my own grave. I resurrect myself every night. I am all things to myself. I walk the straight lines. I walk the spider’s jailhouse. I walk the think line, the thin line, the white line and all the lines in between. I wish I could trade in my eyes. ~ Henry Rollins,

198:Nothing endures for so long as fear. Everywhere in nature one sees evidence of innate releasing mechanisms literally millions of years old, which have lain dormant through thousands of generations but retained their power undiminished. The field rat’s inherited image of the hawk’s silhouette is the classic example - even a paper silhouette drawn across a cage sends it rushing frantically for cover. And how else can you explain the universal but completely groundless loathing of the spider, only one species of which has ever been known to sting? Or hatred of snakes and reptiles? Simply because we all carry within us a submerged memory of the time when the giant spiders were lethal, and when the reptiles were the planet’s dominant life form. ~ J G Ballard,

199:Wednesday. March 16 Isn't it strange that it hasn't occurred to me to put my relationship with Clarimonda on a more serious basis than these endless games. Last night, I thought about this...I can, of course, put on my hat and coat, walk down two flights of stairs, take five steps across the street and mount two flights to her door which is marked with a small sign that says "Clarimonda." Clarimonda what? I don't know. Something. Then I can knock and... Up to this point I imagine everything very clearly, but I cannot see what should happen next. I know that the door opens. But then I stand before it, looking into a dark void. Clarimonda doesn't come. Nothing comes. Nothing is there, only the black, impenetrable dark. "The Spider ~ Hanns Heinz Ewers,

200:Wednesday, March 23 I know now that I love Clarimonda. That she has entered into the very fiber of my being. It may be that the loves of other men are different. But does there exist one head, one ear, one hand that is exactly like hundreds of millions of others? There are always differences, and it must be so with love. My love is strange, I know that, but is it any the less lovely because of that? Besides, my love makes me happy. If only I were not so frightened. Sometimes my terror slumbers and I forget it for a few moments, then it wakes and does not leave me. The fear is like a poor mouse trying to escape the grip of a powerful serpent. Just wait a bit, poor sad terror. Very soon, the serpent love will devour you. "The Spider ~ Hanns Heinz Ewers,

201:I fixed her a drink, then lowered myself on the spider's silk of my attention back into One Hundred Years of Solitude and the adventures of the Buendia family. The scene where the prodigal Jose Arcadio hoisted his adopted sister by her waist into his hammock and, in my translation, 'quartered her like a little bird' made my face hot I bent down the page, whose small triangle marks the instant. Touching that triangle of yellowed paper today is like sliding my hand into the glove of my seventeen-year-old hand. Through magic, there are the Iowa fields slipping by... And there is my mother, not yet born into the ziplock baggie of ash my sister sent me years ago with the frank message 'Mom 1/2', written in laundry pen, since no-one in our family ever stood on ceremony. ~ Mary Karr,

202:Lot's Wife How simple the pleasures of those childhood days, Simple but filled with exquisite satisfactions. The iridescent labyrinth of the spider, Its tethered tensor nest of polygons Puffed by the breeze to a little bellying sail -Merely observing this gave infinite pleasure. The sound of rain. The gentle graphite veil Of rain that makes of the world a steel engraving, Full of soft fadings and faint distances. The self-congratulations of a fly, Rubbing its hands. The brown bicameral brain Of a walnut. The smell of wax. The feel Of sugar to the tongue: a delicious sand. One understands immediately how Proust Might cherish all such postage-stamp details. Who can resist the charms of retrospection? ~ Anthony Evan Hecht,

203:I fixed her a drink, then lowered myself on the spider's silk of my attention back into One Hundred Years of Solitude and the adventures of the Buendia family. The scene where the prodigal Jose Arcadio hoisted his adopted sister by her waist into his hammock and, in my translation, 'quartered her like a little bird' made my face hot. I bent down the page, whose small triangle marks the instant. Touching that triangle of yellowed paper today is like sliding my hand into the glove of my seventeen-year-old hand. Through magic, there are the Iowa fields slipping by... And there is my mother, not yet born into the ziplock baggie of ash my sister sent me years ago with the frank message 'Mom 1/2', written in laundry pen, since no-one in our family ever stood on ceremony. ~ Mary Karr,

204:I went back into the house and had put on the kettle for another cup of tea when my attention was caught by a spider on the kitchen wall. As I drew nearer to look at it, the spider called out, “Hello!” It did not seem at all strange to me that a spider should say hello (any more than it seemed strange to Alice when the White Rabbit spoke). I said, “Hello, yourself,” and with this we started a conversation, mostly on rather technical matters of analytic philosophy. Perhaps this direction was suggested by the spider’s opening comment: did I think that Bertrand Russell had exploded Frege’s paradox? Or perhaps it was its voice—pointed, incisive, and just like Russell’s voice (which I had heard on the radio, but also—hilariously—as it had been parodied in Beyond the Fringe).9 D ~ Oliver Sacks,

205:Today I awoke from a sound sleep with curses of joy on my lips, with gibberish on my tongue, repeating to myself like a litany – "Fay ce que vouldras!… fay ce que vouldras!"; Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy. So much crowds into my head when I say this to myself: images, gay ones, terrible ones, maddening ones, the wolf and the goat, the spider, the crab, syphilis with her wings outstretched and the door of the womb always on the latch, always open, ready like the tomb. Lust, crime, holiness: the lives of my adored ones, the failures of my adored ones, the words they left behind them, the words they left unfinished; the good they dragged after them and the evil, the sorrow, the discord, the rancor, the strife they created. But above all, the ecstasy! ~ Henry Miller,

206:Nothing endures for so long as fear. Everywhere in nature one sees evidence of innate releasing mechanisms literally millions of years old, which have lain dormant through thousands of generations but retained their power undiminished. The field-rat’s inherited image of the hawk’s silhouette is the classic example—even a paper silhouette drawn across a cage sends it rushing frantically for cover. And how else can you explain the universal but completely groundless loathing of the spider, only one species of which has ever been known to sting? Or the equally surprising—in view of their comparative rarity—hatred of snakes and reptiles? Simply because we all carry within us a submerged memory of the time when the giant spiders were lethal, and when the reptiles were the planet’s dominant life form. ~ J G Ballard,

207:October" I remember how I would say, “I will gather These pieces together, Any minute now I will make A knife out of a cloud.” Even then the days Went leaving their wounds behind them, But, “Monument,” I kept saying to the grave, “I am still your legend.” There was another time When our hands met and the clocks struck And we lived on the point of a needle, like angels. I have seen the spider’s triumph In the palm of my hand. Above My grave, that thoroughfare, There are words now that can bring My eyes to my feet, tamed. Beyond the trees wearing names that are not their own The paths are growing like smoke. The promises have gone, Gone, gone, and they were here just now. There is the sky where they laid their fish. Soon it will be evening. ~ W S Merwin,

208:No path by chance but by plot, Further steps along the road of his father’s ghost. The traitor to Lolth is sought By he who hates him most. The fall of a house, the fall of a spear, Puncture the Spider Queen’s pride as a dart. And now a needle for Drizzt Do’Urden to wear ‘Neath the folds of his cloak, so deep in his heart. A challenge, renegade of renegade’s seed, A golden ring thee cannot resist! Reach, but only when the beast is freed From festering in the swirl of Abyss. Given to Lolth and by Lolth given That thee might seek the darkest of trails. Presented to one who is most unshriven And held out to thee, for thee shall fail! So seek, Drizzt Do’Urden, the one who hates thee most. A friend, and too, a foe, made in thine home that was first. There thee will find one feared a ghost Bonded by love and by battle’s thirst. ~ R A Salvatore,

209:I was Juliet and Quinn was Romeo, and the lines weren't dead black-and-white words on a page but somehow alive, as natural and real as the argument we'd had about the spider and the fly. The rows of empty seats were gone, and we were in a candlelit ballrooom, wrapped in our own cocoon of words. But the playful banter of our words couldn't mask what we both knew--that after this, nothing would be the same . And then we got to the kissing part, which we'd only read through together and had never really rehearsed. But it didn't matter, because I was still Juliet and Quinn was still Romeo, his gray-green eyes fixed on mine. And when he bent to kiss me, it was Romeo's lips on Juliet's. Even so, Juliet was just as stunned as I would've been. When I said the last line, I was speaking for both of us. You kiss by the book. ~ Jennifer Sturman,

210:I don't know whether the spider perhaps does not hate the fly he has marked and is snaring. Dear little fly! It seems to me that the victim is loved, or at least may be loved. Here I love my enemy. I am delighted, for instance, that she is so beautiful. I am delighted, madam, that you are so haughty and majestic. If you were meeker it would not be so delightful. You have spat on me -- and I am triumphant. If you were literally to spit in my face I should really not be angry because you -- are my victim; mine and not his. How fascinating was that idea! Yes, the secret consciousness of power is more insupportably delightful than open domination. If I were a millionaire I believe I should take pleasure in going about in the oldest clothes and being taken for a destitute man, almost a beggar, being jostled and despised. The consciousness of the truth would be enough for me. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

211:Nocturne" After a friend has gone I like the feel of it: The house at night. Everyone asleep. The way it draws in like atmosphere or evening. One-o-clock. A floral teapot and a raisin scone. A tray waits to be taken down. The landing light is off. The clock strikes. The cat comes into his own, mysterious on the stairs, a black ambivalence around the legs of button-back chairs, an insinuation to be set beside the red spoon and the salt-glazed cup, the saucer with the thick spill of tea which scalds off easily under the tap. Time is a tick, a purr, a drop. The spider on the dining-room window has fallen asleep among complexities as I will once the doors are bolted and the keys tested and the switch turned up of the kitchen light which made outside in the back garden an electric room -- a domestication of closed daisies, an architecture instant and improbable. ~ Eavan Boland,

212:The wolf howled under the leaves As he spat out the bright feathers Of his feast of fowl: Like him, I devour myself. Lettuce and fruit Wait only to be picked; But the spider in the hedge Eats only violets. Let me sleep! Let me boil On the altars of Solomon. The broth runs over the rust, And flows into the Kidron. ——— At last– O happiness, O reason– I removed from the sky the blue that is black, and I lived, a glitter of gold in the light of nature. From joy I took an expression as clownish and distracted as possible: It is found again! What? Eternity. It is the sea merged With the sun. My eternal soul, Observe your vow In spite of the night And the day on fire. So you free yourself From human approbation, From common aspirations! You fly with . . . − Never any hope. Nul orietur. Science and patience, The torment is certain. No more tomorrow, Embers of satin, Your ardour Is your duty. It is found again! − What? − Eternity. It is the sea merged With the sun. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

213:Winter Nears Winter nears. Once more the bear’s secret retreat will vanish under mud’s floor, to a child’s fretful grief. Huts will wake in the water, reflecting paths of smoke, circled by autumn’s tremor lovers meet by the fire to talk. Denizens of the harsh North whose roof is the clear air, ‘In this sign conquer’, set forth, marks each unreachable lair. I love you, provincial haunts, off the map, the road, past the farms, the more tired and faded the book, the greater for me its charms. Slow files of carts lumbering by you spell out an alphabet flowing from meadow to meadow. And I found you always my favourite reading. And it’s suddenly written again, here in first snow is the spider’s cursive script, runners of sleighs, where ice on the page embroiders. A silvered hazel October. Pewter glow since frost began. Autumn twilight, of Chekhov, Tchaikovsky, and Levitan. ~ Boris Pasternak,

214:For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ's birth, there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old OCtober and so on down the years, with no winter, spring, or revivifying summer. FOr these beings, fall is the ever normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. THe spider-web hears them, trembles--breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them. ~ Ray Bradbury,

215:Flocks of magpies have descended on our yard. I cannot sleep for all their raucous behavior. Perched on weathered fences, their green-black tales, long as rulers, wave up and down, reprimanding me for all I have not done. I have done nothing for weeks. I have no work. I don't want to see anyone much less talk. All I want to do is sleep. Monday, I hit rock-bottom, different from bedrock, which is solid, expansive, full of light and originality. Rock-bottom is the bottom of the rock, the underbelly that rarely gets turned over; but when it does, I am the spider that scurries from daylight to find another place to hide. Today I feel stronger, learning to live with the natural cycles of a day and to not expect so much from myself. As women, we hold the moon in our bellies. It is too much to ask to operate on full-moon energy three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I am in a crescent phase. And the energy we expend emotionally belongs to the hidden side of the moon.... ~ Terry Tempest Williams,

216:The Piute Unbeautiful is the Piute! Howe'er bedecked with bravery, His person is unsavory Of soap he's destitute. He multiplies upon the earth In spite of all admonishing; All censure his astonishing And versatile unworth. Upon the Reservation wide We give for his inhabiting He goes a-jackass rabbiting To furnish his inside. The hopper singing in the grass He seizes with avidity: He loves its tart acidity, And gobbles all that pass. He penetrates the spider's veil, Industriously pillages The toads' defenseless villages, And shadows home the snail. He lightly runs to earth the quaint Red worm and, deftly troweling, He makes it with his boweling Familiarly acquaint. He tracks the pine-nut to its lair, Surrounds it with celerity, Regards it with asperity Smiles, and it isn't there! I wish he'd open up a grin Of adequate vivacity And carrying capacity To take his Agent in. 542 ~ Ambrose Bierce,

217:If you choose to believe me, good. Now I will tell you how Octavia, the spider-web city, is made. There is a precipice between two steep mountains: the city is over the void, bound to the two crests with ropes and chains and catwalks. You walk on the little wooden ties, careful not to set your foot in the open spaces, or you cling to the hempen strands. Below there is nothing for hundreds and hundreds of feet: a few clouds glide past; farther down you can glimpse the chasm's bed. This is the foundation of the city: a net which serves as passage and as support. All the rest, instead of rising up, is hung below: rope ladders, hammocks, houses made like sacks, clothes hangers, terraces like gondolas, skins of water, gas jets, spits, baskets on strings, dumb-waiters, showers, trapezes and rings for children's games, cable cars, chandeliers, pots with trailing plants. Suspended over the abyss, the life of Octavia's inhabitants is less uncertain than in other cities. They know the net will only last so long. ~ Italo Calvino,

218:For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ’s birth, there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring, or revivifying summer. For these beings, fall is the ever normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles—breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them.’ ” After a pause, both boys exhaled at ~ Ray Bradbury,

219:His hand reached out and really touched the sky, The blue dome wasn't sky at all- it was ceiling. The realization struck him like a thunderbolt. He was in a giant room. What he had thought were tree trunks were the legs of chairs. The horizon was a wall. That strange formation to the south was actually a bed. There was a dressing table, a cupboard, a wardrobe. The 'hill' he'd used as a launch pad was a crumpled garment somebody had left lying on the floor. Not a giant room. Not a giant room at all! Henry had shrunk. It all came together now. The strange perspectives. The missing biofilter on the portal control. He had reached the palace all right- he was in somebody's bedroom- but he had undergone a transformation in the process. He fluttered down to the dressing table and examined himself in the towering mirror. He was a fairy creature. Except for the patterns on his wings, he looked like Pyrgus had looked like the first time they met. He was a fairy creature who could fly! He felt like dancing with delight. Then he saw the spider. ~ Herbie Brennan,

220:He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without reflection. Every man's work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to become an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of life. Silas's hand satisfied itself with throwing the shuttle, and his eye with seeing the little squares in the cloth complete themselves under his effort. Then there were the calls of hunger; and Silas, in his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, and supper, to fetch his own water from the well, and put his own kettle on the fire; and all these immediate promptings helped, along with the weaving, to reduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect. He hated the thought of the past; there was nothing that called out his love and fellowship toward the strangers he had come amongst; and the future was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him. Thought was arrested by utter bewilderment, not its old narrow pathway was closed, and affection seemed to have died under the bruise that had fallen on its keenest nerves. ~ George Eliot,

221:The term ‘female’ is derogatory not because it emphasises woman’s animality, but because it imprisons her in her sex; and if this sex seems to man to be contemptible and inimical even in harmless dumb animals, it is evidently because of the uneasy hostility stirred up in him by woman. Nevertheless he wishes to find in biology a justification for this sentiment. The word female brings up in his mind a saraband of imagery – a vast, round ovum engulfs and castrates the agile spermatozoan; the monstrous and swollen termite queen rules over the enslaved males; the female praying mantis and the spider, satiated with love, crush and devour their partners; the bitch in heat runs through the alleys, trailing behind her a wake of depraved odours; the she-monkey presents posterior immodestly and then steals away with hypocritical coquetry; and the most superb wild beasts – the tigress, the lioness, the panther – bed down slavishly under the imperial embrace of the male. Females sluggish, eager, artful, stupid, callous, lustful, ferocious, abased – man projects them all at once upon woman. ~ Simone de Beauvoir,

222:It’s true, I guess, that no matter how much it sucks, you’re supposed to sacrifice things for a friend. It was a concept that he hadn’t understood earlier on in his life. In elementary school, Bernie had been assigned 'Charlotte’s Web' to read, and he’d always found it selfish how Charlotte the spider gave everything she had to Wilbur the pig, all her time and energy trying to keep this pig alive and off the farmer’s dinner plate, only to end up dying in the wispy remains of her last cobweb. "That pig was a selfish bastard who whined too much." He hadn’t understood why, in his college days watching 'The Smurfs' cartoon on TV just to pass the time, the evil wizard Gargamel had kept his bratty little apprentice, Scruple, around with him even when there was no incentive to do it and it would have been more convenient to just get rid of him. "Well, you give and you give and you give, you sacrifice things for somebody even when you normally wouldn’t, but you get back something worth having, maybe. Something worth all that sacrifice… I mean, what’s life worth if you have nobody to share it with, anyway? ~ Rebecca McNutt,

223:Ballade Of Aucassin Where smooth the southern waters run By rustling leagues of poplars grey, Beneath a veiled soft southern sun, We wandered out of yesterday, Went maying through that ancient May Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet, And loitered by the fountain spray With Aucassin and Nicolette. The grass-grown paths are trod of none Where through the woods they went astray. The spider's traceries are spun Across the darkling forest way. There come no knights that ride to slay, No pilgrims through the grasses wet, No shepherd lads that sang their say With Aucassin and Nicolette! 'Twas here by Nicolette begun Her bower of boughs and grasses gay; 'Scaped from the cell of marble dun 'Twas here the lover found the fay, Ah, lovers fond! ah, foolish play! How hard we find it to forget Who fain would dwell with them as they, With Aucassin and Nicolette. ENVOY. Prince, 'tis a melancholy lay! For youth, for love we both regret. How fair they seem, how far away, With Aucassin and Nicolette! ~ Andrew Lang,

224:I like eggs and bacon,” George tells me. “But”—his face clouds—“do you know that bacon is”—tears leap to his eyes—“Wilbur?” Mrs. Garrett sits down next to him immediately. “George, we’ve been through this. Remember? Wilbur did not get made into bacon.” “That’s right.” I bend down too as wetness overflows George’s lashes. “Charlotte the spider saved him. He lived a long and happy life—with Charlotte’s daughters, um, Nelly and Urania and—” “Joy,” Mrs. Garrett concludes. “You, Samantha, are a keeper. I hope you don’t shoplift.”I start to cough. “No. Never.” “Then is bacon Babe, Mom? Is it Babe?”“No, no, Babe’s still herding sheep. Bacon is not Babe. Bacon is only made from really mean pigs,George.” Mrs. Garrett strokes his hair, then brushes his tears away.“Bad pigs,” I clarify.“There are bad pigs?” George looks nervous. Oops.“Well, pigs with, um, no soul.” That doesn’t sound good either. I cast around for a good explanation. “Like the animals that don’t talk in Narnia.” Dumb. George is four. Would he know Narnia yet? He’s still at Curious George.But understanding lights his face. “Oh. That’s okay then. ’Cause I really like bacon. ~ Huntley Fitzpatrick,

225:We said our goodbyes to Eurytion, Tyson pulled the cattle grid off the hole and we dropped back into the maze. I wish I could’ve put the mechanical spider on a leash. It scuttled along the tunnels so fast that most of time I couldn’t even see it. If it hadn’t been for Tyson’s and Grover’s excellent hearing, we never would’ve known which way it was going. We ran down a marble tunnel, then dashed to the left and almost fell into an abyss. Tyson grabbed me and hauled me back before I could fall. The tunnel continued in front of us, but there was no floor for about thirty metres, just gaping darkness and a series of iron rungs in the ceiling. The mechanical spider was about halfway across, swinging from bar to bar by shooting out metal web fibre. ‘Monkey bars,’ Annabeth said. ‘I’m great at these.’ She leaped onto the first rung and started swinging her way across. She was scared of tiny spiders, but not of plummeting to her death from a set of monkey bars. Go figure. Annabeth got to the opposite side and ran after the spider. I followed. When I got across, I looked back and saw Tyson giving Grover a piggyback ride (or was it a goatyback ride?). ~ Rick Riordan,

226:Men have nothing in common with me--there is no point of contact; they have foolish little feelings and foolish little vanities and impertinences and ambitions; their foolish little life is but a laugh, a sigh, and extinction; and they have no sense. Only the Moral Sense. I will show you what I mean. Here is a red spider, not so big as a pin's head. Can you imagine an elephant being interested in him-- caring whether he is happy or isn't, or whether he is wealthy or poor, whether his sweetheart returns his love or not, whether his mother is sick or well, whether he is looked up to in society or not, whether his enemies will smite him or his friends desert him, whether his hopes will suffer blight or his political ambitions fail, whether he shall die in the bosom of his family or neglected and despised in a foreign land? These things can never be important to the elephant; they are nothing to him; he cannot shrink his sympathies to the microscopic size of them. Man is to me as the red spider is to the elephant. The elephant has nothing against the spider--he cannot get down to that remote level; I have nothing against man. The elephant is indifferent; I am indifferent. ~ Mark Twain,

227:Its substance was known to me. The crawling infinity of colours, the chaos of textures that went into each strand of that eternally complex tapestry…each one resonated under the step of the dancing mad god, vibrating and sending little echoes of bravery, or hunger, or architecture, or argument, or cabbage or murder or concrete across the aether. The weft of starlings’ motivations connected to the thick, sticky strand of a young thief’s laugh. The fibres stretched taut and glued themselves solidly to a third line, its silk made from the angles of seven flying buttresses to a cathedral roof. The plait disappeared into the enormity of possible spaces. Every intention, interaction, motivation, every colour, every body, every action and reaction, every piece of physical reality and the thoughts that it engendered, every connection made, every nuanced moment of history and potentiality, every toothache and flagstone, every emotion and birth and banknote, every possible thing ever is woven into that limitless, sprawling web. It is without beginning or end. It is complex to a degree that humbles the mind. It is a work of such beauty that my soul wept... ..I have danced with the spider. I have cut a caper with the dancing mad god. ~ China Mi ville,

228:The Spider 'OH, look at that great ugly spider!' said Ann; And screaming, she brush'd it away with her fan; ''Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be, I wish that it would not come crawling on me. ' 'Indeed,' said her mother, 'I'll venture to say, The poor thing will try to keep out of your way; For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain, It has much more occasion than you to complain. 'But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear? If it hurt you, there'd be some excuse for your fear; But its little black legs, as it hurried away, Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say. 'For them to fear us we must grant to be just, Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust; But certainly we have no cause for alarm; For, were they to try, they could do us no harm. 'Now look! it has got to its home; do you see What a delicate web it has spun in the tree? Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you: Come learn from this spider what patience can do! 'And when at your business you're tempted to play, Recollect what you see in this insect to-day, Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true, That a poor little spider is wiser than you. ' ~ Ann Taylor,

229:A Draft of Shadows' desire turns us into ghosts. We are vines of air on trees of wind, a cape of flames invented and devoured by flame. The crack in the tree trunk: sex, seal, serpentine passage closed to the sun and to my eyes, open to the ants. That crack was the portico of the furthest reaches of the seen and thought: —there, inside, tides are green, blood is green, fire green, green stars burn in the black grass: the green music of elytra in the fig tree's pristine night; —there, inside, fingertips are eyes, to touch is to see, glances touch, eyes hear smells; —there, inside is outside, it is everywhere and nowhere, things are themselves and others, imprisoned in an icosahedron there is a music weaver beetle and another insect unweaving the syllogisms the spider weaves, hanging from the threads of the moon; —there, inside, space is an open hand, a mind that thinks shapes, not ideas, shapes that breathe, walk, speak, transform and silently evaporate; —there, inside, land of woven echoes, a slow cascade of light drops between the lips of the crannies: light is water; water, diaphanous time where eyes wash their images; —there, inside, cables of desire ~ Octavio Paz,

230:The Big Heart 'Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.' - From an essay by W. B. Yeats Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have: Max, Lois, Joe, Louise, Joan, Marie, Dawn, Arlene, Father Dunne, and all in their short lives give to me repeatedly, in the way the sea places its many fingers on the shore, again and again and they know me, they help me unravel, they listen with ears made of conch shells, they speak back with the wine of the best region. They are my staff. They comfort me. They hear how the artery of my soul has been severed and soul is spurting out upon them, bleeding on them, messing up their clothes, dirtying their shoes. And God is filling me, though there are times of doubt as hollow as the Grand Canyon, still God is filling me. He is giving me the thoughts of dogs, the spider in its intricate web, the sun in all its amazement, and a slain ram that is the glory, 205 the mystery of great cost, and my heart, which is very big, I promise it is very large, a monster of sorts, takes it all in— all in comes the fury of love. ~ Anne Sexton,

231:The ringtone was a dead giveaway, emphasis on dead . . . creepy organ music. She didn’t even have to glance at the image of fanged bunny slippers on the screen to know who was calling. She just sighed, thumbed it on, and held it to her ear. “Claire! I need you here immediately. Something’s wrong with Bob.” Myrnin, her mad-scientist, blood-addicted boss, sounded actually shaken. “I can’t get him to eat his insects, and I used his favorites. He just sits there.” “Bob,” she repeated, looking at Shane in wide-eyed disbelief. “Bob the spider.” “Just because he’s a spider doesn’t mean he deserves any less concern! Claire, you have a way with him. He likes you.” Just what she needed. Bob the spider liked her. “You do realize that he’s a year old, at least. And spiders don’t live that long.” “You think he’s dead?” Myrnin sounded horrified. So wrong. “Is he curled up?” “No. He’s just quiet.” “Well, maybe he’s not hungry.” “Will you come?” Myrnin asked. He sounded calmer now, but also oddly needy. “It’s been very lonely here these past few days. I’d like your company, at least for a little while.” When she hesitated, he used the pity card. “Please, Claire.” “Fine,” she sighed. “I’m bringing Shane.” After a second of silence, he said, flatly, “Goody,” and hung up. ~ Rachel Caine,

232:Louis XI (1423-1483), the great Spider King of France, had a weakness for astrology. He kept a court astrologer whom he admired, until one day the man predicted that a lady of the court would die within eight days. When the prophecy came true, Louis was terrified, thinking that either the man had murdered the woman to prove his accuracy or that he was so versed in his science that his powers threatened Louis himself. In either case he had to be killed. One evening Louis summoned the astrologer to his room, high in the castle. Before the man arrived, the king told his servants that when he gave the signal they were to pick the astrologer up, carry him to the window, and hurl him to the ground, hundreds of feet below. The astrologer soon arrived, but before giving the signal, Louis decided to ask him one last question: “You claim to understand astrology and to know the fate of others, so tell me what your fate will be and how long you have to live.” “I shall die just three days before Your Majesty,” the astrologer replied. The king’s signal was never given. The man’s life was spared. The Spider King not only protected his astrologer for as long as he was alive, he lavished him with gifts and had him tended by the finest court doctors. The astrologer survived Louis by several years, disproving his power of prophecy but proving his mastery of power. ~ Robert Greene,

233:She could do nothing. Djuna’s words illuminated her chaos, but changed nothing. What was it Djuna said: that life tended to crystallize into patterns which became traps and webs. That people tended to see each other in their first “state” or “form” and to adopt a rhythm in consequence. That they had greatest difficulty in seeing the transformations of the loved one, in seeing the becoming. If they did finally perceive the new self, they had the greatest difficulty nevertheless in changing the rhythm. The strong one was condemned to perpetual strength, the weak to perpetual weakness. The one who loved you best condemned you to a static role because he had adapted his being to the past self. If you attempted to change, warned Djuna, you would find a subtle, perverse opposition, and perhaps sabotage! Inwardly and outwardly, a pattern was a form which became a prison. And then we had to smash it. Mutation was difficult. Attempts at evasion were frequent, blind evasions, evasions from dead relips, false relationships, false roles, and sometimes from the deeper self too, because of the great obstacle one encountered in affirming it. All our emotional history was that of the spider and the fly, with the added tragedy that the fly here collaborated in the weaving of the web. Crimes were frequent. People in desperation turned about and destroyed each other. No one could detect the cause or catch the criminal. There was no visible victim. It always had the appearance of suicide. ~ Ana s Nin,

234:No, it’s that empathy,” Irmgard said vigorously. Fists clenched, she roved into the kitchen, up to Isidore. “Isn’t it a way of proving that humans can do something we can’t do? Because without the Mercer experience we just have your word that you feel this empathy business, this shared, group thing. How’s the spider?” She bent over Pris’s shoulder. With the scissors, Pris snipped off another of the spider’s legs. “Four now,” she said. She nudged the spider. “He won’t go. But he can.” Roy Baty appeared at the doorway, inhaling deeply, an expression of accomplishment on his face. “It’s done. Buster said it out loud, and nearly every human in the system heard him say it. ‘Mercerism is a swindle.’ The whole experience of empathy is a swindle.” He came over to look curiously at the spider. “It won’t try to walk,” Irmgard said. “I can make it walk.” Roy Baty got out a book of matches, lit a match; he held it near the spider, closer and closer, until at last it crept feebly away. “I was right,” Irmgard said. “Didn’t I say it could walk with only four legs?” She peered up expectantly at Isidore. “What’s the matter?” Touching his arm she said, “You didn’t lose anything; we’ll pay you what that—what’s it called?—that Sidney’s catalogue says. Don’t look so grim. Isn’t that something about Mercer, what they discovered? All that research? Hey, answer.” She prodded him anxiously. “He’s upset,” Pris said. “Because he has an empathy box. In the other room. Do you use it, J. R.?” she asked Isidore. ~ Philip K Dick,

235:Find Meat On Bones 'Find meat on bones that soon have none, And drink in the two milked crags, The merriest marrow and the dregs Before the ladies' breasts are hags And the limbs are torn. Disturb no winding-sheets, my son, But when the ladies are cold as stone Then hang a ram rose over the rags. 'Rebel against the binding moon And the parliament of sky, The kingcrafts of the wicked sea, Autocracy of night and day, Dictatorship of sun. Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.' 'The thirst is quenched, the hunger gone, And my heart is cracked across; My face is haggard in the glass, My lips are withered with a kiss, My breasts are thin. A merry girl took me for man, I laid her down and told her sin, And put beside her a ram rose. 'The maggot that no man can kill And the man no rope can hang Rebel against my father's dream That out of a bower of red swine Howls the foul fiend to heel. I cannot murder, like a fool, Season and sunshine, grace and girl, Nor can I smother the sweet waking.' Black night still ministers the moon, And the sky lays down her laws, The sea speaks in a kingly voice, 65 Light and dark are no enemies But one companion. 'War on the spider and the wren! War on the destiny of man! Doom on the sun!' Before death takes you, O take back this. ~ Dylan Thomas,

