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1:So Abraham called the name of that place, "The Lord will provide"; as it is said to this day, "On the mount of the Lord it shall be provided." ~ Anonymous, The Bible, Genesis, 22:14,

2:He (The Great Monarch) shall reign over the entire ancient Roman Empire … . At the end of his most glorious reign, he shall go to Jerusalem, and shall lay down his Crown and Sceptre on the Mount of Olives…" ~ Saint Remy of Rheims, (c. 438-533 AD),

3:How then did they fall down in the mount? There was solitude, and height, and great quietness, and a transfiguration full of awe, and a pure light, and a cloud stretched out; all which things put them in great alarm. And the amazement came thick on every side. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,

4:Noah harkened to the voice of the Lord that is he lived according to the Law, perfecting his soul and enriching his consciousness with the many experiences which result from the mystery of living. As a consequence the "Lord" protects the life of Noah, and brings the Ark at the end to a safe testing place upon the Mount of the illumination, Ararat. Part of the thirty-third degree of Freemasonry includes an interpretation of the symbolism of Noah and his Ark. Considered mystically, the story of the Flood is the wise man's mastery of adversity. It is the philosopher surviving the onslaughts of ignorance. It is the illumined mystic floating safely over the chaos.    ~ Manly P Hall, How To Understand Your Bible,

5:But now thou askest me how thou mayest destroy this naked knowing and feeling of thine own being. For peradventure thou thinkest that if it were destroyed, all other hindrances were destroyed ; and if thou thinkest thus, thou thinkest right truly. But to this I answer thee and I say, that without a full special grace full freely given by God, and also a full according ableness on thy part to receive this grace, this naked knowing and feeling of thy being may in nowise be destroyed. And this ableness is nought else but a strong and a deep ghostly sorrow. ... All men have matter of sorrow; but most specially he feeleth matter of sorrow that knoweth and feeleth that he is. All other sorrows in comparison to this be but as it were game to earnest. For he may make sorrow earnestly that knoweth and feeleth not only what he is, but that he is. And whoso felt never this sorrow, let him make sorrow; for he hath never yet felt perfect sorrow. This sorrow, when it is had, cleanseth the soul, not only of sin, but also of pain that it hath deserved for sin ; and also it maketh a soul able to receive that joy, the which reave th from a man all knowing and feeling of his being. This sorrow, if it be truly conceived, is full of holy desire; and else a man might never in this life abide it or bear it. For were it not that a soul were somewhat fed with a manner of comfort by his right working, he should not be able to bear that pain that he hath by the knowing and feeling of his being. For as oft as he would have a true knowing and a feeling of his God in purity of spirit (as it may be here), and then feeleth that he may not for he findeth evermore his knowing and his feeling as it were occupied and filled with a foul stinking lump of himself, the which must always be hated and despised and forsaken, if he shall be God's perfect disciple, taught by Himself in the mount of perfection so oft he goeth nigh mad for sorrow. . . . This sorrow and this desire must every soul have and feel in itself (either in this manner or in another), as God vouchsafed! to teach his ghostly disciples according to his good will and their according ableness in body and in soul, in degree and disposition, ere the time be that they may perfectly be oned unto God in perfect charity such as may be had here, if God vouchsafed!.    ~ Anonymous, The Cloud Of Unknowing,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:Most people are willing to take the Sermon on the Mount as a flag to sail under, but few will use it as a rudder by which to steer. ~ oliver-wendell-holmes-sr, @wisdomtrove

2:If it weren't for the message of mercy and pity in Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, I wouldn't want to be a human being. I would just as soon be a rattlesnake. ~ kurt-vonnegut, @wisdomtrove

3:Where possible Paul avoids quoting the teaching of Jesus, in fact even mentioning it. If we had to rely on Paul, we should not know that Jesus taught in parables, had delivered the sermon on the mount, and had taught His disciples the &

4:For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the Beatitudes (Matthew 5). But, often with tears in their eyes, they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings. And of course, that's Moses, not Jesus. I haven't heard one of them demand that the Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes, be posted anywhere. "Blessed are the merciful" in a courtroom? "Blessed are the peacemakers" in the Pentagon? Give me a break! ~ kurt-vonnegut, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:toward the Mount.4 ~ Dante Alighieri,

2:the Mount Rushmore KOA complex near ~ C J Box,

3:It’s the Mount Effect, I decide. ~ Meghan March,

4:The ten commandments and the sermon on the mount contain my religion. ~ John Adams,

5:30†And when they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives. ~ Anonymous,

6:Modern poverty is not the poverty that was blest in the Sermon on the Mount. ~ George Bernard Shaw,

7:Moses into the mount, and there in solemn procession made all His glory pass before him. ~ A W Tozer,

8:If people find that controversial then I would just refer them to the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Barack Obama,

9:Bill O'Reilly, Megyn Kelly and Sean Hannity are the Mount Rushmore of keeping old people angry. ~ Joel McHale,

10:The basis for the ethics of the Sermon on the Mount is not what works, but rather who God is. ~ Stanley Hauerwas,

11:I find a solace a in the Bhagavadgita and Upanishads that I miss even in the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

12:If we desire rules to govern our spiritual development we turn back to the Sermon on the Mount. ~ William Jennings Bryan,

13:It is a marker on the road to greener pastures, a path chiseled against the steep sides of the mount of God. ~ A W Tozer,

14:We have all read the golden rule and the Sermon on the Mount. Our trouble is not ignorance, but inaction. ~ Dale Carnegie,

15:I contend that it's impossible to read the Sermon on the Mount and not come out against capital punishment. ~ Tony Campolo,

16:The churches are placed in a dilemma: the Sermon on the Mount or the Nicene Creed—the one excludes the other. ~ Leo Tolstoy,

17:is wrong to ask anybody who is not first a Christian to try to live or practise the Sermon on the Mount. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,

18:Application is what gets the Sermon off the Mount, and down in the valley where the toilers live out their days. ~ Calvin Miller,

19:I’m sure the Joint Chiefs of Staff would agree that you cannot run the Pentagon according to the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Brian Zahnd,

20:A legal religion is insufficient to bring the soul into harmony with God. ~ Ellen G. White, Thoughts from the Mount of Blessing (1896), p. 53,

21:I would like to be a parson on this island. Explain the Sermon on the Mount to ordinary people and let the world be the world. ~ Joseph Goebbels,

22:The nobility of England would have snored through the Sermon on the Mount. But you'll labor like scholars over a bulldog's pedigree. ~ Robert Bolt,

23:Deliverance is always found on 'the mount'; living faith must first prove to God that it has taken His word and promise for victory. ~ Rees Howells,

24:If I had to face only the Sermon on the Mount and my own interpretation of it, I should not hesitate to say, 'O yes, I am a Christian.' ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

25:Christ’s story was unequalled and his death to save sinners unsurpassed; moreover the Sermon on the Mount was the last word in ethics. ~ Winston S Churchill,

26:Most people are willing to take the Sermon on the Mount as a flag to sail under, but few will use it as a rudder by which to steer. ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr,

27:The great question is, can war be outlawed from the world? If so, it would mark the greatest advance in civilization since the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Douglas MacArthur,

28:The Sermon on the Mount cannot be a merely human production. This belief enters into the very depth of my conscience. The whole history of man proves it. ~ Daniel Webster,

29:A person who is fundamentally honest doesn't need a code of ethics. The Ten Commandments and the Sermon on the Mount are all the ethical code anybody needs. ~ Harry Truman,

30:A person who is fundamentally honest doesn't need a code of ethics. The Ten Commandments and the Sermon on the Mount are all the ethical code anybody needs. ~ Harry S Truman,

31:Whenever a people are bound together in loyalty to a story that includes something as strange as the Sermon on the Mount, we are put at odds with the world. ~ Stanley Hauerwas,

32:I do not believe there is a problem in this country or the world today which could not be settled if approached through the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Harry S Truman,

33:the Sermon on the Mount is God’s formula for revival. The Beatitudes are His recipe for His kingdom to come and His will to be done on the earth as it is in heaven. ~ Heidi Baker,

34:The Sermon on the Mount is law, not grace, for it demands as the condition of blessingMt 5:3-9 that perfect character which grace, through divine power, creates Ga 5:22,23 ~ Anonymous,

35:The Sermon on the Mount commands me to lay up for myself treasures, not upon earth, but in Heaven. My hopes of a future life are all founded upon the Gospel of Christ. ~ John Quincy Adams,

36:I doubt if there is any problem in the world today - social, political or economic - that would not find a happy solution if approached in the spirit of the sermon on the mount. ~ Harry Truman,

37:If God is not with us, we do not want to continue. If the Sermon on the Mount is simply impractical, our mission work is hopeless. We have no backup plan. We have nothing but Him. ~ Heidi Baker,

38:What did Jesus tell his disciples? “Heaven is right here in the midst of you.”6 In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus makes a prediction that to this day few people have understood. ~ Eckhart Tolle,

39:we cannot say too often that in the Sermon on the Mount we are not looking at laws, but at a life: a life in which the genuine laws of God eventually become naturally fulfilled. ~ Dallas Willard,

40:Bonhoeffer’s rule never to speak about a brother in his absence. Bonhoeffer knew that living according to what Jesus taught in the Sermon on the Mount was not “natural” for anyone. ~ Eric Metaxas,

41:Honestly, I would think I would go way back to Biblical times and be one of the guys who saw Jesus Sermon on the Mount. It would be so cool to see what he was really like in person. ~ Jason Dolley,

42:Look at the commencement of His ministry. In the Beatitudes with which the Sermon on the Mount opens, He speaks: “Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. ~ Andrew Murray,

43:People are overwhelmed looking up at the Mount Everest of environmental challenges that we face. But you put one foot in front of the other and you recognize that not everyone is Sir Edmund Hillary. ~ Ed Begley Jr,

44:In the New Testament, Thomas Jefferson cut out everything that was mystical, magical, miracle - physically with scissors - and then pasted in all that remained, such as Jesus's Sermon on the Mount. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

45:in about 5600 BC the Mount Mazama volcano in Oregon erupted, raining rock and burning ash for years, and leading to the many years of rainfall that eventually filled the volcanic crater today called Crater Lake. ~ Stephen Hawking,

46:The fundamental basis of this Nation's law was given to Moses on the Mount. The fundamental basis of our Bill of Rights comes from the teachings which we get from Exodus and St. Matthew, from Isaiah and St. Paul. ~ Harry S Truman,

47:As I toiled up the Mount of Olives, in the very footsteps of Christ, panting with the heat and the difficult ascent, I found it utterly impossible to conceive that the Deity, in human form, had walked there before me. ~ Bayard Taylor,

48:Absolute ideals and absolute grace: after learning that dual message from Russian novelists, I returned to Jesus and found that it suffuses his teaching throughout the Gospels and especially in the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Philip Yancey,

49:The Cost of Discipleship, his meditation on Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, disparaging the “cheap grace” of the majority of German Christians in favor of the “costly grace” that linked Christian belief to social courage. ~ Thomas Cahill,

50:The renewal of the Church will come from a new type of monasticism which only has in common with the old an uncompromising allegiance to the Sermon on the Mount. It is high time people banded together to do this. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

51:The Sermon on the Mount is not a set of principles to be obeyed apart from identification with Jesus Christ. The Sermon on the Mount is a statement of the life we will live when the Holy Spirit is getting his way with us. ~ Oswald Chambers,

52:It is a very terrible sermon, this Sermon on the Mount. Be very careful as you read it, and especially when you talk about it. If you criticize this Sermon at any point you are really saying a great deal about yourself. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,

53:... some people cannot bear the truth, no matter how tactfully it is told. No doubt the haughty, the tyrannical, the unmerciful, the impure and the fomentors of discord take a fierce exception to the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Mary Church Terrell,

54:We shall never understand the ethical system taught by Jesus unless we realize that he was a Jew, not only by birth, but that he lived and taught as a Jew; the Sermon on the Mount was addressed to his distracted fellow nationals. ~ Arthur Keith,

55:It's the hard things in life that hold the most achievement. Would you rather win a small-town race or win the gold at the Olympics? Think of this as the big games, the Mount Everest. Tackle it, conquer it, and bring home the gold. ~ Leddy Harper,

56:You have accused me of upsetting order by my free drinks, and I have showed you that there is a more dreadful fermentation in the Sermon on the Mount than in my beer-barrels. Christ thought it in the irresponsibility of His omnipotence. ~ W B Yeats,

57:Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants. We know more about war than we know about peace, more about killing than we know about living. We have grasped the mystery of the atom and rejected the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Omar Nelson Bradley,

58:I wanted to be alone with the One. The One who scaled then careened from the heights of the Mount. The One who raised up the man from the mud. The One who fashioned me from a part of the man and knew me more intimately than even the adam. ~ Tosca Lee,

59:There is nothing, surely, which exhorts us more than this Sermon on the Mount to be what we are meant to be, and to live as we are meant to live; to be like Christ by being a complete contrast to everyone who does not belong to Christ. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,

60:The fundamental basis of this nation’s laws was given to Moses on the Mount…If we don’t have a proper fundamental moral background, we will finally end up with a totalitarian government which does not believe in rights for anybody except the State. ~ Harry Truman,

61:But if we are walking in the light, submitting to the truth of God, believing in the light, in Christ, our record today is white as Christ's garments were when the disciples saw Him on the Mount of Transfiguration (Matt. 17: 2, Mark 9: 3, Luke 9: 29). ~ R A Torrey,

62:13 And you said in your heart, I will ascend to heaven; I will exalt my throne above the stars of God; I will sit upon the mount of assembly in the uttermost north. 14 I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High. ~ Anonymous,

63:The fundamental basis of this nation’s laws was given to Moses on the Mount…If we don’t have a proper fundamental moral background, we will finally end up with a totalitarian government which does not believe in rights for anybody except the State. ~ Harry S Truman,

64:It was the Sermon on the Mount, rather than a doctrine of passive resistance, that initially inspired the Negroes of Montgomery to dignified social action. It was Jesus of Nazareth that stirred the Negroes to protest with the creative weapon of love. As ~ Martin Luther King Jr,

65:The Sermon on the Mount...went straight to my heart. I compared it with the Gita. My young mind tried to unify the teaching of the Gita, the `Light of Asia' and the Sermon on the Mount. That renunciation was the highest form of religion appealed to me greatly. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,

66:is a marker on the road to greener pastures, a path chiseled against the steep sides of the mount of God. We dare not try to by-pass it if we would follow on in this holy pursuit. We must ascend a step at a time. If we refuse one step we bring our progress to an end. ~ A W Tozer,

67:One of Hale’s favorite poems echoed Jesus’s command in the Sermon on the Mount: Man’s judgment errs, but there is One who “doeth all things well.” Ever, throughout the voyage of life, this precept keep in view: “Do unto others as thou wouldst that they should do to you. ~ David Grann,

68:Ministry is simply you loving like Jesus. It is the Beatitudes manifest through your life. Missions are when you have the love of God so that He can demonstrate His very life and nature through you. Missions are intended to be the Sermon on the Mount played out on Earth. ~ Heidi Baker,

69:The entire education of the younger generation of theologians belongs today in church cloister-like schools, in which pure doctrine, the Sermon on the Mount and worship are taken seriously—as they never are (and in present circumstances couldn’t be) at the university. It ~ Eric Metaxas,

70:The gravedigger looks like Santa Claus, and I don’t believe for a minute he doesn’t know it. With his long white beard and stout build, he has to know the effect of wearing a red and white anorak and how inappropriate the whole getup looks in the Mount Zion Cemetery. ~ Jonathan Tropper,

71:I'm Peter on the mountaintop, stirring to see The Glory in all its God-radiance, stammering out that it's good to be here; let's build shelters and never depart. But there's always the descent from the mount. The meeting of the crowd, the complaining, the cursing. Page 124 ~ Ann Voskamp,

72:No greater blessing could come to our land today than a revival of the spirit of religion. I doubt if there is any problem in the world today -- social, political, or economic -- that would not find happy solution if approached in the spirit of the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Franklin D Roosevelt,

73:Conclude not from all this that I have renounced the Christian religion. . . . Far from it. I see in every page something to recommend Christianity in its purity, and something to discredit its corruptions. . . . The ten commandments and the sermon on the mount contain my religion. ~ John Adams,

74:Jesus himself, as the gospel story goes on to its dramatic conclusion, lives out the same message of the Sermon on the Mount: he is the light of the world, he is the salt of the earth, he loves his enemies and gives his life for them, he is lifted up on a hill so that the world can see. ~ N T Wright,

75:The restoration of the church must surely depend on a new kind of monasticism, which has nothing in common with the old but a life of uncompromising discipleship, following Christ according to the sermon on the mount. I believe the time has come to gather people together to do this. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

76:It's pretty simple for me, really. I want to be able to carry a gun; listen to whatever music I like; eat, drink and be merry; and not hurt anyone else (the exception, obviously, being self-defense). It's the abbreviated Sermon on the Mount: treat other people the way you want to be treated. ~ Dave Mustaine,

77:Therefore in this more biblical way of looking at things joy (beatitude) is the consequence and not the enemy of law. What Jesus gives us in the Sermon on the Mount, therefore, is that new law that would discipline our desires, our minds, and our bodies so as to make real happiness possible. ~ Robert E Barron,

78:If the Church would have her face shine, she must go up into the mount, and be alone with God. If she would have her courts of worship resound with eucharistic praises, she must open her eyes, and see humanity lying lame at the temple gates, and heal it in the miraculous name of Jesus. ~ Frederic Dan Huntington,

79:Some of my colleagues want to be The Anchorman on the Mount. Others see themselves as the Ace Reporter. Because of 60 Minutes, there's a whole herd of them determined to be The Grand Inquisitor and a heady number want only to be The Friendliest Anchor on the Block. At least one wants to be Jesus. ~ Linda Ellerbee,

80:We heard the Sermon on the Mount and I knew it was too complex, It didn't amount to anything more than what the broken glass reflects. When you bite off more than you can chew you pay the penalty, Somebody's got to tell the tale, I guess it must be up to me. –Bob Dylan, “Up To Me ~ Bob Dylan,

81:The restoration of the church must surely depend on a new kind of monasticism, which has nothing in common with the old but a life of uncompromising discipleship, following Christ according to the Sermon on the Mount. I believe the time has come to gather people together to do this. —DIETRICH BONHOEFFER ~ Eric Metaxas,

82:The Golden Rule is intolerable; if millions did to others whatever they wished others to do to them, few would be safe from molestation. The Golden Rule shows anything but moral genius, and the claim by which it is followed in the Sermon on the Mount -- 'this is the Law and the Prophets' -- makes little sense. ~ Walter Kaufmann,

83:we eventually have to ask ourselves what did Jesus intend and when do we need to turn the other cheek? If our default response to this portion of the Sermon on the Mount is to craft exemptions, we might give the impression that we really don’t believe in Jesus’s ideas of nonviolent resistance and enemy love at all. ~ Brian Zahnd,

84:Matthew is the only gospel that uses the Sermon on the Mount, for example, because that's the new Moses making a new interpretation of the law on a new mountain. So then you begin to put all these things together, and I don't know how you can make sense out of that book if you don't know the Jewish background. ~ John Shelby Spong,

85:Follow Christ in the denial of all the wills of self, and then all is put away that separates you from God; the heaven born new creature will come to life in you, which alone knows and enjoys the things of God, and has his daily food of gladness in that manifold blessed, and blessed, which Christ preached on the mount. ~ William Law,

86:In any case, he had long felt that Gandhi could provide some clues for him. Gandhi was not a Christian, but he lived in a community that endeavored to live by the teachings set forth in the Sermon on the Mount. Bonhoeffer wanted Christians to live that way. So he would travel to India to see it practiced by non-Christians. ~ Eric Metaxas,

87:Valuable as are the opportunities for Christian culture and service they will be disastrous if they rob us of the time that we should otherwise spend with God. Let the first moments of the day, when the heart is fresh, be given to God. Never see the face of man until you have seen the King. Dare to be alone often on the Mount. ~ F B Meyer,

88:Where possible Paul avoids quoting the teaching of Jesus, in fact even mentioning it. If we had to rely on Paul, we should not know that Jesus taught in parables, had delivered the sermon on the mount, and had taught His disciples the 'Our Father.' Even where they are specially relevant, Paul passes over the words of the Lord. ~ Albert Schweitzer,

89:Jeppe on the Mount "By Ludvig Holberg "Jeppe falls asleep in a ditch ... and wakes up in the Baron's bed. So he thinks he only dreamed that he was a poor farmhand. Then when he falls asleep again they carry him back to the ditch, and he wakes up again. This time he thinks he only dreamed he was lying in the Baron's bed. ~ Jostein Gaarder,

90:Our Lord's descent from the holy heights of the Mount of Transfiguration was more than a physical return from greater to lesser altitudes; it was a passing from sunshine into shadow, from the effulgent glory of heaven to the mists of worldly passions and human unbelief; it was the beginning of His rapid descent into the valley of humiliation. ~ James E Talmage,

91:Maybe the Sermon on the Mount is all about Jesus’s lavish blessing of the people around him on that hillside, blessing all the accidental saints in this world, especially those who that world — like ours — didn’t seem to have much time for: people in pain, people who work for peace instead of profit, people who exercise mercy instead of vengeance. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,

92:Prayer for a Time of Suffering O Lord Jesus, by your incomparable sadness and by the unparalleled desolation that seized your divine heart on the Mount of Olives and on the Cross, and by the desolation of your dear Mother when she lost you, be our joy, or at least be our strength, now while your Cross and Passion are so closely joined to our hearts. ~ Francis de Sales,

93:As to 'caring for' the Sermon on the Mount, if 'caring for' here means 'liking' or enjoying, I suppose no one 'cares for' it. Who can like being knocked flat on his face by a sledge-hammer? I can hardly imagine a more deadly spiritual condition than that of the man who can read the passage with tranquil pleasure. This is indeed to be 'at ease in Zion'. ~ C S Lewis,

94:The Exodus also = salvation; Egypt = sin; Pharoah = Satan; Moses = Christ; the Jews = the Church; the Red Sea = death; the wilderness = Purgatory; the Old Law = the New Law; the gospel; the old Mount (Sinai) = the new mount from which Jesus preached His “sermon on the mount” (Mt 5-7); and the Promised Land = Heaven. The “=” is not mathematical but symbolic. ~ Peter Kreeft,

95:Prayer for a Time of Suffering O Lord Jesus, by your incomparable sadness and by the unparalleled desolation that seized your divine heart on the Mount of Olives and on the Cross, and by the desolation of your dear Mother when she lost you, be our joy, or at least be our strength, now while your Cross and Passion are so closely joined to our hearts. ~ Saint Francis de Sales,

96:In the Sermon on the Mount it’s quite clear that these are the three great barriers we have to overcome to understand Jesus and the Reign of God. But in Christianity we have always been concerned with ecclesiological questions, sacramental questions, sacerdotal questions, and, needless to say, sexual questions – questions that Jesus practically never bothered with. ~ Richard Rohr,

97:Humanly speaking, it is possible to understand the Sermon on the Mount in a thousand different ways. But Jesus knows only one possibility: simple surrender and obedience - not interpreting or applying it, but doing and obeying it. That is the only way to hear his words. He does not mean for us to discuss it as an ideal. He really means for us to get on with it. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

98:As far as we can reach, He Who Is, and God, are the special names of His Essence; and of these especially He Who Is, not only because when He spoke to Moses in the mount, and Moses asked what His Name was, this was what He called Himself, bidding him say to the people 'I Am has sent me' (Ex. 3:14), but also because we find that this Name is the more strictly appropriate. ~ Gregory of Nazianzus,

99:What Jesus has to say in the Beatitudes and the Sermon on the Mount he addresses to all of these people. His sermon is not instructions on how to be religious or how to be Jewish (or Christian); Jesus’s instructions are on how to be human. Jesus is revealing to the human race the narrow way that leads to life. Jesus is teaching us the counterintuitive way of God that makes life livable. ~ Brian Zahnd,

100:The late Kurt Vonnegut, the satirical American author, wrote: “For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the beatitudes. But—often with tears in their eyes—they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings. And of course that’s Moses, not Jesus. I haven’t heard one of them demand that the Sermon on the Mount, the beatitudes, be posted anywhere. ~ Philip Yancey,

101:To deal with the word of Jesus otherwise than by doing it is to give him the lie. It is to deny the Sermon on the Mount and to say No to his word...That is why as soon as the hurricane begins we lose the word, and find that we have never really believed it. The word we had was not Christ's, but a word we had wrested from him and made our own by reflecting on it instead of doing it. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,

102:Thunderously, inarguably, the Sermon on the Mount proves that before God we all stand on level ground: murderers and temper-throwers, adulterers and lusters, thieves and coveters. We are all desperate, and that is in fact the only state appropriate to a human being who wants to know God. Having fallen from the absolute Ideal, we have nowhere to land but in the safety net of absolute grace. ~ Philip Yancey,

103:The Prayer of Prayers None of our three master teachers of prayer, Augustine, Luther, and Calvin, developed their instruction primarily based on their own experiences. In each case, what they believed and practiced regarding prayer grew mainly out of their understanding of the ultimate master class in prayer—the Lord’s Prayer in Matthew 6:9–13, in the heart of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. ~ Timothy J Keller,

104:If Jesus is a teacher only, then all He can do is to tantalize us by erecting a standard we cannot come anywhere near. But if by being born again from above we know Him first as Savior, we know that He did not come to teach us only. He came to make us what He teaches we should be. The Sermon on the Mount is a statement of the life we will live when the Holy Spirit is having His way with us. ~ Oswald Chambers,

105:Again and again the Sermon on the Mount calls and challenges us to a life of radical discipleship. Note: when Jesus says 'Blessed are the . . . . merciful, peacmakers', and so on, he doesn't just mean that they themselves are blessed. He means that the blessing of God's kingdom works precisely through those people into the wider world. That is how God's kingdom comes. That's one thing to hear afresh. ~ N T Wright,

106:The Sermon on the Mount, if I may use such a comparison, is like a great musical composition, a symphony if you like. Now the whole is greater than a collection of the parts, and we must never lose sight of this wholeness. I do not hesitate to say that, unless we have understood and grasped the Sermon on the Mount as a whole, we cannot understand properly any one of its particular injunctions. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,

107:(Socialist Powers Hapgood)...had become an official in the CIO. There had been some sort of dust-up on a picket line, and he was testifying about it in court, and the judge stops everything and asks him, "Mr. Hapgwood, here you are, you're a graduate of Harvard. why would anyone with your advantages choose the life than you have?" Hapgood answered the judge: "Why, because of the Sermon on the Mount, sir. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

108:Under pressure from the ideology of empire, concepts like freedom and truth gain radically different meanings than those intended by Christ. Freedom becomes a euphemism for vanquishing (instead of loving) enemies; truth finds its ultimate form in the will to power (expressed in the willingness to kill). This is a long way from the ideas of peace, love, and forgiveness set forth by Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Brian Zahnd,

109:ISA14.12 How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!  ISA14.13 For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north:  ISA14.14 I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the most High. ~ Anonymous,

110:If we do what Allah (God) has asked us to do - to unite on the basis of truth, to reform our lives, to civilize ourselves and others, and to form a nation for His glory - and we are attacked by the government and maligned and evil spoken of, that is exactly why Jesus in his Sermon on the Mount said, "Blessed are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you and say all manner of evil against you falsely for My namesake." ~ Louis Farrakhan,

111:Susan Hawley, I suspect, is a woman much in demand in the rarefied zone of political nightlife in this city. She is the ultimate ornament to be hung from the arm of important political figures or captains of industry during quiet dinner meetings. In her commercial dealings, hundred-dollar bills appear in considerable quantity in her purse the morning after, like fishes and loaves in the basket after the Sermon on the Mount. ~ Steve Martini,

112:From Obama's book, "The Audacity of Hope:" "I am not willing to have the state deny American citizens a civil union that confers equivalent rights on such basic matters as hospital visitation or health insurance coverage simply because the people they love are of the same sex - nor am I willing to accept a reading of the Bible that considers an obscure line in Romans to be more defining of Christianity than the Sermon on the Mount." ~ Barack Obama,