236:Especially When The October Wind Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words. Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark On the horizon walking like the trees The wordy shapes of women, and the rows Of the star-gestured children in the park. Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches, Some of the oaken voices, from the roots Of many a thorny shire tell you notes, Some let me make you of the water's speeches. Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning And tells the windy weather in the cock. Some let me make you of the meadow's signs; The signal grass that tells me all I know Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye. Some let me tell you of the raven's sins. Especially when the October wind (Some let me make you of autumnal spells, The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales) With fists of turnips punishes the land, Some let me make you of the heartless words. The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury. By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds. ~ Dylan Thomas,

237:The Room Beneath The Rafters Sometimes when I have dropped asleep, Draped in soft luxurious gloom, Across my drowsy mind will creep The memory of another room, Where resinous knots in roofboards made A frescoing of light and shade, And sighing poplars brushed their leaves Against the humbly sloping eaves. Again I fancy in my dreams I'm lying in my trundle-bed. I seem to see the bare old beams And unhewn rafters overhead; The hornet's shrill falsetto hum I hear again, and see him come Forth from his mud-walled hanging house, Dressed in his black and yellow blouse. There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred, And wove into my fair dream's woof The chattering of a martin bird, Or rain-drops pattering on the roof. Or, half awake, and half in fear, I saw the spider spinning near His pretty castle, where the fly Should come to ruin by and by. And there I fashioned from my brain Youth's shining structures in the air, I did not wholly build in vain, For some were lasting, firm and fair. And I am one who lives to say My life has held more good than gray, And that the splendor of the real Surpassed my early dream's ideal. But still I love to wander back To that old time and that old place; To thread my way o'er Memory's track, 666 And catch the early morning's grace In that quaint room beneath the rafter, That echoed to my childish laughter; To dream again the dreams that grew More beautiful as they came true. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

238:Is the sky painted?” Isidore asked. “Are there really brush strokes that show up under magnification?” “Yes,” Mercer said. “I can’t see them.” “You’re too close,” Mercer said. “You have to be a long way off, the way the androids are. They have better perspective.” “Is that why they claim you’re a fraud?” “I am a fraud,” Mercer said. “They’re sincere; their research is genuine. From their standpoint I am an elderly retired bit player named Al Jarry. All of it, their disclosure, is true. They interviewed me at my home, as they claim; I told them whatever they wanted to know, which was everything.” “Including about the whisky?” Mercer smiled. “It was true. They did a good job and from their standpoint Buster Friendly’s disclosure was convincing. They will have trouble understanding why nothing has changed. Because you’re still here and I’m still here.” Mercer indicated with a sweep of his hand the barren, rising hillside, the familiar place. “I lifted you from the tomb world just now and I will continue to lift you until you lose interest and want to quit. But you will have to stop searching for me because I will never stop searching for you.” “I didn’t like that about the whisky,” Isidore said. “That’s lowering.” “That’s because you’re a highly moral person. I’m not. I don’t judge, not even myself.” Mercer held out a closed hand, palm up. “Before I forget it, I have something of yours here.” He opened his fingers. On his hand rested the mutilated spider, but with its snipped-off legs restored. “Thanks.” Isidore accepted the spider. ~ Philip K Dick,

239:AFTER THE DELUGE AS SOON as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, A hare stopped in the clover and swaying flower-bells, and said a prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web. Oh! the precious stones that began to hide,—and the flowers that already looked around. In the dirty main street, stalls were set up and boats were hauled toward the sea, high tiered as in old prints. Blood flowed at Blue Beard’s,—through slaughterhouses, in circuses, where the windows were blanched by God’s seal. Blood and milk flowed. Beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the little bars. In the big glass house, still dripping, children in mourning looked at the marvelous pictures. A door banged; and in the village square the little boy waved his arms, understood by weather vanes and cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower. Madame *** installed a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral. Caravans set out. And Hotel Splendid was built in the chaos of ice and of the polar night. Ever after the moon heard jackals howling across the deserts of thyme, and eclogues in wooden shoes growling in the orchard. Then in the violet and budding forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. Gush, pond,—Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods;—black palls and organs, lightning and thunder, rise and roll;—waters and sorrows rise and launch the Floods again. For since they have been dissipated—oh! the precious stones being buried and the opened flowers!—it’s unbearable! and the Queen, the Witch who lights her fire in the earthen pot will never tell us what she knows, and what we do not know. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

240:Mr. Sulu,” Jim said, “I can’t avoid the impression that you’re counting all the asteroids in this neighborhood.” “Not counting them as such, Captain. We’re building a recognition database, tagging the asteroids with nominal IDs, and noting their masses for future reference. If you know an asteroid’s mass within a couple of significant figures, you can very quickly calculate what kind of forces would need to be applied to it to make it move. Once Khiy and I get them all tagged, or all the ones in this area, we can get the ship’s computer to alert us when an enemy vessel is getting close enough for one of the asteroids to be a threat. Then either Bloodwing or Enterprise gives the necessary rock a pull with a tractor or a push with a pressor …” Jim grinned. In slower-than-light combat, the lightspeedor-faster weapons came into their own, as long as you kept away from the higher, near-relativistic impulse speeds. “You’re concentrating on the asteroids nearer to the processing facility, I see.” “Yes, sir—a sphere about a hundred thousand kilometers in diameter, including almost the entire breadth of the belt in this area. Any ship outside that diameter isn’t going to be a threat to us at subwarp speeds. If they want to engage with us, they’ve got to drop their speed and come inside the sphere.” “‘Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly…’” Jim said. “Get on with it, Mr. Sulu. In a situation like this, every little bit helps. Are you going to be able to have this ready by the time the ‘flies’ arrive?” “We’ll do our best, Captain. There are some inconsistencies between the ways Bloodwing’s computer handles large amounts of data like this, and the way ours does. We’ve got to solve them on the fly.” And Sulu chuckled. ~ Diane Duane,

241:This book is dedicated to the Ancient Ones, to the Lord of Abominations, Humwawa, whose face is a mass of entrails, whose breath is the stench of dung and the perfume of death, Dark Angel of all that is excreted and sours, Lord of Decay, Lord of the Future, who rides on a whispering south wind, to Pazuzu, Lord of Fevers and Plagues, Dark Angel of the Four Winds with rotting genitals from which he howls through sharpened teeth over stricken cities, to Kutulu, the Sleeping Serpent who cannot be summoned, to the Akhkharu, who such the blood of men since they desire to become men, to the Lalussu, who haunt the places of men, to Gelal and Lilit, who invade the beds of men and whose children are born in secret places, to Addu, raiser of storms who can fill the night sky with brightness, to Malah, Lord of Courage and Bravery, to Zahgurim, whose number is twenty-three and who kills in an unnatural fashion, to Zahrim, a warrior among warriors, to Itzamna, Spirit of Early Mists and Showers, to Ix Chel, the Spider-Web-that-Catches-the-Dew-of-Morning, to Zuhuy Kak, Virgin Fire, to Ah Dziz, the Master of Cold, to Kak U Pacat, who works in fire, to Ix Tab, Goddess of Ropes and Snares, patroness of those who hang themselves, to Schmuun, the Silent One, twin brother of Ix Tab, to Xolotl the Unformed, Lord of Rebirth, to Aguchi, Master of Ejaculations, to Osiris and Amen in phallic form, to Hex Chun Chan, the Dangerous One, to Ah Pook, the Destroyer, to the Great Old One and the Star Beast, to Pan, God of Panic, to the nameless gods of dispersal and emptiness, to Hassan i Sabbah, Master of Assassins. To all the scribes and artists and practitioners of magic through whom these spirits have been manifested…. NOTHING IS TRUE. EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED. ~ William S Burroughs,

242:Heat From plains that reel to southward, dim, The road runs by me white and bare; Up the steep hill it seems to swim Beyond, and melt into the glare. Upward half-way, or it may be Nearer the summit, slowly steals A hay-cart, moving dustily With idly clacking wheels. By his cart's side the wagoner Is slouching slowly at his ease, Half-hidden in the windless blur Of white dust puffiing to his knees. This wagon on the height above, From sky to sky on either hand, Is the sole thing that seems to move In all the heat-held land. Beyond me in the fields the sun Soaks in the grass and hath his will; I count the marguerites one by one; Even the buttercups are still. On the brook yonder not a breath Disturbs the spider or the midge. The water-bugs draw close beneath The cool gloom of the bridge. Where the far elm-tree shadows flood Dark patches in the burning grass, The cows, each with her peaceful cud, Lie waiting for the heat to pass. From somewhere on the slope near by Into the pale depth of the noon A wandering thrush slides leisurely His thin revolving tune. In intervals of dreams I hear The cricket from the droughty ground; The grasshoppers spin into mine ear A small innumerable sound. 101 I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze: The burning sky-line blinds my sight: The woods far off are blue with haze: The hills are drenched in light. And yet to me not this or that Is always sharp or always sweet; In the sloped shadow of my hat I lean at rest, and drain the heat; Nay more, I think some blessèd power Hath brought me wandering idly here: In the full furnace of this hour My thoughts grow keen and clear. ~ Archibald Lampman,

243:I await my time. I sit, I cook, I spin, with downcast eyes I am silent and let him speak. This is fine. I await my time. Everything is a strategy. This is the wisdom of the spider. Silently, silently spin. Let the fly buzz. Before I ate her and put on her skin I lay across the stove in my hut, the hut standing on a chicken leg, and I waited, and they came to me, and became my food, and in the end she came too, the one I wanted, and instead of swallowing her I dived inside and let her swallow me. It doesn’t matter what it looks like! I ate her even as I allowed her to eat me. It’s a special digestive trick: a reverse takeover of the feeder by the fed. And so farewell, chicken-legged hut in the forest! Goodbye forever, foul Russian smell! Now am I perfumed and clothed in beauty, my eyes behind her eyes, my teeth behind her teeth. Everything she does is false, every word a lie, because here I am inside her, pulling her strings, casting the web of her words and deeds around the little fly, the old fool. He believes she loves him! Ha ha ha ha ha! Cackle, cackle! That’s a good one, that is. (...) I conceal this voice deep inside myself, so deep that she, myself, can convince herself she cannot hear it, that it is not her truest voice. At the level of the skin, of the tongue, a different voice speaks, and she tells herself a different story, in which she is virtuous and her deeds are justified, both absolutely, by moral standards, and empirically, by the events around her. By him, the old one, the king in the golden house, who he is, how he treats her, what his faults are. But there it is, the deep voice speaking, commanding her at the deepest level, the level of the molecules of instruction, twined into the four helical amino acids of her being, which is also mine. It is who I is. It is who she am. ~ Salman Rushdie,

244:Identity 1) An individual spider web identifies a species: an order of instinct prevails through all accidents of circumstance, though possibility is high along the peripheries of spider webs: you can go all around the fringing attachments and find disorder ripe, entropy rich, high levels of random, numerous occasions of accident: 2) the possible settings of a web are infinite: how does the spider keep identity while creating the web in a particular place? how and to what extent and by what modes of chemistry and control? it is wonderful how things work: I will tell you about it because it is interesting and because whatever is moves in weeds 28 and stars and spider webs and known is loved: in that love, each of us knowing it, I love you, for it moves within and beyond us, sizzles in to winter grasses, darts and hangs with bumblebees by summer windowsills: I will show you the underlying that takes no image to itself, cannot be shown or said, but weaves in and out of moons and bladderweeds, is all and beyond destruction because created fully in no particular form: if the web were perfectly pre-set, the spider could never find a perfect place to set it in: and if the web were perfectly adaptable, if freedom and possibility were without limit, the web would lose its special identity: the row-strung garden web keeps order at the center where space is freest (intersecting that the freest 'medium' should accept the firmest order) and that order diminishes toward the periphery 29 allowing at the points of contact entropy equal to entropy. ~ Archie Randolph Ammons,

245:No, it’s that empathy,” Irmgard said vigorously. Fists clenched, she roved into the kitchen, up to Isidore. “Isn’t it a way of proving that humans can do something we can’t do? Because without the Mercer experience we just have your word that you feel this empathy business, this shared, group thing. How’s the spider?” She bent over Pris’s shoulder. With the scissors, Pris snipped off another of the spider’s legs. “Four now,” she said. She nudged the spider. “He won’t go. But he can.” Roy Baty appeared at the doorway, inhaling deeply, an expression of accomplishment on his face. “It’s done. Buster said it out loud, and nearly every human in the system heard him say it. ‘Mercerism is a swindle.’ The whole experience of empathy is a swindle.” He came over to look curiously at the spider. “It won’t try to walk,” Irmgard said. “I can make it walk.” Roy Baty got out a book of matches, lit a match; he held it near the spider, closer and closer, until at last it crept feebly away. “I was right,” Irmgard said. “Didn’t I say it could walk with only four legs?” She peered up expectantly at Isidore. “What’s the matter?” Touching his arm she said, “You didn’t lose anything; we’ll pay you what that—what’s it called?—that Sidney’s catalogue says. Don’t look so grim. Isn’t that something about Mercer, what they discovered? All that research? Hey, answer.” She prodded him anxiously. “He’s upset,” Pris said. “Because he has an empathy box. In the other room. Do you use it, J. R.?” she asked Isidore. Roy Baty said, “Of course he uses it. They all do—or did. Maybe now they’ll start wondering.” “I don’t think this will end the cult of Mercer,” Pris said. “But right this minute there’re a lot of unhappy human beings.” To Isidore she said, “We’ve waited for months; we all knew it was coming, this pitch of Buster’s.” She hesitated and then said, “Well, why not. Buster is one of us. ~ Philip K Dick,

246:Mother And Son Now all day long the man who is not dead Hastens the dark with inattentive eyes, The woman with white hand and erect head Stares at the covers, leans for the son's replies At last to her importunate womanhoodHer hand of death laid on the living bed; So lives the fierce compositor of blood. She waits; he lies upon the bed of sin Where greed, avarice, anger writhed and slept Till to their silence they were gathered in: There, fallen with time, his tall and bitter kin Once fired the passions that were never kept In the permanent heart, and there his mother lay To bear him on the impenetrable day. The falcon mother cannot will her hand Up to the bed, nor break the manacle His exile sets upon her harsh command That he should say the time is beautifulTransfigured by her own possessing light: The sick man craves the impalpable night. Loosed betwixt eye and lid, the swimming beams Of memory, blind school of cuttlefish, Rise to the air, plunge to the cold streamsRising and plunging the half-forgotten wish To tear his heart out in a slow disgrace And freeze the hue of terror to her face. Hate, misery, and fear beat off his heart To the dry fury of the woman's mind; The son, prone in his autumn, moves apart A seed blown upon a returning wind. O child, be vigilant till towards the south On the flowered wall all the sweet afternoon, The reaching sun, swift as the cottonmouth, Strikes at the black crucifix on her breast Where the cold dusk comes suddenly to rest- 48 Mortality will speak the victor soon! The dreary flies, lazy and casual, Stick to the ceiling, buzz along the wall. O heart, the spider shuffles from the mould Weaving, between the pinks and grapes, his pall. The bright wallpaper, imperishably old, Uncurls and flutters, it will never fall. ~ Allen Tate,

247:An android,” Irmgard explained. “And nobody knows. No humans, I mean.” Pris, with the scissors, cut yet another leg from the spider. All at once John Isidore pushed her away and lifted up the mutilated creature. He carried it to the sink and there he drowned it. In him, his mind, his hopes, drowned, too. As swiftly as the spider. “He’s really upset,” Irmgard said nervously. “Don’t look like that, J. R. And why don’t you say anything?” To Pris and to her husband she said, “It makes me terribly upset, him just standing there by the sink and not speaking; he hasn’t said anything since we turned on the TV.” “It’s not the TV,” Pris said. “It’s the spider. Isn’t it, John R. Isidore? He’ll get over it,” she said to Irmgard, who had gone into the other room to shut off the TV. Regarding Isidore with easy amusement, Roy Baty said, “It’s all over now, Iz. For Mercerism, I mean.” With his nails he managed to lift the corpse of the spider from the sink. “Maybe this was the last spider,” he said. “The last living spider on Earth.” He reflected. “In that case it’s all over for spiders, too.” “I—don’t feel well,” Isidore said. From the kitchen cupboard he got a cup; he stood holding it for an interval—he did not know exactly how long. And then he said to Roy Baty, “Is the sky behind Mercer just painted? Not real?” “You saw the enlargements on the TV screen,” Roy Baty said. “The brush strokes.” “Mercerism isn’t finished,” Isidore said. Something ailed the three androids, something terrible. The spider, he thought. Maybe it had been the last spider on Earth, as Roy Baty said. And the spider is gone; Mercer is gone; he saw the dust and the ruin of the apartment as it lay spreading out everywhere—he heard the kipple coming, the final disorder of all forms, the absence which would win out. It grew around him as he stood holding the empty ceramic cup; the cupboards of the kitchen creaked and split and he felt the floor beneath his feet give. ~ Philip K Dick,

248:a spider and a fly i heard a spider and a fly arguing wait said the fly do not eat me i serve a great purpose in the world you will have to show me said the spider i scurry around gutters and sewers and garbage cans said the fly and gather up the germs of typhoid influenza and pneumonia on my feet and wings then i carry these germs into households of men and give them diseases all the people who have lived the right sort of life recover from the diseases and the old soaks who have weakened their systems with liquor and iniquity succumb it is my mission to help rid the world of these wicked persons i am a vessel of righteousness scattering seeds of justice and serving the noblest uses it is true said the spider that you are more useful in a plodding material sort of way than i am but i do not serve the utilitarian deities i serve the gods of beauty look at the gossamer webs i weave they float in the sun like filaments of song if you get what i mean i do not work at anything i play all the time i am busy with the stuff of enchantment and the materials of fairyland my works transcend utility i am the artist a creator and demi god it is ridiculous to suppose that i should be denied the food i need in order to continue to create beauty i tell you plainly mister fly it is all damned nonsense for that food to rear up on its hind legs and say it should not be eaten you have convinced me said the fly say no more and shutting all his eyes he prepared himself for dinner and yet he said i could have made out a case for myself too if i had had a better line of talk of course you could said the spider clutching a sirloin from him but the end would have been just the same if neither of us had spoken at all boss i am afraid that what the spider said is true and it gives me to think furiously upon the futility of literature archy ~ Don Marquis,

249:The Spider Queen IN the deep heart of furthest fairyland Where foot of man has never trodden yet The enchanted portals of her palace stand, And there her sleepless sentinels are set. All round grow forests of white eglantine And drooping, dreaming clematis; there blows The purple nightshade; there pale bindweeds twine And there the pale, frail flower of slumber grows. Her palaces are decked with gleaming wings, Hung o'er with webs through spacious bower and hall, Filled through and through with precious priceless things; She is their mistress and she hates them all. No darkling webs, woven in dust and gloom, Adorn her palace walls; there gleam astir Live threads of light, spun for a fairy's loom, And stolen by her slaves and brought to her. She wears a robe woven of the July sun, Mixed with green threads won from the East at dawn, Bordered with silver moonrays, finely spun, And gemmed with glowworms from some shadowy lawn. She wears a crown of dewdrops bright like tears, Her girdle is a web of rainbow dyes; She knows no youth, nor age; the hours and years Leave never a shadow on her lips and eyes. In magic rings of green and glistening light Her fairies dance, in star-spun raiment clad, Her people do her bidding day and night, 391 Her dark-robed servants toil to make her glad. Her minstrels play to her--her singers raise Soft songs, more sweet than man has ever heard, With endless rhythms of love her courtiers praise, And all their heart is in their every word. She is the mistress of all things that set Snare of fine webs to win their hearts' desire, Queen of all folk who weave the death-strong net Between the poppy and the wild-rose briar. Yet sits despair upon that brow of hers, And sorrow in her eyes makes festival; The soul of grief with her sad soul confers, And she sits lonely in her crowded hall; Because she has woven a web of her bright hair-A tear-bright web, to catch one soul; and he Beheld her, in her beauty, set the snare, And seeing laughed, and laughing passed out free! ~ Edith Nesbit,

250:I might not like what you do, but you’re not going to lose me, Gin.” “Why not?” I said, forcing the words out through the lump of emotion that clogged my throat. “What’s changed?” Bria looked at me. “Because we came down here, and I saw how Donovan treated you. How he thought he was so much better than you, so much more righteous, and I realize that it’s the same way I’ve been treating you for months now, when you’ve done nothing but save my life over and over again. With no question, no hesitation, and nothing asked in return. Not one damn thing.” Tears streaked down her cheeks, and her blue eyes were agonizingly bright in her face. “The truth is that I’m ashamed of myself for acting like him and most especially for taking you for granted. When we found out that Callie was in trouble, you were the first one to do anything about it. You immediately stepped up and offered to help her. If it wasn’t for you, Callie would be dead now and probably Donovan along with her. You saved her not because I asked you to and not even because she was my friend but because you saw someone who was in trouble and you realized you could help her. Maybe you are an assassin, maybe you are one of the bad guys, but you know what? I don’t give a damn anymore. You’re my sister first, and that’s all that matters to me.” I blinked and was surprised to find hot tears sliding down my own cheeks, one after another in a torrent that I couldn’t control. She . . . she . . . understood. She actually understood who and what I was and that I would probably never change or give up being the Spider. She knew it all, and she was still here with me. All sorts of emotions surged through my heart then, but there was one that drowned out all the others—relief. Pure, sweet relief that she wasn’t going to walk out of my life, that she was going to stick with me through the good and the bad and whatever else the world threw at us. I reached forward and wrapped my arms around Bria, and she did the same to me. We stood like that for several minutes, still and quiet, with silent sobs shaking both of our bodies. Just letting out all the fear and anger and guilt that had crept up on us both and had created this gulf between us. But we’d overcome those emotions, and I’d be damned if we’d ever grow apart like this again. ~ Jennifer Estep,

251:A Spider And A Fly One day a spider said to a fly 'Though you pass this way daily My hut has never been honored by you By making a chance visit inside by you Though depriving strangers of a visit does not matter Evading the near and dear ones does not look good My house will be honored by a visit by you A ladder is before you if you decide to step in Hearing this the fly said to the spider, 'Sire, you should entice some simpleton thus This fly would never be pulled into your net Whoever climbed your net could never step down' The spider said, 'How strange, you consider me a cheat I have never seen a simpleton like you in the world I only wanted to entertain you I had no personal gain in view You have come flying from some unknown distant place Resting for a while in my house would not harm you Many things in this house are worth your seeing Though apparently a humble hut you are seeing Dainty drapes are hanging from the doors And I have decorated the walls with mirrors Beddings are available for guests' comforts Not to everyone's lot do fall these comforts'. The fly said, 'All this may very well be But do not expect me to enter your house 19 'May God protect me from these soft beds Once asleep in them getting up again is impossible' The spider spoke to itself on hearing this talk 'How to trap it? This wretched fellow is clever Many desires are fulfilled with flattery in the world All in the world are enslaved with flattery' Thinking this the spider spoke to the fly thus! 'Madam, God has bestowed great honors on you! Everyone loves your beautiful face Even if someone sees you for the first time Your eyes look like clusters of glittering diamonds God has adorned your beautiful head with a plume This beauty, this dress, this elegance, this neatness! And all this is very much enhanced by singing in flight'. The fly was touched by this flattery And spoke, 'I do not fear you any more I hate the habit of declining requests Disappointing somebody is bad indeed' Saying this it flew from its place When it got close the spider snapped it The spider had been starving for many days The fly provided a good leisurely meal ~ Allama Muhammad Iqbal,

252:From: Preludes For Memnon LXII I read the primrose and the sea and remember nothing I read Arcturus and the snow and remember nothing I read the green and white book of spring and remember nothing I read the hatred in a man’s eye Lord, I remember nothing. Scorn spat at me and spoke I remember it not The river was frozen round the ship I remember it not I found a secret message in a blade of grass and it is forgotten I called my lovers by their sweet names they are all forgotten. Where are my lovers now? buried in me. The blades of grass, the ships, the scorners? here in me The haters in the spring, snow and Arcturus? here in me The primrose and the sea? here in me. I know what humans know no less no more I know how the summer breaks on Neptune’s shore I know how winter freezes the Milky Way My heart’s home is in Limbo and there I stay. Praise Limbo, heart, and praise 35 forgetfulness We know what the tiger knows no more no less We know what the primrose thinks and think it too We walk when the snail walks across the dew. I was a rash man in my time but now I am still I spoke with god’s voice once now I am still Evil made my right hand strong which now is still Wisdom gave me pride once, but it is still. Lie down poor heart at last and have your rest Remember to forget and have your rest Think of yourself as once you were at your best And then lie down alone and have your rest. These things are as time weaves them on his loom Forgot, forgetting, we survive not mortal bloom Let us give thanks, to space, for a little room Space is our face and time our death two poles of doom Come dance around the compass pointing north Before, face downward, frozen, we go forth. LXIII 36 Thus systole addressed diastole,— The heart contracting, with its grief of burden, To the lax heart, with grief of burden gone. Thus star to dead leaf speaks; thus cliff to sea; And thus the spider, on a summer’s day, To the bright thistledown, trapped in the web. No language leaps this chasm like a lightning: Here is no message of assuagement, blown From Ecuador to Greenland; here is only A trumpet blast, that calls dead men to arms; The granite’s pity for the cloud; the whisper Of time to space. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

253:Spiders Is the spider a monster in miniature? His web is a cruel stair, to be sure, Designed artfully, cunningly placed, A delicate trap, carefully spun To bind the fly (innocent or unaware) In a net as strong as a chain or a gun. There are far more spiders than the man in the street supposes And the philosopher-king imagines, let alone knows! There are six hundred kinds of spiders and each one Differs in kind and in unkindness. In variety of behavior spiders are unrivalled: The fat garden spider sits motionless, amidst or at the heart Of the orb of its web: other kinds run, Scuttling across the floor, falling into bathtubs, Trapped in the path of its own wrath, by overconfidence drowned and undone. Other kinds - more and more kinds under the stars and the sun Are carnivores: all are relentless, ruthless Enemies of insects. Their methods of getting food Are unconventional, numerous, various and sometimes hilarious: Some spiders spin webs as beautiful As Japanese drawings, intricate as clocks, strong as rocks: Others construct traps which consist only Of two sticky and tricky threads. Yet this ambush is enough To bind and chain a crawling ant for long enough: The famished spider feels the vibration Which transforms patience into sensation and satiation. The handsome wolf spider moves suddenly freely and relies Upon lightning suddenness, stealth and surprise, Possessing accurate eyes, pouncing upon his victim with the speed of surmise. Courtship is dangerous: there are just as many elaborate 70 and endless techniques and varieties As characterize the wooing of more analytic, more introspective beings: Sometimes the male Arrives with the gift of a freshly caught fly. Sometimes he ties down the female, when she is frail, With deft strokes and quick maneuvres and threads of silk: But courtship and wooing, whatever their form, are informed By extreme caution, prudence, and calculation, For the female spider, lazier and fiercer than the male suitor, May make a meal of him if she does not feel in the same mood, or if her appetite Consumes her far more than the revelation of love's consummation. Here among spiders, as in the higher forms of nature, The male runs a terrifying risk when he goes seeking for the bounty of beautiful Alma Magna Mater: Yet clearly and truly he must seek and find his mate and match like every other living creature! ~ Delmore Schwartz,

254:Holy gallnipper, how long till we hit the magic trail? It’s gloomier than my own funeral I here.” Camille adjusted the bag’s rope and looked at Ira. “Don’t even joke about that.” Since the moment they’d entered the forest, she’d felt like something was listening. Like they’d woken some sleeping creature, and now it followed them with silent cunning. The deafening chants had not returned to pierce her eardrums, but danger still felt close. A few paces ahead of her, Oscar peeled away another cobweb, the octagonal spinning so massive Camille didn’t even want to imagine the size of the spider that had created it. “Mate, you got a stomach made of iron,” Ira said. A flash of orange and black swept in front of Camille’s eyes and she felt an odd tug on her dress. She looked down and froze. A spider with a body the size of her first flexed its hairy legs on her skirt. It started to scuttle up. Her scream echoed through the forest as she swiped the spider off. It hit the marshy ground and scampered under a log. Oscar grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “Did it bite you?” She shook her head, arms and legs stiff with fear. “I’ve never seen one so bloody big,” Ira said, running past the log as though the spider would leap out at him. Oscar started walking again, his hand on the small of her back. She exhaled with more than one kind of relief. He was at least still concerned for her. As they started to pick up their pace, another black critter swung down from a nearby tree. Camille say it flying toward them, but her warning shout was too slow. The spider landed on Oscar’s shoulder, fat and furry and swift as its legs darted up his neck. Oscar shouted an obscenity as he whacked the giant from his skin. Camille heard it thud against the leafy forest floor. Unfazed, the spider quickly sprang to its finger-length legs and darted toward her boot. Her shrieks echoed again as it leaped onto her hem. With his foot, Ira knocked the spider back to the ground, and before it could bounce back up, Oscar smashed it with a stick. The squashed giant oozed yellow-and-green blood onto the marshy ground. Camille gagged and tasted her breakfast oats in the back of her mouth. “What in all wrath are those monsters?” Ira panted as he twisted around, looking for more. Camille looked up to the trees to try and spot any others that might be descending from glossy webbing. Terror paralyzed her as her eyes landed on a colony of glistening webs in the treetops. An endless number of black dots massed above their heads, dangling from tree limbs. Oscar and Ira followed her horrified stare. “Run,” Oscar whispered. Camille sprinted forward, her skin and scalp tingling with imaginary spider legs. The bag of provisions slammed against her back, tugging at her neck, but she didn’t care. They didn’t slow down until the gigantic spiderwebs grew sparse and the squawk of birds took over. ~ Angie Frazier,