113:For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the Beatitudes (Matthew 5). But, often with tears in their eyes, they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings. And of course, that's Moses, not Jesus. I haven't heard one of them demand that the Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes, be posted anywhere. 'Blessed are the merciful' in a courtroom? 'Blessed are the peacemakers' in the Pentagon? Give me a break! ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

114:Often it is hard. So hard, in fact, that Jesus' decree to love and pray for our opponents is regarded as one of the most breathtaking and gut-wrenching challenges of his entire Sermon on the Mount, a speech renowned for its outrageous claims. There was no record of any other spiritual leader ever having articulated such a clear-cut, unambiguous command for people to express compassion to those who are actively working against their best interests. ~ Lee Strobel,

115:Armageddon” was a word that meant a climactic battle for the “mount of assembly,” the very seat of divine power in the heavens. Hermon was the mount of assembly for the gods of the earth. Zion was the mount of assembly for Yahweh in Jerusalem. Belial had used the term to express the clash of kingdoms that was coming between the kingdom of heaven and the kingdoms of earth. A clash of cosmic mountains. The prophet Ezekiel called it the Battle of Gog and Magog. ~ Brian Godawa,

116:Moses used the fact that he knew God as an argument for knowing Him better. "Now, therefore, I pray thee, if I have found grace in thy sight, show me now thy way, that I may know thee, that I may find grace in thy sight"; and from there he rose to make the daring request, "I beseech thee, show me thy glory." God was frankly pleased by this display of ardor, and the next day called Moses into the mount, and there in solemn procession made all His glory pass before him. ~ A W Tozer,

117:If the Letter to the Hebrews treats the entire Passion as a prayer in which Jesus wrestles with God the Father and at the same time with human nature, it also sheds new light on the theological depth of the Mount of Olives prayer. For these cries and pleas are seen as Jesus’ way of exercising his high priesthood. It is through his cries, his tears, and his prayers that Jesus does what the high priest is meant to do: he holds up to God the anguish of human existence. ~ Benedict XVI,

118:It's a mistake to expect the laws of the country to reflect the imperatives of the New Testament and the Sermon on the Mount. I applaud the efforts of the Church to provide for people in need, regardless of where they're from or how they got here. But I think it's a mistake to turn around and expect a nation to act that way. Americans are uniquely tempted to imagine that we are a church, and that we are a universal nation. This is one of the reasons why we're such a dangerous country. ~ Kelefa Sanneh,

119:In his Sermon on the Mount, [Jesus] declares to his disciples: No one can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth. (Matt. 6: 24) The way of mammon (capital, wealth) is the way of commodity that is the way of endless desire, endless productivity, and endless restlessness without any Sabbath. Jesus taught his disciples that they could not have it both ways. ~ Walter Brueggemann,

120:When Prophet Muhammad [pbuh] was nearly forty, he had been wont to pass long hours in retirement meditating and speculating over all aspects of creation around him. This meditative temperament helped to widen the mental gap between him and his compatriots. He used to provide himself with Sawiq (barley porridge) and water and then directly head for the hills and ravines in the neighbourhood of Makkah. One of these in particular was his favourite resort — a cave named Hira’, in the Mount An- Nour. ~ Anonymous,

121:It was Father Charles Coughlin, of Detroit, who had first thought out the device of freeing himself from any censorship of his political sermons on the Mount by "buying his own time on the air"— it being only in the twentieth century that mankind has been able to buy Time as it buys soap and gasoline. This invention was almost equal, in its effect on all American life and thought, to Henry Ford's early conception of selling cars cheap to millions of people, instead of selling a few as luxuries. ~ Sinclair Lewis,

122:Picture yourself during the early 1920's inside the dome of the Mount Wilson Observatory. ... Humason is showing Shapley stars he had found in the Andromeda Nebula that appeared and disappeared on photographs of that object. The famous astronomer very patiently explains that these objects could not be stars because the Nebula was a nearby gaseous cloud within our own Milky Way system. Shapley takes his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the identifying marks off the back of the photographic plate. ~ Halton Arp,

123:I cannot tolerate this age. And I will not. I might have tolerated you and your Catholic Church, and even joined it, if you had remained true to yourself. Now you're part of the age. You've the same fleas as the dogs you've lain down with. I would have felt at home at Mont-Saint-Michel, the Mount of the Archangel with the flaming sword, or with Richard Coeur de Lion at Acre. They believed in a god who said he came not to bring peace but the sword. Make love not war? I'll take war rather than what this age calls love. ~ Walker Percy,

124:Prophet Smith declared that at His second coming, Jesus Christ would return to Independence, Missouri, in spite of the clear statement in the Bible that He will come back to the Mount of Olives outside Jerusalem." The Bible makes it clear that Jerusalem is Zion. That didn't sway Joseph Smith, however, who stuck by his "revelation" that "Zion" is really Independence, Missouri. Unfortunately, the site that Prophet Smith "divinely chose" for the Zion Temple that must be built prior to Christ's return is owned by the Church of Christ-Temple Lot. This ~ Ed Decker,

125:God’s standard of truth entailed more than merely “not lying.” In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, “You have heard it said . . . but I say unto you.” Jesus took the Old Testament laws to a deeper level of meaning and obedience, from the “letter of the Law” to the “Spirit of the Law.” Following the letter of the law was the dead “religion” of which Barth, among others, had written. It was man’s attempt to deceive God into thinking one was being obedient, which was a far greater deception. God always required something deeper than religious legalism. ~ Eric Metaxas,

126:The teaching of the Sermon on the Mount is not--Do your duty, but--Do what is not your duty. It is not your duty to go the second mile, to turn the other cheek, but Jesus says if we are His disciples we shall always do these things. There will be no spirit of--"Oh, well, I cannot do any more, I have been so misrepresented and misunderstood". . . Never look for right in the other man, but never cease to be right yourself. We are always looking for justice; the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount is--Never look for justice, but never cease to live it. ~ Oswald Chambers,

127:I have a problem with Saint Paul, who never actually met Jesus, and with whoever it was who wrote the book of Revelation (it was definitely not Saint John). I also take issue with the idea that Jesus, after the Crucifixion and Resurrection, started working out and riding horses and having second thoughts about the Sermon on the Mount and the Beatitudes. Where did this new muscular Christ come from? What are the four horsemen of the apocalypse so pissed about? What situation could possibly be made better by unleashing war, pestilence, famine, and death? ~ Mark Vonnegut,

128:God always was, and always is, and always will be. Or rather, God always Is. For Was and Will be are fragments of our time, and of changeable nature, but He is Eternal Being. And this is the Name that He gives to Himself when giving the Oracle to Moses in the Mount. For in Himself He sums up and contains all Being, having neither beginning in the past nor end in the future; like some great Sea of Being, limitless and unbounded, transcending all conception of time and nature, only adumbrated [intimated] by the mind, and that very dimly and scantily. ~ Gregory of Nazianzus,

129:The basis for the ethics of the Sermon on the Mount is not what works but rather the way God is. Cheek-turning is not advocated as what works (it usually does not), but advocated because this is the way God is - God is kind to the ungrateful and the selfish. This is not a stratagem for getting what we want but the only manner of life available, now that, in Jesus, we have seen what God wants. We seek reconciliation with the neighbor, not because we feel so much better afterward, but because reconciliation is what God is doing in the world through Christ. ~ Stanley Hauerwas,

130:Thou art the supreme light, and the eyes of the pure soul shall see Thee, and clouds of sin shall hide Thee from the eyes of sinners. Thou art the light hidden in this world and revealed in the world of beauty, "In the mount of the Lord it shall be seen." Thou art the eternal light, and the inward eye yearns for Thee and is astonished -- she shall see but the utmost part of them, and shall not see them all. [1568.jpg] -- from The Heart and the Fountain: An Anthology of Jewish Mystical Experiences, by Joseph Dan ~ Solomon ibn Gabirol, Thou art the Supreme Light ,

131:We are not built for the mountains and the dawns and aesthetic affinities, those are for moments of inspiration, that is all. We are built for the valley, for the ordinary stuff we are in, and that is where we have to prove our mettle. Spiritual selfishness always wants repeated moments on the mount. We feel we could talk like angels and live like angels, if only we could stay on the mount. The times of exaltation are exceptional, they have their meaning in our life with God, but we must beware lest our spiritual selfishness wants to make them the only time. ~ Oswald Chambers,

132:The truth is that the life-purpose of Jesus discovered by modern liberalism is not the life purpose of the real Jesus, but merely represents those elements in the teaching of Jesus--isolated and misinterpreted--which happen to agree with the modern program. It is not Jesus, then, who is the real authority, but the modern principle by which the selection within Jesus' recorded teaching has been made. Certain isolated ethical principles of the Sermon on the Mount are accepted, not at all because they are teachings of Jesus, but because they agree with modern ideas. ~ J Gresham Machen,

133:Indeed, one unexpected day the clouds will roll back and the King of all kings will burst through the sky. “On that day his feet will stand on the Mount of Olives, east of Jerusalem, and the Mount of Olives will be split in two from east to west. . . . Then the LORD my God will come, and all the holy ones with him. On that day there will be no light, no cold or frost. It will be a unique day, without daytime or nighttime—a day known to the LORD. . . . The LORD will be king over the whole earth. On that day there will be one LORD, and his name the only name” (Zech. 14:4–7, 9). ~ Beth Moore,

134:Peace, however, is not merely a gift to be received: it is also a task to be undertaken. In order to be true peacemakers, we must educate ourselves in compassion, solidarity, working together, fraternity, in being active within the community and concerned to raise awareness about national and international issues and the importance of seeking adequate mechanisms for the redistribution of wealth, the promotion of growth, cooperation for development and conflict resolution. 'Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God', as Jesus says in the Sermon on the Mount ~ Pope Benedict XVI,

135:You think that about everyone, Phinehas.” “I wish I could, but I’m afraid I don’t.” He hesitated, then went on, “Why are you so hard on her, Ardon?” “You know what she is.” “No. I know what she was. You’ve got to understand people better.” “I understand well enough what a harlot is.” “If you hate everybody who has ever sinned, you’re going to have a narrow circle of friends,” Phinehas said wryly. “I don’t understand you, Phinehas. You’re too easy.” “God is merciful. We know that. You remember what He told Moses on the mount? How He was a God full of mercy and that He was tenderhearted? ~ Gilbert Morris,

136:And he came out, and went, as he was wont, to the Mount of Olives; and his disciples also followed him. And when he was at the place, he said unto them, pray that ye enter not into temptation. And he was withdrawn from them about a stone's cast, and kneeled down, and prayed, Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done. And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.”  Luke 22:41-44 ~ Benjamin L Reynolds,

137:In the 1960s Martin Luther King Jr. devised a creative strategy of engagement that has since been adapted to many causes. He fused together the power of love as described in the Sermon on the Mount and Mahatma Gandhi’s method of nonviolent resistance. “Prior to reading Gandhi,” he said, “I had about concluded that the ethics of Jesus were only effective in individual relationships.” Gandhi showed him that a movement on behalf of a moral cause could be expressed in a loving way. “I came to feel that this was the only morally and practically sound method open to oppressed people in their struggle for freedom. ~ Philip Yancey,

138:Welcome to my holy temple. I am Anu, the supreme god, king of kings, and lord of lords. My consort, Inanna, Queen of heaven and earth.” He paused ceremoniously with an arrogant grin. “But you already knew that.” Then, the mocking stab, “So, where is your god?” Noah would not dignify the remark. Instead, he prophesied, “I know who you are, Semjaza and Azazel, fallen Sons of God. You have laid the nations low, you sit on the mount of assembly, you have made yourselves like the Most High. But you will be brought down to Sheol.” Inanna broke in bitterly, “He imagines himself a prophet now, and privy to the Watchers’ secrets. ~ Brian Godawa,

139:11But the angel of the LORD called to him from heaven and said, “Abraham, Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” 12He said,  p “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him, for  q now I know that you fear God, seeing you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” 13And Abraham lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, behind him was a ram, caught in a thicket by his horns. And Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. 14So Abraham called the name of that place,  r “The LORD will provide”; [2] as it is said to this day, “On the mount of the LORD it shall be provided. ~ Anonymous,

140:If it is I who determine where God is to be found, then I shall always find a God who corresponds to me in some way, who is obliging, who is connected with my own nature. But if God determines where he is to be found, then it will be in a place which is not immediately pleasing to my nature and which is not at all congenial to me. This place is the Cross of Christ. And whoever would find him must go to the foot of the Cross, as the Sermon on the Mount commands. This is not according to our nature at all, it is entirely contrary to it. But this is the message of the Bible, not only in the New but also in the Old Testament. . . . ~ Eric Metaxas,

141:And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: 12 And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. 13 And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What doest thou here, Elijah? ~ Anonymous,

142:In the Sermon on the Mount, the Lord says: “Therefore, if thou art offering thy gift at the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother has anything against thee, leave thy gift before the altar and go first to be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift” (Matt. 5:23-24). This means: When you go to Mass and you recall that you have been unjust to someone and that he bears you a grudge, you cannot simply walk into church as though nothing were wrong. For then you would be entering only the physical room of the building, not the congregation, which would not receive you, as you would destroy it by your mere presence. ~ Romano Guardini,

143:They Tell How Atys, Wild With Love They tell how Atys, wild with love, Roams the mount and haunted grove; Cybele's name he howls around, The gloomy blast returns the sound! Oft too by Claros' hallow'd spring, The votaries of the laurell'd king Quaff the inspiring, magic stream, And rave in wild, prophetic dream. But frenzied dreams are not for me, Great Bacchus is my deity! Full of mirth, and full of him, While waves of perfume round me swim; While flavour'd bowls are full supplied, And you sit blushing by my side, I will be mad and raving too Mad, my girl! with love for you! ~ Anacreon,

144:Every page of the New Testament is in perfect agreement. From Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount to the book of Revelation, the message is consistent. It acknowledges the hopelessness of human depravity, but it points to Christ as the only remedy for that dilemma. Starting with the historical facts of His death and resurrection, it proclaims salvation by divine grace (rather than by the sinner’s own works); the full and free forgiveness of sins; the provision of justification by faith; the principle of imputed righteousness; and the eternally secure standing of the believer before God. Those truths all constitute the very heart of the gospel. ~ John F MacArthur Jr,