255:Buster Friendly said, “We may never know. Nor can we fathom the peculiar purpose behind this swindle. Yes, folks, swindle. Mercerism is a swindle!” “I think we know,” Roy Baty said. “It’s obvious. Mercerism came into existence—” “But ponder this,” Buster Friendly continued. “Ask yourselves what is it that Mercerism does. Well, if we’re to believe its many practitioners, the experience fuses—” “It’s that empathy that humans have,” Irmgard said. “—men and women throughout the Sol System into a single entity. But an entity which is manageable by the so-called telepathic voice of ‘Mercer.’ Mark that. An ambitious politically minded would-be Hitler could—” “No, it’s that empathy,” Irmgard said vigorously. Fists clenched, she roved into the kitchen, up to Isidore. “Isn’t it a way of proving that humans can do something we can’t do? Because without the Mercer experience we just have your word that you feel this empathy business, this shared, group thing. How’s the spider?” She bent over Pris’s shoulder. With the scissors, Pris snipped off another of the spider’s legs. “Four now,” she said. She nudged the spider. “He won’t go. But he can.” Roy Baty appeared at the doorway, inhaling deeply, an expression of accomplishment on his face. “It’s done. Buster said it out loud, and nearly every human in the system heard him say it. ‘Mercerism is a swindle.’ The whole experience of empathy is a swindle.” He came over to look curiously at the spider. “It won’t try to walk,” Irmgard said. “I can make it walk.” Roy Baty got out a book of matches, lit a match; he held it near the spider, closer and closer, until at last it crept feebly away. “I was right,” Irmgard said. “Didn’t I say it could walk with only four legs?” She peered up expectantly at Isidore. “What’s the matter?” Touching his arm she said, “You didn’t lose anything; we’ll pay you what that—what’s it called?—that Sidney’s catalogue says. Don’t look so grim. Isn’t that something about Mercer, what they discovered? All that research? Hey, answer.” She prodded him anxiously. “He’s upset,” Pris said. “Because he has an empathy box. In the other room. Do you use it, J. R.?” she asked Isidore. Roy Baty said, “Of course he uses it. They all do—or did. Maybe now they’ll start wondering.” “I don’t think this will end the cult of Mercer,” Pris said. “But right this minute there’re a lot of unhappy human beings.” To Isidore she said, “We’ve waited for months; we all knew it was coming, this pitch of Buster’s.” She hesitated and then said, “Well, why not. Buster is one of us.” “An android,” Irmgard explained. “And nobody knows. No humans, I mean.” Pris, with the scissors, cut yet another leg from the spider. All at once John Isidore pushed her away and lifted up the mutilated creature. He carried it to the sink and there he drowned it. In him, his mind, his hopes, drowned, too. As swiftly as the spider. ~ Philip K Dick,

256:With great care, Amy opened the cellar door. With ladylike demeanor, she descended the stairs. And as her reward, she had the satisfaction of catching His Mighty Lordship sitting on the cot, his knee crooked sideways and his ankle pulled toward him, cursing at the manacle. “I got it out of your own castle,” she said. Northcliff jumped like a lad caught at a mischief. “My . . . castle?” At once he realized what she meant. “Here on the island, you mean. The old ancestral pile.” “Yes.” She strolled farther into the room. “I went down into the dungeons, crawled around in among the spider webs and the skeleton of your family’s enemies—” “Oh, come on.” He straightened his leg. “There aren’t any skeletons.” “No,” she admitted. “We had them removed years ago.” For one instant, she was shocked. So his family had been ruthless murderers! Then she realized he was smirking. The big, pompous jackass was making a jest of her labors. “If I could have found manacles that were in good shape I’d have locked both your legs to the wall.” “Why stop there? Why not my hands, too?” He moved his leg to make the chain clink loudly. “Think of your satisfaction at the image of my starving, naked body chained to the cold stone—” “Starving?” She cast a knowledgeable eye at the empty breakfast tray, then allowed her lips to curve into a sarcastic smile. “You’d love a look at my naked body, though, wouldn’t you?” He fixed his gaze on her, and for one second she thought she saw a lick of golden flame in his light brown eyes. “Isn’t that what this is all about?” “I beg your pardon.” She took a few steps closer to him—although she remained well out of range of his long arms. What are you talking about?” “I spurned you, didn’t I?” What? What What was he going on about? “You’re a girl from my past, an insignificant debutante I ignored at some cotillion or another. I didn’t dance with you.” He stretched out on the cot, the epitome of idle relaxation. “Or I did, but I didn’t talk to you. Or I forgot to offer you a lemonade, or—” “I don’t believe you.” She tottered to the rocking chair and sank down. “Are you saying you think this whole kidnapping was done because you, the almighty marquees of Northcliff, treated me like a wallflower?” “It seems unlikely I treated you as a wallflower. I have better taste than that.” He cast a critical glance up and down her workaday gown, then focused on her face. “You’re not in the common way, you must know that. With the proper gown and your hair swirled up in that style you women favor—” He twirled his fingers about his head—“you would be handsome. Perhaps even lovely.” She gripped the arms of the chair. Even his compliments sounded like insults! “We’ve never before met, my lord.” As if she had not spoken, he continued, “but I don’t remember you, so I must have ignored you and hurt your feelings—” “Damn!” Exploding out of the chair, she paced behind it, gripping the back hard enough to break the wood. His arrogance was amazing. Invulnerable! “Haven’t you heard a single word I’ve said to you? Are you so conceited you can’t conceive of a woman who isn’t interested in you as a suitor?” “It’s not conceit when it’s the truth.” He sounded quite convinced. ~ Christina Dodd,

257:John Isidore said, “I found a spider.” The three androids glanced up, momentarily moving their attention from the TV screen to him. “Let’s see it,” Pris said. She held out her hand. Roy Baty said, “Don’t talk while Buster is on.” “I’ve never seen a spider,” Pris said. She cupped the medicine bottle in her palms, surveying the creature within. “All those legs. Why’s it need so many legs, J. R.?” “That’s the way spiders are,” Isidore said, his heart pounding; he had difficulty breathing. “Eight legs.” Rising to her feet, Pris said, “You know what I think, J. R.? I think it doesn’t need all those legs.” “Eight?” Irmgard Baty said. “Why couldn’t it get by on four? Cut four off and see.” Impulsively opening her purse, she produced a pair of clean, sharp cuticle scissors, which she passed to Pris. A weird terror struck at J. R. Isidore. Carrying the medicine bottle into the kitchen, Pris seated herself at J. R. Isidore’s breakfast table. She removed the lid from the bottle and dumped the spider out. “It probably won’t be able to run as fast,” she said, “but there’s nothing for it to catch around here anyhow. It’ll die anyway.” She reached for the scissors. “Please,” Isidore said. Pris glanced up inquiringly. “Is it worth something?” “Don’t mutilate it,” he said wheezingly. Imploringly. With the scissors, Pris snipped off one of the spider’s legs. In the living room Buster Friendly on the TV screen said, “Take a look at this enlargement of a section of background. This is the sky you usually see. Wait, I’ll have Earl Parameter, head of my research staff, explain their virtually world-shaking discovery to you.” Pris clipped off another leg, restraining the spider with the edge of her hand. She was smiling. “Blowups of the video pictures,” a new voice from the TV said, “when subjected to rigorous laboratory scrutiny, reveal that the gray backdrop of sky and daytime moon against which Mercer moves is not only not Terran—it is artificial.” “You’re missing it!” Irmgard called anxiously to Pris; she rushed to the kitchen door, saw what Pris had begun doing. “Oh, do that afterward,” she said coaxingly. “This is so important, what they’re saying; it proves that everything we believed—” “Be quiet,” Roy Baty said. “—is true,” Irmgard finished. The TV set continued, “The ‘moon’ is painted; in the enlargements, one of which you see now on your screen, brush strokes show. And there is even some evidence that the scraggly weeds and dismal, sterile soil—perhaps even the stones hurled at Mercer by unseen alleged parties—are equally faked. It is quite possible in fact that the ‘stones’ are made of soft plastic, causing no authentic wounds.” “In other words,” Buster Friendly broke in, “Wilbur Mercer is not suffering at all.” The research chief said, “We at last managed, Mr. Friendly, to track down a former Hollywood special-effects man, a Mr. Wade Cortot, who flatly states, from his years of experience, that the figure of ‘Mercer’ could well be merely some bit player marching across a sound stage. Cortot has gone so far as to declare that he recognizes the stage as one used by a now out-of-business minor moviemaker with whom Cortot had various dealings several decades ago.” “So according to Cortot,” Buster Friendly said, “there can be virtually no doubt.” Pris had now cut three legs from the spider, which crept about miserably on the kitchen table, seeking a way out, a path to freedom. It found none. ~ Philip K Dick,

258:Hunger I only find within my bones, A taste for eating earth and stones. When I feed, I feed on air, Rocks and coals and iron ore. My hunger, turn. Hunger, feed: A field of bran. Gather as you can the bright, Poison weed. Eat the rocks a beggar breaks, The stones of ancient churches' walls, Pebbles, children of the flood, Loaves left lying in the mud. *** Beneath the bush a wolf will howl, Spitting bright feathers From his feast of fowl: Like him, I devour myself. Waiting to be gathered, Fruits and grasses spend their hours; The spider spinning in the hedge, Eats only flowers. Let me sleep! Let me boil, On the altars of Solomon; Let me soak the rusty soil, And flow into Kendron. Finally, O reason, O happiness, I cleared from the sky the blue which is darkness, and I lived as a golden spark of this light, Nature. In my delight, I made my face look as comic and as wild as I could: It is recovered. What? Eternity. In the whirling light Of the sun in the sea. O my eternal soul, Hold fast to desire In spite of the night And the day on fire. You must set yourself free From the striving of Man And the applause of the World! You must fly as you can... No hope, forever; No _orietur._ Science and patience, The torment is sure. The fire within you, Soft silken embers, Is our whole duty-- 66 But no one remembers. It is recovered. What? Eternity. In the whirling light Of the sun in the sea. I became a fabulous opera. I saw that everyone in the world was doomed to happiness. Action isn't life; it's merely a way of ruining a kind of strength, a means of destroying nerves. Morality is water on the brain. It seemed to me that everyone should have had several other lives as well. This gentleman doesn't know what he's doing; he's an angel. That family is a litter of puppy dogs. With some men, I often talked out loud with a moment from one of their other lives-that's how I happened to love a pig. Not a single one of the brilliant arguments of madness-- the madness that gets locked up-- did I forget; I could go through them all again, I've got the system down by heart. It affected my health. Terror loomed ahead. I would fall again and again into a heavy sleep, which lasted several days at a time, and when I woke up, my sorrowful dreams continued. I was ripe for fatal harvest, and my weakness led me down dangerous roads to the edge of the world, to the Cimmerian shore, the haven of whirlwinds and darkness. I had to travel, to dissipate the enchantments that crowded my brain. On the sea, which I loved as if it were to wash away my impurity, I watched the compassionate cross arise. I had been damned by the rainbow. Felicity was my doom, my gnawing remorse, my worm. My life would forever be too large to devote to strength and to beauty. Felicity! The deadly sweetness of its sting would wake me at cockcrow-- ad matutinum, at the Christus venit-- in the soberest of cities. O seasons, O chateaus! Where is the flawless soul? I learned the magic of Felicity. It enchants us all. To Felicity, sing life and praise, Whenever Gaul's cock crows. Now all desire has gone-- It has made my life its own. That spell has caught heart and soul, And scattered every trial. O seasons, O chateaus! And, oh, the day it disappears, Will be the day I die. O seasons, O chateaus! All that is over. Today, I know how to celebrate beauty. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

259:Memory I. Clear water; [stinging] like the salt of a child's tears, the whiteness of women's bodies attacking the sun; silken, in masses and pure lily, banners under the walls a maiden defended; The frolic of angels - No… the current of gold in motion moves its arms, dark and above all cool, of green. She [the weed] sinks, and having the blue Heaven for a canopy, takes for curtains the shade of the hill and of the arch. II. Oh! The wet surface stretches out its clear bubbles! The water covers the made beds with pale and bottomless gold; [it is as if] the faded green dresses of little girls [were] playing at willows, out of which leap the unbridled birds. Purer than a gold louis, yellow warm eyelid, the marsh marigold thy conjugal faith O Spouse! - at noon sharp, from its dull mirror, envies the rosy beloved Sphere in the sky wan with heat. III. Madame holds herself too erect in the neighbouring meadow where the threads of [the spider's] toil are snowing down' parasol in her fingers; crushing the cow-parsley; too proud for her; children reading in the flowery greenness; their red morocco book! Alas, He, like a thousand white angels parting on the roadway, makes off beyond the mountain! She, quite cold, and dark, runs! After the flight of the man! IV. Nostalgia for the thick young arms of pure green! Gold of the April moons in the heart of the hallowed bed! Joy of the abandoned boat-yards, the prey to the August evenings which quickened these corruptions! How she weeps, now, under he ramparts! The breath of the poplars above is all there is for a breeze. Then it is the sheet of water without reflections and without a spring, grey: an old man, a dredger, 93 in his motionless boat, labours. V. Plaything of this eye of mournful water, I cannot reach O boat without motion! O too short arms! either this flower or that one: neither the yellow one which importunes me here; nor the blue one, the beloved in the ashes water. Ah! The pollen of willows which a wing shakes! The roses of the reeds, long since eaten away! My boat still fast; and its anchor chain taut to the bottom of this limitless eye of water, - in what slime? --------------What does it matter to us, my heart, the sheets of blood And of red-hot coals, and a thousand murders, and long howls Of rage ; sobbings from every inferno destroying Every (kind of) order ; and still the North wind across the wreckage ; And all the vengeance ? Nothing !... But still, yes We desire it ! Industrialists, princes, senates, Perish ! Power, justice, history : down ! It is our due. Blood ! blood ! the golden flame ! All to war, to vengeance, to terror, My soul ! Let us turn in the wound : Ah ! away with you, Republics of this world ! Of Emperors, Regiments, colonists, peoples, enough ! Who should stir the vortices of furious flames But we and those whom we imagine brothers ? It's our turn, romantic friends : we are Going to enjoy it. Never shall we labour, O fiery waves ! Europe, Asia, America - vanish ! Our march of vengeance has occupied every place, Cities and countrysides ! - We shall be smashed ! The volcanoes will explode ! And the Ocean, smitten... Oh ! my friends ! - My heart, it is certain ; they are brothers ; Dark strangers, if we began ! Come on ! Come on ! O evil fortune ! I feel myself tremble, the old earth, On me who am more and more yours ! the earth melts. It is nothing : I am here ; I am still here. ~ Arthur Rimbaud,

260:Unchopping a Tree. Start with the leaves, the small twigs, and the nests that have been shaken, ripped, or broken off by the fall; these must be gathered and attached once again to their respective places. It is not arduous work, unless major limbs have been smashed or mutilated. If the fall was carefully and correctly planned, the chances of anything of the kind happening will have been reduced. Again, much depends upon the size, age, shape, and species of the tree. Still, you will be lucky if you can get through this stages without having to use machinery. Even in the best of circumstances it is a labor that will make you wish often that you had won the favor of the universe of ants, the empire of mice, or at least a local tribe of squirrels, and could enlist their labors and their talents. But no, they leave you to it. They have learned, with time. This is men's work. It goes without saying that if the tree was hollow in whole or in part, and contained old nests of bird or mammal or insect, or hoards of nuts or such structures as wasps or bees build for their survival, the contents will have to repaired where necessary, and reassembled, insofar as possible, in their original order, including the shells of nuts already opened. With spider's webs you must simply do the best you can. We do not have the spider's weaving equipment, nor any substitute for the leaf's living bond with its point of attachment and nourishment. It is even harder to simulate the latter when the leaves have once become dry — as they are bound to do, for this is not the labor of a moment. Also it hardly needs saying that this the time fro repairing any neighboring trees or bushes or other growth that might have been damaged by the fall. The same rules apply. Where neighboring trees were of the same species it is difficult not to waste time conveying a detached leaf back to the wrong tree. Practice, practice. Put your hope in that. Now the tackle must be put into place, or the scaffolding, depending on the surroundings and the dimension of the tree. It is ticklish work. Almost always it involves, in itself, further damage to the area, which will have to be corrected later. But, as you've heard, it can't be helped. And care now is likely to save you considerable trouble later. Be careful to grind nothing into the ground. At last the time comes for the erecting of the trunk. By now it will scarcely be necessary to remind you of the delicacy of this huge skeleton. Every motion of the tackle, every slightly upward heave of the trunk, the branches, their elaborately reassembled panoply of leaves (now dead) will draw from you an involuntary gasp. You will watch for a lead or a twig to be snapped off yet again. You will listen for the nuts to shift in the hollow limb and you will hear whether they are indeed falling into place or are spilling in disorder — in which case, or in the event of anything else of the kind — operations will have to cease, of course, while you correct the matter. The raising itself is no small enterprise, from the moment when the chains tighten around the old bandages until the boles hands vertical above the stump, splinter above splinter. How the final straightening of the splinters themselves can take place (the preliminary work is best done while the wood is still green and soft, but at times when the splinters are not badly twisted most of the straightening is left until now, when the torn ends are face to face with each other). When the splinters are perfectly complementary the appropriate fixative is applied. Again we have no duplicate of the original substance. Ours is extremely strong, but it is rigid. It is limited to surfaces, and there is no play in it. However the core is not the part of the trunk that conducted life from the roots up to the branches and back again. It was relatively inert. The fixative for this part is not the same as the one for the outer layers and the bark, and if either of these is involved ~ W S Merwin,

261:I. All I believed is true! I am able yet All I want, to get By a method as strange as new: Dare I trust the same to you? II. If at night, when doors are shut, And the wood-worm picks, And the death-watch ticks, And the bar has a flag of smut, And a cat's in the water-butt- III. And the socket floats and flares, And the house-beams groan, And a foot unknown Is surmised on the garret-stairs, And the locks slip unawares- IV. And the spider, to serve his ends, By a sudden thread, Arms and legs outspread, On the table's midst descends, Comes to find, God knows what friends!- V. If since eve drew in, I say, I have sat and brought (So to speak) my thought To bear on the woman away, Till I felt my hair turn grey- VI. Till I seemed to have and hold, In the vacancy 'Twixt the wall and me, From the hair-plait's chestnut gold To the foot in its muslin fold- VII. Have and hold, then and there, Her, from head to foot, Breathing and mute, Passive and yet aware, In the grasp of my steady stare- VIII. Hold and have, there and then, All her body and soul That completes my whole, All that women add to men, In the clutch of my steady ken- IX. Having and holding, till I imprint her fast On the void at last As the sun does whom he will By the calotypist's skill- X. Then,-if my heart's strength serve, And through all and each Of the veils I reach To her soul and never swerve, Knitting an iron nerve- XI. Command her soul to advance And inform the shape Which has made escape And before my countenance Answers me glance for glance- XII. I, still with a gesture fit Of my hands that best Do my soul's behest, Pointing the power from it, While myself do steadfast sit- XIII. Steadfast and still the same On my object bent, While the hands give vent To my ardour and my aim And break into very flame- XIV. Then I reach, I must believe, Not her soul in vain, For to me again It reaches, and past retrieve Is wound in the toils I weave; XV. And must follow as I require, As befits a thrall, Bringing flesh and all, Essence and earth-attire, To the source of the tractile fire: XVI. Till the house called hers, not mine, With a growing weight Seems to suffocate If she break not its leaden line And escape from its close confine. XVII. Out of doors into the night! On to the maze Of the wild wood-ways, Not turning to left nor right From the pathway, blind with sight- XVIII. Making thro' rain and wind O'er the broken shrubs, 'Twixt the stems and stubs, With a still, composed, strong mind, Nor a care for the world behind- XIX. Swifter and still more swift, As the crowding peace Doth to joy increase In the wide blind eyes uplift Thro' the darkness and the drift! XX. While I-to the shape, I too Feel my soul dilate Nor a whit abate, And relax not a gesture due, As I see my belief come true. XXI. For, there! have I drawn or no Life to that lip? Do my fingers dip In a flame which again they throw On the cheek that breaks a-glow? XXII. Ha! was the hair so first? What, unfilleted, Made alive, and spread Through the void with a rich outburst, Chestnut gold-interspersed? XXTII. Like the doors of a casket-shrine, See, on either side, Her two arms divide Till the heart betwixt makes sign, Take me, for I am thine! XXIV. ``Now-now''-the door is heard! Hark, the stairs! and near- Nearer-and here- ``Now!'' and at call the third She enters without a word. XXV. On doth she march and on To the fancied shape; It is, past escape, Herself, now: the dream is done And the shadow and she are one. XXVI. First I will pray. Do Thou That ownest the soul, Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now! XXVII. I admonish me while I may, Not to squander guilt, Since require Thou wilt At my hand its price one day What the price is, who can say? ~ Robert Browning, Mesmerism ,

262:To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour. A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage. A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons Shudders hell through all its regions. A dog starved at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock clipped and armed for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul. The wild deer wandering here and there Keeps the human soul from care. The lamb misused breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife. The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe. The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men. He who the ox to wrath has moved Shall never be by woman loved. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity. He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgment draweth nigh. He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar. The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat. The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from Slander's tongue. The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of Envy's foot. The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist's jealousy. The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. It is right it should be so: Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The babe is more than swaddling bands, Throughout all these human lands; Tools were made and born were hands, Every farmer understands. Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright And returned to its own delight. The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar Are waves that beat on heaven's shore. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes Revenge! in realms of death. The beggar's rags fluttering in air Does to rags the heavens tear. The soldier armed with sword and gun Palsied strikes the summer's sun. The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore. One mite wrung from the labourer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands, Or if protected from on high Does that whole nation sell and buy. He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mocked in age and death. He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out. The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plough To peaceful arts shall Envy bow. A riddle or the cricket's cry Is to doubt a fit reply. The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please. If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate. The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding sheet. The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born. Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. We are led to believe a lie When we see not through the eye Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light. God appears, and God is light To those poor souls who dwell in night, But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day. [1991.jpg] -- from William Blake: The Complete Poems, by William Blake ~ William Blake, Auguries of Innocence ,

263:'The Old Leaven' Mark: So, Maurice, you sail to-morrow, you say? And you may or may not return? Be sociable, man! for once in a way, Unless you're too old to learn. The shadows are cool by the water side Where the willows grow by the pond, And the yellow laburnum's drooping pride Sheds a golden gleam beyond. For the blended tints of the summer flowers, For the scents of the summer air, For all nature's charms in this world of ours, 'Tis little or naught you care. Yet I know for certain you haven't stirred Since noon from your chosen spot; And you've hardly spoken a single wordAre you tired, or cross, or what? You're fretting about those shares you bought, They were to have gone up fast; But I heard how they fell to nothing-in short, They were given away at last. Maurice: No, Mark, I'm not so easily cross'd; 'Tis true that I've had a run Of bad luck lately; indeed, I've lost; Well! somebody else has won. Mark: The glass has fallen, perhaps you fear A return of your ancient stitchThat souvenir of the Lady's Mere, Park palings and double ditch. Maurice: You're wrong. I'm not in the least afraid Of that. If the truth be told, When the stiffness visits my shoulder-blade, I think on the days of old; 261 It recalls the rush of the freshening wind, The strain of the chestnut springing, And the rolling thunder of hoofs behind, Like the Rataplan chorus ringing. Mark: Are you bound to borrow, or loth to lend? Have you purchased another screw? Or backed a bill for another friend? Or had a bad night at loo? Maurice: Not one of those, you're all in the dark, If you choose you can guess again; But you'd better give over guessing, Mark, It's only labour in vain. Mark: I'll try once more; does it plague you still, That trifle of lead you carry? A guest that lingers against your will, Unwelcome, yet bound to tarry. Maurice: Not so! That burden I'm used to bear, 'Tis seldom it gives me trouble; And to earn it as I did then and there, I'd carry a dead weight double. A shock like that for a splintered rib Can a thousand-fold repayAs the swallow skims through the spider's web, We rode through their ranks that day! Mark: Come, Maurice, you sha'n't escape me so! I'll hazard another guess: That girl that jilted you long ago, You're thinking of her, confess! Maurice: Tho' the blue lake flush'd with a rosy light, Reflected from yonder sky, 262 Might conjure a vision of Aphrodite To a poet's or painter's eye; Tho' the golden drop, with its drooping curl, Between the water and wood, Hangs down like the tress of a wayward girl In her dreamy maidenhood: Such boyish fancies seem out of date To one half inclined to censure Their folly, and yet-your shaft flew straight, Though you drew your bow at a venture. I saw my lady the other night In the crowded opera hall, When the boxes sparkled with faces bright, I knew her amongst them all. Tho' little for these things now I reck, I singled her from the throng By the queenly curves of her head and neck, By the droop of her eyelash long. Oh! passionless, placid, and calm, and cold, Does the fire still lurk within That lit her magnificent eyes of old, And coloured her marble skin? For a weary look on the proud face hung, While the music clash'd and swell'd, And the restless child to the silk skirt clung Unnoticed tho' unrepelled. They've paled, those rosebud lips that I kist, That slim waist has thickened rather, And the cub has the sprawling mutton fist, And the great splay foot of the father. May the blight-Mark: Hold hard there, Maurice, my son, Let her rest, since her spell is broken; We can neither recall deeds rashly done, Nor retract words hastily spoken. Maurice: Time was when to pleasure her girlish whim, In my blind infatuation, I've freely endangered life and limb; Aye, perilled my soul's salvation. 263 Mark: With the best intentions we all must work But little good and much harm; Be a Christian for once, not a Pagan Turk, Nursing wrath and keeping it warm. Maurice: If our best intentions pave the way To a place that is somewhat hot, Can our worst intentions lead us, say, To a still more sultry spot? Mark: 'Tis said that charity makes amends For a multitude of transgressions. Maurice: But our perjured loves and our faithless friends Are entitled to no concessions. Mark: Old man, these many years side by side Our parallel paths have lain; Now, in life's long journey, diverging wide, They can scarcely unite again; And tho', from all that I've seen and heard, You're prone to chafe and to fret At the least restraint, not one angry word Have we two exchanged as yet. We've shared our peril, we've shared our sport, Our sunshine and gloomy weather, Feasted and flirted, and fenced and fought, Struggled and toiled together; In happier moments lighter of heart, Stouter of heart in sorrow; We've met and we've parted, and now we part For ever, perchance, to-morrow. She's a matron now; when you knew her first She was but a child, and your hate, Fostered and cherished, nourished and nursed, Will it never evaporate? 264 Your grievance is known to yourself alone, But, Maurice, I say, for shame, If in ten long years you haven't outgrown Ill-will to an ancient flame. Maurice: Well, Mark, you're right; if I spoke in spite, Let the shame and the blame be mine; At the risk of a headache we'll drain this night Her health in a flask of wine; For a castle in Spain, tho' it never was built; For a dream, tho' it never came true; For a cup, just tasted, tho' rudely spilt, At least she can hold me due. Those hours of pleasure she dealt of yore, As well as those hours of pain, I ween they would flit as they flitted before, If I had them over again. Against her no word from my lips shall pass, Betraying the grudge I've cherished, Till the sand runs down in my hour-glass, And the gift of my speech has perished. Say! why is the spirit of peace so weak, And the spirit of wrath so strong, That the right we must steadily search and seek, Tho' we readily find the wrong? Mark: Our parents of old entailed the curse Which must to our children cling; Let us hope, at least, that we're not much worse Than the founder from whom we spring. Fit sire was he of a selfish race, Who first to temptation yielded, Then to mend his case tried to heap disgrace On the woman he should have shielded. Say! comrade mine, the forbidden fruit We'd have plucked, that I well believe, But I trust we'd rather have suffered mute Than have laid the blame upon Eve. Maurice (yawning): 265 Who knows? not I; I can hardly vouch For the truth of what little I see; And now, if you've any weed in your pouch, Just hand it over to me. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

264:The River It is a venerable place, An old ancestral ground, So broad, the rainbow wholly stands Within its lordly bound; And here the river waits and winds By many a wooded mound. Upon a rise, where single oaks And clumps of beeches tall Drop pleasantly their shade beneath, Half-hid amidst them all, Stands in its quiet dignity An ancient manor-hall. About its many gable-ends The swallows wheel their flight; The huge fantastic weather-vanes Look happy in the light; The warm front through the foliage gleams, A comfortable sight. The ivied turrets seem to love The low, protected leas; And, though this manor-hall hath seen The snow of centuries, How freshly still it stands amid Its wealth of swelling trees! The leafy summer-time is young; The yearling lambs are strong; The sunlight glances merrily; The trees are full of song; The valley-loving river flows Contentedly along. Look where the merry weather-vanes Veer upon yonder tower: There, amid starry jessamine And clasping passion-flower, The sweetest Maid of all the land Is weeping in her bower. Alas, the lowly Youth she loves Loves her, but fears to sue: He came this morning hurriedly; 195 Then forth her blushes flew! But he talk'd of common things, and so Her eyes are fill'd with dew. Time passes on; the clouds are come; The river, late so bright, Rolls foul and black, and gloomily Makes known across the night, In far-heard plash and weary drench, The passage of its might. The noble Bridegroom counts the hours; The guests are coming fast; (The vanes are creaking drearily Within the dying blast!) The bashful Bride is at his side; And night is here at last. The guests are gay; the minstrels play; 'Tis liker noon than night; From side to side, they toast the Bride, Who blushes ruby light: For one and all within that hall, It is a cheerful sight. But unto one, who stands alone, Among the mists without, Watching the windows, bright with shapes Of king and saint devout, Strangely across the muffled air Pierces the laughter-shout. No sound or sight this solemn night But moves the soul to fear: The faded saints stare through the gloom, Askant, and wan, and blear; And wither'd cheeks of watchful kings Start from their purple gear. The burthen of the wedding-song Comes to him like a wail; The stream, athwart the cedar-grove, Is shining ghastly pale: His cloudy brow clears suddenly! Dark soul, what does thee ail? He turns him from the lighted hall; The pale stream curls and heaves And moans beyond the gloomy wood, 196 Through which he breaks and cleaves; And now his footfall dies away Upon the wither'd leaves. The restless moon, among the clouds, Is loitering slowly by; Now in a circle like the ring About a weeping eye; Now left quite bare and bright; and now A pallor in the sky; And now she's looking through the mist, Cold, lustreless, and wan, And wildly, past her dreary form, The watery clouds rush on, A moment white beneath her light, And then, like spirits, gone. Silent and fast they hurry past, Their swiftness striketh dread, For earth is hush'd, and no breath sweeps The spider's rainy thread, And everything, but those pale clouds, Is dark, and still, and dead. The lonely stars are here and there, But weak and wasting all; The winds are dead, the cedars spread Their branches like a pall; The guests, by laughing twos and threes, Have left the bridal hall. Beneath the mossy, ivied bridge, The river slippeth past: The current deep is still as sleep, And yet so very fast! There's something in its quietness That makes the soul aghast. No wind is in the willow-tree That droops above the bank; The water passes quietly Beneath the sedges dank; Yet the willow trembles in the stream, And the dry reeds talk and clank. The weak stars swoon; the jagged moon Is lost in the cloudy air. No thought of light! save where the wave 197 Sports with a fitful glare. The dumb and dreadful world is full Of darkness and night-mare. The hall-clocks clang; the watch-dog barks. What are his dreams about? Marsh lights leap, and tho' fast asleep The owlets shriek and shout; The stars, thro' chasms in utter black, Race like a drunken rout. ‘Wake, wake, oh wake!’ the Bridegroom now Calls to his sleeping Bride: ‘Alas, I saw thee, pale and dead, Roll down a frightful tide!’ He takes her hand: ‘How chill thou art! What is it, sweet my Bride?’ The Bride bethinks her now of him Who last night was no guest. ‘Sweet Heaven! and for me? I dream! Be calm, thou throbbing breast.’ She says, in thought, a solemn prayer And sinks again to rest. Along, along, swiftly and strong The river slippeth past; The current deep is still as sleep, And yet so very fast! There's something in its quietness That makes the soul aghast. The morn has risen: wildly by The water glides to-day; Outspread upon its eddying face, Long weeds and rushes play; And on the bank the fungus rots, And the grass is foul'd with clay. Time passes on: the park is bare; The year is scant and lean; The river's banks are desolate; The air is chill and keen; But, now and then, a sunny day Comes with a thought of green. Amid blear February's flaw, Tremulous snowdrops peep; 198 The crocus, in the shrewd March morn, Starts from its wintry sleep; The daisies sun themselves in hosts, Among the pasturing sheep. The waters, in their old content, Between fresh margins run; The pike, as trackless as a sound, Shoots thro' the current dun; And languid new-born chestnut-leaves Expand beneath the sun. The summer's prime is come again; The lilies bloom anew; The current keeps the doubtful past Deep in its bosom blue, And babbles low thro' quiet fields Gray with the falling dew. The sheep-bell tolls the curfew-time; The gnats, a busy rout, Fleck the warm air; the distant owl Shouteth a sleepy shout; The voiceless bat, more felt than seen, Is flitting round about; The poplar's leaflet scarcely stirs; The river seems to think; Across the dusk, the lily broad Looks coolly from the brink; And knee-deep in the freshet's fall, The meek-eyed cattle drink. The chafers boom; the white moths rise Like spirits from the ground; The gray-flies sing their weary tune, A distant, dream-like sound; And far, far off, in the slumberous eve, Bayeth a restless hound. At this sweet time, the Lady walks Beside the gentle stream; She marks the waters curl along, Beneath the sunset gleam, And in her soul a sorrow moves, Like memory of a dream. She passes on. How still the earth, And all the air above! 199 Here, where of late the scritch-owl shriek'd, Whispers the happy dove; And the river, through the ivied bridge, Flows calm as household love. ~ Coventry Patmore,