145:Men are apt to grow, in the apostolical phrase, too ‘worldly’: the propensity of our nature, or rather the operation of our state, is to plunge us, the lower orders of the community, in the concerns of the day, and their masters, in the cares of wealth and gain. It is good for us, sometimes to be ‘in the mount.’ Those things are to be cherished, which tend to elevate us above our ordinary sphere, and to abstract us from our common and every-day concerns. The affectionate recollection and admiration of the dead will act gently upon our spirits, and fill us with a composed seriousness, favourable to the best and most honourable contemplations. ~ William Godwin,

146:And this"- the duke stroked the mound beneath her thumb- "do you know what this is called?" Bridget cleared her throat, but her voice emerged a bit rusty nonetheless. "I could not say, Your Grace." "The Mount of Venus." He arched his eyebrows at her. Devastatingly beautiful. Lethally charming. "My Greek girl told me that this foretells how passionate a woman may be. You, Mrs. Crumb, must have untold depths of sensual need within you." She narrowed her eyes at him. He bent and bit the base of her thumb. She gasped and snatched her hand away. The duke laughed and sat back, smoothing his bottom lip with his beringed thumb slowly. ~ Elizabeth Hoyt,

147:Bashan is the place of the Serpent.” She knew more about this world around her than he realized. “Yes,” he said. “It is like a battle between two cosmic mountains. That is why the Psalm says, “O many-peaked mountain, mountain of Bashan! Why do you look with hatred, O many-peaked mountain, at the mount that Elohim desired for his abode, yes, where Yahweh will dwell forever? The chariots of Elohim are twice ten thousand, thousands upon thousands… Elohim will strike the heads of his enemies.” Mary stopped walking. They were almost to the forested area. She looked fearful. “Do you mean that we are walking into the midst of a battle of gods and angels? ~ Brian Godawa,

148:I still quote Eugene Debs (1855–1926), late of Terre Haute, Indiana, five times the Socialist Party’s candidate for President, in every speech: “While there is a lower class I am in it, while there is a criminal element I am of it; while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.” In recent years, I’ve found it prudent to say before quoting Debs that he is to be taken seriously. Otherwise many in the audience will start to laugh. They are being nice, not mean, knowing I like to be funny. But it is also a sign of these times that such a moving echo of the Sermon on the Mount can be perceived as outdated, wholly discredited horsecrap. Which it is not. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

149:Peter and James and John could write of their experience on the mount of transfiguration, and publish a book called “Mountaintop Experiences with Jesus”. Several of them could allude their former hum-drum lives, and contrast that with what they were now: “From Fishermen to Apostles: the Secret of Success”, or “Leadership Skills of Those Who Have Made It to the Top.” Peter could allude to Caesarea Philippi, how Jesus, you remember, had called him “The Rock.” “How to Be Number One”, by Rocky.....Judas–he could publish a book and call it “Investing for Eternity: How God Doesn't Want You to be Poor.” Or, “Nobody Remembers Who Came Second.” You get my drift. ~ Anonymous,

150:The theater of God’s redemption is this world. It is to this world that God came in Christ. Christ refused to allow His disciples to hide in an upper room with the doors locked because of fear. No tabernacles were allowed on the Mount of Transfiguration. We are called to be Christ’s witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth (Acts 1:8). Jerusalem is in this world. Judea is in this world. Samaria is in this world. The ends of the earth are still on this earth. So we should not flee this world. But, oh, how many Christians try to do so. And in doing so, they may actually be displeasing the God who wants the world to be redeemed, not escaped. ~ R C Sproul,

151:the lesson that underlies all his work, a lesson, bluntly uttered by a character in one of his early novels, that he passed on to fans who sought his advice: “There’s only one rule I know of—Goddam it, you’ve got to be kind.” Coming from a long line of German Freethinkers, Vonnegut was not a Christian, though he spoke of Jesus as “the greatest and most humane of human beings.” In a talk he gave at St. Clement Episcopal Church in New York City (“Palm Sunday”), he said: “I am enchanted by the Sermon on the Mount. Being merciful, it seems to me, is the only good idea we have had so far. Perhaps we will get another good idea by and by—and then we will have two good ideas. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

152:Noah harkened to the voice of the Lord that is he lived according to the Law, perfecting his soul and enriching his consciousness with the many experiences which result from the mystery of living. As a consequence the "Lord" protects the life of Noah, and brings the Ark at the end to a safe testing place upon the Mount of the illumination, Ararat. Part of the thirty-third degree of Freemasonry includes an interpretation of the symbolism of Noah and his Ark. Considered mystically, the story of the Flood is the wise man's mastery of adversity. It is the philosopher surviving the onslaughts of ignorance. It is the illumined mystic floating safely over the chaos.    ~ Manly P Hall, How To Understand Your Bible,

153:Using the Mount Wilson Observatory, Harlow Shapley redefined our relationship to the cosmos, showing that the sun was not at the center of the Milky Way. Using it, Edwin Hubble created the whole field of cosmology, redefining again our place in the universe, our understanding of its vastness, and our ideas about its creation. Those discoveries did not bear any direct financial returns. They did not add to the national defense. But they did something far more important: they changed our lives and the way we think about ourselves. They are among the most profound discoveries of science, and they had no financial justification whatsoever. They were seeking truth and beauty amid chemistry and light. ~ Shawn Lawrence Otto,

154:kingdom. MAT26.30 And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives. MAT26.31 Then saith Jesus unto them, All ye shall be offended because of me this night: for it is written, I will smite the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad. MAT26.32 But after I am risen again, I will go before you into Galilee. MAT26.33 Peter answered and said unto him, Though all men shall be offended because of thee, yet will I never be offended. MAT26.34 Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, That this night, before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. MAT26.35 Peter said unto him, Though I should die with thee, yet will I not deny thee. Likewise also said all the disciples. ~ Anonymous,

155:Asherah, Ba’alzebul, Dagon, Molech, Resheph, and Qeteb had journeyed from Sidon to the mount of assembly. Marduk and Ishtar of Babylonia, Asshur of Assyria, Kumarbi of the Hittites, even Osiris and Horus from Egypt travelled their long distances to answer the urgent call for a council of the seventy gods over the seventy nations. When Yahweh had sent the Great Flood and bound the Watcher gods into the earth and Tartarus, he left seventy of them to rule over the nations with their minions of fellow mal’akim. The lands were allotted at the Division of Tongues at Babel. This dispersion was supposed to keep mankind from ever again uniting in evil over the entire earth as they had under Nimrod the Mighty Hunter. ~ Brian Godawa,

156:It is not possible to live biblical Christianity without being committed to a lifestyle of praying, fasting, giving, serving, and blessing our enemies. A form of Christianity devoid of any of these five elements is not New Testament Christianity. We are all called to fast regularly. There is no Bible passage that excludes 21st century people in the Western world from the Sermon on the Mount lifestyle because we are too busy or too important, or for any other reason. When we come face to face with Jesus one day, He will not make an exception for us because we lived in the 21st century. What He called the early Church to do is what He calls all believers to do, and He provides the same grace to us to respond. ~ Mike Bickle,

157:If some watcher or holy one who has spent his glad centuries by the sea of fire were to come to earth, how meaningless to him would be the ceaseless chatter of the busy tribes of men. How strange to him and how empty would sound the flat, stale, and profitless words heard in the average pulpit from week to week. And we're such a one to speak on earth would he not speak of God? Would he not charm and fascinate his hearers with rapturous descriptions of the Godhead? And after hearing him could we ever again consent to listen to anything less than theology, the doctrine of God? Would we not thereafter demand of those who would presume to teach us that they speak to us from the mount of divine vision or remain silent altogether? ~ A W Tozer,

158:Come near to the holy men and women of the past and you will soon feel the heat of their desire after God. They mourned for Him, they prayed and wrestled and sought for Him day and night, in season and out, and when they had found Him the finding was all the sweeter for the long seeking. Moses used the fact that he knew God as an argument for knowing Him better. "Now, therefore, I pray thee, if I have found grace in thy sight, show me now thy way, that I may know thee, that I may find grace in thy sight"; and from there he rose to make the daring request, "I beseech thee, show me thy glory." God was frankly pleased by this display of ardor, and the next day called Moses into the mount, and there in solemn procession made all His glory pass before him. ~ A W Tozer,

159:Oh, God, who does not exist, you hate women, otherwise you'd have made them different. And Jesus, who snubbed your mother, you hate them more. Roaming around all that time with a bunch of men, fishing; and sermons-on-the-mount. Abandoning women. I thought of all the women who had it, and didn't even know when the big moment was, and others saying their rosary with the beads held over the side of the bed, and others saying, "Stop, stop, you dirty old dog," and others yelling desperately to be jacked right up to their middles, and it often leading to nothing, and them getting up out of bed and riding a poor door knob and kissing the wooden face of a door and urging with foul language, then crying, wiping the knob, and it all adding up to nothing either. ~ Edna O Brien,

160:Jesus looked back at the cave, then up at the mountain and recited a Psalm of David. “O mountain of God, mountain of Bashan; O many-peaked mountain, mountain of Bashan! Why do you look with hatred, O many-peaked mountain, at the mount that Elohim desired for his abode, yes, where Yahweh will dwell forever? The chariots of God are twice ten thousand, thousands upon thousands; the Lord is among them; Sinai is now in the sanctuary. You ascended on high, leading a host of captives in your train and receiving gifts among men, even among the rebellious, that Yahweh Elohim may dwell there. But God will strike the heads of his enemies, the hairy Seirim crown of him who walks in his guilty ways. Yahweh said, “I will bring them back from Bashan, I will bring them back from the depths of the sea. ~ Brian Godawa,

161:The Western post-Christian civilization has picked up the Christ without His Cross. But a Christ without a sacrifice that reconciles the world to God is a cheap, colorless, itinerant preacher who deserves to be popular for His great Sermon on the Mount, but also merits unpopularity for what He said about His Divinity on the one hand, and divorce, judgment, and hell on the other. This sentimental Christ is patched together with a thousand commonplaces, sustained sometimes by academic etymologists who cannot see the Word for the letters, or distorted beyond personal recognition by a dogmatic principle that anything which is Divine must necessarily be a myth. Without His Cross, He becomes nothing more than a sultry precursor of democracy or a humanitarian who taught brotherhood without tears. ~ Fulton J Sheen,

162:At night as he lay in bed with his eyes closed listening to the song of the turtledove in the trees, behind his closed eyelids he would pass through every scene in the life of Christ. From childhood the face of Christ had been for him the fulfillment of his every dream and ideal. The face of Christ as he preached to the crowd the Sermon on the Mount. The face of Christ as he passed over the Lake of Galilee at dusk. Even in its moments of terrble torture this face had never lost its beauty. Those soft, clear eyes which pierced to the very core of a man's being were now fixed upon him. The face that could do no wrong, utter no word of insult. When the vision of this face came before him, fear and trembling seemed to vanquish like the tiny ripples that are quietly sucked up by the sand of the seashore. ~ Sh saku End,

163:From there Ari took her to the church which marked the place of the miracle of the multiplication of loaves and fishes a short distance from Capernaum. The floor of the church held a Byzantine mosaic depicting cormorants and herons and ducks and other wild birds which still inhabited the lake. And then they moved on to the Mount of Beatitudes to a little chapel on the hill where Jesus preached the Sermon on the Mount. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you. These were His words spoken from this place. As she ~ Leon Uris,

164:(Popular singer Eddie Fisher, appearing on This is Show Business, told Kaufman that women refused to date him because he looked so young.) Mr. Fisher, on Mount Wilson there is a telescope that can magnify the most distant stars up to twenty-four times the magnification of any previous telescope. This remarkable instrument was unsurpassed in the world of astronomy until the construction of the Mount Palomar telescope, an even more remarkable instrument of magnification. Owing to advances and improvements in optical technology, it is capable of magnifying the stars to four times the magnification and resolution of the Mount Wilson telescope - Mr. Fisher, if you could somehow put the Mount Wilson telescope inside the Mount Palomar telescope, you still wouldn't be able to detect my interest in your problem. ~ George S Kaufman,

165:But, as the conflict-studies scholar Jayne Docherty argues, the F.B.I.’s approach was doomed from the outset. In “Learning Lessons from Waco”—one of the very best of the Mount Carmel retrospectives—Docherty points out that the techniques that work on bank robbers don’t work on committed believers. There was no pragmatism hidden below a layer of posturing, lies, and grandiosity. Docherty uses Max Weber’s typology to describe the Davidians. They were “value-rational”—that is to say, their rationality was organized around values, not goals. A value-rational person would accept his fourteen-year-old daughter’s polygamous marriage, if he was convinced that it was in fulfillment of Biblical prophecy. Because the F.B.I. could not take the faith of the Branch Davidians seriously, it had no meaningful way to communicate with them: ~ Anonymous,

166:James’s words sound eerily familiar to Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount: Not everyone who says to Me, “Lord, Lord!” will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of My Father in heaven. On that day many will say to Me, “Lord, Lord, didn’t we prophesy in Your name, drive out demons in Your name, and do many miracles in Your name?” Then I will announce to them, “I never knew you! Depart from Me, you lawbreakers!” Therefore, everyone who hears these words of Mine and acts on them will be like a sensible man who built his house on the rock. The rain fell, the rivers rose, and the winds blew and pounded that house. Yet it didn’t collapse, because its foundation was on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of Mine and doesn’t act on them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. ~ David Platt,

167:I snapped the crossbow into the top of the mount, took a canvas bundle from the cart, and unrolled it. Crossbow bolts, tipped with the Galahad warheads. “This is my baby.” I petted the stock. “You have a strange relationship with your weapons,” Roman said. “You have no idea,” Raphael told him. “This from a man with a living staff and a man who once drove four hours both ways for a sword he then put on his wall,” I murmured. “It was an Angus Trim,” Raphael said. “It’s a sharpened strip of metal.” “You have an Angus Trim sword?” Kate’s eyes lit up. “Bought it at an estate auction,” Raphael said. “If we get out of this alive, you are invited to come to my house and play with it.” It was good that Curran wasn’t here and I was secure in our relationship, because that totally could be taken the wrong way. ~ Ilona Andrews,

168:There, said they, is the Mount Zion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the innumerable company of angels, and the spirits of just men made perfect. [Heb. 12:22-24] You are going now, said they, to the paradise of God, wherein you shall see the tree of life, and eat of the never-fading fruits thereof; and when you come there, you shall have white robes given you, and your walk and talk shall be every day with the King, even all the days of eternity. [Rev. 2:7, 3:4, 21:4,5] There you shall not see again such things as you saw when you were in the lower region upon the earth, to wit, sorrow, sickness, affliction, and death, for the former things are passed away. You are now going to Abraham, to Isaac, and Jacob, and to the prophets--men that God hath taken away from the evil to come, and that are now resting upon their beds, each one walking in his righteousness. [Isa. 57:1,2, 65:17] ~ John Bunyan,

169:These three or four scriptures also have been great refreshments in this condition to me: John xiv. 1-4; John xvi. 33; Col. iii. 3, 4; Heb. xii. 22-24.  So that sometimes when I have been in the savour of them, I have been able to laugh at destruction, and to fear neither the horse nor his rider.  I have had sweet sights of the forgiveness of my sins in this place, and of my being with Jesus in another world: Oh! the mount Sion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the innumerable company of angels, and God the Judge of all, and the spirits of just men made perfect, and Jesus, have been sweet unto me in this place: I have seen that here, that I am persuaded I shall never, while in this world, be able to express: I have seen a truth in this scripture, Whom having not seen, ye love; in whom, though now you see Him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable, and full of glory.  1 Pet. i. 8. ~ John Bunyan,

170:Wherefore, O ye who fear the Lord, praise Him in the places where ye now are. Change of place does not effect any drawing nearer unto God, but wherever thou mayest be, God will come to thee, if the chambers of thy soul be found of such a sort that He can dwell in thee and walk in thee. But if thou keepest thine inner man full of wicked thoughts, even if thou wast on Golgotha, even if thou wast on the Mount of Olives, even if thou stoodest on the memorial-rock of the Resurrection, thou wilt be as far away from receiving Christ into thyself, as one who has not even begun to confess Him. Therefore, my beloved friend, counsel the brethren to be absent from the body to go to our Lord, rather than to be absent from Cappadocia to go to Palestine; and if any one should adduce the command spoken by our Lord to His disciples that they should not quit Jerusalem, let him be made to understand its true meaning. ~ Philip Schaff,

171:The central point is this: Jesus’ entire approach in the Sermon on the Mount is not only ethical but messianic—i.e., christological and eschatological. Jesus is not an ordinary prophet who says, “Thus says the Lord!” Rather, he speaks in the first person and claims that his teaching fulfills the OT, that he determines who enters the messianic kingdom, that as the Divine Judge he pronounces banishment, that the true heirs of the kingdom will be persecuted for their allegiance to him, and that he alone fully knows the will of his Father. It is methodologically indefensible for Sigal to complain that all such themes are later Christian additions and therefore to focus exclusively on points of halakic interpretation. Jesus’ authority is unique (see comments at 5:21–48), and the crowds recognized it, even if they did not always understand it. This same authority is now to be revealed in powerful, liberating miracles, signs of the kingdom’s advance (chs. 8–9; cf. 11:2–5). ~ D A Carson,

172:When the church first began, it was a pacifistic movement known for its outspoken criticism of any form of bloodshed or violence. After Constantine legalized Christianity, ‘just war’ theory emerged, which meant that Christians could participate in wars if certain criteria were satisfied. By the year 1100, Christians were launching Crusades and telling the faithful that killing Muslims would secure them a spot in heaven! What happened? Somewhere along the way we forgot that Jesus intended the Sermon on the Mount to be an actual, concrete program for living. He wanted us to actually live it, not just admire it as a nice but unrealistic ideal. I mean, what would happen if Christians dedicated themselves to peacemaking with the same discipline and focus that armies do for war? What difference could it make? We have to revisit the early church’s teachings about reconciliation, peacemaking, and the Sermon on the Mount and ask ourselves if we’re living them out or tiptoeing around them. ~ Ian Morgan Cron,

173:What did Jesus tell his disciples? “Heaven is right here in the midst of you.”6 In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus makes a prediction that to this day few people have understood. He says, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”7 In modern versions of the Bible, “meek” is translated as humble. Who are the meek or the humble, and what does it mean that they shall inherit the earth? The meek are the egoless. They are those who have awakened to their, essential true nature as consciousness and recognize that essence in all “others,” all life-forms. They live in the surrendered state and so feel their oneness with the whole and the Source. They embody the awakened consciousness that is changing all aspects of life on our planet, including nature, because life on earth is inseparable from the human consciousness that perceives and interacts with it. That is the sense in which the meek will inherit the earth. A new species is arising on the planet. It is arising now, and you are it! ~ Eckhart Tolle,

174:To a man without a country, He appeared a joint sojourner. To Joshua armed but afraid, He came a valiant warrior. To Moses raised up on the mount, He was the One yet higher. To Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, He was the fourth man in the fire. To Elijah who stood as one for God, he was never less alone. For Noah's faithful family, He made an ark their home. To Ezekiel He appeared to be the light cast over the dark. To King David running from the throne, He was the true Monarch. To Daniel at the bite of death, He was the lock upon their jaws. To King Solomon who'd had it all, He was the only worthy cause. To a sinking fisherman, He was life upon the water. To a grieving Jairus, He was life unto his daughter. To a woman at the well, He was complete acceptance. To a doubting Thomas, He was the proof for his reluctance. To a dozen throwbacks from the world, He unleashed His awesome power. From a greedy grave of several days burst forth his finest hour." ~ Beth MooreThings pondered ~ Beth Moore,

175:I thought of you when I read this quote from "A Farewell to Mars: An Evangelical Pastor's Journey Toward the Biblical Gospel of Peace" by Brian Zahnd - "Jesus is introduced. (Standing ovation.) He stands before Congress and begins to deliver his speech. “Blessed are the poor …the mourners … the meek.” “Love your enemies.” “Turn the other cheek.” After a few perfunctory applauses early on, I’m pretty sure there would be a lot of squirming senators and uncomfortable congressmen. The room would sink into a tense silence. And when Jesus concluded his speech with a prophecy of the inevitable fall of the house that would not act upon his words (Matt. 7:26–27), what would Congress do? Nothing. They would not act. They could not act. To act on Jesus’s words would undo their system. The Sermon on the Mount doesn’t work in Cain’s system—no matter how noble or sophisticated. In the end, the US Congress would no more adopt the policies Jesus set out in the Sermon on the Mount than they were adopted by the Jewish Sanhedrin or the Roman Senate. ~ Brian Zahnd,

176:Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock.” MATTHEW 7:24 OCTOBER 28 Little did the thousands who heard Jesus’ words on the hillside that day realize that what they were listening to would be honored by multitudes twenty centuries later. Nor that scholars through the ages would say that these simple statements represented the greatest wisdom mankind would ever hear. As Jesus finished His sermon, He said that a person who had heard and lived by these teachings could be compared to a man who built his house upon a rock. Though all the elements conspired to knock that house down, they could not prevail—it stood, for it was built upon a rock. Friends, you really listen to something when you listen to that passage of Scripture! Why don’t you, this very day, read again the Sermon on the Mount in the Gospel of Matthew? If you read this passage and if you live by it, you will have what it takes; nothing in this world—and I mean nothing—will be able to beat you down. ~ Norman Vincent Peale,

177:........................................To a man without a country, He appeared a joint sojourner. To Joshua armed but afraid, He came a valiant warrior. To Moses raised up on the mount, He was the One yet higher. To Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, He was the fourth man in the fire. To Elijah who stood as one for God, he was never less alone. For Noah's faithful family, He made an ark their home. To Ezekiel He appeared to be the light cast over the dark. To King David running from the throne, He was the true Monarch. To Daniel at the bite of death, He was the lock upon their jaws. To King Solomon who'd had it all, He was the only worthy cause. To a sinking fisherman, He was life upon the water. To a grieving Jairus, He was life unto his daughter. To a woman at the well, He was complete acceptance. To a doubting Thomas, He was the proof for his reluctance. To a dozen throwbacks from the world, He unleashed His awesome power. From a greedy grave of several days burst forth his finest hour. ........................................ ~ Beth Moore,

178:mountain of God, O many-peaked mountain of Bashan. The mount that Elohim desired for his abode.’” He looked directly at Demas and Gestas. “The phrase, ‘twice ten thousand, thousands of thousands’ refers to the heavenly host of Elohim’s divine council. They are his holy ones, Sons of God who did not rebel.” The brothers knew that “host” was a military term for a king’s army of warriors. “Sinai was Yahweh’s holy mountain in the Exodus, until Mount Zion with its temple in Jerusalem became the holy mountain.” Simon’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. “This area is known for the Seirim, the sons of hairy Esau. It is an original dwelling place of satyrs, goat demons of Azazel. Pan is the last of the satyrs and the guardian of Gaia, the Mother Earth Goddess.” It was all coming together for Gestas. He tried to finish Simon’s thought. “So Hermon is the cosmic mountain in opposition to Yahweh? And Jesus is going to strike down the ‘hairy crown’ of Pan, storm the Gates of Hades, and occupy this cosmic mountain as his own?” Simon nodded in agreement, and added, “And he will ascend on high with his train of captives, as any military conqueror would in a Triumphal Procession.” “Grandiose claims for a man without a single soldier amongst his wild-eyed fanatics,” said Demas skeptically. ~ Brian Godawa,

179:Boehme makes such leaps, such contradictions, such confusions of thought. It is as though he wishes to vault directly into heaven upon the strength of his logic, but his logic is deeply impaired." She reached across the table for a book and flung it open. "In this chapter here, for instance, he is trying to find keys to God's secrets hidden inside the plants of the Bible- but what are we to make of it, when his information is simply incorrect? He spends a full chapter interpreting 'the lilies of the field' as mentioned in the book of Matthew, dissecting every letter of the word 'lilies,' looking for revelation within the syllables... but Ambrose, 'the lilies of the field' itself is a mistranslation. It would not have 'been' lilies that Christ discussed in his Sermon on the Mount. There are only two varieties of lily native to Palestine, and both are exceedingly rare. They would not have flowered in such abundance as to have ever filled a meadow. They would not have been familiar enough to the common man. Christ, tailoring his lesson to the widest possible audience, would more likely have referred to a ubiquitous flower, in order that his listeners would comprehend his metaphor. For that reason, it is exceedingly probable that Christ was talking about the anemones of the field- probably 'Anemone coronaria'- though we cannot be certain... ~ Elizabeth Gilbert,

180:What is new about the new commandment? Since this question ultimately concerns the “newness” of the New Testament, that is to say, the “essence of Christianity”, it is important to be very attentive. It has been argued that the new element—moving beyond the earlier commandment to love one’s neighbor—is revealed in the saying “love as I have loved you”, in other words, loving to the point of readiness to lay down one’s life for the other. If this were the specific and exclusive content of the “new commandment”, then Christianity could after all be defined as a form of extreme moral effort. This is how many commentators explain the Sermon on the Mount: in contrast to the old way of the Ten Commandments—the way of the average man, one might say—Christianity, through the Sermon on the Mount, opens up the high way that is radical in its demands, revealing a new level of humanity to which men can aspire. And yet who could possibly claim to have risen above the “average” way of the Ten Commandments, to have left them behind as self-evident, so to speak, and now to walk along the exalted paths of the “new law”? No, the newness of the new commandment cannot consist in the highest moral attainment. Here, too, the essential point is not the call to supreme achievement, but the new foundation of being that is given to us. The newness can come only from the gift of being-with and being-in Christ. Saint ~ Benedict XVI,

181:Our Mat It came from the prison this morning, Close-twisted, neat-lettered, and flat; It lies the hall doorway adorning, A very good style of a mat. Prison-made! how the spirit is moven As we think of its story of dread -What wiles of the wicked are woven And spun in its intricate thread! The letters are new, neat and nobby, Suggesting a masterly hand -Was it Sikes, who half-murdered the bobby, That put the neat D on the "and"? Some banker found guilty of laches -It's always called laches, you know -Had Holt any hand in those Hs? Did Bertrand illumine that O? That T has a look of the gallows, That A's a triangle, I guess; Was it one of the Mount Rennie fellows Who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some "highly connected", Who is doing his spell "on his head", Or some wretched woman detected In stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance For the crime that so easily came? Of the wearisome length of the sentence, Of the sin, and the sorrow, and shame? A mat! I should call it a sermon On sin, to all sinners addressed; It would take a keen judge to determine Whether writer or reader is best. 209 Though the doorway be hard as a pavestone, I rather would use it than that -I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, As I would on that Darlinghurst mat! ~ Banjo Paterson,

182:A sudden streak of light made me blink, as if someone had flashed a mirror in my face. I looked around and I saw a brown delivery truck parked in the middle of the Great Lawn where no cars were allowed. Lettered on the side were the words: HERNIAS ARE US Wait…sorry. I’m dyslexic. I squinted and decided it probably read: HERMES EXPRESS “Oh, good,” I muttered. “We’ve got mail.” “What?” Annabeth asked. I pointed at the truck. The driver was climbing out. He wore a brown uniform shirt and knee-length shorts along with stylish black socks and cleats. His curly salt-and-pepper hair stuck out around the edges of his brown cap. He looked like a guy in his mid-thirties, but I knew from experience he was actually in his mid-five-thousands. Hermes. Messenger of the gods. Personal friend, dispenser of heroic quests, and frequent cause of migraine headaches. He looked upset. He kept patting his pockets and wringing his hands. Either he’d lost something important or he’d had too many espressos at the Mount Olympus Starbucks. Finally he spotted me and beckoned, Get over here! That could’ve meant several things. If he was delivering a message in person from the gods, it was bad news. If he wanted something from me, it was also bad news. But seeing as he’d just saved me from explaining myself to Annabeth, I was too relieved to care. “Bummer.” I tried to sound regretful, as if my rump hadn’t just been pulled from the barbecue. “We’d better see what he wants. ~ Rick Riordan,

183:out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's way." Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an epithet. As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?" "I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet, "to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view." "It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?" Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying: "I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience." During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set against the ~ Jane Austen,