265:I.   A bridge of pearls its form uprears    High o'er a gray and misty sea;   E'en in a moment it appears,    And rises upwards giddily.   Beneath its arch can find a road    The loftiest vessel's mast most high,   Itself hath never borne a load,    And seems, when thou draw'st near, to fly.   It comes first with the stream, and goes    Soon as the watery flood is dried.   Where may be found this bridge, disclose,    And who its beauteous form supplied! II.   It bears thee many a mile away,    And yet its place it changes ne'er;   It has no pinions to display,    And yet conducts thee through the air.   It is the bark of swiftest motion    That every weary wanderer bore;   With speed of thought the greatest ocean    It carries thee in safety o'er;    One moment wafts thee to the shore. III.   Upon a spacious meadow play    Thousands of sheep, of silvery hue;   And as we see them move to-day,    The man most aged saw them too.   They ne'er grow old, and, from a rill    That never dries, their life is drawn;   A shepherd watches o'er them still,    With curved and beauteous silver horn.   He drives them out through gates of gold,    And every night their number counts;   Yet ne'er has lost, of all his fold,    One lamb, though oft that path he mounts.   A hound attends him faithfully,    A nimble ram precedes the way;   Canst thou point out that flock to me,    And who the shepherd, canst thou say? IV.   There stands a dwelling, vast and tall,    On unseen columns fair;   No wanderer treads or leaves its hall,    And none can linger there.   Its wondrous structure first was planned    With art no mortal knows;   It lights the lamps with its own hand    'Mongst which it brightly glows.   It has a roof, as crystal bright,    Formed of one gem of dazzling light;   Yet mortal eye has ne'er    Seen Him who placed it there. V.   Within a well two buckets lie,    One mounts, and one descends;   When one is full, and rises high,    The other downward wends.   They wander ever to and fro   Now empty are, now overflow.   If to the mouth thou liftest this,   That hangs within the dark abyss.   In the same moment they can ne'er   Refresh thee with their treasures fair. VI.   Know'st thou the form on tender ground?    It gives itself its glow, its light;   And though each moment changing found.    Is ever whole and ever bright.   In narrow compass 'tis confined,    Within the smallest frame it lies;   Yet all things great that move thy mind,    That form alone to thee supplies.   And canst thou, too, the crystal name?    No gem can equal it in worth;   It gleams, yet kindles near to flame,    It sucks in even all the earth.   Within its bright and wondrous ring    Is pictured forth the glow of heaven,   And yet it mirrors back each thing    Far fairer than to it 'twas given. VII.   For ages an edifice here has been found,    It is not a dwelling, it is not a Pane;   A horseman for hundreds of days may ride round,    Yet the end of his journey he ne'er can attain.   Full many a century o'er it has passed,    The might of the storm and of time it defies!   Neath the rainbow of Heaven stands free to the last,    In the ocean it dips, and soars up to the skies.   It was not vain glory that bade its erection,   It serves as a refuge, a shield, a protection;   Its like on the earth never yet has been known   And yet by man's hand it is fashioned alone. VIII.   Among all serpents there is one,    Born of no earthly breed;   In fury wild it stands alone,    And in its matchless speed.   With fearful voice and headlong force    It rushes on its prey,   And sweeps the rider and his horse    In one fell swoop away.   The highest point it loves to gain;    And neither bar nor lock   Its fiery onslaught can restrain;    And armsinvite its shock.   It tears in twain like tender grass,    The strongest forest-trees;   It grinds to dust the hardened brass,    Though stout and firm it be.   And yet this beast, that none can tame,    Its threat ne'er twice fulfils;   It dies in its self-kindled flame.    And dies e'en when it kills. IX.   We children six our being had    From a most strange and wondrous pair,   Our mother ever grave and sad,    Our father ever free from care.   Our virtues we from both receive,    Meekness from her, from him our light;   And so in endless youth we weave    Round thee a circling figure bright.   We ever shun the caverns black,    And revel in the glowing day;   'Tis we who light the world's dark track,    With our life's clear and magic ray.   Spring's joyful harbingers are we,    And her inspiring streams we swell;   And so the house of death we flee,    For life alone must round us dwell.   Without us is no perfect bliss,    When man is glad, we, too, attend,   And when a monarch worshipped is,    To him our majesty attend. X.   What is the thing esteemed by few?    The monarch's hand it decks with pride,   Yet it is made to injure too,    And to the sword is most allied.   No blood it sheds, yet many a wound    Inflicts,gives wealth, yet takes from none;   Has vanquished e'en the earth's wide round,    And makes life's current smoothly run.   The greatest kingdoms it has framed,    The oldest cities reared from dust,   Yet war's fierce torch has ne'er inflamed;    Happy are they who in it trust! XI.   I live within a dwelling of stone,    There buried in slumber I dally;   Yet, armed with a weapon of iron alone,    The foe to encounter I sally.   At first I'm invisible, feeble, and mean,    And o'er me thy breath has dominion;   I'm easily drowned in a raindrop e'en,    Yet in victory waxes my pinion.   When my sister, all-powerful, gives me her hand,   To the terrible lord of the world I expand. XII.   Upon a disk my course I trace,    There restlessly forever flit;   Small is the circuit I embrace,    Two hands suffice to cover it.   Yet ere that field I traverse, I    Full many a thousand mile must go,   E'en though with tempest-speed I fly,    Swifter than arrow from a bow. XIII.   A bird it is, whose rapid motion    With eagle's flight divides the air;   A fish it is, and parts the ocean,    That bore a greater monster ne'er;   An elephant it is, whose rider    On his broad back a tower has put:   'Tis like the reptile base, the spider,    Whenever it extends its foot;   And when, with iron tooth projecting,    It seeks its own life-blood to drain,   On footing firm, itself erecting,    It braves the raging hurricane.    ~ Friedrich Schiller, Parables And Riddles ,

266:ON THE VISION AND THE RIDDLE 1 When it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on board-for another man from the blessed isles had embarked with him-there was much curiosity and anticipation. But Zarathustra remained silent for two days and was cold and deaf from sadness and answered neither glances nor questions. But on the evening of the second day he opened his ears again, although he still remained silent, for there was much that was strange and dangerous to be heard on this ship, which came from far away and wanted to sail even farther. But Zarathustra was a friend of all who travel far and do not like to live without danger. And behold, eventually his own tongue was loosened as he listened, and the ice of his heart broke. Then he began to speak thus: To you, the bold searchers, researchers, and whoever 156 embarks with cunning sails on terrible seas-to you, drunk with riddles, glad of the twilight, whose soul flutes lure astray to every whirlpool, because you do not want to grope along a thread with cowardly hand; and where you can guess, you hate to deduce-to you alone I tell the riddle that I saw, the vision of the loneliest. Not long ago I walked gloomily through the deadly pallor of dusk-gloomy and hard, with lips pressed together. Not only one sun had set for me. A path that ascended defiantly through stones, malicious, lonely, not cheered by herb or shrub-a mountain path crunched under the defiance of my foot. Striding silently over the mocking clatter of pebbles, crushing the rock that made it slip, my foot forced its way upward. Upwarddefying the spirit that drew it downward toward the abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and archenemy. Upward-although he sat on me, half dwarf, half mole, lame, making lame, dripping lead into my ear, leaden thoughts into my brain. "O Zarathustra," he whispered mockingly, syllable by syllable; "you philosopher's stone You threw yourself up high, but every stone that is thrown must fall. 0 Zarathustra, you philosopher's stone, you slingstone, you star-crusherl You threw yourself up so high; but every stone that is thrown must fall. Sentenced to yourself and to your own stoning-O Zarathustra, far indeed have you thrown the stone, but it will fall back on yourself." Then the dwarf fell silent, and that lasted a long time. His silence, however, oppressed me; and such twosomeness is surely more lonesome than being alone. I climbed, I climbed, I dreamed, I thought; but everything oppressed me. I was like one sick whom his wicked torture makes weary, and who as he falls asleep 157 is awakened by a still more wicked dream. But there is something in me that I call courage; that has so far slain my every discouragement. This courage finally bade me stand still and speak: "Dwarf! It is you or II" For courage is the best slayer, courage which attacks; for in every attack there is playing and brass. Man, however, is the most courageous animal: hence he overcame every animal. With playing and brass he has so far overcome every pain; but human pain is the deepest pain. Courage also slays dizziness at the edge of abysses: and where does man not stand at the edge of abysses? Is not seeing always-seeing abysses? Courage is the best slayer: courage slays even pity. But pity is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man sees into life, he also sees into suffering. Courage, however, is the best slayer-courage which attacks: which slays even death itself, for it says, "Was that life? Well then! Once morel" In such words, however, there is much playing and brass. He that has ears to hear, let him hear 2 "Stop, dwarf!" I said. "It is I or you! But I am the stronger of us two: you do not know my abysmal thought. That you could not bear!" Then something happened that made me lighter, for the dwarf jumped from my shoulder, being curious; and he crouched on a stone before me. But there was a gateway just where we had stopped. "Behold this gateway, dwarfl" I continued. "It has two faces. Two paths meet here; no one has yet followed either to its end. This long lane stretches back for an eternity. And the long lane out there, that is another eternity. They contradict each other, these 158 paths; they offend each other face to face; and it is here at this gateway that they come together. The name of the gateway is inscribed above: 'Moment.' But whoever would follow one of them, on and on, farther and farther-do you believe, dwarf, that these paths contradict each other eternally?" "All that is straight lies," the dwarf murmured contemptuously. "All truth is crooked; time itself is a circle." "You spirit of gravity," I said angrily, "do not make things too easy for yourself Or I shall let you crouch where you are crouching, lamefoot; and it was I that carried you to this height. "Behold," I continued, "this moment! From this gateway, Moment, a long, eternal lane leads backward: behind us lies an eternity. Must not whatever can walk have walked on this lane before? Must not whatever can happen have happened, have been done, have passed by before? And if everything has been there before-what do you think, dwarf, of this moment? Must not this gateway too have been there before? And are not all things knotted together so firmly that this moment draws after it all that is to come? Therefore itself too? For whatever can walk-in this long lane out there too, it must walk once more. "And this slow spider, which crawls in the moonlight, and this moonlight itself, and I and you in the gateway, whispering together, whispering of eternal things-must not all of us have been there before? And return and walk in that other lane, out there, before us, in this long dreadful lane-must we not eternally return?" Thus I spoke, more and more softly; for I was afraid of my own thoughts and the thoughts behind my thoughts. Then suddenly I heard a dog howl nearby. Had I ever heard a dog howl like this? My thoughts 159 raced back. Yes, when I was a child, in the most distant childhood: then I heard a dog howl like this. And I saw him too, bristling, his head up, trembling, in the stillest midnight when even dogs believe in ghosts-and I took pity: for just then the full moon, silent as death, passed over the house; just then it stood still, a round glow-still on the flat roof, as if on another's property -that was why the dog was terrified, for dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. And when I heard such howling again I took pity again. Where was the dwarf gone now? And the gateway? And the spider? And all the whispering? Was I dreaming, then? Was I waking up? Among wild cliffs I stood suddenly alone, bleak, in the bleakest moonlight. But there lay a man. And there -the dog, jumping, bristling, whining-now he saw me coming; then he howled again, he cried. Had I ever heard a dog cry like this for help? And verily, what I saw-I had never seen the like. A young shepherd I saw, writhing, gagging, in spasms, his face distorted, and a heavy black snake hung out of his mouth. Had I ever seen so much nausea and pale dread on one face? He seemed to have been asleep when the snake crawled into his throat, and there bit itself fast. My hand tore at the snake and tore in vain; it did not tear the snake out of his throat. Then it cried out of me: "Bitel Bite its head offl Bitel" Thus it cried out of memy dread, my hatred, my nausea, my pity, all that is good and wicked in me cried out of me with a single cry. You bold ones who surround mel You searchers, researchers, and whoever among you has embarked with cunning sails on unexplored seas. You who are glad of riddles Guess me this riddle that I saw then, interpret me the vision of the loneliest. For it was a vision 160 and a foreseeing. What did I see then in a parable? And who is it who must yet come one day? Who is the shepherd into whose throat the snake crawled thus? Who is the man into whose throat all that is heaviest and blackest will crawl thus? The shepherd, however, bit as my cry counseled him; he bit with a good bite. Far away he spewed the head of the snake-and he jumped up. No longer shepherd, no longer human-one changed, radiant, laughing! Never yet on earth has a human being laughed as he laughed! 0 my brothers, I heard a laughter that was no human laughter; and now a thirst gnaws at me, a longing that never grows still. My longing for, this laughter gnaws at me; oh, how do I bear to go on living And how could I bear to die nowl Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON THE VISION AND THE RIDDLE ,

267:Flora REMOTE from scenes, where the o'erwearied mind Shrinks from the crimes and follies of mankind, From hostile menace, and offensive boast, Peace, and her train of home-born pleasures lost; To fancy's reign, who would not gladly turn, And lose awhile, the miseries they mourn In sweet oblivion ? Come then, Fancy ! deign, Queen of ideal pleasure, once again, To lend thy magic pencil, and to bring Such lovely forms, as in life's happier spring, On the green margin of my native Wey, Before mine infant eyes were wont to play, And with that pencil, teach me to describe The enchanting goddess of the flowery tribe, Whose first prerogative it is to chase The clouds that hang on languid beauty's face; And, while advancing suns and tepid showers, Lead on the laughing Spring's delicious hours, Bid the wan maid the hues of health assume, Charm with new grace, and blush with fresher bloom. The vision comes !­While slowly melt away, Night's hovering shades before the eastern ray, Ere yet declines the morning's humid star, Fair Fancy brings her; in her leafy car Flora descends, to dress the expecting earth, Awake the germs, and call the buds to birth; Bid each hybernacle its cell unfold, And open silken leaves, and eyes of gold ! Of forest foliage of the firmest shade Enwove by magic hands, the car was made; Oak, and the ample Plane, without entwined, And Beech and Ash the verdant concave lin'd; The Saxifrage, that snowy flowers emboss, Supplied the seat; and of the mural moss The velvet footstool rose, where lightly rest, Her slender feet in Cypripedium drest. The tufted rush, that bears a silken crown, 40 The floating feathers of the thistle's down, In tender hues of rainbow lustre dyed, The airy texture of her robe supplied, And wild convolvuli, yet half unblown, Form'd, with their wreathing buds, her simple zone, Some wandering tresses of her radiant hair, Luxuriant floated on the enamour'd air; The rest were by the Scandix' points confin'd And graced a shining knot, her head behind­ While, as a sceptre of supreme command, She waved the Anthoxanthum in her hand. Around the goddess, as the flies that play, In countless myriads in the western ray, The sylphs innumerous throng; whose magic powers Guard the soft buds, and nurse the infant flowers; Round the sustaining stems weak tendrils bind, And save the pollen from dispersing wind; From suns too ardent, shade their transient hues, And catch in odorous cups translucent dews. The ruder tasks of others are, to chase From vegetable life the insect race, Break the polluting thread the spider weaves, And brush the aphis from th' unfolding leaves. For conquest arm'd these pigmy warriors wield The thorny lance, and spread the hollow shield Of lichen tough; or bear, as silver bright, Lunaria's pearly circlet, firm and light. On the helm'd head the crimson foxglove glows, Or Scutellaria guards the martial brows, While the Leontodon its plumage rears, And o'er the casque in waving grace appears; With stern undaunted eye, one warlike chief Grasps the tall club from Arum's blood-dropt leaf; This, with the Burdock's hooks annoys his foes, The purple thorn that borrows from the Rose. In honeyed nectaries couched, some drive away The forked insidious earwig from his prey; Fearless the scaled libellula assail, Dart their keen lances at the encroaching snail; 41 Arrest the winged ant, on pinions light, And strike the headlong beetle in his flight. Nor less assiduous round their lovely queen, The lighter forms of female fays are seen; Rich was the purple vest Floscella wore, Spun of the tufts the Tradescantia bore; The Cistus' flowers minute her temple graced, And threads of Yucca bound her slender waist. From the wild bee, whose wond'rous labour weaves, In artful folds the rose's fragrant leaves, Was borrow'd fair Petalla's light cymar; And the Hypericum, with spangling star, O'er her fair locks its bloom minute enwreath'd; Then, while voluptuous odours round her breath'd, Came Nectarynia; as the arrowy rays Of lambent fire round pictur'd seraphs blaze, So did the Passiflora's radii shed, Cerulean glory o'er the sylphid's head, While round her form, the pliant tendrils twined, And clasp'd the scarf that floated on the wind. More grave the para-nymph Calyxa drest; A brown transparent spatha formed her vest; The silver scales that bound her raven hair, Xeranthemum's unfading calyx bear; And a light sash of spiral Ophrys press'd Her filmy tunic, on her tender breast. But where shall images or words be found To paint the fair ethereal forms, that round The queen of flowers attended ? and the while Bask'd in her eyes and wanton'd in her smile. Now towards the earth the gay procession bends, Lo ! from the buoyant air, the car descends; Anticipating then the various year, Flowers of all hues and every month appear, From every swelling bulb its blossoms rise; Here, blow the Hyacinths of loveliest dyes, Breathing of heaven; and there, her royal brows Begemmed with pearl, the Crown imperial shews; Peeps the blue Gentian, from the soft'ning ground, 42 Jonquils and Violets, shed their odours round; The Honeysuckle rears his scallop'd horn; A snow of blossoms whiten on the thorn. Here, like the fatal fruit to Paris given, That spread fell feuds throughout the fabled heaven, The yellow Rose her golden globe displays; There lovelier still, among the spiny sprays Her blushing rivals glow with brighter dyes, Than paints the summer sun on western skies. And the scarce tinged, and paler Rose unveil Their modest beauties to the sighing gale. Thro' the deep woodland's wild uncultur'd scene, Spreads the soft influence of the floral queen; See a fair pyramid the Chesnut rear, Its crimson tassels on the Larch appear; The Fir, dark native of the sullen North, Owns her soft sway; and slowly springing forth On the rough Oak are buds minute unfurl'd, Whose giant produce may command the world ! Each forest thicket feels the balmy air, And plants that love the shade are blowing there. Rude rocks with Filices and Bryums smile, And wastes are gay with Thyme and Chamomile. Ah ! yet prolong the dear delicious dream, And trace her power along the mountain stream. See ! from its rude and rocky source, o'erhung With female fern, and glossy adder's-tongue Slowly it wells, in pure and chrystal drops, And steals soft-gliding, thro' the upland copse; Then murmuring on, along the willowy sides, The reed-bird whispers, and the Halcyon hides; While among sallows pale, and birchen bowers, Embarks in Fancy's eye the queen of flowers. O'er her light skiff, of woven bull-rush made, The Water lily lends a polish'd shade; While Galium there, of pale and silver hue, And Epilobiums on the banks that grew, Form her soft couch; and as the Sylphs divide, With pliant arms, the still increasing tide, 43 A thousand leaves along the stream unfold; Amid its waving swords, in flaming gold The Iris towers; and here the Arrowhead And water Crowfoot, more profusely spread Spangle the quiet current; higher there, As conscious of her claims, in beauty rare, Her rosy umbels rears the flow'ring Rush, While with reflected charms the waters blush. The naiad now, the year's fair goddess leads, Through richer pastures and more level meads Down to the sea; where even the briny sands Their product offer to her glowing hands; For there, by sea-dews nurs'd and airs marine, The Chelidonium blows; in glaucous green, Each refluent tide the thorn'd Eryngium laves, And its pale leaves seem tinctured by the waves; And half-way up the cliff, whose rugged brow Hangs o'er the ever toiling surge below, Springs the light Tamarisk.­The summit bare, Is tufted by the Statice; and there, Crush'd by the fisher, as he stands to mark Some distant signal or approaching bark, The Saltwort's starry stalks are thickly sown, Like humble worth, unheeded and unknown ! From depths where corals spring from chrystal caves, And break with scarlet branch, the eddying waves, Where Algæ stream, as change the flowing tides, And where, half flower, half fish, the Polyp hides, And long tenacious bands of sea-lace twine Round palm-shaped leaves impearl'd with coralline. Enamour'd Fancy now the sea-maids calls, And from their grottos dim, and shell-paved halls, Charm'd by her voice, the shining train emerge, And buoyant float above the circling surge; Green Byssus, waving in the sea-born gales, Form'd their thin mantles, and transparent veils, Panier'd in shells, or bound with silver strings, Of silken pinna; each her trophy brings Of plants, from rocks and caverns submarine, With leathery branch, and bladder'd buds between; 44 There, its dark folds the pucker'd laver spread, With trees in miniature of various red; There flag-shaped olive-leaves, depending hung, And fairy fans from glossy pebbles sprung; Then her terrestrial train the nereids meet, And lay their spoils saline at Flora's feet. O ! fairest of the fabled forms ! that stream, Dress'd by wild Fancy, thro' the poet's dream, Still may thy attributes of leaves and flowers, Thy garden's rich, and shrub-o'ershadow'd bowers, And yellow meads, with Spring's first honours bright, The child's gay heart, and frolic step invite; And, while the careless wanderer explores, The umbrageous forest, or the rugged shores, Climbs the green down, or roams the broom-clad waste, May Truth, and Nature, form his future taste ! Goddess ! on youth's bless'd hours thy gifts bestow; Bind the fair wreath on virgin-beauty's brow, And still may Fancy's brightest flowers be wove Round the gold chains of hymeneal love. But most for those, by Sorrow's hands oppress'd, May thy beds blossom, and thy wilds be dress'd; And where by Fortune and the world forgot, The mourner droops in some sequester'd spot, ('Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown,') O'er blighted happiness for ever gone, Yet the dear image seeks not to forget, But woos his grief, and cherishes regret; Loving, with fond and lingering pain, to mourn O'er joys and hopes that never will return;­ Thou, visionary power ! mayst bid him view Forms not less lovely, and as transient too; And while they soothe the wearied pilgrim's eyes, Afford an antepast of Paradise. ~ Charlotte Smith,

268: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,

269:Senlin: His Dark Origins Senlin sits before us, and we see him. He smokes his pipe before us, and we hear him. Is he small, with reddish hair, Does he light his pipe with meditative stare, And a pointed flame reflected in both eyes? Is he sad and happy and foolish and wise? Did no one see him enter the doors of the city, Looking above him at the roofs and trees and skies? 'I stepped from a cloud', he says, 'as evening fell; I walked on the sound of a bell; I ran with winged heels along a gust; Or is it true that I laughed and sprang from dust? . . . Has no one, in a great autumnal forest, When the wind bares the trees, Heard the sad horn of Senlin slowly blown? Has no one, on a mountain in the spring, Heard Senlin sing? Perhaps I came alone on a snow-white horse,-Riding alone from the deep-starred night. Perhaps I came on a ship whose sails were music,-Sailing from moon or sun on a river of light.' He lights his pipe with a pointed flame. 'Yet, there were many autumns before I came, And many springs. And more will come, long after There is no horn for me, or song, or laughter. The city dissolves about us, and its walls Become an ancient forest. There is no sound Except where an old twig tires and falls; Or a lizard among the dead leaves crawls; Or a flutter is heard in darkness along the ground. Has Senlin become a forest? Do we walk in Senlin? Is Senlin the wood we walk in, --ourselves,--the world? Senlin! we cry . . . Senlin! again . . . No answer, Only soft broken echoes backward whirled . . . 118 Yet we would say: this is no wood at all, But a small white room with a lamp upon the wall; And Senlin, before us, pale, with reddish hair, Lights his pipe with a meditative stare. Senlin, walking beside us, swings his arms And turns his head to look at walls and trees. The wind comes whistling from shrill stars of winter, The lights are jewels, black roots freeze. 'Did I, then, stretch from the bitter earth like these, Reaching upward with slow and rigid pain To seek, in another air, myself again?' (Immense and solitary in a desert of rocks Behold a bewildered oak With white clouds screaming through its leafy brain.) 'Or was I the single ant, or tinier thing, That crept from the rocks of buried time And dedicated its holy life to climb From atom to beetling atom, jagged grain to grain, Patiently out of the darkness we call sleep Into a hollow gigantic world of light Thinking the sky to be its destined shell, Hoping to fit it well!--' The city dissolves about us, and its walls Are mountains of rock cruelly carved by wind. Sand streams down their wasting sides, sand Mounts upward slowly about them: foot and hand We crawl and bleed among them! Is this Senlin? In the desert of Senlin must we live and die? We hear the decay of rocks, the crash of boulders, Snarling of sand on sand. 'Senlin!' we cry. 'Senlin!' again . . . Our shadows revolve in silence Under the soulless brilliance of blue sky. Yet we would say: there are no rocks at all, Nor desert of sand . . . here by a city wall 119 White lights jewell the evening, black roots freeze, And Senlin turns his head to look at trees. It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening, By a silent shore, by a far distant sea, White unicorns come gravely down to the water. In the lilac dusk they come, they are white and stately, Stars hang over the purple waveless sea; A sea on which no sail was ever lifted, Where a human voice was never heard. The shadows of vague hills are dark on the water, The silent stars seem silently to sing. And gravely come white unicorns down to the water, One by one they come and drink their fill; And daisies burn like stars on the darkened hill. It is evening Senlin says, and in the evening The leaves on the trees, abandoned by the light, Look to the earth, and whisper, and are still. The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the darkness, Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground. The starry dewdrop gathers upon the oakleaf, Clings to the edge, and falls without a sound. Do maidens spread their white palms to the starlight And walk three steps to the east and clearly sing? Do dewdrops fall like a shower of stars from willows? Has the small moon a ghostly ring? . . . White skeletons dance on the moonlit grass, Singing maidens are buried in deep graves, The stars hang over a sea like polished glass . . . And solemnly one by one in the darkness there Neighing far off on the haunted air White unicorns come gravely down to the water. No silver bells are heard. The westering moon Lights the pale floors of caverns by the sea. Wet weed hangs on the rock. In shimmering pools Left on the rocks by the receding sea Starfish slowly turn their white and brown Or writhe on the naked rocks and drown. 120 Do sea-girls haunt these caves--do we hear faint singing? Do we hear from under the sea a faint bell ringing? Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles And fallen softly back? No, these shores and caverns are all silent, Dead in the moonlight; only, far above, On the smooth contours of these headlands, White amid the eternal black, One by one in the moonlight there Neighing far off on the haunted air The unicorns come down to the sea. Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight, Bending his small legs in a peculiar way, Goes to his work with thoughts of the universe. His hands are in his pockets, he smokes his pipe, He is happily conscious of roofs and skies; And, without turning his head, he turns his eyes To regard white horses drawing a small white hearse. The sky is brilliant between the roofs, The windows flash in the yellow sun, On the hard pavement ring the hoofs, The light wheels softly run. Bright particles of sunlight fall, Quiver and flash, gyrate and burn, Honey-like heat flows down the wall, The white spokes dazzle and turn. Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight, Regards the hearse with an introspective eye. 'Is it my childhood there,' he asks, 'Sealed in a hearse and hurrying by?' He taps his trowel against a stone; The trowel sings with a silver tone. 'Nevertheless I know this well. Bury it deep and toll a bell, Bury it under land or sea, You cannot bury it save in me.' 121 It is as if his soul had become a city, With noisily peopled streets, and through these streets Senlin himself comes driving a small white hearse . . . 'Senlin!' we cry. He does not turn his head. But is that Senlin?--Or is this city Senlin,-Quietly watching the burial of the dead? Dumbly observing the cortège of its dead? Yet we would say that all this is but madness: Around a distant corner trots the hearse. And Senlin walks before us in the sunlight Happily conscious of his universe. In the hot noon, in an old and savage garden, The peach-tree grows. Its cruel and ugly roots Rend and rifle the silent earth for moisture. Above, in the blue, hang warm and golden fruits. Look, how the cancerous roots crack mould and stone! Earth, if she had a voice, would wail her pain. Is she the victim, or is the tree the victim? Delicate blossoms opened in the rain, Black bees flew among them in the sunlight, And sacked them ruthlessly; and no a bird Hangs, sharp-eyed, in the leaves, and pecks the fruit; And the peach-tree dreams, and does not say a word. . . . Senlin, tapping his trowel against a stone, Observes this tree he planted: it is his own. 'You will think it strange,' says Senlin, 'but this tree Utters profound things in this garden; And in its silence speaks to me. I have sensations, when I stand beneath it, As if its leaves looked at me, and could see; And those thin leaves, even in windless air, Seem to be whispering me a choral music, Insubstantial but debonair. "Regard," they seem to say, "Our idiot root, which going its brutal way Has cracked your garden wall! Ugly, is it not? 122 A desecration of this place . . . And yet, without it, could we exist at all?" Thus, rustling with importance, they seem to me To make their apology; Yet, while they apologize, Ask me a wary question with their eyes. Yes, it is true their origin is low-Brutish and dull and cruel . . . and it is true Their roots have cracked the wall. But do we know The leaves less cruel--the root less beautiful? Sometimes it seems as if there grew In the dull garden of my mind A tree like this, which, singing with delicate leaves, Yet cracks the wall with cruel roots and blind. Sometimes, indeed, it appears to me That I myself am such a tree . . .' . . . And as we hear from Senlin these strange words So, slowly, in the sunlight, he becomes this tree: And among the pleasant leaves hang sharp-eyed birds While cruel roots dig downward secretly. Rustling among his odds and ends of knowledge Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds How Cleopatra and Senebtisi Were dug by many hands from ancient tombs. Cloth after scented cloth the sage unwinds: Delicious to see our futile modern sunlight Dance like a harlot among these Dogs and Dooms! First, the huge pyramid, with rock on rock Bloodily piled to heaven; and under this A gilded cavern, bat festooned; And here in rows on rows, with gods about them, Cloudily lustrous, dim, the sacred coffins, Silver starred and crimson mooned. What holy secret shall we now uncover? Inside the outer coffin is a second; Inside the second, smaller, lies a third. 123 This one is carved, and like a human body; And painted over with fish and bull and bird. Here are men walking stiffly in procession, Blowing horns or lifting spears. Where do they march to? Where do they come from? Soft whine of horns is in our ears. Inside, the third, a fourth . . . and this the artist,-A priest, perhaps--did most to make resemble The flesh of her who lies within. The brown eyes widely stare at the bat-hung ceiling. The hair is black, The mouth is thin. Princess! Secret of life! We come to praise you! The torch is lowered, this coffin too we open, And the dark air is drunk with musk and myrrh. Here are the thousand white and scented wrappings, The gilded mask, and jeweled eyes, of her. And now the body itself, brown, gaunt, and ugly, And the hollow scull, in which the brains are withered, Lie bare before us. Princess, is this all? Something there was we asked that is not answered. Soft bats, in rows, hang on the lustered wall. And all we hear is a whisper sound of music, Of brass horns dustily raised and briefly blown, And a cry of grief; and men in a stiff procession Marching away and softly gone. 'And am I then a pyramid?' says Senlin, 'In which are caves and coffins, where lies hidden Some old and mocking hieroglyph of flesh? Or am I rather the moonlight, spreading subtly Above those stones and times? Or the green blade of grass that bravely grows Between to massive boulders of black basalt Year after year, and fades and blows? Senlin, sitting before us in the lamplight, Laughs, and lights his pipe. The yellow flame 124 Minutely flares in his eyes, minutely dwindles. Does a blade of grass have Senlin for a name? Yet we would say that we have seen him somewhere, A tiny spear of green beneath the blue, Playing his destiny in a sun-warmed crevice With the gigantic fates of frost and dew. Does a spider come and spin his gossamer ladder Rung by silver rung, Chaining it fast to Senlin? Its faint shadow Flung, waveringly, where his is flung? Does a raindrop dazzle starlike down his length Trying his futile strength? A snowflake startle him? The stars defeat him? Through aeons of dusk have birds above him sung? Time is a wind, says Senlin; time, like music, Blows over us its mournful beauty, passes, And leaves behind a shadowy reflection,-A helpless gesture of mist above the grasses. In cold blue lucid dusk before the sunrise, One yellow star sings over a peak of snow, And melts and vanishes in a light like roses. Through slanting mist, black rocks appear and glow. The clouds flow downward, slowly as grey glaciers, Or up to a pale rose-azure pass. Blue streams tinkle down from snow to boulders, From boulders to white grass. Icicles on the pine tree melt And softly flash in the sun: In long straight lines the star-drops fall One by one. Is a voice heard while the shadows still are long, Borne slowly down on the sparkling air? Is a thin bell heard from the peak of silence? Is someone among the high snows there? 125 Where the blue stream flows coldly among the meadows And mist still clings to rock and tree Senlin walks alone; and from that twilight Looks darkly up, to see The calm unmoving peak of snow-white silence, The rocks aflame with ice, the rose-blue sky . . . Ghost-like, a cloud descends from twinkling ledges, To nod before the dwindling sun and die. 'Something there is,' says Senlin, 'in that mountain, Something forgotten now, that once I knew . . .' We walk before a sun-tipped peak in silence, Our shadows descend before us, long and blue. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