184:We bring this lamentable recital to a close. There can be no doubt that John's remarkable vision had come to pass: A city on seven hills sated with wealth, which claimed a special relationship to God and Christ, literally ruled over the kings of the earth. As with the other identifying criteria John provides, there is only one city in history (and only one today) which passes this test. Peter de Rosa reminds us of what must have shocked John:       Jesus renounced possessions. He constantly taught: "Go, sell all thou hast and give to the poor, then come and follow me." He preached doom to the rich and powerful. . . . Christ's Vicar lives surrounded by treasures, some of pagan origin. Any suggestion that the pope should sell all he has and give to the poor is greeted with derision as impractical. The rich young man in the gospel reacted in the same way.       Throughout his life, Jesus lived simply; he died naked, offering the sacrifice of his life on the cross.       When the pope renews that sacrifice at pontifical high mass, no greater contrast could be imagined. Without any sense of irony, Christ's Vicar is clad in gold and the costliest silks.       . . . the pope has a dozen glorious titles, including State Sovereign. The pope's aides also have titles somewhat unexpected in the light of the Sermon on the Mount: Excellency, Eminence, Your Grace, My Lord, Illustrious One, Most Reverend, and so on. . . .       Peter, always penniless, would be intrigued to know that according to canon 1518. . .his successor is "the supreme administrator and manager of all church properties." Also that the Vatican has its own bank. . . .30 ~ Dave Hunt,

185:The modern world, which denies personal guilt and admits only social crimes, which has no place for personal repentance but only public reforms, has divorced Christ from His Cross; the Bridegroom and Bride have been pulled apart. What God hath joined together, men have torn asunder. As a result, to the left is the Cross; to the right is Christ. Each has awaited new partners who will pick them up in a kind of second and adulterous union. Communism comes along and picks up the meaningless Cross; Western post-Christian civilization chooses the unscarred Christ. Communism has chosen the Cross in the sense that it has brought back to an egotistic world a sense of discipline, self-abnegation, surrender, hard work, study, and dedication to supra-individual goals. But the Cross without Christ is sacrifice without love. Hence, Communism has produced a society that is authoritarian, cruel, oppressive of human freedom, filled with concentration camps, firing squads, and brain-washings. The Western post-Christian civilization has picked up the Christ without His Cross. But a Christ without a sacrifice that reconciles the world to God is a cheap, feminized, colourless, itinerant preacher who deserves to be popular for His great Sermon on the Mount, but also merits unpopularity for what He said about His Divinity on the one hand, and divorce, judgment, and hell on the other. This sentimental Christ is patched together with a thousand commonplaces, sustained sometimes by academic etymologists who cannot see the Word for the letters, or distorted beyond personal recognition by a dogmatic principle that anything which is Divine must necessarily be a myth. Without His Cross, He becomes nothing more than a sultry precursor of democracy or a humanitarian who taught brotherhood without tears. ~ Fulton J Sheen,

186:Throughout the biblical story, from Genesis to Revelation, every radical challenge from the biblical God is both asserted and then subverted by its receiving communities— be they earliest Israelites or latest Christians. That pattern of assertion-and-subversion, that rhythm of expansion-and-contraction, is like the systole-and-diastole cycle of the human heart. In other words, the heartbeat of the Christian Bible is a recurrent cardiac cycle in which the asserted radicality of God’s nonviolent distributive justice is subverted by the normalcy of civilization’s violent retributive justice. And, of course, the most profound annulment is that both assertion and subversion are attributed to the same God or the same Christ. Think of this example. In the Bible, prophets are those who speak for God. On one hand, the prophets Isaiah and Micah agree on this as God’s vision: “they shall beat their swords into plowshares, / and their spears into pruning hooks; / nation shall not lift up sword against nation, / neither shall they learn war any more” (Isa. 2:4 = Mic. 4:3). On the other hand, the prophet Joel suggests the opposite vision: “Beat your plowshares into swords, / and your pruning hooks into spears; / let the weakling say, ‘I am a warrior’” (3:10). Is this simply an example of assertion-and-subversion between prophets, or between God’s radicality and civilization’s normalcy? That proposal might also answer how, as noted in Chapter 1, Jesus the Christ of the Sermon on the Mount preferred loving enemies and praying for persecutors while Jesus the Christ of the book of Revelation preferred killing enemies and slaughtering persecutors. It is not that Jesus the Christ changed his mind, but that in standard biblical assertion-and-subversion strategy, Christianity changed its Jesus. ~ John Dominic Crossan,

187:Selfhood can demolish the magic of this world; But our belief in The One is not comprehended by all. Have a seer's eye, and light will dawn on thee; As a river and its waves cannot remain apart. The light of God and knowledge are not in rivalry, But so the pulpit believes, afraid of Hallaj's rope. Contentment is the shield for the pure and the noble A shield in slavery, and a shield in power. In the East the soul looks in vain for light; In the West the light is a faded cloud of dust. The fakirs who could shatter the power and pelf of kings No longer tread this earth, in climes far or near. The spirit of this age is brimful with negations, And drained to the last drop is the power of faith. Muted is Europe's lament on its crumbling pageant, Muted by the delirious beats, the clangour of its music. A sleepy ripple awaits, to swell into a wave A wave that will swallow up monsters of the sea. What is slavery but a loss of the sense of beauty? What the free call beautiful, is beautiful indeed. The present belongs to him who explores, in their depths, The fathomless seas of time, to find the future's pearl. The alchemist of the West has turned stone into glass But my alchemy has transmuted glass into flint Pharaohs of today have stalked me in vain; But I fear not; I am blessed with Moses' wand. The flame that can set afire a dark, sunless wood, Will not be throttled by a straw afloat in the wind. Love is self-awareness; love is self-knowledge; Love cares not for the palaces and the power of kings. I will not wonder if I reach even the moon and the stars, For I have hitched my wagon to the star of all stars. First among the wise, last of the Prophets, Who gave a speck of dust the brightness of the Mount. He is the first and last in the eyes of love; He is the Word of God. He is the Word of God. ~ Allama Muhammad Iqbal, Selfhood can demolish the magic of this world (from Baal-i-Jibreel) ,

188:To the solemn abyss leads the terrible path, The life and death winding dizzy between; In thy desolate way, grim with menace and wrath, To daunt thee the spectres of giants are seen; That thou wake not the wild one, all silently tread Let thy lip breathe no breath in the pathway of dread! High over the marge of the horrible deep Hangs and hovers a bridge with its phantom-like span, Not by man was it built, o'er the vastness to sweep; Such thought never came to the daring of man! The stream roars beneathlate and early it raves But the bridge, which it threatens, is safe from the waves. Black-yawning a portal, thy soul to affright, Like the gate to the kingdom, the fiend for the king Yet beyond it there smiles but a land of delight, Where the autumn in marriage is met with the spring. From a lot which the care and the trouble assail, Could I fly to the bliss of that balm-breathing vale! Through that field, from a fount ever hidden their birth, Four rivers in tumult rush roaringly forth; They fly to the fourfold divisions of earth The sunrise, the sunset, the south, and the north. And, true to the mystical mother that bore, Forth they rush to their goal, and are lost evermore. High over the races of men in the blue Of the ether, the mount in twin summits is riven; There, veiled in the gold-woven webs of the dew, Moves the dance of the cloudsthe pale daughters of heaven! There, in solitude, circles their mystical maze, Where no witness can hearken, no earthborn surveys. August on a throne which no ages can move, Sits a queen, in her beauty serene and sublime, The diadem blazing with diamonds above The glory of brows, never darkened by time, His arrows of light on that form shoots the sun And he gilds them with all, but he warms them with none! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Lay Of The Mountain ,

189:In him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily. And ye are complete in him." Colossians 2:9, 10 All the attributes of Christ, as God and man, are at our disposal. All the fulness of the Godhead, whatever that marvellous term may comprehend, is ours to make us complete. He cannot endow us with the attributes of Deity; but he has done all that can be done, for he has made even his divine power and Godhead subservient to our salvation. His omnipotence, omniscience, omnipresence, immutability and infallibility, are all combined for our defence. Arise, believer, and behold the Lord Jesus yoking the whole of his divine Godhead to the chariot of salvation! How vast his grace, how firm his faithfulness, how unswerving his immutability, how infinite his power, how limitless his knowledge! All these are by the Lord Jesus made the pillars of the temple of salvation; and all, without diminution of their infinity, are covenanted to us as our perpetual inheritance. The fathomless love of the Saviour's heart is every drop of it ours; every sinew in the arm of might, every jewel in the crown of majesty, the immensity of divine knowledge, and the sternness of divine justice, all are ours, and shall be employed for us. The whole of Christ, in his adorable character as the Son of God, is by himself made over to us most richly to enjoy. His wisdom is our direction, his knowledge our instruction, his power our protection, his justice our surety, his love our comfort, his mercy our solace, and his immutability our trust. He makes no reserve, but opens the recesses of the Mount of God and bids us dig in its mines for the hidden treasures. "All, all, all are yours," saith he, "be ye satisfied with favour and full of the goodness of the Lord." Oh! how sweet thus to behold Jesus, and to call upon him with the certain confidence that in seeking the interposition of his love or power, we are but asking for that which he has already faithfully promised. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

190:Jesus is the true and better Adam, who passed the test in the garden and whose obedience is imputed to us (1 Corinthians 15). Jesus is the true and better Abel, who, though innocently slain, has blood that cries out for our acquittal, not our condemnation (Hebrews 12:24). Jesus is the true and better Abraham, who answered the call of God to leave the comfortable and familiar and go out into the void “not knowing whither he went” to create a new people of God. Jesus is the true and better Isaac, who was not just offered up by his father on the mount but was truly sacrificed for us all. God said to Abraham, “Now I know you love me, because you did not withhold your son, your only son whom you love, from me.” Now we can say to God, “Now we know that you love us, because you did not withhold your son, your only son whom you love, from us.” Jesus is the true and better Jacob, who wrestled with God and took the blow of justice we deserved so that we, like Jacob, receive only the wounds of grace to wake us up and discipline us. Jesus is the true and better Joseph, who at the right hand of the King forgives those who betrayed and sold him and uses his new power to save them. Jesus is the true and better Moses, who stands in the gap between the people and the Lord and who mediates a new covenant (Hebrews 3). Jesus is the true and better rock of Moses, who, struck with the rod of God’s justice, now gives us water in the desert. Jesus is the true and better Job—the truly innocent sufferer—who then intercedes for and saves his stupid friends (Job 42). Jesus is the true and better David, whose victory becomes his people’s victory, though they never lifted a stone to accomplish it themselves. Jesus is the true and better Esther, who didn’t just risk losing an earthly palace but lost the ultimate heavenly one, who didn’t just risk his life but gave his life—to save his people. Jesus is the true and better Jonah, who was cast out into the storm so we could be brought in. ~ Timothy J Keller,

191:May 18 MORNING “In Him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily. And ye are complete in Him.” — Colossians 2:9, 10 ALL the attributes of Christ, as God and man, are at our disposal. All the fulness of the Godhead, whatever that marvellous term may comprehend, is ours to make us complete. He cannot endow us with the attributes of Deity; but He has done all that can be done, for He has made even His divine power and Godhead subservient to our salvation. His omnipotence, omniscience, omnipresence, immutability and infallibility, are all combined for our defence. Arise, believer, and behold the Lord Jesus yoking the whole of His divine Godhead to the chariot of salvation! How vast His grace, how firm His faithfulness, how unswerving His immutability, how infinite His power, how limitless His knowledge! All these are by the Lord Jesus made the pillars of the temple of salvation; and all, without diminution of their infinity, are covenanted to us as our perpetual inheritance. The fathomless love of the Saviour’s heart is every drop of it ours; every sinew in the arm of might, every jewel in the crown of majesty, the immensity of divine knowledge, and the sternness of divine justice, all are ours, and shall be employed for us. The whole of Christ, in His adorable character as the Son of God, is by Himself made over to us most richly to enjoy. His wisdom is our direction, His knowledge our instruction, His power our protection, His justice our surety, His love our comfort, His mercy our solace, and His immutability our trust. He makes no reserve, but opens the recesses of the Mount of God and bids us dig in its mines for the hidden treasures. “All, all, all are yours,” saith He, “be ye satisfied with favour and full of the goodness of the Lord.” Oh! how sweet thus to behold Jesus, and to call upon Him with the certain confidence that in seeking the interposition of His love or power, we are but asking for that which He has already faithfully promised. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

192:When Bush and Clinton were talking in 1984, Bush told Clinton ‘when the American people become disillusioned with Republicans leading them into the New World Order, you, as a Democrat, will be put into place.’ I expect that Clinton will be our next President based on that conversation I heard.” “This is serious information!” Billy looked up from his work. “Its no wonder the Feds are worried about your revealing what you know.” “There are a lot of people who know what I know7,” I assured him. “And even more are waking up to reality fast. People with Intelligence operating on a Need-to-Know are gaining insight into a bigger picture with the truth that is emerging. They gain one more piece of the puzzle and the Big Picture suddenly comes into focus. When it does, their paradigms shift. Mark and I are also aware of numerous scientists waking up to the reality of a New World Order agenda who are furious that they’ve been mislead and used. These people are uniting with strength, and the New World Order elite will need to play their hold card and switch political parties. Watch and see. Clinton will appear to ‘defeat’ Bush according to plan, while Bush continues business as usual from behind the scenes of the New World Order.” “Who do you think will follow Clinton?” “A compliant, sleeping public mesmerized by his Oxford learned charisma.” Billy looked up from his work again to clarify his question. “I mean into the Presidency.” “Hillary?” I smiled half-heartedly. “Seriously, she is brighter than Bill, and is even more corrupt. Knowing her, she’d probably rather work behind the scenes, although she may be used as another appearance of ‘change’ since she’s a woman. That’s just speculation based on how these criminals operate. They want to keep their power all in the family. I did see Bush, Jr. being conditioned, and trained for the role of President at the Mount Shasta, California military programming compound in 19868. He’s not very bright, though, so I don’t know how they could possibly prop him up… ~ Cathy O Brien,