270:An Essay On Man In Four Epistles: Epistle 1 To Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan; A wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot; Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield; The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, And catch the manners living as they rise; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; But vindicate the ways of God to man.I. Say first, of God above, or man below, What can we reason, but from what we know? Of man what see we, but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer? Through worlds unnumber'd though the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He, who through vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe, Observe how system into system runs, What other planets circle other suns, What varied being peoples ev'ry star, May tell why Heav'n has made us as we are. But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, The strong connections, nice dependencies, Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look'd through? or can a part contain the whole? Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?II. Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find, 27 Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind? First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less? Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? Or ask of yonder argent fields above, Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove? Of systems possible, if 'tis confest That Wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must full or not coherent be, And all that rises, rise in due degree; Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain There must be somewhere, such a rank as man: And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong? Respecting man, whatever wrong we call, May, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, though labour'd on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; Yet serves to second too some other use. So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. When the proud steed shall know why man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains: When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Egypt's God: Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend His actions', passions', being's, use and end; Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity. Then say not man's imperfect, Heav'n in fault; Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: His knowledge measur'd to his state and place; His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, 28 What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest today is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.III. Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescrib'd, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n: Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest: The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n, Behind the cloud topp'd hill, an humbler heav'n; Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.IV. 29 Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense Weigh thy opinion against Providence; Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, Say, here he gives too little, there too much: Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust; If man alone engross not Heav'n's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Rejudge his justice, be the God of God. In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: And who but wishes to invert the laws Of order, sins against th' Eternal Cause.V. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, " 'Tis for mine: For me kind Nature wakes her genial pow'r, Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r; Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew, The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies." But errs not Nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? "No, ('tis replied) the first Almighty Cause Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws; Th' exceptions few; some change since all began: And what created perfect?"--Why then man? 30 If the great end be human happiness, Then Nature deviates; and can man do less? As much that end a constant course requires Of show'rs and sunshine, as of man's desires; As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, As men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise. If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design, Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? Who knows but he, whose hand the lightning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms; Pours fierce ambition in a Cæsar's mind, Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs; Account for moral, as for nat'ral things: Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit? In both, to reason right is to submit. Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, Were there all harmony, all virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind; That never passion discompos'd the mind. But ALL subsists by elemental strife; And passions are the elements of life. The gen'ral order, since the whole began, Is kept in nature, and is kept in man.VI. What would this man? Now upward will he soar, And little less than angel, would be more; Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. Made for his use all creatures if he call, Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all? Nature to these, without profusion, kind, The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd; Each seeming want compensated of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; All in exact proportion to the state; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: Is Heav'n unkind to man, and man alone? 31 Shall he alone, whom rational we call, Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all? The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, But what his nature and his state can bear. Why has not man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, man is not a fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n? Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, To smart and agonize at ev'ry pore? Or quick effluvia darting through the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? If nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still The whisp'ring zephyr, and the purling rill? Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies?VII. Far as creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends: Mark how it mounts, to man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass: What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious on the tainted green: Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, To that which warbles through the vernal wood: The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew? How instinct varies in the grov'lling swine, Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine! 'Twixt that, and reason, what a nice barrier; For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near! 32 Remembrance and reflection how allied; What thin partitions sense from thought divide: And middle natures, how they long to join, Yet never pass th' insuperable line! Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone, Is not thy reason all these pow'rs in one?VIII. See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high, progressive life may go! Around, how wide! how deep extend below! Vast chain of being, which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, Beast, bird, fish, insect! what no eye can see, No glass can reach! from infinite to thee, From thee to nothing!--On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours: Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd: From nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. And, if each system in gradation roll Alike essential to th' amazing whole, The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole must fall. Let earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, Planets and suns run lawless through the sky; Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on being wreck'd, and world on world; Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, And nature trembles to the throne of God. All this dread order break--for whom? for thee? Vile worm!--Oh madness, pride, impiety!IX. What if the foot ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 33 What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this gen'ral frame: Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, The great directing Mind of All ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; That, chang'd through all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent, Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns; To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.X. Cease then, nor order imperfection name: Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. Submit.--In this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony, not understood; All partial evil, universal good: And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. ~ Alexander Pope,

271:The spider spreads her webs, whether she be In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree; The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves; So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, Sit spinning still round this decaying form, From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought No net of words in garish colours wrought To catch the idle buzzers of the day But a soft cell, where when that fades away, Memory may clothe in wings my living name And feed it with the asphodels of fame, Which in those hearts which must remember me Grow, making love an immortality. Whoever should behold me now, I wist, Would think I were a mighty mechanist, Bent with sublime Archimedean art To breathe a soul into the iron heart Of some machine portentous, or strange gin, Which by the force of figured spells might win Its way over the sea, and sport therein; For round the walls are hung dread engines, such As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch Ixion or the Titan:or the quick Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic, Or those in philanthropic council met, Who thought to pay some interest for the debt They owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation, By giving a faint foretaste of damnation To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and the rest Who made our land an island of the blest, When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with Empire: With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike and jag, Which fishers found under the utmost crag Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles, Where to the sky the rude sea rarely smiles Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn When the exulting elements in scorn, Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey, As panthers sleep;and other strange and dread Magical forms the brick floor overspread, Proteus transformed to metal did not make More figures, or more strange; nor did he take Such shapes of unintelligible brass, Or heap himself in such a horrid mass Of tin and iron not to be understood; And forms of unimaginable wood, To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood: Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and groovd blocks, The elements of what will stand the shocks Of wave and wind and time.Upon the table More knacks and quips there be than I am able To catalogize in this verse of mine: A pretty bowl of woodnot full of wine, But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drink When at their subterranean toil they swink, Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who Reply to them in lavacry halloo! And call out to the cities o'er their head, Roofs, towers, and shrines, the dying and the dead, Crash through the chinks of earthand then all quaff Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. This quicksilver no gnome has drunkwithin The walnut bowl it lies, veind and thin, In colour like the wake of light that stains The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains The inmost shower of its white firethe breeze Is stillblue Heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilverfor I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhoodI have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat: A hollow screw with cogsHenry will know The thing I mean and laugh at me,if so He fears not I should do more mischief.Next Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. Then comes a range of mathematical Instruments, for plans nautical and statical; A heap of rosin, a queer broken glass With ink in it;a china cup that was What it will never be again, I think, A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink The liquor doctors rail atand which I Will quaff in spite of themand when we die We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea, And cry out,'Heads or tails?' where'er we be. Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,disentangle them who may. Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie, And some odd volumes of old chemistry. Near those a most inexplicable thing, With lead in the middleI'm conjecturing How to make Henry understand; but no I'll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo, This secret in the pregnant womb of time, Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. And here like some weird Archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery, The self-impelling steam-wheels of the mind Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind The gentle spirit of our meek reviews Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, Ruffling the ocean of their self-content; I sitand smile or sigh as is my bent, But not for themLibeccio rushes round With an inconstant and an idle sound, I heed him more than themthe thunder-smoke Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare; The ripe corn under the undulating air Undulates like an ocean;and the vines Are trembling wide in all their trellised lines The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill The empty pauses of the blast;the hill Looks hoary through the white electric rain, And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain, The interrupted thunder howls; above One chasm of Heaven smiles, like the eye of Love On the unquiet world;while such things are, How could one worth your friendship heed the war Of worms? the shriek of the world's carrion jays, Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise? You are not here! the quaint witch Memory sees, In vacant chairs, your absent images, And points where once you sat, and now should be But are not.I demand if ever we Shall meet as then we met;and she replies, Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes; 'I know the past alonebut summon home My sister Hope,she speaks of all to come.' But I, an old diviner, who knew well Every false verse of that sweet oracle, Turned to the sad enchantress once again, And sought a respite from my gentle pain, In citing every passage o'er and o'er Of our communionhow on the sea-shore We watched the ocean and the sky together, Under the roof of blue Italian weather; How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm, And felt the transverse lightning linger warm Upon my cheekand how we often made Feasts for each other, where good will outweighed The frugal luxury of our country cheer, As well it might, were it less firm and clear Than ours must ever be;and how we spun A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun Of this familiar life, which seems to be But is not:or is but quaint mockery Of all we would believe, and sadly blame The jarring and inexplicable frame Of this wrong world:and then anatomize The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes Were closed in distant years;or widely guess The issue of the earth's great business, When we shall be as we no longer are Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not;or how You listened to some interrupted flow Of visionary rhyme,in joy and pain Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain, With little skill perhaps;or how we sought Those deepest wells of passion or of thought Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years, Staining their sacred waters with our tears; Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed! Or how I, wisest lady! then endued The language of a land which now is free, And, winged with thoughts of truth and majesty, Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud, And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud, 'My name is Legion!'that majestic tongue Which Calderon over the desert flung Of ages and of nations; and which found An echo in our hearts, and with the sound Startled oblivion;thou wert then to me As is a nursewhen inarticulately A child would talk as its grown parents do. If living winds the rapid clouds pursue, If hawks chase doves through the aethereal way, Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their prey, Why should not we rouse with the spirit's blast Out of the forest of the pathless past These recollected pleasures?                You are now In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. Yet in its depth what treasures! You will see That which was Godwin,greater none than he Though fallenand fallen on evil timesto stand Among the spirits of our age and land, Before the dread tribunal of to come The foremost,while Rebuke cowers pale and dumb. You will see Coleridgehe who sits obscure In the exceeding lustre and the pure Intense irradiation of a mind, Which, with its own internal lightning blind, Flags wearily through darkness and despair A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, A hooded eagle among blinking owls. You will see Huntone of those happy souls Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom This world would smell like what it isa tomb; Who is, what others seem; his room no doubt Is still adorned with many a cast from Shout, With graceful flowers tastefully placed about; And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung; The gifts of the most learned among some dozens Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and cousins. And there is he with his eternal puns, Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns Thundering for money at a poet's door; Alas! it is no use to say, 'I'm poor!' Or oft in graver mood, when he will look Things wiser than were ever read in book, Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderness. You will see Hogg,and I cannot express His virtues,though I know that they are great, Because he locks, then barricades the gate Within which they inhabit;of his wit And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit. He is a pearl within an oyster shell, One of the richest of the deep;and there Is English Peacock, with his mountain Fair, Turned into a Flamingo;that shy bird That gleams i' the Indian airhave you not heard When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, His best friends hear no more of him?but you Will see him, and will like him too, I hope, With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope Matched with this cameleopardhis fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it; A strain too learnd for a shallow age, Too wise for selfish bigots; let his page, Which charms the chosen spirits of the time, Fold itself up for the serener clime Of years to come, and find its recompense In that just expectation.Wit and sense, Virtue and human knowledge; all that might Make this dull world a business of delight, Are all combined in Horace Smith.And these, With some exceptions, which I need not tease Your patience by descanting on,are all You and I know in London.               I recall My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night. As water does a sponge, so the moonlight Fills the void, hollow, universal air What see you?unpavilioned Heaven is fair, Whether the moon, into her chamber gone, Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan Climbs with diminished beams the azure steep; Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep, Piloted by the many-wandering blast, And the rare stars rush through them dim and fast: All this is beautiful in every land. But what see you beside?a shabby stand Of Hackney coachesa brick house or wall Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl Of our unhappy politics;or worse A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her trade, You must accept in place of serenade Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring To Henry, some unutterable thing. I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit Built round dark caverns, even to the root Of the living stems that feed themin whose bowers There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers; Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance, Like wingd stars the fire-flies flash and glance, Pale in the open moonshine, but each one Under the dark trees seems a little sun, A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone astray From the silver regions of the milky way; Afar the Contadino's song is heard, Rude, but made sweet by distanceand a bird Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet I know none else that sings so sweet as it At this late hour;and then all is still NowItaly or London, which you will! Next winter you must pass with me; I'll have My house by that time turned into a grave Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care, And all the dreams which our tormentors are; Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock, and Smith were there, With everything belonging to them fair! We will have books, Spanish, Italian, Greek; And ask one week to make another week As like his father, as I'm unlike mine, Which is not his fault, as you may divine. Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, And other such lady-like luxuries, Feasting on which we will philosophize! And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's wood, To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood. And then we'll talk;what shall we talk about? Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout Of thought-entangled descant;as to nerves With cones and parallelograms and curves I've sworn to strangle them if once they dare To bother mewhen you are with me there. And they shall never more sip laudanum, From Helicon or Himeros[1];well, come, And in despite of God and of the devil, We'll make our friendly philosophic revel Outlast the leafless time; till buds and flowers Warn the obscure inevitable hours, Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew; 'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.' Composed during Shelley's occupation of the Gisbornes' house at Leghorn, July 1820; published in Posthumous Poems, 1824. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Letter To Maria Gisborne ,

272:Essay On Man The First Epistle Awake, my ST. JOHN!(1) leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of Kings. Let us (since Life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die) Expatiate(2) free o'er all this scene of Man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan; A Wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot, Or Garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield; The latent tracts(3), the giddy heights explore Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies, And catch the Manners living as they rise; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; But vindicate(4) the ways of God to Man. 1. Say first, of God above, or Man below, What can we reason, but from what we know? Of Man what see we, but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer? Thro' worlds unnumber'd tho' the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He, who thro' vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe, Observe how system into system runs, What other planets circle other suns, What vary'd being peoples ev'ry star, May tell why Heav'n has made us as we are. But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, The strong connections, nice dependencies, Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look'd thro'? or can a part contain the whole? Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee? II. Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find, Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind! 92 First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less! Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? Or ask of yonder argent fields(5) above, Why JOVE'S Satellites are less than JOVE?(6) Of Systems possible, if 'tis confest That Wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must full or not coherent be, And all that rises, rise in due degree; Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain There must be, somewhere, such rank as Man; And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong? Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call, Nay, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; Yet serves to second too some other use. So Man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; When the dull Ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Egypt's God:(7) Then shall Man's pride and dullness comprehend His actions', passions', being's, use and end; Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity. Then say not Man's imperfect, Heav'n in fault; Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought; His knowledge measur'd to his state and place, His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest today is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago. III. Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of Fate, 93 All but the page prescrib'd, their present state; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer Being here below? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy Reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore! What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never Is, but always To be blest: The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n, Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n; Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, Some happier island in the watry waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold! To Be, contents his natural desire, He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's(8) fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. IV. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense Weigh thy Opinion against Providence; Call Imperfection what thou fancy'st such, Say, here he gives too little, there too much; Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,(9) Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust; 94 If Man alone ingross not Heav'n's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: Snatch from his hand the balance(10) and the rod, Re-judge his justice, be the GOD of GOD! In Pride, in reas'ning Pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods. Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell, Aspiring to be Angels, Men rebel; And who but wishes to invert the laws Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause. V. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, "Tis for mine: For me kind Nature wakes her genial pow'r, Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r; Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies." But errs not Nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? "No ('tis reply'd) the first Almighty Cause Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws; Th' exceptions few; some change since all began, And what created perfect?" -- Why then Man? If the great end be human Happiness, Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less? As much that end a constant course requires Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of Man's desires; As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, As Men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise. If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design, Why then a Borgia,(11) or a Catiline?(12) Who knows but he, whose hand the light'ning forms, Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce Ambition in a Caesar's(13) mind, 95 Or turns young Ammon(14) loose to scourge mankind? From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs; Account for moral as for nat'ral things: Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit? In both, to reason right is to submit. Better for Us, perhaps, it might appear, Were there all harmony, all virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind; That never passion discompos'd the mind: But ALL subsists by elemental strife; and Passions are the elements of Life. The gen'ral ORDER, since the whole began, Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man. VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar, And little less than Angel,(15) would be more; Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. Made for his use all creatures if he call, Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all? Nature to these, without profusion kind, The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd; Each seeming want compensated of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; All in exact proportion to the state; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Each beast, each insect, happy in its own; Is Heav'n unkind to Man, and Man alone? Shall he alone, whom rational we call, Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all? The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, But what his nature and his state can bear. Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite,(16) not comprehend the heav'n? Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, To smart and agonize at ev'ry pore? Or quick effluvia(17) darting thro' the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 96 If nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still The whisp'ring Zephyr,(18) and the purling rill?(19) Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies? VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends: Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the people grass: What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious(20) on the tainted(21) green: Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,(22) To that which warbles thro' the vernal(23) wood: The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew:(24) How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine, Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine: 'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier; For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near! Remembrance and Reflection how ally'd; What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide: And Middle natures,(25) how they long to join, Yet never pass th' insuperable line! Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected these to those, or all to thee? The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone, Is not thy Reason all these pow'rs in one? VIII. See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go! Around, how wide! how deep extend below! Vast chain of being, which from God began, Natures ethereal,(26) human, angel, man Beast, bird, fish, insect! what no eye can see, No glass can reach! from Infinite to thee, 97 From thee to Nothing! -- On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours: Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale's destoy'd: From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. And if each system in gradation roll, Alike essential to th' amazing whole; The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole must fall. Let Earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky, Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on being wreck'd, and world on world, Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, And Nature tremble to the throne of God: All this dread ORDER break -- for whom? for thee? Vile worm! -- oh, Madness, Pride, Impiety! IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand to toil, aspir'd to be the head? What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd(27) To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind? Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains The great directing MIND of ALL ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body, Nature is, and God the soul; That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent, Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal parts, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns; To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. X. Cease then, nor ORDER Imperfection name: Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 98 Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. Submit -- In this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; All Discord, Harmony, not understood; All partial Evil, universal Good: And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear, "Whatever IS, is RIGHT." Argument of the Second Epistle: Of the Nature and State of Man, with respect to Himself, as an Individual. The business of Man not to pry into God, but to study himself. Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,(28) A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest, In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast; In doubt his Mind or Body to prefer, Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little, or too much: Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus'd; Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurl'd: The glory, jest, and riddle of the world! ENDNOTES: 99 1[His friend, Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke] 2[to wander] 3[hidden areas] 4[explain or defend] 5[silvery fields, i.e., the heavens] 6[the planet Jupiter] 7[ancient Egyptians sometimes worshipped oxen] 8[the highest level of angels] 9[pleasure] 10[the balance used to weigh justice] 11[Caesar Borgia (1476-1507) who used any cruelty to achieve his ends] 12[Lucious Sergius Catilina (108-62 B.C.) who was a traitor to Rome] 13[Julius Caesar (100-44 B.C.) who was thought to be overly ambitious Roman] 14[Alexander the Great (356-323 B.C.)] 15[Psalm 8:5--"Thou hast made him [man] a little lower than the angels...."] 16[small insect] 17[vapors which were believed to pass odors to the brain] 18[the West Wind] 19[stream] 20[able to pick up a scent] 21[having the odor of an animal] 22[ocean] 23[green] 24[honey was thought to have medicinal properties] 25[Animals slightly below humans on the chain of being] 26[heavenly] 27[complained] 28[i.e., on the chain of being between angels and animals] ~ Alexander Pope,