193:All about her she saw that two thousand out of the horde had made it across the water. They were on the frontier of Eden. A mere two thousand combatants for the invasion of an impregnable fortress. Five out of six Nephilim had perished at the mercy of Rahab and her brood of Leviathan and the tentacled one. The devastation was inestimable. It could lose her the war. Still, she had two thousand warriors with her. They were on the shores of the entrance to the Garden that hid the Tree of Life deep in its midst. Thanks to the Cursed One, she knew exactly where that tree was. She looked for her Rephaim generals but could not find them. They had all been lost to the denizens of the deep. An earthquake rocked the land. It was deep, the precursor of something much bigger. “Now what?” Inanna complained. She looked onto the horizon of her destination. Black smoke billowing out of the mountaintops of not only Mount Sahand, but the more distant northern Mount Savalan. The earth rumbled again. She realized she did not have much time. She signaled for her Anzu bird, and called out to Utu, flying above them at a safe height. “SOUND THE CRY OF WAR!” she bellowed. Utu put the trumpet to his lips and blew with all his might. The war cry of Inanna echoed throughout the land. Her Nephilim gathered their arms and dashed toward the heart of Eden. Inanna mounted her thunderbird. She glanced out at the Lake. Rahab glided on the surface, its eyes watching her. It would not forget this day, nor the Watcher, who for one moment bested the sea dragon of the Abyss.               • • • • • At the top of the Mount Sahand ridge, six thousand Nephilim prepared their sail-chutes. They waited for the call of war. When it came, they jumped off the cliff edge by the dozens. They opened up their sails to float down into the Garden. Handfuls of them failed and Nephilim plummeted to their deaths a thousand feet below. But most of them worked. The Nephilim drifted from the heavens into the pristine paradise. Right into the flaming whirling swords of the Cherubim. ~ Brian Godawa,

194:First of all I will confess quite simply—I believe that the Bible alone is the answer to all our questions, and that we need only to ask repeatedly and a little humbly, in order to receive this answer. One cannot simply read the Bible, like other books. One must be prepared really to enquire of it. Only thus will it reveal itself. Only if we expect from it the ultimate answer, shall we receive it. That is because in the Bible God speaks to us. And one cannot simply think about God in one’s own strength, one has to enquire of him. Only if we seek him, will he answer us. Of course it is also possible to read the Bible like any other book, that is to say from the point of view of textual criticism, etc.; there is nothing to be said against that. Only that that is not the method which will reveal to us the heart of the Bible, but only the surface, just as we do not grasp the words of someone we love by taking them to bits, but by simply receiving them, so that for days they go on lingering in our minds, simply because they are the words of a person we love; and just as these words reveal more and more of the person who said them as we go on, like Mary, “pondering them in our heart,” so it will be with the words of the Bible. Only if we will venture to enter into the words of the Bible, as though in them this God were speaking to us who loves us and does not will to leave us along with our questions, only so shall we learn to rejoice in the Bible. . . . If it is I who determine where God is to be found, then I shall always find a God who corresponds to me in some way, who is obliging, who is connected with my own nature. But if God determines where he is to be found, then it will be in a place which is not immediately pleasing to my nature and which is not at all congenial to me. This place is the Cross of Christ. And whoever would find him must go to the foot of the Cross, as the Sermon on the Mount commands. This is not according to our nature at all, it is entirely contrary to it. But this is the message of the Bible, not only in the New but also in the Old Testament. . . . ~ Eric Metaxas,

195:But now thou askest me how thou mayest destroy this naked knowing and feeling of thine own being. For peradventure thou thinkest that if it were destroyed, all other hindrances were destroyed ; and if thou thinkest thus, thou thinkest right truly. But to this I answer thee and I say, that without a full special grace full freely given by God, and also a full according ableness on thy part to receive this grace, this naked knowing and feeling of thy being may in nowise be destroyed. And this ableness is nought else but a strong and a deep ghostly sorrow. ... All men have matter of sorrow; but most specially he feeleth matter of sorrow that knoweth and feeleth that he is. All other sorrows in comparison to this be but as it were game to earnest. For he may make sorrow earnestly that knoweth and feeleth not only what he is, but that he is. And whoso felt never this sorrow, let him make sorrow; for he hath never yet felt perfect sorrow. This sorrow, when it is had, cleanseth the soul, not only of sin, but also of pain that it hath deserved for sin ; and also it maketh a soul able to receive that joy, the which reave th from a man all knowing and feeling of his being. This sorrow, if it be truly conceived, is full of holy desire; and else a man might never in this life abide it or bear it. For were it not that a soul were somewhat fed with a manner of comfort by his right working, he should not be able to bear that pain that he hath by the knowing and feeling of his being. For as oft as he would have a true knowing and a feeling of his God in purity of spirit (as it may be here), and then feeleth that he may not for he findeth evermore his knowing and his feeling as it were occupied and filled with a foul stinking lump of himself, the which must always be hated and despised and forsaken, if he shall be God's perfect disciple, taught by Himself in the mount of perfection so oft he goeth nigh mad for sorrow. . . . This sorrow and this desire must every soul have and feel in itself (either in this manner or in another), as God vouchsafed! to teach his ghostly disciples according to his good will and their according ableness in body and in soul, in degree and disposition, ere the time be that they may perfectly be oned unto God in perfect charity such as may be had here, if God vouchsafed!.    ~ Anonymous, The Cloud Of Unknowing,

196:Sub-Christian? Some read the Old Testament as so much primitive groping and guesswork, which the New Testament sweeps away. But “God . . . spoke through the prophets” (Hebrews 1:1), of whom Moses was the greatest (see Deuteronomy 34:10-12); and his Commandments, given through Moses, set a moral and spiritual standard for living which is not superseded, but carries God’s authority forever. Note that Jesus’ twofold law of love, summarizing the Commandments, comes from Moses’ own God-taught elaboration of them (for that is what the Pentateuchal law-codes are). “Love your God” is from Deuteronomy 6:5, “love your neighbor” from Leviticus 19:18. It cannot be too much stressed that Old Testament moral teaching (as distinct from the Old Testament revelation of grace) is not inferior to that of the New Testament, let alone the conventional standards of our time. The barbarities of lawless sex, violence, and exploitation, cutthroat business methods, class warfare, disregard for one’s family, and the like are sanctioned only by our modern secular society. The supposedly primitive Old Testament, and the 3000-year-old Commandments in particular, are bulwarks against all these things. But (you say) doesn’t this sort of talk set the Old Testament above Christ? Can that be right? Surely teaching that antedates him by a millennium and a quarter must be inferior to his? Surely the Commandments are too negative, always and only saying “don’t . . .”? Surely we must look elsewhere for full Christian standards? Fair queries; but there is a twofold answer. First, Christ said in the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5:17) that he came not to destroy the law but to fulfill it; that is, to be, and help others to be, all that God in the Commandments had required. What Jesus destroyed was inadequate expositions of the law, not the law itself (Matthew 5:21-48; 15:1-9; etc.). By giving truer expositions, he actually republished the law. The Sermon on the Mount itself consists of themes from the Decalogue developed in a Christian context. Second, the negative form of the Commandments has positive implications. “Where a sin is forbidden, the contrary duty is commanded” (Westminster Larger Catechism, question 99). The negative form was needed at Sinai (as in the West today) to curb current lawlessness which threatened both godliness and national life. But the positive content pointed up by Christ—loving God with all one’s powers, and one’s neighbor as oneself—is very clearly there, as we shall see. ~ J I Packer,

197:Thomas Merton said it was actually dangerous to put the Scriptures in the hands of people whose inner self is not yet sufficiently awakened to encounter the Spirit, because they will try to use God for their own egocentric purposes. (This is why religion is so subject to corruption!) Now, if we are going to talk about conversion and penance, let me apply that to the two major groups that have occupied Western Christianity—Catholics and Protestants. Neither one has really let the Word of God guide their lives. Catholics need to be converted to giving the Scriptures some actual authority in their lives. Luther wasn’t wrong when he said that most Catholics did not read the Bible. Most Catholics are still not that interested in the Bible. (Historically they did not have the printing press, nor could most people read, so you can’t blame them entirely.) I have been a priest for 42 years now, and I would sadly say that most Catholics would rather hear quotes from saints, Popes, and bishops, the current news, or funny stories, if they are to pay attention. If I quote strongly from the Sermon on the Mount, they are almost throwaway lines. I can see Catholics glaze over because they have never read the New Testament, much less studied it, or been guided by it. I am very sad to have to admit this. It is the Achilles heel of much of the Catholic world, priests included. (The only good thing about it is that they never fight you like Protestants do about Scripture. They are easily duped, and the hierarchy has been able to take advantage of this.) If Catholics need to be converted, Protestants need to do penance. Their shout of “sola Scriptura” (only Scripture) has left them at the mercy of their own cultures, their own limited education, their own prejudices, and their own selective reading of some texts while avoiding others. Partly as a result, slavery, racism, sexism, classism, xenophobia, and homophobia have lasted authoritatively into our time—by people who claim to love Jesus! I think they need to do penance for what they have often done with the Bible! They largely interpreted the Bible in a very individualistic and otherworldly way. It was “an evacuation plan for the next world” to use Brian McLaren’s phrase—and just for their group. Most of Evangelical Protestantism has no cosmic message, no social message, and little sense of social justice or care for the outsider. Both Catholics and Protestants (Orthodox too!) found a way to do our own thing while posturing friendship with Jesus. ~ Richard Rohr,

198:ye shall be smitten for your iniquities, for ye have said that ye teach the law of Moses. And what know ye concerning the law of Moses? Doth salvation come by the law of Moses? What say ye? 32 And they answered and said that salvation did come by the law of Moses. 33 But now Abinadi said unto them: I know if ye keep the commandments of God ye shall be saved; yea, if ye keep the commandments which the Lord delivered unto Moses in the mount of Sinai, saying: 34 I am the Lord thy God, who hath brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. 35 Thou shalt have no other God before me. 36 Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing in heaven above, or things which are in the earth beneath. 37 Now Abinadi said unto them, Have ye done all this? I say unto you, Nay, ye have not. And have ye taught this people that they should do all these things? I say unto you, Nay, ye have not. Mosiah Chapter 13 Abinadi is protected by divine power—He teaches the Ten Commandments—Salvation does not come by the law of Moses alone—God Himself will make an atonement and redeem His people. About 148 B.C. 1 And now when the king had heard these words, he said unto his priests: Away with this fellow, and slay him; for what have we to do with him, for he is mad. 2 And they stood forth and attempted to lay their hands on him; but he withstood them, and said unto them: 3 Touch me not, for God shall smite you if ye lay your hands upon me, for I have not delivered the message which the Lord sent me to deliver; neither have I told you that which ye requested that I should tell; therefore, God will not suffer that I shall be destroyed at this time. 4 But I must fulfil the commandments wherewith God has commanded me; and because I have told you the truth ye are angry with me. And again, because I have spoken the word of God ye have judged me that I am mad. 5 Now it came to pass after Abinadi had spoken these words that the people of king Noah durst not lay their hands on him, for the Spirit of the Lord was upon him; and his face shone with exceeding luster, even as Moses’ did while in the mount of Sinai, while speaking with the Lord. 6 And he spake with power and authority from God; and he continued his words, saying: 7 Ye see that ye have not power to slay me, therefore I finish my message. Yea, and I perceive that it cuts you to your hearts because I tell you the truth concerning your iniquities. 8 Yea, and my words fill you with wonder and amazement, and with anger. 9 But I finish my message; and then it matters not whither I go, if it so be that I am saved. 10 But this much I tell you, what you do with me, after this, shall be as a type and a shadow of things which are to come. 11 And now I read unto you the remainder of the commandments of God, for I perceive that they are not written in your hearts; I perceive that ye have studied and taught iniquity the most part of your lives. 12 And now, ye remember that I said unto you: Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of things which are in heaven above, or which are in the earth beneath, or which are in the water under the earth. ~ Joseph Smith Jr,

199:The Last Giustianini O WIFE, wife, wife! As if the sacred name Could weary one with saying! Once again Laying against my brow your lips' soft flame, Join with me, Sweetest, in love's new refrain, Since the whole music of my late-found life Is that we call each other 'husband -- wife.' And yet, stand back, and let your cloth of gold Straighten its sumptuous lines from waist to knee, And, flowing firmly outward, fold on fold, Invest your slim young form with majesty As when, in those calm bridal robes arrayed, You stood beside me, and I was afraid. I was afraid -- O sweetness, whiteness, youth, Best gift of God, I feared you! I, indeed, For whom all womanhood has been, forsooth, Summed up in the sole Virgin of the Creed, I thought that day our Lady's self stood there And bound herself to me with vow and prayer. Ah, yes, that day. I sat, remember well, Half-crook'd above a missal, and laid in The gold-leaf slowly; silence in my cell; The picture, Satan tempting Christ to sin Upon the mount's blue, pointed pinnacle, The world outspread beneath as fair as hell -When suddenly they summoned me. I stood Abashed before the Abbot, who reclined Full-bellied in his chair beneath the rood, And roseate with having lately dined; And then -- I standing there abashed -- he said: 'The house of Giustiniani all lie dead.' It scarcely seemed to touch me (I had led A grated life so long) that oversea My kinsmen in their knighthood should lie dead, Nor that this sudden death should set me free, 71 Me, the last Giustiniani -- well, what then? A monk! -- The Giustiniani had been men. So when the Abbot said: 'The state decrees That you, the latest scion of the house Which died in vain for Venice overseas, Should be exempted from your sacred vows, And straightway, when you leave this cloistered place, Take wife, and add new honors to the race,' I hardly heard him -- would have crept again To the warped missal -- but he snatched a sword And girded me, and all the heart of men Rushed through me, as he laughed and hailed me lord, And, with my hand upon the hilt, I cried, 'Viva San Marco!' like my kin who died. But, straightway, when, a new-made knight, I stood Beneath the bridal arch, and saw you come, A certain monkish warping of the blood Ran up and struck the man's heart in me dumb; I breathed an Ave to our Lady's grace, And did not dare to look upon your face. And when we swept the waters side by side, With timbrelled gladness clashing on the air, I trembled at your image in the tide, And warded off the devil with a prayer, Still seeming in a golden dream to move Through fiendish labyrinths of forbidden love. But when they left us, and we stood alone, I, the last Giustiniani, face to face With your unvisioned beauty, made my own In this, the last strange bridal of our race, And, looking up at last to meet your eyes, Saw in their depths the star of love arise, Ah, then the monk's garb shrivelled from my heart, And left me man to face your womanhood. Without a prayer to keep our lips apart I turned about and kissed you where you stood, 72 And gathering all the gladness of my life Into a new-found word, I called you 'wife!' ~ Edith Wharton,