273: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,

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

275:The Botanic Garden( Part Iii) The Economy Of Vegetation Canto III AGAIN the GODDESS speaks!-glad Echo swells The tuneful tones along her shadowy dells, Her wrinkling founts with soft vibration shakes, Curls her deep wells, and rimples all her lakes, Thrills each wide stream, Britannia's isle that laves, Her headlong cataracts, and circumfluent waves. -Thick as the dews, which deck the morning flowers, Or rain-drops twinkling in the sun-bright showers, Fair Nymphs, emerging in pellucid bands, Rise, as she turns, and whiten all the lands. I. 'YOUR buoyant troops on dimpling ocean tread, Wafting the moist air from his oozy bed, AQUATIC NYMPHS!-YOU lead with viewless march The winged vapours up the aerial arch, On each broad cloud a thousand sails expand, And steer the shadowy treasure o'er the land, Through vernal skies the gathering drops diffuse, Plunge in soft rains, or sink in silver dews.YOUR lucid bands condense with fingers chill The blue mist hovering round the gelid hill; In clay-form'd beds the trickling streams collect, Strain through white sands, through pebbly veins direct; Or point in rifted rocks their dubious way, And in each bubbling fountain rise to day. 'NYMPHS! YOU then guide, attendant from their source, The associate rills along their sinuous course; Float in bright squadrons by the willowy brink, Or circling slow in limpid eddies sink; Call from her crystal cave the Naiad-Nymph, Who hides her fine form in the passing lymph, And, as below she braids her hyaline hair, 111 Eyes her soft smiles reflected in the air; Or sport in groups with River-Boys, that lave Their silken limbs amid the dashing wave; Pluck the pale primrose bending from its edge, Or tittering dance amid the whispering sedge.'Onward YOU pass, the pine-capt hills divide, Or feed the golden harvests on their side; The wide-ribb'd arch with hurrying torrents fill, Shove the slow barge, or whirl the foaming mill. OR lead with beckoning hand the sparkling train Of refluent water to its parent main, And pleased revisit in their sea-moss vales Blue Nereid-forms array'd in shining scales, Shapes, whose broad oar the torpid wave impels, And Tritons bellowing through their twisted shells. 'So from the heart the sanguine stream distils, O'er Beauty's radiant shrine in vermil rills, Feeds each fine nerve, each slender hair pervades, The skins bright snow with living purple shades, Each dimpling cheek with warmer blushes dyes, Laughs on the lips, and lightens in the eyes. -Erewhile absorb'd, the vagrant globules swim From each fair feature, and proportion'd limb, Join'd in one trunk with deeper tint return To the warm concave of the vital urn. II. 1.'AQUATIC MAIDS! YOU sway the mighty realms Of scale and shell, which Ocean overwhelms; As Night's pale Queen her rising orb reveals, And climbs the zenith with refulgent wheels, Car'd on the foam your glimmering legion rides, Your little tridents heave the dashing tides, Urge on the sounding shores their crystal course, Restrain their fury, or direct their force. 2.'NYMPHS! YOU adorn, in glossy volumes roll'd, The gaudy conch with azure, green, and gold. You round Echinus ray his arrowy mail, Give the keel'd Nautilus his oar and sail; 112 Firm to his rock with silver cords suspend The anchor'd Pinna, and his Cancer-friend; With worm-like beard his toothless lips array, And teach the unwieldy Sturgeon to betray.Ambush'd in weeds, or sepulcher'd in sands, In dread repose He waits the scaly bands, Waves in red spires the living lures, and draws The unwary plunderers to his circling jaws, Eyes with grim joy the twinkling shoals beset, And clasps the quick inextricable net. You chase the warrior Shark, and cumberous Whale, And guard the Mermaid in her briny vale; Feed the live petals of her insect-flowers, Her shell-wrack gardens, and her sea-fan bowers; With ores and gems adorn her coral cell, And drop a pearl in every gaping shell. 3. 'YOUR myriad trains o'er stagnant ocean's tow, Harness'd with gossamer, the loitering prow; Or with fine films, suspended o'er the deep, Of oil effusive lull the waves to sleep. You stay the flying bark, conceal'd beneath, Where living rocks of worm-built coral breathe; Meet fell TEREDO, as he mines the keel With beaked head, and break his lips of steel; Turn the broad helm, the fluttering canvas urge From MAELSTROME'S fierce innavigable surge. -'Mid the lorn isles of Norway's stormy main, As sweeps o'er many a league his eddying train, Vast watery walls in rapid circles spin, And deep-ingulph'd the Demon dwells within; Springs o'er the fear-froze crew with Harpy-claws, Down his deep den the whirling vessel draws; Churns with his bloody mouth the dread repast, The booming waters murmuring o'er the mast. III. 'Where with chill frown enormous ALPS alarms A thousand realms, horizon'd in his arms; While cloudless suns meridian glories shed From skies of silver round his hoary head, Tall rocks of ice refract the coloured rays, 113 And Frost sits throned amid the lambent blaze; NYMPHS! YOUR thin forms pervade his glittering piles, His roofs of chrystal, and his glasy ailes; Where in cold caves imprisoned Naiads sleep, Or chain'd on mossy couches wake and weep; Where round dark crags indignant waters bend Through rifted ice, in ivory veins descend, Seek through unfathom'd snows their devious track, Heave the vast spars, the ribbed granites crack, Rush into day, in foamy torrents shine, And swell the imperial Danube or the Rhine.Or feed the murmuring TIBER, as he laves His realms inglorious with diminish'd waves, Hears his lorn Forum sound with Eunuch-strains, Sees dancing slaves insult his martial plains; Parts with chill stream the dim religious bower, Time-mouldered bastion, and dismantled tower; By alter'd fanes and nameless villas glides, And classic domes, that tremble on his sides; Sighs o'er each broken urn, and yawning tomb, And mourns the fall of LIBERTY and ROME. IV. 'Sailing in air, when dark MONSOON inshrouds His tropic mountains in a night of clouds; Or drawn by whirlwinds from the Line returns, And showers o'er Afric all his thousand urns; High o'er his head the beams of SIRIUS glow, And, Dog of Nile, ANUBIS barks below. NYMPHS! YOU from cliff to cliff attendant guide In headlong cataracts the impetuous tide; Or lead o'er wastes of Abyssinian sands The bright expanse to EGYPT'S shower-less lands. -Her long canals the sacred waters fill, And edge with silver every peopled hill; Gigantic SPHINX in circling waves admire; And MEMNON bending o'er his broken lyre; O'er furrow'd glebes and green savannas sweep, And towns and temples laugh amid the deep. V. 1. 'High in the frozen North where HECCLA glows, 114 And melts in torrents his coeval snows; O'er isles and oceans sheds a sanguine light, Or shoots red stars amid the ebon night; When, at his base intomb'd, with bellowing sound Fell GIESAR roar'd, and struggling shook the ground; Pour'd from red nostrils, with her scalding breath, A boiling deluge o'er the blasted heath; And, wide in air, in misty volumes hurl'd Contagious atoms o'er the alarmed world; NYMPHS! YOUR bold myriads broke the infernal spell, And crush'd the Sorceress in her flinty cell. 2. 'Where with soft fires in unextinguish'd urns, Cauldron'd in rock, innocuous Lava burns; On the bright lake YOUR gelid hands distil In pearly mowers the parsimonious rill; And, as aloft the curling vapours rise Through the cleft roof, ambitious for the skies, In vaulted hills condense the tepid steams, And pour to HEALTH the medicated streams. -So in green vales amid her mountains bleak BUXTONIA smiles, the Goddess-Nymyh of Peak; Deep in warm waves, and pebbly baths she dwells, And calls HYGEIA to her sainted wells. 'Hither in sportive bands bright DEVON leads Graces and Loves from Chatsworth's flowery meads.Charm'd round the NYMPH, they climb the rifted rocks; And steep in mountain-mist their golden locks; On venturous step her sparry caves explore, And light with radiant eyes her realms of ore; -Oft by her bubbling founts, and shadowy domes, In gay undress the fairy legion roams, Their dripping palms in playful malice fill, Or taste with ruby lip the sparkling rill; Croud round her baths, and, bending o'er the side, Unclasp'd their sandals, and their zones untied, Dip with gay fear the shuddering foot undress'd, And quick retract it to the fringed vest; Or cleave with brandish'd arms the lucid stream, And sob, their blue eyes twinkling in the steam. -High o'er the chequer'd vault with transient glow 115 Bright lustres dart, as dash the waves below; And Echo's sweet responsive voice prolongs The dulcet tumult of their silver tongues.O'er their flush'd cheeks uncurling tresses flow, And dew-drops glitter on their necks of snow; Round each fair Nymph her dropping mantle clings, And Loves emerging shake their showery wings. 'Here oft her LORD surveys the rude domain, Fair arts of Greece triumphant in his train; LO! as he steps, the column'd pile ascends, The blue roof closes, or the crescent bends; New woods aspiring clothe their hills with green, Smooth slope the lawns, the grey rock peeps between; Relenting Nature gives her hand to Taste, And Health and Beauty crown the laughing waste. VI. 'NYMPHS! YOUR bright squadrons watch with chemic eyes The cold-elastic vapours, as they rise; With playful force arrest them as they pass, And to pure AIR betroth the flaming GAS. Round their translucent forms at once they fling Their rapturous arms, with silver bosoms cling; In fleecy clouds their fluttering wings extend, Or from the skies in lucid showers descend; Whence rills and rivers owe their secret birth, And Ocean's hundred arms infold the earth. 'So, robed by Beauty's Queen, with softer charms SATURNIA woo'd the Thunderer to her arms; O'er her fair limbs a veil of light she spread, And bound a starry diadem on her head; Long braids of pearl her golden tresses grac'd, And the charm'd CESTUS sparkled round her waist. -Raised o'er the woof, by Beauty's hand inwrought, Breathes the soft Sigh, and glows the enamour'd Thought; Vows on light wings succeed, and quiver'd Wiles, Assuasive Accents, and seductive Smiles. 116 -Slow rolls the Cyprian car in purple pride, And, steer'd by LOVE, ascends admiring Ide; Climbs the green slopes, the nodding woods pervades, Burns round the rocks, or gleams amid the shades. -Glad ZEPHYR leads the train, and waves above The barbed darts, and blazing torch of Love; Reverts his smiling face, and pausing flings Soft showers of roses from aurelian wings. Delighted Fawns, in wreathes of flowers array'd, With tiptoe Wood-Boys beat the chequer'd glade; Alarmed Naiads, rising into air, Lift o'er their silver urns their leafy hair; Each to her oak the bashful Dryads shrink, And azure eyes are seen through every chink. -LOVE culls a flaming shaft of broadest wing, And rests the fork upon the quivering string; Points his arch eye aloft, with fingers strong Draws to his curled ear the silken thong; Loud twangs the steel, the golden arrow flies, Trails a long line of lustre through the skies; ''Tis done!' he shouts, 'the mighty Monarch feels!' And with loud laughter shakes the silver wheels; Bends o'er the car, and whirling, as it moves, His loosen'd bowstring, drives the rising doves. -Pierced on his throne the slarting Thunderer turns, Melts with soft sighs, with kindling rapture burns; Clasps her fair hand, and eyes in fond amaze The bright Intruder with enamour'd gaze. 'And leaves my Goddess, like a blooming bride, 'The fanes of Argos for the rocks of Ide? 'Her gorgeous palaces, and amaranth bowers, 'For cliff-top'd mountains, and aerial towers?' He said; and, leading from her ivory seat The blushing Beauty to his lone retreat, Curtain'd with night the couch imperial shrouds, And rests the crimson cushions upon clouds.Earth feels the grateful influence from above, Sighs the soft Air, and Ocean murmurs love; Etherial Warmth expands his brooding wing, And in still showers descends the genial Spring. 117 VII. 'NYMPHS OF AQUATIC TASTE! whose placid smile Breathes sweet enchantment o'er BRITANNIA'S isle; Whose sportive touch in showers resplendent flings Her lucid cataracts, and her bubbling springs; Through peopled vales the liquid silver guides, And swells in bright expanse her freighted tides. YOU with nice ear, in tiptoe trains, pervade Dim walks of morn or evening's silent shade; Join the lone Nightingale, her woods among, And roll your rills symphonious to her song; Through fount-full dells, and wave-worn valleys move, And tune their echoing waterfalls to love; Or catch, attentive to the distant roar, The pausing murmurs of the dashing shore; Or, as aloud she pours her liquid strain, Pursue the NEREID on the twilight main. -Her playful Sea-horse woos her soft commands, Turns his quick ears, his webbed claws expands, His watery way with waving volutes wins, Or listening librates on unmoving fins. The Nymph emerging mounts her scaly seat, Hangs o'er his glossy sides her silver feet, With snow-white hands her arching veil detains, Gives to his slimy lips the slacken'd reins, Lifts to the star of Eve her eye serene, And chaunts the birth of Beauty's radiant Queen.O'er her fair brow her pearly comb unfurls Her beryl locks, and parts the waving curls, Each tangled braid with glistening teeth unbinds And with the floating treasure musks the winds.Thrill'd by the dulcet accents, as she sings, The rippling wave in widening circles rings; Night's shadowy forms along the margin gleam With pointed ears, or dance upon the stream; The Moon transported stays her bright career, And maddening Stars shoot headlong from the sphere. VIII. 'NYMPHS! whose fair eyes with vivid lustres glow For human weal, and melt at human woe; Late as YOU floated on your silver shells, Sorrowing and slow by DERWENT'S willowy dells; Where by tall groves his foamy flood he steers 118 Through ponderous arches o'er impetuous wears, By DERBY'S shadowy towers reflective sweeps, And gothic grandeur chills his dusky deeps; You pearl'd with Pity's drops his velvet sides, Sigh'd in his gales, and murmur'd in his tides, Waved o'er his fringed brink a deeper gloom, And bow'd his alders o'er MILCENA'S tomb. 'Oft with sweet voice She led her infant-train, Printing with graceful step his spangled plain, Explored his twinkling swarms, that swim or fly, And mark'd his florets with botanic eye.'Sweet bud of Spring! how frail thy transient bloom, 'Fine film,' she cried, 'of Nature's fairest loom! 'Soon Beauty fades upon its damask throne!'-Unconscious of the worm, that mined her own!-Pale are those lips, where soft caresses hung, Wan the warm cheek, and mute the tender tongue, Cold rests that feeling heart on Derwent's shore, And those love-lighted eye-balls roll no more! -HERE her sad Consort, stealing through the gloom Of Hangs in mute anguish o'er the scutcheon'd hearse, Or graves with trembling style the votive verse. 'Sexton! oh, lay beneath this sacred shrine, When Time's cold hand shall close my aching eyes, Oh, gently lay this wearied earth of mine, Where wrap'd in night my loved MILCENA lies. 'So shall with purer joy my spirit move, When the last trumpet thrills the caves of Death, Catch the first whispers of my waking love, And drink with holy kiss her kindling breath. 'The spotless Fair, with blush ethereal warm, Shall hail with sweeter smile returning day, Rise from her marble bed a brighter form, And win on buoyant step her airy way. 'Shall bend approved, where beckoning hosts invite, 119 On clouds of silver her adoring knee, Approach with Seraphim the throne of light, -And BEAUTY plead with angel-tongue for Me!' IX. 'YOUR virgin trains on BRINDLEY'S cradle smiled, And nursed with fairy-love the unletter'd child, Spread round his pillow all your secret spells, Pierced all your springs, and open'd all your wells.As now on grass, with glossy folds reveal'd, Glides the bright serpent, now in flowers conceal'd; Far shine the scales, that gild his sinuous back, And lucid undulations mark his track; So with strong arm immortal BRINDLEY leads His long canals, and parts the velvet meads; Winding in lucid lines, the watery mass Mines the firm rock, or loads the deep morass, With rising locks a thousand hills alarms, Flings o'er a thousand streams its silver arms, Feeds the long vale, the nodding woodland laves, And Plenty, Arts, and Commerce freight the waves. -NYMPHS! who erewhile round BRINDLEY'S early bier On show-white bosoms shower'd the incessant tear, Adorn his tomb!-oh, raise the marble bust, Proclaim his honours, and protect his dust! With urns inverted, round the sacred shrine Their ozier wreaths let weeping Naiads twine; While on the top MECHANIC GENIUS stands, Counts the fleet waves, and balances the lands. X. 'NYMPHS! YOU first taught to pierce the secret caves Of humid earth, and lift her ponderous waves; Bade with quick stroke the sliding piston bear The viewless columns of incumbent air;Press'd by the incumbent air the floods below, Through opening valves in foaming torrents flow, Foot after foot with lessen'd impulse move, And rising seek the vacancy above.So when the Mother, bending o'er his charms, Clasps her fair nurseling in delighted arms; Throws the thin kerchief from her neck of snow, And half unveils the pearly orbs below; With sparkling eye the blameless Plunderer owns 120 Her soft embraces, and endearing tones, Seeks the salubrious fount with opening lips, Spreads his inquiring hands, and smiles, and sips. 'CONNUBIAL FAIR! whom no fond transport warms To lull your infant in maternal arms; Who, bless'd in vain with tumid bosoms, hear His tender wailings with unfeeling ear; The soothing kiss and milky rill deny To the sweet pouting lip, and glistening eye!Ah! what avails the cradle's damask roof, The eider bolster, and embroider'd woof!Oft hears the gilded couch unpity'd plains, And many a tear the tassel'd cushion stains! No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest, So soft no pillow, as his Mother's breast!-Thus charm'd to sweet repose, when twilight hours Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers, The Cherub, Innocence, with smile divine Shuts his white wings, and sleeps on Beauty's shrine. XI. 'From dome to dome when flames infuriate climb, Sweep the long street, invest the tower sublime; Gild the tall vanes amid the astonish'd night, And reddening heaven returns the sanguine light; While with vast strides and bristling hair aloof Pale Danger glides along the falling roof; And Giant Terror howling in amaze Moves his dark limbs across the lurid blaze. NYMPHS! you first taught the gelid wave to rise Hurl'd in resplendent arches to the skies; In iron cells condensed the airy spring, And imp'd the torrent with unfailing wing; -On the fierce flames the shower impetuous falls, And sudden darkness shrouds the shatter'd walls; Steam, smoak, and dust in blended volumes roll, And Night and Silence repossess the Pole.'Where were ye, NYMPHS! in those disasterous hours, Which wrap'd in flames AUGUSTA'S sinking towers? Why did ye linger in your wells and groves, 121 When sad WOODMASON mourn'd her infant loves? When thy fair Daughters with unheeded screams, Ill-fated MOLESWORTH! call'd the loitering streams?The trembling Nymph on bloodless fingers hung Eyes from the tottering wall the distant throng, With ceaseless shrieks her sleeping friends alarms, Drops with singed hair into her lover's arms.The illumin'd Mother seeks with footsteps fleet, Where hangs the safe balcony o'er the street, Wrap'd in her sheet her youngest hope suspends, And panting lowers it to her tiptoe friends; Again she hurries on affection's wings, And now a third, and now a fourth, she brings; Safe all her babes, she smooths her horrent brow, And bursts through bickering flames, unscorch'd, below. So, by her Son arraign'd, with feet unshod O'er burning bars indignant Emma trod. 'E'en on the day when Youth with Beauty wed, The flames surprized them in their nuptial bed;Seen at the opening sash with bosom bare, With wringing hands, and dark dishevel'd hair, The blushing Beauty with disorder'd charms Round her fond lover winds her ivory arms; Beat, as they clasp, their throbbing hearts with fear, And many a kiss is mix'd with many a tear;Ah me! in vain the labouring engines pour Round their pale limbs the ineffectual shower!-Then crash'd the floor, while shrinking crouds retire, And Love and Virtue sunk amid the fire!With piercing screams afflicted strangers mourn, And their white ashes mingle in their urn. XII. 'PELLUCID FORMS! whose crystal bosoms show The shine of welfare, or the shade of woe; Who with soft lips salute returning Spring, And hail the Zephyr quivering on his wing; Or watch, untired, the wintery clouds, and share With streaming eyes my vegetable care; Go, shove the dim mist from the mountain's brow, Chase the white fog, which floods the vale below; Melt the thick snows, that linger on the lands, 122 And catch the hailstones in your little hands; Guard the coy blossom from the pelting shower, And dash the rimy spangles from the bower; From each chill leaf the silvery drops repel, And close the timorous floret's golden bell. 'So should young SYMPATHY, in female form, Climb the tall rock, spectatress of the storm; Life's sinking wrecks with secret sighs deplore, And bleed for others' woes, Herself on shore; To friendless Virtue, gasping on the strand, Bare her warm heart, her virgin arms expand, Charm with kind looks, with tender accents cheer, And pour the sweet consolatory tear; Grief's cureless wounds with lenient balms asswage, Or prop with firmer staff the steps of Age; The lifted arm of mute Despair arrest, And snatch the dagger pointed to his breast; Or lull to slumber Envy's haggard mien, And rob her quiver'd shafts with hand unseen. -Sound, NYMPHS OF HELICON! the trump of Fame, And teach Hibernian echoes JONES'S name; Bind round her polish'd brow the civic bay, And drag the fair Philanthropist to day.So from secluded springs, and secret caves, Her Liffy pours his bright meandering waves, Cools the parch'd vale, the sultry mead divides, And towns and temples star his shadowy sides. XIII. 'CALL YOUR light legions, tread the swampy heath, Pierce with sharp spades the tremulous peat beneath; With colters bright the rushy sward bisect, And in new veins the gushing rills direct;So flowers shall rise in purple light array'd, And blossom'd orchards stretch their silver shade; Admiring glebes their amber ears unfold, And Labour sleep amid the waving gold. 'Thus when young HERCULES with firm disdain Braved the soft smiles of Pleasure's harlot train; To valiant toils his forceful limbs assign'd, 123 And gave to Virtue all his mighty mind, Fierce ACHELOUS rush'd from mountain-caves, O'er sad Etolia pour'd his wasteful waves, O'er lowing vales and bleating pastures roll'd, Swept her red vineyards, and her glebes of gold, Mined all her towns, uptore her rooted woods, And Famine danced upon the shining floods. The youthful Hero seized his curled crest, And dash'd with lifted club the watery Pest; With waving arm the billowy tumult quell'd, And to his course the bellowing Fiend repell'd. 'Then to a Snake the finny Demon turn'd His lengthen'd form, with scales of silver burn'd; Lash'd with restless sweep his dragon-train, And shot meandering o'er the affrighted plain. The Hero-God, with giant fingers clasp'd Firm round his neck, the hissing monster grasp'd; With starting eyes, wide throat, and gaping teeth, Curl his redundant folds, and writhe in death. 'And now a Bull, amid the flying throng The grisly Demon foam'd, and roar'd along; With silver hoofs the flowery meadows spurn'd, Roll'd his red eye, his threatening antlers turn'd. Dragg'd down to earth, the Warrior's victor-hands Press'd his deep dewlap on the imprinted sands; Then with quick bound his bended knee he fix'd High on his neck, the branching horns betwixt, Strain'd his strong arms, his sinewy shoulders bent, And from his curled brow the twisted terror rent. -Pleased Fawns and Nymphs with dancing step applaud, And hang their chaplets round the resting God; Link their soft hands, and rear with pausing toil The golden trophy on the furrow'd soil; Fill with ripe fruits, with wreathed flowers adorn, And give to PLENTY her prolific horn. XIV. 'On Spring's fair lap, CERULEAN SISTERS! pour From airy urns the sun-illumined shower, Feed with the dulcet drops my tender broods, Mellifluous flowers, and aromatic buds; 124 Hang from each bending grass and horrent thorn The tremulous pearl, that glitters to the morn; Or where cold dews their secret channels lave, And Earth's dark chambers hide the stagnant wave, O, pierce, YE NYMPHS! her marble veins, and lead Her gushing fountains to the thirsty mead; Wide o'er the shining vales, and trickling hills Spread the bright treasure in a thousand rills. So shall my peopled realms of Leaf and Flower Exult, inebriate with the genial shower; Dip their long tresses from the mossy brink, With tufted roots the glassy currents drink; Shade your cool mansions from meridian beams, And view their waving honours in your streams. 'Thus where the veins their confluent branches bend, And milky eddies with the purple blend; The Chyle's white trunk, diverging from its source, Seeks through the vital mass its shining course; O'er each red cell, and tissued membrane spreads In living net-work all its branching threads; Maze within maze its tortuous path pursues, Winds into glands, inextricable clues; Steals through the stomach's velvet sides, and sips The silver surges with a thousand lips; Fills each fine pore, pervades each slender hair, And drinks salubrious dew-drops from the air. 'Thus when to kneel in Mecca's awful gloom, Or press with pious kiss Medina's tomb, League after league, through many a lingering day, Steer the swart Caravans their sultry way; O'er sandy wastes on gasping camels toil, Or print with pilgrim-steps the burning soil; If from lone rocks a sparkling rill descend, O'er the green brink the kneeling nations bend, Bathe the parch'd lip, and cool the feverish tongue, And the clear lake reflects the mingled throng.' The Goddess paused,-the listening bands awhile Still seem to hear, and dwell upon her smile; Then with soft murmur sweep in lucid trains 125 Down the green slopes, and o'er the pebbly plains, To each bright stream on silver sandals glide, Reflective fountain, and tumultuous tide. So shoot the Spider-broods at breezy dawn Their glittering net-work o'er the autumnal lawn; From blade to blade connect with cordage fine The unbending grass, and live along the line; Or bathe unwet their oily forms, and dwell With feet repulsive on the dimpling well. So when the North congeals his watery mass, Piles high his snows, and floors his seas with glass; While many a Month, unknown to warmer rays, Marks its slow chronicle by lunar days; Stout youths and ruddy damsels, sportive train, Leave the white soil, and rush upon the main; From isle to isle the moon-bright squadrons stray, And win in easy curves their graceful way; On step alternate borne, with balance nice Hang o'er the gliding steel, and hiss along the ice. ~ Erasmus Darwin,

276:The Botanic Garden( Part Ii) The Economy Of Vegetation Canto II AND NOW THE GODDESS with attention sweet Turns to the GNOMES, that circle round her feet; Orb within orb approach the marshal'd trains, And pigmy legions darken all the plains; Thrice shout with silver tones the applauding bands, Bow, ere She speaks, and clap their fairy hands. So the tall grass, when noon-tide zephyr blows, Bends it's green blades in undulating rows; Wide o'er the fields the billowy tumult spreads, And rustling harvests bow their golden heads. I. 'GNOMES! YOUR bright forms, presiding at her birth, Clung in fond squadrons round the new-born EARTH; When high in ether, with explosion dire, From the deep craters of his realms of fire, The whirling Sun this ponderous planet hurl'd, And gave the astonish'd void another world. When from it's vaporous air, condensed by cold, Descending torrents into oceans roll'd; And fierce attraction with relentless force Bent the reluctant wanderer to it's course. 'Where yet the Bull with diamond-eye adorns The Spring's fair forehead, and with golden horns; Where yet the Lion climbs the ethereal plain, And shakes the Summer from his radiant mane; Where Libra lifts her airy arm, and weighs, Poised in her silver ballance, nights and days; With paler lustres where Aquarius burns, And showers the still snow from his hoary urns; YOUR ardent troops pursued the flying sphere, Circling the starry girdle of the year; While sweet vicissitudes of day and clime Mark'd the new annals of enascent Time. 95 II. 'You trod with printless step Earth's tender globe, While Ocean wrap'd it in his azure robe; Beneath his waves her hardening strata spread, Raised her PRIMEVAL ISLANDS from his bed, Stretch'd her wide lawns, and sunk her winding dells, And deck'd her shores with corals, pearls, and shells. 'O'er those blest isles no ice-crown'd mountains tower'd, No lightnings darted, and no tempests lower'd; Soft fell the vesper-drops, condensed below, Or bent in air the rain-refracted bow; Sweet breathed the zephyrs, just perceiv'd and lost; And brineless billows only kiss'd the coast; Round the bright zodiac danced the vernal hours, And Peace, the Cherub, dwelt in mortal bowers! 'So young DIONE, nursed beneath the waves, And rock'd by Nereids in their coral caves, Charm'd the blue sisterhood with playful wiles, Lisp'd her sweet tones, and tried her tender smiles. Then, on her beryl throne by Triton's borne, Bright rose the Goddess like the Star of morn; When with soft fires the milky dawn He leads, And wakes to life and love the laughing meads;With rosy fingers, as uncurl'd they hung Round her fair brow, her golden locks she wrung; O'er the smooth surge on silver sandals flood, And look'd enchantment on the dazzled flood.The bright drops, rolling from her lifted arms, In slow meanders wander o'er her charms, Seek round her snowy neck their lucid track, Pearl her white shoulders, gem her ivory back, Round her fine waist and swelling bosom swim, And star with glittering brine each crystal limb.-The immortal form enamour'd Nature hail'd, And Beauty blazed to heaven and earth, unvail'd. III. 'You! who then, kindling after many an age, Saw with new fires the first VOLCANO rage, O'er smouldering heaps of livid sulphur swell At Earth's firm centre, and distend her shell, Saw at each opening cleft the furnace glow, And seas rush headlong on the gulphs below.- 96 GNOMES! how you shriek'd! when through the troubled air Roar'd the fierce din of elemental war; When rose the continents, and sunk the main, And Earth's huge sphere exploding burst in twain.GNOMES! how you gazed! when from her wounded side Where now the South-Sea heaves its waste of tide, Rose on swift wheels the MOON'S refulgent car, Circling the solar orb; a sister-star, Dimpled with vales, with shining hills emboss'd, And roll'd round Earth her airless realms of frost. 'GNOMES! how you trembled! with the dreadful force When Earth recoiling stagger'd from her course; When, as her Line in slower circles spun, And her shock'd axis nodded from the sun, With dreadful march the accumulated main Swept her vast wrecks of mountain, vale, and plain; And, while new tides their shouting floods unite, And hail their Queen, fair Regent of the night; Chain'd to one centre whirl'd the kindred spheres, And mark'd with lunar cycles solar years. IV. 'GNOMES! you then bade dissolving SHELLS distil From the loose summits of each shatter'd hill, To each fine pore and dark interstice flow, And fill with liquid chalk the mass below. Whence sparry forms in dusky caverns gleam With borrow'd light, and twice refract the beam; While in white beds congealing rocks beneath Court the nice chissel, and desire to breathe.'Hence wearied HERCULES in marble rears His languid limbs, and rests a thousand years; Still, as he leans, shall young ANTINOUS please With careless grace, and unaffected ease; Onward with loftier step APOLLO spring, And launch the unerring arrow from the string; In Beauty's bashful form, the veil unfurl'd, Ideal VENUS win the gazing world. Hence on ROUBILIAC'S tomb shall Fame sublime Wave her triumphant wings, and conquer Time; Long with soft touch shall DAMER'S chissel charm, With grace delight us, and with beauty warm; FOSTER'S fine form shall hearts unborn engage, 97 And MELBOURN's smile enchant another age. V. GNOMES! you then taught transuding dews to pass Through time-fall'n woods, and root-inwove morass Age after age; and with filtration fine Dispart, from earths and sulphurs, the saline. 1. 'HENCE with diffusive SALT old Ocean steeps His emerald shallows, and his sapphire deeps. Oft in wide lakes, around their warmer brim In hollow pyramids the crystals swim; Or, fused by earth-born fires, in cubic blocks Shoot their white forms, and harden into rocks. 'Thus, cavern'd round in CRACOW'S mighty mines, With crystal walls a gorgeous city shines; Scoop'd in the briny rock long streets extend Their hoary course, and glittering domes ascend; Down the bright steeps, emerging into day, Impetuous fountains burst their headlong way, O'er milk-white vales in ivory channels spread, And wondering seek their subterraneous bed. Form'd in pellucid salt with chissel nice, The pale lamp glimmering through the sculptured ice, With wild reverted eyes fair LOTTA stands, And spreads to Heaven, in vain, her glassy hands; Cold dews condense upon her pearly breast, And the big tear rolls lucid down her vest. Far gleaming o'er the town transparent fanes Rear their white towers, and wave their golden vanes; Long lines of lustres pour their trembling rays, And the bright vault returns the mingled blaze. 2. 'HENCE orient NITRE owes it's sparkling birth, And with prismatic crystals gems the earth, O'er tottering domes in filmy foliage crawls, Or frosts with branching plumes the mouldering walls. As woos Azotic Gas the virgin Air, And veils in crimson clouds the yielding Fair, Indignant Fire the treacherous courtship flies, Waves his light wing, and mingles with the skies. 'So Beauty's GODDESS, warm with new desire, Left, on her silver wheels, the GOD of Fire; Her faithless charms to fiercer MARS resign'd, Met with fond lips, with wanton arms intwin'd. 98 -Indignant VULCAN eyed the parting Fair, And watch'd with jealous step the guilty pair; O'er his broad neck a wiry net he flung, Quick as he strode, the tinkling meshes rung; Fine as the spider's flimsy thread He wove The immortal toil to lime illicit love; Steel were the knots, and steel the twisted thong, Ring link'd in ring, indissolubly strong; On viewless hooks along the fretted roof He hung, unseen, the inextricable woof.-Quick start the springs, the webs pellucid spread, And lock the embracing Lovers on their bed; Fierce with loud taunts vindictive VULCAN springs, Tries all the bolts, and tightens all the strings, Shakes with incessant shouts the bright abodes, Claps his rude hands, and calls the festive Gods.-With spreading palms the alarmed Goddess tries To veil her beauties from celestial eyes, Writhes her fair limbs, the slender ringlets strains, And bids her Loves untie the obdurate chains; Soft swells her panting bosom, as she turns, And her flush'd cheek with brighter blushes burns. Majestic grief the Queen of Heaven avows, And chaste Minerva hides her helmed brows; Attendant Nymphs with bashful eyes askance Steal of intangled MARS a transient glance; Surrounding Gods the circling nectar quaff, Gaze on the Fair, and envy as they laugh. 3. 'HENCE dusky IRON sleeps in dark abodes, And ferny foliage nestles in the nodes; Till with wide lungs the panting bellows blow, And waked by fire the glittering torrents flow; -Quick whirls the wheel, the ponderous hammer falls, Loud anvils ring amid the trembling walls, Strokes follow strokes, the sparkling ingot shines, Flows the red slag, the lengthening bar refines; Cold waves, immersed, the glowing mass congeal, And turn to adamant the hissing Steel. 'Last MICHELL'S hands with touch of potent charm The polish'd rods with powers magnetic arm; With points directed to the polar stars In one long line extend the temper'd bars; 99 Then thrice and thrice with steady eye he guides, And o'er the adhesive train the magnet slides; The obedient Steel with living instinct moves, And veers for ever to the pole it loves. 'Hail, adamantine STEEL! magnetic Lord! King of the prow, the plowshare, and the sword! True to the pole, by thee the pilot guides His steady helm amid the struggling tides, Braves with broad sail the immeasurable sea, Cleaves the dark air, and asks no star but Thee.By thee the plowshare rends the matted plain, Inhumes in level rows the living grain; Intrusive forests quit the cultured ground, And Ceres laughs with golden fillets crown'd.O'er restless realms when scowling Discord flings Her snakes, and loud the din of battle rings; Expiring Strength, and vanquish'd Courage feel Thy arm resistless, adamantine STEEL! 4. 'HENCE in fine streams diffusive ACIDS flow, Or wing'd with fire o'er Earth's fair bosom blow; Transmute to glittering Flints her chalky lands, Or sink on Ocean's bed in countless Sands. Hence silvery Selenite her chrystal moulds, And soft Asbestus smooths his silky folds; His cubic forms phosphoric Fluor prints, Or rays in spheres his amethystine tints. Soft cobweb clouds transparent Onyx spreads, And playful Agates weave their colour'd threads; Gay pictured Mochoes glow with landscape-dyes, And changeful Opals roll their lucid eyes; Blue lambent light around the Sapphire plays, Bright Rubies blush, and living Diamonds blaze. 'Thus, for attractive earth, inconstant JOVE Mask'd in new shapes forsook his realms above.First her sweet eyes his Eagle-form beguiles, And HEBE feeds him with ambrosial smiles; Next the chang'd God a Cygnet's down assumes, And playful LEDA smooths his glossy plumes; Then glides a silver Serpent, treacherous guest! And fair OLYMPIA folds him in her breast; Now lows a milk-white Bull on Afric's strand, And crops with dancing head the daisy'd land.- 100 With rosy wreathes EUROPA'S hand adorns His fringed forehead, and his pearly horns; Light on his back the sportive Damsel bounds, And pleased he moves along the flowery grounds; Bears with slow step his beauteous prize aloof, Dips in the lucid flood his ivory hoof; Then wets his velvet knees, and wading laves His silky sides amid the dimpling waves. While her fond train with beckoning hands deplore, Strain their blue eyes, and shriek along the shore; Beneath her robe she draws her snowy feet, And, half-reclining on her ermine seat, Round his raised neck her radiant arms she throws, And rests her fair cheek on his curled brows; Her yellow tresses wave on wanton gales, And high in air her azure mantle sails. -Onward He moves, applauding Cupids guide, And skim on shooting wing the shining tide; Emerging Triton's leave their coral caves, Sound their loud conchs, and smooth the circling waves, Surround the timorous Beauty, as she swims, And gaze enamour'd on her silver limbs. -Now Europe's shadowy shores with loud acclaim Hail the fair fugitive, and shout her name; Soft echoes warble, whispering forests nod, And conscious Nature owns the present God. -Changed from the Bull, the rapturous God assumes Immortal youth, with glow celestial blooms, With lenient words her virgin fears disarms, And clasps the yielding Beauty in his arms; Whence Kings and Heroes own illustrious birth, Guards of mankind, and demigods on earth. VI. 'GNOMES! as you pass'd beneath the labouring soil, The guards and guides of Nature's chemic toil, YOU saw, deep-sepulchred in dusky realms, Which Earth's rock-ribbed ponderous vault o'erwhelms, With self-born fires the mass fermenting glow, And flame-wing'd sulphurs quit the earths below. 1. 'HENCE ductile CLAYS in wide expansion spread, Soft as the Cygnet's down, their snow-white bed; With yielding flakes successive forms reveal, 101 And change obedient to the whirling wheel. -First CHINA'S sons, with early art elate, Form'd the gay tea-pot, and the pictured plate; Saw with illumin'd brow and dazzled eyes In the red stove vitrescent colours rise; Speck'd her tall beakers with enamel'd stars, Her monster-josses, and gigantic jars; Smear'd her huge dragons with metallic hues, With golden purples, and cobaltic blues; Bade on wide hills her porcelain castles glare, And glazed Pagodas tremble in the air. 'ETRURIA! next beneath thy magic hands Glides the quick wheel, the plaistic clay expands, Nerved with fine touch, thy fingers (as it turns) Mark the nice bounds of vases, ewers, and urns; Round each fair form in lines immortal trace Uncopied Beauty, and ideal Grace. 'GNOMES! as you now dissect with hammers fine The granite-rock, the nodul'd flint calcine; Grind with strong arm, the circling chertz betwixt, Your pure Ka-o-lins and Pe-tun-tses mixt; O'er each red saggars burning cave preside, The keen-eyed Fire-Nymphs blazing by your side; And pleased on WEDGWOOD ray your partial smile, A new Etruria decks Britannia's isle.Charm'd by your touch, the flint liquescent pours Through finer sieves, and falls in whiter showers; Charm'd by your touch, the kneaded clay refines, The biscuit hardens, the enamel shines; Each nicer mould a softer feature drinks, The bold Cameo speaks, the soft Intaglio thinks. 'To call the pearly drops from Pity's eye, Or stay Despair's disanimating sigh, Whether, O Friend of art! the gem you mould Rich with new taste, with antient virtue bold; Form the poor fetter'd SLAVE on bended knee From Britain's sons imploring to be free; Or with fair HOPE the brightening scenes improve, And cheer the dreary wastes at Sydney-cove; Or bid Mortality rejoice and mourn O'er the fine forms on PORTLAND'S mystic urn.' 102 Here by fall'n columns and disjoin'd arcades, On mouldering stones, beneath deciduous shades, Sits HUMANKIND in hieroglyphic state, Serious, and pondering on their changeful state; While with inverted torch, and swimming eyes, Sinks the fair shade of MORTAL LIFE, and dies. There the pale GHOST through Death's wide portal bends His timid feet, the dusky steep descends; With smiles assuasive LOVE DIVINE invites, Guides on broad wing, with torch uplifted lights; IMMORTAL LIFE, her hand extending, courts The lingering form, his tottering step supports; Leads on to Pluto's realms the dreary way, And gives him trembling to Elysian day. Beneath in sacred robes the PRIESTESS dress'd, The coif close-hooded, and the fluttering vest, With pointing finger guides the initiate youth, Unweaves the many-colour'd veil of Truth, Drives the profane from Mystery's bolted door, And Silence guards the Eleusinian lore.'Whether, O Friend of Art! your gems derive Fine forms from Greece, and fabled Gods revive; Or bid from modern life the Portrait breathe, And bind round Honour's brow the laurel wreath; Buoyant shall sail, with Fame's historic page, Each fair medallion o'er the wrecks of age; Nor Time shall mar; nor steel, nor fire, nor rust Touch the hard polish of the immortal bust. 2. 'HENCE sable COAL his massy couch extends, And stars of gold the sparkling Pyrite blends; Hence dull-eyed Naphtha pours his pitchy streams, And Jet uncolour'd drinks the solar beams, Bright Amber shines on his electric throne, And adds ethereal lustres to his own. -Led by the phosphor-light, with daring tread Immortal FRANKLIN sought the fiery bed; Where, nursed in night, incumbent Tempest shrouds 103 The seeds of Thunder in circumfluent clouds, Besieged with iron points his airy cell, And pierced the monster slumbering in the shell. 'So, born on sounding pinions to the WEST, When Tyrant-Power had built his eagle nest; While from his eyry shriek'd the famish'd brood, Clenched their sharp claws, and champ'd their beaks for blood, Immortal FRANKLIN watch'd the callow crew, And stabb'd the struggling Vampires, ere they flew. -The patriot-flame with quick contagion ran, Hill lighted hill, and man electrised man; Her heroes slain awhile COLUMBIA mourn'd, And crown'd with laurels LIBERTY return'd. 'The Warrior, LIBERTY, with bending sails Helm'd his bold course to fair HIBERNIA'S vales;Firm as he steps, along the shouting lands, Lo! Truth and Virtue range their radiant bands; Sad Superstition wails her empire torn, Art plies his oar, and Commerce pours her horn. 'Long had the Giant-form on GALLIA'S plains Inglorious slept, unconscious of his chains; Round his large limbs were wound a thousand strings By the weak hands of Confessors and Kings; O'er his closed eyes a triple veil was bound, And steely rivets lock'd him to the ground; While stern Bastile with iron cage inthralls His folded limbs, and hems in marble walls. -Touch'd by the patriot-flame, he rent amazed The flimsy bonds, and round and round him gazed; Starts up from earth, above the admiring throng Lifts his Colossal form, and towers along; High o'er his foes his hundred arms He rears, Plowshares his swords, and pruning hooks his spears; Calls to the Good and Brave with voice, that rolls Like Heaven's own thunder round the echoing poles; Gives to the winds his banner broad unfurl'd, And gathers in its shade the living world! VII. 'GNOMES! YOU then taught volcanic airs to force Through bubbling Lavas their resistless course, O'er the broad walls of rifted Granite climb, And pierce the rent roof of incumbent Lime, 104 Round sparry caves metallic lustres fling, And bear phlogiston on their tepid wing. 'HENCE glows, refulgent Tin! thy chrystal grains, And tawny Copper shoots her azure veins; Zinc lines his fretted vault with sable ore, And dull Galena tessellates the floor; On vermil beds in Idria's mighty caves The living Silver rolls its ponderous waves; With gay refractions bright Platina shines, And studs with squander'd stars his dusky mines; Long threads of netted gold, and silvery darts, Inlay the Lazuli, and pierce the Quartz;-Whence roof'd with silver beam'd PERU, of old, And hapless MEXICO was paved with gold. 'Heavens! on my sight what sanguine colours blaze! Spain's deathless shame! the crimes of modern days! When Avarice, shrouded in Religion's robe, Sail'd to the West, and slaughter'd half the globe; While Superstition, stalking by his side, Mock'd the loud groans, and lap'd the bloody tide; For sacred truths announced her frenzied dreams, And turn'd to night the sun's meridian beams.Hear, oh, BRITANNIA! potent Queen of isles, On whom fair Art, and meek Religion smiles, Now AFRIC'S coasts thy craftier sons invade With murder, rapine, theft,-and call it Trade! -The SLAVE, in chains, on supplicating knee, Spreads his wide arms, and lifts his eyes to Thee; With hunger pale, with wounds and toil oppress'd, 'ARE WE NOT BRETHREN?' sorrow choaks the rest;-AIR! bear to heaven upon thy azure flood Their innocent cries!-EARTH! cover not their blood! VIII. 'When Heaven's dread justice smites in crimes o'ergrown The blood-nursed Tyrant on his purple throne, GNOMES! YOUR bold forms unnumber'd arms outstretch, And urge the vengeance o'er the guilty wretch.Thus when CAMBYSES led his barbarous hosts From Persia's rocks to Egypt's trembling coasts, Defiled each hallowed fane, and sacred wood, And, drunk with fury, swell'd the Nile with blood; Waved his proud banner o'er the Theban states, 105 And pour'd destruction through her hundred gates; In dread divisions march'd the marshal'd bands, And swarming armies blacken'd all the lands, By Memphis these to ETHIOP'S sultry plains, And those to HAMMON'S sand-incircled fanes.Slow as they pass'd, the indignant temples frown'd, Low curses muttering from the vaulted ground; Long ailes of Cypress waved their deepen'd glooms, And quivering spectres grinn'd amid the tombs; Prophetic whispers breathed from S And MEMNON'S lyre with hollow murmurs rung; Burst from each pyramid expiring groans, And darker shadows stretch'd their lengthen'd cones.Day after day their deathful rout They steer, Lust in the van, and rapine in the rear. 'GNOMES! as they march'd, You hid the gathered fruits, The bladed grass, sweet grains, and mealy roots; Scared the tired quails, that journey'd o'er their heads, Retain'd the locusts in their earthy beds; Bade on your sands no night-born dews distil, Stay'd with vindictive hands the scanty rill.Loud o'er the camp the Fiend of Famine shrieks, Calls all her brood, and champs her hundred beaks; O'er ten square leagues her pennons broad expand, And twilight swims upon the shuddering sand; Perch'd on her crest the Griffin Discord clings, And Giant Murder rides between her wings; Blood from each clotted hair, and horny quill, And showers of tears in blended streams distil; High-poised in air her spiry neck she bends, Rolls her keen eye, her Dragon-claws extends, Darts from above, and tears at each fell swoop With iron fangs the decimated troop. 'Now o'er their head the whizzing whirlwinds breathe, And the live desert pants, and heaves beneath; Tinged by the crimson sun, vast columns rise Of eddying sands, and war amid the skies, In red arcades the billowy plain surround, And stalking turrets dance upon the ground. -Long ranks in vain their shining blades extend, To Demon-Gods their knees unhallow'd bend, Wheel in wide circle, form in hollow square, 106 And now they front, and now they fly the war, Pierce the deaf tempest with lamenting cries, Press their parch'd lips, and close their blood-shot eyes. -GNOMES! o'er the waste YOU led your myriad powers, Climb'd on the whirls, and aim'd the flinty showers!Onward resistless rolls the infuriate surge, Clouds follow clouds, and mountains mountains urge; Wave over wave the driving desert swims, Bursts o'er their heads, inhumes their struggling limbs; Man mounts on man, on camels camels rush, Hosts march o'er hosts, and nations nations crush,Wheeling in air the winged islands fall, And one great earthy Ocean covers all!Then ceased the storm,-NIGHT bow'd his Ethiop brow To earth, and listen'd to the groans below,Grim HORROR shook,-awhile the living hill Heaved with convulsive throes,-and all was still! IX. 'GNOMES! whose fine forms, impassive as the air, Shrink with soft sympathy for human care; Who glide unseen, on printless slippers borne, Beneath the waving grass, and nodding corn; Or lay your tiny limbs, when noon-tide warms, Where shadowy cowslips stretch their golden arms,So mark'd on orreries in lucid signs, Star'd with bright points the mimic zodiac shines; Borne on fine wires amid the pictured skies With ivory orbs the planets set and rise; Round the dwarf earth the pearly moon is roll'd, And the sun twinkling whirls his rays of gold.Call your bright myriads, march your mailed hosts, With spears and helmets glittering round the coasts; Thick as the hairs, which rear the Lion's mane, Or fringe the Boar, that bays the hunter-train; Watch, where proud Surges break their treacherous mounds, And sweep resistless o'er the cultured grounds; Such as erewhile, impell'd o'er Belgia's plain, Roll'd her rich ruins to the insatiate main; With piles and piers the ruffian waves engage, And bid indignant Ocean stay his rage. 'Where, girt with clouds, the rifted mountain yawns, And chills with length of shade the gelid lawns, 107 Climb the rude steeps, the granite-cliffs surround, Pierce with steel points, with wooden wedges wound; Break into clays the soft volcanic slaggs, Or melt with acid airs the marble craggs; Crown the green summits with adventurous flocks, And charm with novel flowers the wondering rocks. -So when proud Rome the Afric Warrior braved, And high on Alps his crimson banner waved; While rocks on rocks their beetling brows oppose With piny forests, and unfathomed snows; Onward he march'd, to Latium's velvet ground With fires and acids burst the obdurate bound, Wide o'er her weeping vales destruction hurl'd, And shook the rising empire of the world. X. 'Go, gentle GNOMES! resume your vernal toil, Seek my chill tribes, which sleep beneath the soil; On grey-moss banks, green meads, or furrow'd lands Spread the dark mould, white lime, and crumbling sands; Each bursting bud with healthier juices feed, Emerging scion, or awaken'd seed. So, in descending streams, the silver Chyle Streaks with white clouds the golden floods of bile; Through each nice valve the mingling currents glide, Join their fine rills, and swell the sanguine tide; Each countless cell, and viewless fibre seek, Nerve the strong arm, and tinge the blushing cheek. 'Oh, watch, where bosom'd in the teeming earth, Green swells the germ, impatient for its birth; Guard from rapacious worms its tender shoots, And drive the mining beetle from its roots; With ceaseless efforts rend the obdurate clay, And give my vegetable babes to day! -Thus when an Angel-form, in light array'd, Like HOWARD pierced the prison's noisome shade; Where chain'd to earth, with eyes to heaven upturn'd, The kneeling Saint in holy anguish mourn'd;Ray'd from his lucid vest, and halo'd brow O'er the dark roof celestial lustres glow, 'PETER, arise!' with cheering voice He calls, And sounds seraphic echo round the walls; Locks, bolts, and chains his potent touch obey, 108 And pleased he leads the dazzled Sage to day. XI. 'YOU! whose fine fingers fill the organic cells, With virgin earth, of woods and bones and shells; Mould with retractile glue their spongy beds, And stretch and strengthen all their fibre-threads.Late when the mass obeys its changeful doom, And sinks to earth, its cradle and its tomb, GNOMES! with nice eye the slow solution watch, With fostering hand the parting atoms catch, Join in new forms, combine with life and sense, And guide and guard the transmigrating Ens. 'So when on Lebanon's sequester'd hight The fair ADONIS left the realms of light, Bow'd his bright locks, and, fated from his birth To change eternal, mingled with the earth;With darker horror shook the conscious wood, Groan'd the sad gales, and rivers blush'd with blood; On cypress-boughs the Loves their quivers hung, Their arrows scatter'd, and their bows unstrung; And BEAUTY'S GODDESS, bending o'er his bier, Breathed the soft sigh, and pour'd the tender tear.Admiring PROSERPINE through dusky glades Led the fair phantom to Elysian shades, Clad with new form, with finer sense combined, And lit with purer flame the ethereal mind. -Erewhile, emerging from infernal night, The bright Assurgent rises into light, Leaves the drear chambers of the insatiate tomb, And shines and charms with renovated bloom.While wondering Loves the bursting grave surround, And edge with meeting wings the yawning ground, Stretch their fair necks, and leaning o'er the brink View the pale regions of the dead, and shrink; Long with broad eyes ecstatic BEAUTY stands, Heaves her white bosom, spreads her waxen hands; Then with loud shriek the panting Youth alarms, 'My Life! my Love!' and springs into his arms.' The GODDESS ceased,-the delegated throng O'er the wide plains delighted rush along; In dusky squadrons, and in shining groups, Hosts follow hosts, and troops succeed to troops; 109 Scarce bears the bending grass the moving freight, And nodding florets bow beneath their weight. So when light clouds on airy pinions sail, Flit the soft shadows o'er the waving vale; Shade follows shade, as laughing Zephyrs drive, And all the chequer'd landscape seems alive. ~ Erasmus Darwin,

277:Scene. Salzburg; a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian. 1541. Festus, Paracelsus. Festus. No change! The weary night is well-nigh spent, The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars Grey morning glimmers feebly: yet no change! Another night, and still no sigh has stirred That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body, Like torch-flame choked in dust. While all beside Was breaking, to the last they held out bright, As a stronghold where life intrenched itself; But they are dead nowvery blind and dead: He will drowse into death without a groan. My Aureolemy forgotten, ruined Aureole! The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast! And now not one of those who struck thee down Poor glorious spiritconcerns him even to stay And satisfy himself his little hand Could turn God's image to a livid thing. Another night, and yet no change! 'T is much That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow, And chafe his hands; 't is much: but he will sure Know me, and look on me, and speak to me Once morebut only once! His hollow cheek Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh At his own state were just about to break From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled, And yet I could not turn away. In truth, They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed Resolved to live, to lose no faculty; Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength, Until they bore him to this stifling cell: When straight his features fell, an hour made white The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb, Only the eye remained intense awhile As though it recognized the tomb-like place, And then he lay as here he lies.                  Ay, here! Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded Her bravest champion with his well-won prize Her best achievement, her sublime amends For countless generations fleeting fast And followed by no trace;the creature-god She instances when angels would dispute The title of her brood to rank with them. Angels, this is our angel! Those bright forms We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones, Are human, but not his; those are but men Whom other men press round and kneel before; Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind; Higher provision is for him you seek Amid our pomps and glories: see it here! Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay! God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that Even as I watch beside thy tortured child Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him, So doth thy right hand guide us through the world Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say? How has he sinned? How else should he have done? Surely he sought thy praisethy praise, for all He might be busied by the task so much As half forget awhile its proper end. Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer That I should range myself upon his side How could he stop at every step to set Thy glory forth? Hadst thou but granted him Success, thy honour would have crowned success, A halo round a star. Or, say he erred, Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him In light and life! Thou art not made like us; We should be wroth in such a case; but thou Forgivestso, forgive these passionate thoughts Which come unsought and will not pass away! I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made Light for me in the darkness, tempering sorrow So that it reached me like a solemn joy; It were too strange that I should doubt thy love. But what am I? Thou madest him and knowest How he was fashioned. I could never err That way: the quiet place beside thy feet, Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts: But hethou shouldst have favoured him as well! Ah! he wakens! Aureole, I am here! 't is Festus! I cast away all wishes save one wish Let him but know me, only speak to me! He mutters; louder and louder; any other Than I, with brain less laden, could collect What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look! Is it talking or singing, this he utters fast? Misery that he should fix me with his eye, Quick talking to some other all the while! If he would husband this wild vehemence Which frustrates its intent!I heard, I know I heard my name amid those rapid words. Oh, he will know me yet! Could I divert This current, lead it somehow gently back Into the channels of the past!His eye Brighter than ever! It must recognize me! I am Erasmus: I am here to pray That Paracelsus use his skill for me. The schools of Paris and of Padua send These questions for your learning to resolve. We are your students, noble master: leave This wretched cell, what business have you here? Our class awaits you; come to us once more! (O agony! the utmost I can do Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?) I am commissioned . . . I shall craze like him. Better be mute and see what God shall send. Paracelsus. Stay, stay with me! Festus.           I will; I am come here To stay with youFestus, you loved of old; Festus, you know, you must know! Paracelsus.                  Festus! Where's Aprile, then? Has he not chanted softly The melodies I heard all night? I could not Get to him for a cold hand on my breast, But I made out his music well enough, O well enough! If they have filled him full With magical music, as they freight a star With light, and have remitted all his sin, They will forgive me too, I too shall know! Festus. Festus, your Festus! Paracelsus.            Ask him if Aprile Knows as he Lovesif I shall Love and Know? I try; but that cold hand, like leadso cold! Festus. My hand, see! Paracelsus.        Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile! We get so nearso very, very near! 'T is an old tale: Jove strikes the Titans down, Not when they set about their mountain-piling But when another rock would crown the work. And Phaetondoubtless his first radiant plunge Astonished mortals, though the gods were calm, And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales! Festus. And what are these to you? Paracelsus.               Ay, fiends must laugh So cruelly, so well! most like I never Could tread a single pleasure underfoot, But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling To see me toil and drop away by flakes! Hell-spawn! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail! Your cunning has o'ershot its aim. One year, One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn! You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now, Who will believe 't was you that held me back? Listen: there's shame and hissing and contempt, And none but laughs who names me, none but spits Measureless scorn upon me, me alone, The quack, the cheat, the liar,all on me! And thus your famous plan to sink mankind In silence and despair, by teaching them One of their race had probed the inmost truth, Had done all man could do, yet failed no less Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair? Ha, ha! why, they are hooting the empiric, The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed Madly upon a work beyond his wits; Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves Could bring the matter to triumphant issue. So, pick and choose among them all, accursed! Try now, persuade some other to slave for you, To ruin body and soul to work your ends! No, no; I am the first and last, I think. Festus. Dear friend, who are accursed? who has done Paracelsus. What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or you, Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed By the others! What had you to do, sage peers? Here stand my rivals; Latin, Arab, Jew, Greek, join dead hands against me: all I ask Is, that the world enrol my name with theirs, And even this poor privilege, it seems, They range themselves, prepared to disallow. Only observe! why, fiends may learn from them! How they talk calmly of my throes, my fierce Aspirings, terrible watchings, each one claiming Its price of blood and brain; how they dissect And sneeringly disparage the few truths Got at a life's cost; they too hanging the while About my neck, their lies misleading me And their dead names browbeating me! Grey crew, Yet steeped in fresh malevolence from hell, Is there a reason for your hate? My truths Have shaken a little the palm about each prince? Just think, Aprile, all these leering dotards Were bent on nothing less than to be crowned As we! That yellow blear-eyed wretch in chief To whom the rest cringe low with feigned respect, Galen of Pergamos and hellnay speak The tale, old man! We met there face to face: I said the crown should fall from thee. Once more We meet as in that ghastly vestibule: Look to my brow! Have I redeemed my pledge? Festus. Peace, peace; ah, see! Paracelsus.            Oh, emptiness of fame! Oh Persic Zoroaster, lord of stars! Who said these old renowns, dead long ago, Could make me overlook the living world To gaze through gloom at where they stood, indeed, But stand no longer? What a warm light life After the shade! In truth, my delicate witch, My serpent-queen, you did but well to hide The juggles I had else detected. Fire May well run harmless o'er a breast like yours! The cave was not so darkened by the smoke But that your white limbs dazzled me: oh, white, And panting as they twinkled, wildly dancing! I cared not for your passionate gestures then, But now I have forgotten the charm of charms, The foolish knowledge which I came to seek, While I remember that quaint dance; and thus I am come back, not for those mummeries, But to love you, and to kiss your little feet Soft as an ermine's winter coat! Festus.                  A light Will struggle through these thronging words at last. As in the angry and tumultuous West A soft star trembles through the drifting clouds. These are the strivings of a spirit which hates So sad a vault should coop it, and calls up The past to stand between it and its fate. Were he at Einsiedelnor Michal here! Paracelsus. Cruel! I seek her nowI kneelI shriek I clasp her vesturebut she fades, still fades; And she is gone; sweet human love is gone! 'T is only when they spring to heaven that angels Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day Beside you, and lie down at night by you Who care not for their presence, muse or sleep, And all at once they leave you, and you know them! We are so fooled, so cheated! Why, even now I am not too secure against foul play; The shadows deepen and the walls contract: No doubt some treachery is going on. 'T is very dusk. Where are we put, Aprile? Have they left us in the lurch? This murky loathsome Death-trap, this slaughter-house, is not the hall In the golden city! Keep by me, Aprile! There is a hand groping amid the blackness To catch us. Have the spider-fingers got you, Poet? Hold on me for your life! If once They pull you!Hold!            'Tis but a dreamno more! I have you still; the sun comes out again; Let us be happy: all will yet go well! Let us confer: is it not like, Aprile, That spite of trouble, this ordeal passed, The value of my labours ascertained, Just as some stream foams long among the rocks But after glideth glassy to the sea, So, full content shall henceforth be my lot? What think you, poet? Louder! Your clear voice Vibrates too like a harp-string. Do you ask How could I still remain on earth, should God Grant me the great approval which I seek? I, you, and God can comprehend each other, But men would murmur, and with cause enough; For when they saw me, stainless of all sin, Preserved and sanctified by inward light, They would complain that comfort, shut from them, I drank thus unespied; that they live on, Nor taste the quiet of a constant joy, For ache and care and doubt and weariness, While I am calm; help being vouchsafed to me, And hid from them.'T were best consider that! You reason well, Aprile; but at least Let me know this, and die! Is this too much? I will learn this, if God so please, and die! If thou shalt please, dear God, if thou shalt please! We are so weak, we know our motives least In their confused beginning. If at first I sought . . . but wherefore bare my heart to thee? I know thy mercy; and already thoughts Flock fast about my soul to comfort it, And intimate I cannot wholly fail, For love and praise would clasp me willingly Could I resolve to seek them. Thou art good, And I should be content. Yetyet first show I have done wrong in daring! Rather give The supernatural consciousness of strength Which fed my youth! Only one hour of that With thee to helpO what should bar me then! Lost, lost! Thus things are ordered here! God's creatures, And yet he takes no pride in us!none, none! Truly there needs another life to come! If this be all(I must tell Festus that) And other life await us notfor one, I say 't is a poor cheat, a stupid bungle, A wretched failure. I, for one, protest Against it, and I hurl it back with scorn. Well, onward though alone! Small time remains, And much to do: I must have fruit, must reap Some profit from my toils. I doubt my body Will hardly serve me through; while I have laboured It has decayed; and now that I demand Its best assistance, it will crumble fast: A sad thought, a sad fate! How very full Of wormwood 't is, that just at altar-service, The rapt hymn rising with the rolling smoke, When glory dawns and all is at the best, The sacred fire may flicker and grow faint And die for want of a wood-piler's help! Thus fades the flagging body, and the soul Is pulled down in the overthrow. Well, well Let men catch every word, let them lose nought Of what I say; something may yet be done. They are ruins! Trust me who am one of you! All ruins, glorious once, but lonely now. It makes my heart sick to behold you crouch Beside your desolate fane: the arches dim, The crumbling columns grand against the moon, Could I but rear them up once morebut that May never be, so leave them! Trust me, friends, Why should you linger here when I have built A far resplendent temple, all your own? Trust me, they are but ruins! See, Aprile, Men will not heed! Yet were I not prepared With better refuge for them, tongue of mine Should ne'er reveal how blank their dwelling is: I would sit down in silence with the rest. Ha, what? you spit at me, you grin and shriek Contempt into my earmy ear which drank God's accents once? you curse me? Why men, men, I am not formed for it! Those hideous eyes Will be before me sleeping, waking, praying, They will not let me even die. Spare, spare me, Sinning or no, forget that, only spare me The horrible scorn! You thought I could support it. But now you see what silly fragile creature Cowers thus. I am not good nor bad enough, Not Christ nor Cain, yet even Cain was saved From Hate like this. Let me but totter back! Perhaps I shall elude those jeers which creep Into my very brain, and shut these scorched Eyelids and keep those mocking faces out. Listen, Aprile! I am very calm: Be not deceived, there is no passion here Where the blood leaps like an imprisoned thing: I am calm: I will exterminate the race! Enough of that: 't is said and it shall be. And now be merry: safe and sound am I Who broke through their best ranks to get at you. And such a havoc, such a rout, Aprile! Festus. Have you no thought, no memory for me, Aureole? I am so wretchedmy pure Michal Is gone, and you alone are left me now, And even you forget me. Take my hand Lean on me thus. Do you not know me, Aureole? Paracelsus. Festus, my own friend, you are come at last? As you say, 't is an awful enterprise; But you believe I shall go through with it: 'T is like you, and I thank you. Thank him for me, Dear Michal! See how bright St. Saviour's spire Flames in the sunset; all its figures quaint Gay in the glancing light: you might conceive them A troop of yellow-vested white-haired Jews Bound for their own land where redemption dawns. Festus. Not that blest timenot our youth's time, dear God! Paracelsus. Hastay! true, I forgetall is done since, And he is come to judge me. How he speaks, How calm, how well! yes, it is true, all true; All quackery; all deceit; myself can laugh The first at it, if you desire: but still You know the obstacles which taught me tricks So foreign to my natureenvy and hate, Blind opposition, brutal prejudice, Bald ignorancewhat wonder if I sunk To humour men the way they most approved? My cheats were never palmed on such as you, Dear Festus! I will kneel if you require me, Impart the meagre knowledge I possess, Explain its bounded nature, and avow My insufficiencywhate'er you will: I give the fight up: let there be an end, A privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God. But if that cannot be, dear Festus, lay me, When I shall die, within some narrow grave, Not by itselffor that would be too proud But where such graves are thickest; let it look Nowise distinguished from the hillocks round, So that the peasant at his brother's bed May tread upon my own and know it not; And we shall all be equal at the last, Or classed according to life's natural ranks, Fathers, sons, brothers, friendsnot rich, nor wise, Nor gifted: lay me thus, then say, "He lived "Too much advanced before his brother men; "They kept him still in front: 't was for their good "But yet a dangerous station. It were strange "That he should tell God he had never ranked "With men: so, here at least he is a man." Festus. That God shall take thee to his breast, dear spirit, Unto his breast, be sure! and here on earth Shall splendour sit upon thy name for ever. Sun! all the heaven is glad for thee: what care If lower mountains light their snowy phares At thine effulgence, yet acknowledge not The source of day? Their theft shall be their bale: For after-ages shall retrack thy beams, And put aside the crowd of busy ones And worship thee alonethe master-mind, The thinker, the explorer, the creator! Then, who should sneer at the convulsive throes With which thy deeds were born, would scorn as well The sheet of winding subterraneous fire Which, pent and writhing, sends no less at last Huge islands up amid the simmering sea. Behold thy might in me! thou hast infused Thy soul in mine; and I am grand as thou, Seeing I comprehend theeI so simple, Thou so august. I recognize thee first; I saw thee rise, I watched thee early and late, And though no glance reveal thou dost accept My homagethus no less I proffer it, And bid thee enter gloriously thy rest. Paracelsus. Festus! Festus.    I am for noble Aureole, God! I am upon his side, come weal or woe. His portion shall be mine. He has done well. I would have sinned, had I been strong enough, As he has sinned. Reward him or I waive Reward! If thou canst find no place for him, He shall be king elsewhere, and I will be His slave for ever. There are two of us. Paracelsus. Dear Festus! Festus.       Here, dear Aureole! ever by you!       Paracelsus. Nay, speak on, or I dream again. Speak on! Some story, anythingonly your voice. I shall dream else. Speak on! ay, leaning so! Festus.                          Thus the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth. Sleep's no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate'er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the ****rd pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee. Paracelsus. More, more; say on! Festus.           And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they: Nought disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. Paracelsus. My heart! they loose my heart, those simple words; Its darkness passes, which nought else could touch: Like some dark snake that force may not expel, Which glideth out to music sweet and low. What were you doing when your voice broke through A chaos of ugly images? You, indeed! Are you alone here? Festus.           All alone: you know me? This cell? Paracelsus.      An unexceptionable vault: Good brick and stone: the bats kept out, the rats Kept in: a snug nook: how should I mistake it? Festus. But wherefore am I here? Paracelsus.              Ah, well remembered! Why, for a purposefor a purpose, Festus! 'T is like me: here I trifle while time fleets, And this occasion, lost, will ne'er return. You are here to be instructed. I will tell God's message; but I have so much to say, I fear to leave half out. All is confused No doubt; but doubtless you will learn in time. He would not else have brought you here: no doubt I shall see clearer soon. Festus.              Tell me but this You are not in despair? Paracelsus.             I? and for what?             Festus. Alas, alas! he knows not, as I feared! Paracelsus. What is it you would ask me with that earnest Dear searching face? Festus.            How feel you, Aureole?            Paracelsus.                        Well: Well. 'T is a strange thing: I am dying, Festus, And now that fast the storm of life subsides, I first perceive how great the whirl has been. I was calm then, who am so dizzy now Calm in the thick of the tempest, but no less A partner of its motion and mixed up With its career. The hurricane is spent, And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather; But is it earth or sea that heaves below? The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell, o'erstrewn With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore; And now some slet, loosened from the land, Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean; And now the air is full of uptorn canes, Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them, All high in the wind. Even so my varied life Drifts by me; I am young, old, happy, sad, Hoping, desponding, acting, taking rest, And all at once: that is, those past conditions Float back at once on me. If I select Some special epoch from the crowd, 't is but To will, and straight the rest dissolve away, And only that particular state is present With all its long-forgotten circumstance Distinct and vivid as at firstmyself A careless looker-on and nothing more, Indifferent and amused, but nothing more. And this is death: I understand it all. New being waits me; new perceptions must Be born in me before I plunge therein; Which last is Death's affair; and while I speak, Minute by minute he is filling me With power; and while my foot is on the threshold Of boundless lifethe doors unopened yet, All preparations not complete within I turn new knowledge upon old events, And the effect is . . . but I must not tell; It is not lawful. Your own turn will come One day. Wait, Festus! You will die like me. Festus. 'T is of that past life that I burn to hear. Paracelsus. You wonder it engages me just now? In truth, I wonder too. What 's life to me? Where'er I look is fire, where'er I listen Music, and where I tend bliss evermore. Yet how can I refrain? 'T is a refined Delight to view those chances,one last view. I am so near the perils I escape, That I must play with them and turn them over, To feel how fully they are past and gone. Still, it is like, some further cause exists For this peculiar moodsome hidden purpose; Did I not tell you something of it, Festus? I had it fast, but it has somehow slipt Away from me; it will return anon. Festus. (Indeed his cheek seems young again, his voice Complete with its old tones: that little laugh Concluding every phrase, with upturned eye, As though one stooped above his head to whom He looked for confirmation and approval, Where was it gone so long, so well preserved? Then, the fore-finger pointing as he speaks, Like one who traces in an open book The matter he declares; 't is many a year Since I remarked it last: and this in him, But now a ghastly wreck!)              And can it be, Dear Aureole, you have then found out at last That worldly things are utter vanity? That man is made for weakness, and should wait In patient ignorance, till God appoint . . . Paracelsus. Ha, the purpose: the true purpose: that is it! How could I fail to apprehend! You here, I thus! But no more trifling: I see all, I know all: my last mission shall be done If strength suffice. No trifling! Stay; this posture Hardly befits one thus about to speak: I will arise. Festus.        Nay, Aureole, are you wild? You cannot leave your couch. Paracelsus.                No help; no help; Not even your hand. So! there, I stand once more! Speak from a couch? I never lectured thus. My gownthe scarlet lined with fur; now put The chain about my neck; my signet-ring Is still upon my hand, I thinkeven so; Last, my good sword; ah, trusty Azoth, leapest Beneath thy master's grasp for the last time? This couch shall be my throne: I bid these walls Be consecrate, this wretched cell become A shrine, for here God speaks to men through me. Now, Festus, I am ready to begin. Festus. I am dumb with wonder. Paracelsus.            Listen, therefore, Festus! There will be time enough, but none to spare. I must content myself with telling only The most important points. You doubtless feel That I am happy, Festus; very happy. Festus. 'T is no delusion which uplifts him thus! Then you are pardoned, Aureole, all your sin? Paracelsus. Ay, pardoned: yet why pardoned? Festus.                  'T is God's praise That man is bound to seek, and you . . . Paracelsus.                      Have lived! We have to live alone to set forth well God's praise. 'T is true, I sinned much, as I thought, And in effect need mercy, for I strove To do that very thing; but, do your best Or worst, praise rises, and will rise for ever Pardon from him, because of praise denied Who calls me to himself to exalt himself? He might laugh as I laugh! Festus.               But all comes To the same thing. 'T is fruitless for mankind To fret themselves with what concerns them not; They are no use that way: they should lie down Content as God has made them, nor go mad In thriveless cares to better what is ill. Paracelsus. No, no; mistake me not; let me not work More harm than I have worked! This is my case: If I go joyous back to God, yet bring No offering, if I render up my soul Without the fruits it was ordained to bear, If I appear the better to love God For sin, as one who has no claim on him,- Be not deceived! It may be surely thus With me, while higher prizes still await The mortal persevering to the end. Beside I am not all so valueless: I have been something, though too soon I left Following the instincts of that happy time. Festus. What happy time? For God's sake, for man's sake, What time was happy? All I hope to know That answer will decide. What happy time? Paracelsus. When but the time I vowed myself to man? Festus. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable! Paracelsus. Yes, it was in me; I was born for it I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul Might learn from its own motions that some task Like this awaited it about the world; Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours For fit delights to stay its longings vast; And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her To fill the creature full she dared thus frame Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous, Grow in demand, still craving more and more, And make each joy conceded prove a pledge Of other joy to followbating nought Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretence To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung As an extreme, last boon, from destiny, Into occasion for new coyetings, New strifes, new triumphs:doubtless a strong soul, Alone, unaided might attain to this, So glorious is our nature, so august Man's inborn uninstructed impulses, His naked spirit so majestical! But this was born in me; I was made so; Thus much time saved: the feverish appeties, The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind, Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears Were saved me; thus I entered on my course. You may be sure I was not all exempt From human trouble; just so much of doubt As bade me plant a surer foot upon The sun-road, kept my eye unruined 'mid The fierce and flashing splendour, set my heart Trembling so much as warned me I stood there On sufferancenot to idly gaze, but cast Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, I stood at first where all aspire at last To stand: the secret of the world was mine. I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, But somehow felt and known in every shift And change in the spirit,nay, in every pore Of the body, even,)what God is, what we are, What life ishow God tastes an infinite joy In infinite waysone everlasting bliss, From whom all being emanates, all power Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore, Yet whom existence in its lowest form Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he; With still a flying point of bliss remote, A happiness in store afar, a sphere Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever. The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, And the earth changes like a human face; The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask God joys therein. The wroth sea's waves are edged With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, When, in the solitary waste, strange groups Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, Staring together with their eyes on flame God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms Like chrysalids impatient for the air, The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run Along the furrows, ants make their ado; Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek Their loves in wood and plainand God renews His ancient rapture. Thus he dwells in all, From life's minute beginnings, up at last To manthe consummation of this scheme Of being, the completion of this sphere Of life: whose attributes had here and there Been scattered o'er the visible world before, Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant To be united in some wondrous whole, Imperfect qualities throughout creation, Suggesting some one creature yet to make, Some point where all those scattered rays should meet Convergent in the faculties of man. Powerneither put forth blindly, nor controlled Calmly by perfect knowledge; to be used At risk, inspired or checked by hope and fear: Knowledgenot intuition, but the slow Uncertain fruit of an enhancing toil, Strengthened by love: lovenot serenely pure, But strong from weakness, like a chance-sown plant Which, cast on stubborn soil, puts forth changed buds And softer stains, unknown in happier climes; Love which endures and doubts and is oppressed And cherished, suffering much and much sustained, And blind, oft-failing, yet believing love, A half-enlightened, often-chequered trust: Hints and previsions of which faculties, Are strewn confusedly everywhere about The inferior natures, and all lead up higher, All shape out dimly the superior race, The heir of hopes too fair to turn out false, And man appears at last. So far the seal Is put on life; one stage of being complete, One scheme wound up: and from the grand result A supplementary reflux of light, Illustrates all the inferior grades, explains Each back step in the circle. Not alone For their possessor dawn those qualities, But the new glory mixes with the heaven And earth; man, once descried, imprints for ever His presence on all lifeless things: the winds Are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout, A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh, Never a senseless gust now man is born. The herded pines commune and have deep thoughts A secret they assemble to discuss When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph Swims bearing high above her head: no bird Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above That let light in upon the gloomy woods, A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top, Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye. The morn has enterprise, deep quiet droops With evening, triumph takes the sunset hour, Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn Beneath a warm moon like a happy face: And this to fill us with regard for man. With apprehension of his passing worth, Desire to work his proper nature out, And ascertain his rank and final place, For these things tend still upward, progress is The law of life, man is not Man as yet. Nor shall I deem his object served, his end Attained, his genuine strength put fairly forth, While only here and there a star dispels The darkness, here and there a towering mind O'erlooks its prostrate fellows: when the host Is out at once to the despair of night, When all mankind alike is perfected, Equal in full-blown powersthen, not till then, I say, begins man's general infancy. For wherefore make account of feverish starts Of restless members of a dormant whole, Impatient nerves which quiver while the body Slumbers as in a grave? Oh long ago The brow was twitched, the tremulous lids astir, The peaceful mouth disturbed; half-uttered speech Ruffled the lip, and then the teeth were set, The breath drawn sharp, the strong right-hand clenched stronger, As it would pluck a lion by the jaw; The glorious creature laughed out even in sleep! But when full roused, each giant-limb awake, Each sinew strung, the great heart pulsing fast, He shall start up and stand on his own earth, Then shall his long triumphant march begin, Thence shall his being date,thus wholly roused, What he achieves shall be set down to him. When all the race is perfected alike As man, that is; all tended to mankind, And, man produced, all has its end thus far: But in completed man begins anew A tendency to God. Prognostics told Man's near approach; so in man's self arise August anticipations, symbols, types Of a dim splendour ever on before In that eternal circle life pursues. For men begin to pass their nature's bound, And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant Their proper joys and griefs; they grow too great For narrow creeds of right and wrong, which fade Before the unmeasured thirst for good: while peace Rises within them ever more and more. Such men are even now upon the earth, Serene amid the half-formed creatures round Who should be saved by them and joined with them. Such was my task, and I was born to it Free, as I said but now, from much that chains Spirits, high-dowered but limited and vexed By a divided and delusive aim, A shadow mocking a reality Whose truth avails not wholly to disperse The flitting mimic called up by itself, And so remains perplexed and nigh put out By its fantastic fellow's wavering gleam. I, from the first, was never cheated thus; I never fashioned out a fancied good Distinct from man's; a service to be done, A glory to be ministered unto With powers put forth at man's expense, withdrawn From labouring in his behalf; a strength Denied that might avail him. I cared not Lest his success ran counter to success Elsewhere: for God is glorified in man, And to man's glory vowed I soul and limb. Yet, constituted thus, and thus endowed, I failed: I gazed on power till I grew blind. Power; I could not take my eyes from that: That only, I thought, should be preserved, increased At any risk, displayed, struck out at once- The sign and note and character of man. I saw no use in the past: only a scene Of degradation, ugliness and tears, The record of disgraces best forgotten, A sullen page in human chronicles Fit to erase. I saw no cause why man Should not stand all-sufficient even now, Or why his annals should be forced to tell That once the tide of light, about to break Upon the world, was sealed within its spring: I would have had one day, one moment's space, Change man's condition, push each slumbering claim Of mastery o'er the elemental world At once to full maturity, then roll Oblivion o'er the work, and hide from man What night had ushered morn. Not so, dear child Of after-days, wilt thou reject the past Big with deep warnings of the proper tenure By which thou hast the earth: for thee the present Shall have distinct and trembling beauty, seen Beside that past's own shade when, in relief, Its brightness shall stand out: nor yet on thee Shall burst the future, as successive zones Of several wonder open on some spirit Flying secure and glad from heaven to heaven: But thou shalt painfully attain to joy, While hope and fear and love shall keep thee man! All this was hid from me: as one by one My dreams grew dim, my wide aims circumscribed, As actual good within my reach decreased, While obstacles sprung up this way and that To keep me from effecting half the sum, Small as it proved; as objects, mean within The primal aggregate, seemed, even the least, Itself a match for my concentred strength What wonder if I saw no way to shun Despair? The power I sought for man, seemed God's. In this conjuncture, as I prayed to die, A strange adventure made me know, one sin Had spotted my career from its uprise; I saw Aprilemy Aprile there! And as the poor melodious wretch disburthened His heart, and moaned his weakness in my ear, I learned my own deep error; love's undoing Taught me the worth of love in man's estate, And what proportion love should hold with power In his right constitution; love preceding Power, and with much power, always much more love; Love still too straitened in his present means, And earnest for new power to set love free. I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned: And thus, when men received with stupid wonder My first revealings, would have worshipped me, And I despised and loathed their proffered praise When, with awakened eyes, they took revenge For past credulity in casting shame On my real knowledge, and I hated them It was not strange I saw no good in man, To overbalance all the wear and waste Of faculties, displayed in vain, but born To prosper in some better sphere: and why? In my own heart love had not been made wise To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind, To know even hate is but a mask of love's, To see a good in evil, and a hope In ill-success; to sympathize, be proud Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; All with a touch of nobleness, despite Their error, upward tending all though weak, Like plants in mines which never saw the sun, But dream of him, and guess where he may be, And do their best to climb and get to him. All this I knew not, and I failed. Let men Regard me, and the poet dead long ago Who loved too rashly; and shape forth a third And better-tempered spirit, warned by both: As from the over-radiant star too mad To drink the life-springs, beamless thence itself And the dark orb which borders the abyss, Ingulfed in icy night,might have its course A temperate and equidistant world. Meanwhile, I have done well, though not all well. As yet men cannot do without contempt; 'T is for their good, and therefore fit awhile That they reject the weak, and scorn the false, Rather than praise the strong and true, in me: But after, they will know me. If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time; I press God's lamp Close to my breast; its splendour, soon or late, Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day. You understand me? I have said enough? Festus. Now die, dear Aureole! Paracelsus.            Festus, let my hand This hand, lie in your own, my own true friend! Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile! Festus. And this was Paracelsus! ~ Robert Browning, Paracelsus - Part V - Paracelsus Attains ,

278:A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, They alway must be with us, or we die. Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion. The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own vallies: so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din; Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer My little boat, for many quiet hours, With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. Many and many a verse I hope to write, Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, I must be near the middle of my story. O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, See it half finished: but let Autumn bold, With universal tinge of sober gold, Be all about me when I make an end. And now at once, adventuresome, I send My herald thought into a wilderness: There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress My uncertain path with green, that I may speed Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed So plenteously all weed-hidden roots Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits. And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens, Never again saw he the happy pens Whither his brethren, bleating with content, Over the hills at every nightfall went. Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever, That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever From the white flock, but pass'd unworried By angry wolf, or pard with prying head, Until it came to some unfooted plains Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly To a wide lawn, whence one could only see Stems thronging all around between the swell Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell The freshness of the space of heaven above, Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove Would often beat its wings, and often too A little cloud would move across the blue. Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress Of flowers budded newly; and the dew Had taken fairy phantasies to strew Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in pomp receive. For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre Of brightness so unsullied, that therein A melancholy spirit well might win Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun; The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass; Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold, To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. Now while the silent workings of the dawn Were busiest, into that self-same lawn All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped A troop of little children garlanded; Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry Earnestly round as wishing to espy Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited For many moments, ere their ears were sated With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then Fill'd out its voice, and died away again. Within a little space again it gave Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking Through copse-clad vallies,ere their death, oer-taking The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. And now, as deep into the wood as we Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light Fair faces and a rush of garments white, Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last Into the widest alley they all past, Making directly for the woodland altar. O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulter In telling of this goodly company, Of their old piety, and of their glee: But let a portion of ethereal dew Fall on my head, and presently unmew My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring, To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. Leading the way, young damsels danced along, Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; Each having a white wicker over brimm'd With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd, A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks As may be read of in Arcadian books; Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity o'er-flowing die In music, through the vales of Thessaly: Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground, And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, Now coming from beneath the forest trees, A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept, And after him his sacred vestments swept. From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white, Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light; And in his left he held a basket full Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull: Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car, Easily rolling so as scarce to mar The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown; And, for those simple times, his garments were A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare, Was hung a silver bugle, and between His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd, To common lookers on, like one who dream'd Of idleness in groves Elysian: But there were some who feelingly could scan A lurking trouble in his nether lip, And see that oftentimes the reins would slip Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh, And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry, Of logs piled solemnly.Ah, well-a-day, Why should our young Endymion pine away! Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd, Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'd To sudden veneration: women meek Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear. Endymion too, without a forest peer, Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face, Among his brothers of the mountain chase. In midst of all, the venerable priest Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least, And, after lifting up his aged hands, Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands! Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: Whether descended from beneath the rocks That overtop your mountains; whether come From vallies where the pipe is never dumb; Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge, Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn: Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air; And all ye gentle girls who foster up Udderless lambs, and in a little cup Will put choice honey for a favoured youth: Yea, every one attend! for in good truth Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd His early song against yon breezy sky, That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity." Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire; Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god. Now while the earth was drinking it, and while Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile, And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang: "O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness; Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reeds In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth; Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth Thou wast to lose fair Syrinxdo thou now, By thy love's milky brow! By all the trembling mazes that she ran, Hear us, great Pan! "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, What time thou wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn; The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year All its completionsbe quickly near, By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine! "Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown By all the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, O satyr king! "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms: Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, That come a swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors: Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledgesee, Great son of Dryope, The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows! Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth Gives it a touch ethereala new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknownbut no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, Upon thy Mount Lycean! Even while they brought the burden to a close, A shout from the whole multitude arose, That lingered in the air like dying rolls Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine, Young companies nimbly began dancing To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly To tunes forgottenout of memory: Fair creatures! whose young children's children bred Thermopyl its heroesnot yet dead, But in old marbles ever beautiful. High genitors, unconscious did they cull Time's sweet first-fruitsthey danc'd to weariness, And then in quiet circles did they press The hillock turf, and caught the latter end Of some strange history, potent to send A young mind from its bodily tenement. Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent On either side; pitying the sad death Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath Of Zephyr slew him,Zephyr penitent, Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. The archers too, upon a wider plain, Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft, And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top, Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, And very, very deadliness did nip Her motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad mood By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd, Uplifting his strong bow into the air, Many might after brighter visions stare: After the Argonauts, in blind amaze Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways, Until, from the horizon's vaulted side, There shot a golden splendour far and wide, Spangling those million poutings of the brine With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shine From the exaltation of Apollo's bow; A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. Who thus were ripe for high contemplating, Might turn their steps towards the sober ring Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd The silvery setting of their mortal star. There they discours'd upon the fragile bar That keeps us from our homes ethereal; And what our duties there: to nightly call Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather; To summon all the downiest clouds together For the sun's purple couch; to emulate In ministring the potent rule of fate With speed of fire-tailed exhalations; To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these, A world of other unguess'd offices. Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse Each one his own anticipated bliss. One felt heart-certain that he could not miss His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs, Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows Her lips with music for the welcoming. Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring, To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails, Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales: Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind, And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind; And, ever after, through those regions be His messenger, his little Mercury. Some were athirst in soul to see again Their fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaign In times long past; to sit with them, and talk Of all the chances in their earthly walk; Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores Of happiness, to when upon the moors, Benighted, close they huddled from the cold, And shar'd their famish'd scrips. Thus all out-told Their fond imaginations,saving him Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim, Endymion: yet hourly had he striven To hide the cankering venom, that had riven His fainting recollections. Now indeed His senses had swoon'd off: he did not heed The sudden silence, or the whispers low, Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe, Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms, Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms: But in the self-same fixed trance he kept, Like one who on the earth had never stept. Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man, Frozen in that old tale Arabian. Who whispers him so pantingly and close? Peona, his sweet sister: of all those, His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made, And breath'd a sister's sorrow to persuade A yielding up, a cradling on her care. Her eloquence did breathe away the curse: She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, Along a path between two little streams, Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small; Until they came to where these streamlets fall, With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. A little shallop, floating there hard by, Pointed its beak over the fringed bank; And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, And dipt again, with the young couple's weight, Peona guiding, through the water straight, Towards a bowery island opposite; Which gaining presently, she steered light Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, Where nested was an arbour, overwove By many a summer's silent fingering; To whose cool bosom she was used to bring Her playmates, with their needle broidery, And minstrel memories of times gone by. So she was gently glad to see him laid Under her favourite bower's quiet shade, On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves When last the sun his autumn tresses shook, And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took. Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest: But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest Peona's busy hand against his lips, And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tips In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps A patient watch over the stream that creeps Windingly by it, so the quiet maid Held her in peace: so that a whispering blade Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling Among seer leaves and twigs, might all be heard. O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves And moonlight; aye, to all the mazy world Of silvery enchantment!who, upfurl'd Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour, But renovates and lives?Thus, in the bower, Endymion was calm'd to life again. Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain, He said: "I feel this thine endearing love All through my bosom: thou art as a dove Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings About me; and the pearliest dew not brings Such morning incense from the fields of May, As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray From those kind eyes,the very home and haunt Of sisterly affection. Can I want Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears? Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears That, any longer, I will pass my days Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar: Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll Around the breathed boar: again I'll poll The fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow: And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, Again I'll linger in a sloping mead To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered sweet, And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat My soul to keep in its resolved course." Hereat Peona, in their silver source, Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim, And took a lute, from which there pulsing came A lively prelude, fashioning the way In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay More subtle cadenced, more forest wild Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child; And nothing since has floated in the air So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand; For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'd The quick invisible strings, even though she saw Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw Before the deep intoxication. But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon Her self-possessionswung the lute aside, And earnestly said: "Brother, 'tis vain to hide That thou dost know of things mysterious, Immortal, starry; such alone could thus Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aught Offensive to the heavenly powers? Caught A Paphian dove upon a message sent? Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent, Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seen Her naked limbs among the alders green; And that, alas! is death. No, I can trace Something more high perplexing in thy face!" Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand, And said, "Art thou so pale, who wast so bland And merry in our meadows? How is this? Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss! Ah! thou hast been unhappy at the change Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange? Or more complete to overwhelm surmise? Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize, That toiling years would put within my grasp, That I have sigh'd for: with so deadly gasp No man e'er panted for a mortal love. So all have set my heavier grief above These things which happen. Rightly have they done: I, who still saw the horizontal sun Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world, Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd My spear aloft, as signal for the chace I, who, for very sport of heart, would race With my own steed from Araby; pluck down A vulture from his towery perching; frown A lion into growling, loth retire To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire, And sink thus low! but I will ease my breast Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. "This river does not see the naked sky, Till it begins to progress silverly Around the western border of the wood, Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood Seems at the distance like a crescent moon: And in that nook, the very pride of June, Had I been used to pass my weary eves; The rather for the sun unwilling leaves So dear a picture of his sovereign power, And I could witness his most kingly hour, When he doth lighten up the golden reins, And paces leisurely down amber plains His snorting four. Now when his chariot last Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red: At which I wondered greatly, knowing well That but one night had wrought this flowery spell; And, sitting down close by, began to muse What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus, In passing here, his owlet pinions shook; Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth, Had dipt his rod in it: such garland wealth Came not by common growth. Thus on I thought, Until my head was dizzy and distraught. Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul; And shaping visions all about my sight Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light; The which became more strange, and strange, and dim, And then were gulph'd in a tumultuous swim: And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell The enchantment that afterwards befel? Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dream That never tongue, although it overteem With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring, Could figure out and to conception bring All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay Watching the zenith, where the milky way Among the stars in virgin splendour pours; And travelling my eye, until the doors Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight, I became loth and fearful to alight From such high soaring by a downward glance: So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, Spreading imaginary pinions wide. When, presently, the stars began to glide, And faint away, before my eager view: At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue, And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge; And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er A shell for Neptune's goblet: she did soar So passionately bright, my dazzled soul Commingling with her argent spheres did roll Through clear and cloudy, even when she went At last into a dark and vapoury tent Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train Of planets all were in the blue again. To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'd My sight right upward: but it was quite dazed By a bright something, sailing down apace, Making me quickly veil my eyes and face: Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, Who from Olympus watch our destinies! Whence that completed form of all completeness? Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness? Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O Where Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair? Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun; Notthy soft hand, fair sister! let me shun Such follying before theeyet she had, Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad; And they were simply gordian'd up and braided, Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded, Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow; The which were blended in, I know not how, With such a paradise of lips and eyes, Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs, That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings And plays about its fancy, till the stings Of human neighbourhood envenom all. Unto what awful power shall I call? To what high fane?Ah! see her hovering feet, More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweet Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion; 'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed, Handfuls of daisies.""Endymion, how strange! Dream within dream!""She took an airy range, And then, towards me, like a very maid, Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid, And press'd me by the hand: Ah! 'twas too much; Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, Yet held my recollection, even as one Who dives three fathoms where the waters run Gurgling in beds of coral: for anon, I felt upmounted in that region Where falling stars dart their artillery forth, And eagles struggle with the buffeting north That balances the heavy meteor-stone; Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone, But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky. Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high, And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd; Such as ay muster where grey time has scoop'd Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side: There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'd To faint once more by looking on my bliss I was distracted; madly did I kiss The wooing arms which held me, and did give My eyes at once to death: but 'twas to live, To take in draughts of life from the gold fount Of kind and passionate looks; to count, and count The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd A second self, that each might be redeem'd And plunder'd of its load of blessedness. Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dar'd to press Her very cheek against my crowned lip, And, at that moment, felt my body dip Into a warmer air: a moment more, Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells, Made delicate from all white-flower bells; And once, above the edges of our nest, An arch face peep'd,an Oread as I guess'd. "Why did I dream that sleep o'er-power'd me In midst of all this heaven? Why not see, Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark, And stare them from me? But no, like a spark That needs must die, although its little beam Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream Fell into nothinginto stupid sleep. And so it was, until a gentle creep, A careful moving caught my waking ears, And up I started: Ah! my sighs, my tears, My clenched hands;for lo! the poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung A heavy ditty, and the sullen day Had chidden herald Hesperus away, With leaden looks: the solitary breeze Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did teaze With wayward melancholy; and r thought, Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it brought Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus! Away I wander'dall the pleasant hues Of heaven and earth had faded: deepest shades Were deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny glades Were full of pestilent light; our taintless rills Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gills Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grown Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'd In little journeys, I beheld in it A disguis'd demon, missioned to knit My soul with under darkness; to entice My stumblings down some monstrous precipice: Therefore I eager followed, and did curse The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven! These things, with all their comfortings, are given To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea Of weary life."          Thus ended he, and both Sat silent: for the maid was very loth To answer; feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps, And wonders; struggles to devise some blame; To put on such a look as would say, Shame On this poor weakness! but, for all her strife, She could as soon have crush'd away the life From a sick dove. At length, to break the pause, She said with trembling chance: "Is this the cause? This all? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas! That one who through this middle earth should pass Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave His name upon the harp-string, should achieve No higher bard than simple maidenhood, Singing alone, and fearfully,how the blood Left his young cheek; and how he used to stray He knew not where; and how he would say, nay, If any said 'twas love: and yet 'twas love; What could it be but love? How a ring-dove Let fall a sprig of yew tree in his path; And how he died: and then, that love doth scathe, The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses; And then the ballad of his sad life closes With sighs, and an alas!Endymion! Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,anon Among the winds at largethat all may hearken! Although, before the crystal heavens darken, I watch and dote upon the silver lakes Pictur'd in western cloudiness, that takes The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands, Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands With horses prancing o'er them, palaces And towers of amethyst,would I so tease My pleasant days, because I could not mount Into those regions? The Morphean fount Of that fine element that visions, dreams, And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams Into its airy channels with so subtle, So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle, Circled a million times within the space Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace, A tinting of its quality: how light Must dreams themselves be; seeing they're more slight Than the mere nothing that engenders them! Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick For nothing but a dream?" Hereat the youth Look'd up: a conflicting of shame and ruth Was in his plaited brow: yet his eyelids Widened a little, as when Zephyr bids A little breeze to creep between the fans Of careless butterflies: amid his pains He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew, Full palatable; and a colour grew Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake. "Peona! ever have I long'd to slake My thirst for the world's praises: nothing base, No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepar'd Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark bar'd And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. Behold The clear religion of heaven! Fold A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness, And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy stress Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds, And with a sympathetic touch unbinds Eolian magic from their lucid wombs: Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs; Old ditties sigh above their father's grave; Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot; Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit, Where long ago a giant battle was; And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass In every place where infant Orpheus slept. Feel we these things?that moment have we stept Into a sort of oneness, and our state Is like a floating spirit's. But there are Richer entanglements, enthralments far More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, To the chief intensity: the crown of these Is made of love and friendship, and sits high Upon the forehead of humanity. All its more ponderous and bulky worth Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth A steady splendour; but at the tip-top, There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop Of light, and that is love: its influence, Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense, At which we start and fret; till in the end, Melting into its radiance, we blend, Mingle, and so become a part of it, Nor with aught else can our souls interknit So wingedly: when we combine therewith, Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith, And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. Aye, so delicious is the unsating food, That men, who might have tower'd in the van Of all the congregated world, to fan And winnow from the coming step of time All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, Have been content to let occasion die, Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium. And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, Than speak against this ardent listlessness: For I have ever thought that it might bless The world with benefits unknowingly; As does the nightingale, upperched high, And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood. Just so may love, although 'tis understood The mere commingling of passionate breath, Produce more than our searching witnesseth: What I know not: but who, of men, can tell That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, If human souls did never kiss and greet? "Now, if this earthly love has power to make Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake Ambition from their memories, and brim Their measure of content; what merest whim, Seems all this poor endeavour after fame, To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim A love immortal, an immortal too. Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true, And never can be born of atomies That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies, Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. My sayings will the less obscured seem, When I have told thee how my waking sight Has made me scruple whether that same night Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona! Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side. Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell, Far as the slabbed margin of a well, Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet Edges them round, and they have golden pits: 'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat, When all above was faint with mid-day heat. And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, I'd bubble up the water through a reed; So reaching back to boy-hood: make me ships Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily, When love-lorn hours had left me less a child, I sat contemplating the figures wild Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through. Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver; So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver The happy chance: so happy, I was fain To follow it upon the open plain, And, therefore, was just going; when, behold! A wonder, fair as any I have told The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap Through the cool depth.It moved as if to flee I started up, when lo! refreshfully, There came upon my face, in plenteous showers, Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers, Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight, Bathing my spirit in a new delight. Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss Alone preserved me from the drear abyss Of death, for the fair form had gone again. Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth On the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth, 'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure. How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night! Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill: And a whole age of lingering moments crept Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen; Once more been tortured with renewed life. When last the wintry gusts gave over strife With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes In pity of the shatter'd infant buds, That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and smil'd, Chatted with thee, and many days exil'd All torment from my breast;'twas even then, Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den Of helpless discontent,hurling my lance From place to place, and following at chance, At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck In the middle of a brook,whose silver ramble Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble, Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, 'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. "Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?" Said I, low voic'd: "Ah whither! 'Tis the grot Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, Doth her resign; and where her tender hands She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands: Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, And babbles thorough silence, till her wits Are gone in tender madness, and anon, Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone Of sadness. O that she would take my vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, And weave them dyinglysend honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying! O charitable echo! hear, and sing This ditty to her!tell her"so I stay'd My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, Stood stupefied with my own empty folly, And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came: Endymion! the cave is secreter Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair." At that oppress'd I hurried in.Ah! where Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled? I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed Sorrow the way to death, but patiently Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: no longer strive to find A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis naught And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, Already, a more healthy countenance? By this the sun is setting; we may chance Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car." This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand: They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land. ENDYMION. A Romance. "The stretched metre of an antique song." ~ Shakspeare's Sonnets. INSCRIBED, With Every Feeling Of Pride and Regret and With "A Bowed Mind," To the Memory of The Most English of Poets Except Shakspeare, THOMAS CHATTERON. ------------------------ (line 144): A lovely allusion to the story of Apollo's nine years' sojourn on earth as the herdsman of Admetus, when banished from Olympus for killing the Cyclops who had forged the thunder-bolts wherewith AEsculapius had been slain. (line 232): It was the Hymn to Pan beginning here that the young poet when engaged in the composition of Endymion was induced to recite in the presence of Wordsworth, on the 28th of December 1817, at Haydon's house. Leigh Hunt records that the elder poet pronounced it "a very pretty piece of paganism." (line 319): Doubtless meant to refer specially to the Elgin marbles. (line 347): The reference here is to the passage from the second Book of the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, beginning at verse 674 ... which Shelley had in mind when (Prose Works, Vol. 3, p. 56) he alluded to the Apollo "so finely described by Apollonius Rhodius when the dazzling radiance of his beautiful limbs suddenly shone over the dark Euxine." __ note found before the Preface of Endymion, in the Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. ..., 'In Woodhouse's copy of Endymion there is a note against the passage "so I will begin" &c., line 39, Book I, to the effect that the poem was begun in the spring of 1817 and finished in the winter of 1817-18; and in the title-page he has inserted April before 1818. The statement corresponds with Keats's own record of May 1817, that he was busying himself at Margate with the commencement of Endymion.' PREFACE. Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public. What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good; -- it will not: the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live. This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honor of English literature. The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages. I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewell. Teignmouth, April 10, 1818. [footnote] Woodhouse notes -- "[for I wish to try once more,] This alluded to his then intention of writing a poem on the fall of Hyperion. He commenced this poem: but, thanks to the critics who fell foul of this work, he discontinued it. The fragment was published in 1820." by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Endymion - Book I ,

279: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,