200:Any true definition of preaching must say that that man is there to deliver the message of God, a message from God to those people. If you prefer the language of Paul, he is 'an ambassador for Christ'. That is what he is. He has been sent, he is a commissioned person, and he is standing there as the mouthpiece of God and of Christ to address these people. In other words he is not there merely to talk to them, he is not there to entertain them. He is there - and I want to emphasize this - to do something to those people; he is there to produce results of various kinds, he is there to influence people. He is not merely to influence a part of them; he is not only to influence their minds, not only their emotions, or merely to bring pressure to bear upon their wills and to induce them to some kind of activity. He is there to deal with the whole person; and his preaching is meant to affect the whole person at the very centre of life. Preaching should make such a difference to a man who is listening that he is never the same again. Preaching, in other words, is a transaction between the preacher and the listener. It does something for the soul of man, for the whole of the person, the entire man; it deals with him in a vital and radical manner I remember a remark made to me a few years back about some studies of mine on “The Sermon on the Mount.” I had deliberately published them in sermonic form. There were many who advised me not to do that on the grounds that people no longer like sermons. The days for sermons, I was told, were past, and I was pressed to turn my sermons into essays and to give them a different form. I was most interested therefore when this man to whom I was talking, and he is a very well-known Christian layman in Britain, said, "I like these studies of yours on “The Sermon on the Mount” because they speak to me.” Then he went on to say, “I have been recommended many books by learned preachers and professors but,” he said, “what I feel about those books is that it always seems to be professors writing to professors; they do not speak to me. But,” he said, “your stuff speaks to me.” Now he was an able man, and a man in a prominent position, but that is how he put it. I think there is a great deal of truth in this. He felt that so much that he had been recommended to read was very learned and very clever and scholarly, but as he put it, it was “professors writing to professors.” This is, I believe, is a most important point for us to bear in mind when we read sermons. I have referred already to the danger of giving the literary style too much prominence. I remember reading an article in a literary journal some five or six years ago which I thought was most illuminating because the writer was making the selfsame point in his own field. His case was that the trouble today is that far too often instead of getting true literature we tend to get “reviewers writing books for reviewers.” These men review one another's books, with the result that when they write, what they have in their mind too often is the reviewer and not the reading public to whom the book should be addressed, at any rate in the first instance. The same thing tends to happen in connection with preaching. This ruins preaching, which should always be a transaction between preacher and listener with something vital and living taking place. It is not the mere imparting of knowledge, there is something much bigger involved. The total person is engaged on both sides; and if we fail to realize this our preaching will be a failure. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,

201:To my great distress, I sometimes hear people say, in their zeal for fervency and efficacy in prayer, that we should never qualify our prayer requests with the words "if it be Your will." Some will even say that to attach those words, those conditional terms, to our prayers is an act of unbelief. We are told today that in the boldness of faith we are to "name it and claim it." I suppose I should be more measured in my response to this trend, but I can't think of anything more foreign to the teaching of Christ. We come to the presence of God in boldness, but never in arrogance. Yes, we can name and claim those things God has clearly promised in Scripture. For instance, we can claim the certainty of forgiveness if we confess our sins before Him, because He promises that. But when it comes to getting a raise, purchasing a home, or finding healing from a disease, God hasn't made those kind of specific promises anywhere in Scripture, so we are not free to name and claim those things. As I mentioned earlier, when we come before God, we must remember two simple facts-who He is and who we are. We must remember that we're talking to the King, the Sovereign One, the Creator, but we are only creatures. If we will keep those facts in mind, we will pray politely. We will say, "By Your leave," "As You wish," "If You please," and so on. That's the way we go before God. To say that it is a manifestation of unbelief or a weakness of faith to say to God "if it be Your will" is to slander the very Lord of the Lord's Prayer. It was Jesus, after all, who, in His moment of greatest passion, prayed regarding the will of God. In his Gospel, Luke tells us that immediately following the Last Supper: Coming out, He went to the Mount of Olives, as He was accustomed, and His disciples also followed Him. When He came to the place, He said to them, "Pray that you may not enter into temptation." And He was withdrawn from them about a stone's throw, and He knelt down and prayed, saying, "Father, if it is Your will, take this cup away from Me; nevertheless not My will, but Yours, be done." Then an angel appeared to Him from heaven, strengthening Him. And being in agony, He prayed more earnestly. Then His sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground. (Luke 22:39-44) It is important to see what Jesus prays here. He says, "Not My will, but Yours, be done." Jesus was not saying, "I don't want to be obedient" or "I refuse to submit." Jesus was saying: "Father, if there's any other way, all things being equal, I would rather not have to do it this way. What You have set before Me is more ghastly than I can contemplate. I'm entering into My grand passion and I'm terrified, but if this is what You want, this is what I'll do. Not My will, but Your will, be done, because My will is to do Your will." I also want you to notice what happened after Jesus prayed. Luke tells us that an angel came to Him and strengthened Him. The angel was the messenger of God. He came from heaven with the Father's answer to Jesus' prayer. That answer was this: "You must drink the cup." This is what it means to pray that the will of God would be done. It is the highest expression of faith to submit to the sovereignty of God. The real prayer of faith is the prayer that trusts God no matter whether the answer is yes or no. It takes no faith to "claim," like a robber, something that is not ours to claim. We are to come to God and tell Him what we want, but we must trust Him to give the answer that is best for us. That is what Jesus did. ~ R C Sproul,

202:Any true definition of preaching must say that that man is there to deliver the message of God, a message from God to those people. If you prefer the language of Paul, he is 'an ambassador for Christ'. That is what he is. He has been sent, he is a commissioned person, and he is standing there as the mouthpiece of God and of Christ to address these people. In other words he is not there merely to talk to them, he is not there to entertain them. He is there - and I want to emphasize this - to do something to those people; he is there to produce results of various kinds, he is there to influence people. He is not merely to influence a part of them; he is not only to influence their minds, not only their emotions, or merely to bring pressure to bear upon their wills and to induce them to some kind of activity. He is there to deal with the whole person; and his preaching is meant to affect the whole person at the very centre of life. Preaching should make such a difference to a man who is listening that he is never the same again. Preaching, in other words, is a transaction between the preacher and the listener. It does something for the soul of man, for the whole of the person, the entire man; it deals with him in a vital and radical manner. I remember a remark made to me a few years back about some studies of mine on “The Sermon on the Mount.” I had deliberately published them in sermonic form. There were many who advised me not to do that on the grounds that people no longer like sermons. The days for sermons, I was told, were past, and I was pressed to turn my sermons into essays and to give them a different form. I was most interested therefore when this man to whom I was talking, and he is a very well-known Christian layman in Britain, said, "I like these studies of yours on “The Sermon on the Mount” because they speak to me.” Then he went on to say, “I have been recommended many books by learned preachers and professors but,” he said, “what I feel about those books is that it always seems to be professors writing to professors; they do not speak to me. But,” he said, “your stuff speaks to me.” Now he was an able man, and a man in a prominent position, but that is how he put it. I think there is a great deal of truth in this. He felt that so much that he had been recommended to read was very learned and very clever and scholarly, but as he put it, it was “professors writing to professors.” This is, I believe, is a most important point for us to bear in mind when we read sermons. I have referred already to the danger of giving the literary style too much prominence. I remember reading an article in a literary journal some five or six years ago which I thought was most illuminating because the writer was making the selfsame point in his own field. His case was that the trouble today is that far too often instead of getting true literature we tend to get “reviewers writing books for reviewers.” These men review one another's books, with the result that when they write, what they have in their mind too often is the reviewer and not the reading public to whom the book should be addressed, at any rate in the first instance. The same thing tends to happen in connection with preaching. This ruins preaching, which should always be a transaction between preacher and listener with something vital and living taking place. It is not the mere imparting of knowledge, there is something much bigger involved. The total person is engaged on both sides; and if we fail to realize this our preaching will be a failure. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,

203:On Australian Hills Earth, outward tuning on her path in space This pensive southern face, Swathing its smile and shine In that soft veil that day and darkness twine, The silver-threaded twilight thin and fine, With April dews impearled, Looms like another and diviner world. Here April brings her garnered harvest-sheaf, Her withered autumn leaf, Tintings of bronze and brass; Her full-plumed reeds, her mushroom in the grass, Her furrowed fields, where plough and sower pass, Her laden apple bough. All are transfigured and transmuted now. The eastward ranges, so unearthly blue, Bloom with their richest hue; Slowly each rose-flushed crest Deepens to violet where the shadows rest, Darkens and darkens to the paling west; The waning sun-fires die; The first star swims in the pellucid sky. Soundless to listening ear, on grass and flowers, The footfall of the hours; Formless and void to sight The evolutions of invading night, The creeping onslaught and the gradual flight, Until the field is won, And we look forth to see that day is done. Then, from their grave of darkness, wood and lawn Wake to a second dawn. From unseen wells below 150 The pearly moon-tides rise and overflow, Till vale and peak and wide air-spaces glow In the transfiguring stream, And earth and life are but a heavenly dream. And now we hear the fairy-echoes fall Where distant curlews call, And how the silence thrills With the night-voices of the glens and hills, Rustling in reeds and tinkling in the rills, Bubbling in creek and pool Where frogs are wooing in the shallows cool. And more than these, in this delicious time, The melody sublime That inward spirit hears-The faint and far-off music of the spheres, Immortal harmonies, too fine for ears Dulled in the dusty ways, Deaf with the din of the laborious days. Whereto, responsive as the vibrant wire Of some aeolian lyre Fanned by celestial wings, The summoned soul in mystic concord brings The deep notes latent in its trembling strings, Joining the choir divine Of all the worlds that in the ether shine. O sacred hour! O sweet night, calm and fair! Thou dost rebuke despair; Thou dost assuage the pain Of passionate spirit and distempered brain, And with thy balms, distilled like gentle rain, Dost heal the fret and smart And nerve the courage of this coward's heart. 151 And lift me up, a Moses on the Mount To the pure source and fount Of law transcending law, Of life that hallows life. I know no more Of life's great Giver than I knew before, But these His creatures tell That He is living, and that all is well. Oh, to be there to-night! To see that rose of sunset flame and fade On ghostly mountain height, The soft dusk gathering each leaf and blade From the departing light, Each tree-fern feather of the wildwood glade. From arid streets to pass Down those green aisles where golden wattles bloom, Over the fragrant grass, And smell the eucalyptus in a gloom That is as clear as glass, The dew-fresh scents of bracken and of broom . . . These city clamours mute, To hear the woodland necromancers play Each his enchanted lute; That dear bird-laugh, so exquisitely gay, The magpie's silver flute In vesper carol to the dying day. To hear the live wind blow, The delicate stir and whisper of the trees As light breaths come and go, The brooklet murmuring to the vagrant breeze, The bull-frog twanging low His deep-toned mandolin to chime with these. 152 And then the whispering rills, The hushed lone wheel, or hoof, or axeman's tool; The brooding dark that stills The sweet Pan-piping of the grove and pool; The dimly glimmering hills; The sleeping night, so heavenly clean and cool. Oh, for that mother-breast That takes the broken spirit for repair, The worn-out brain for rest-That healing silence, that untainted air, That Peace of God . . . . . . Blest, blest The very memory that I once was there. The thought that someday yet, In flesh, not dreams, I may return again, And at those altars, set In the pure skies, above the smoky plain, Remember and forget The joy of living and its price of pain . . . . . . That sullied earth reserves Such spacious refuge virgin and apart, That wasting life preserves Such sweet retreat for the distracted heart, Such fount of strength for nerves Torn in the ruthless struggle of the mart . . . . . . That Government divine O'er all this reek of blunders and of woes Keeps an unravaged shrine Not here, not there, but in the souls of those Who neither weep nor whine, But trust the guidance of the One Who Knows. 153 ~ Ada Cambridge,

204: UPON THE MOUNT OF OLIVES Winter, a wicked guest, is sitting at home with me; my hands are blue from the handshake of his friendship. I honor this wicked guest, but I like to let him sit alone. I like to run away from him; and if one runs well, one escapes him. With warm feet and warm thoughts I run where the wind stands still, to the sunny nook of my mount of olives. There I laugh at my severe guest and am still well disposed toward him for 173 catching the flies at home and for silencing much small noise. For he does not suffer it when a mosquito would sing, or even two; he even makes the lane lonely till the moonlight in it is afraid at night. He is a hard guest, but I honor him, and I do not pray, like the pampered, to the potbellied fire idol. Even a little chattering of the teeth rather than adoring idols -thus my nature dictates. And I have a special grudge against all fire idols that are in heat, steaming and musty. Whomever I love, I love better in winter than in summer; I mock my enemies better and more heartily since winter dwells in my home. Heartily, in truth, even when I crawl into bed; even then my hidden happiness still laughs and is full of pranks; even the dream that lies to me still laughs. I-a crawler? Never in my life have I crawled before the mighty; and if ever I lied, I lied out of love. Therefore I am glad in the wintry bed too. A simple bed warms me more than a rich one, for I am jealous of my poverty, and in winter it is most faithful to me. I begin every day with a bit of malice: I mock the winter with a cold bath; that makes my severe house guest grumble. Besides, I like to tickle him with a little wax candle to make him let the sky come out of the ashen gray twilight at last. For I am especially malicious in the morning, in that early hour when the pail rattles at the well and the horses whinny warmly through gray lanes. Then I wait impatiently for the bright sky to rise before me at last, the snow-bearded winter sky, the old man with his white hair-the winter sky, so taciturn that it often tacitly hides even its sun. Was it from him that I learned the long bright silence? Or did he learn it from me? Or did each of us invent it independently? The origin of all good things 174 is thousandfold; all good prankish things leap into existence from sheer joy: how could one expect them to do that only once? Long silence too is a good prankish thing-and to look out of a bright round-eyed face, like the winter sky, and tacitly to hide one's sun and one's indomitable solar will: verily, this art and this winter prank I have learned well. It is my favorite malice and art that my silence has learned not to betray itself through silence. Rattling with discourse and dice, I outwit those who wait solemnly: my will and purpose shall elude all these severe inspectors. That no one may discern my ground and ultimate will, for that I have invented my long bright silence. Many I found who were clever: they veiled their faces and muddied their waters that nobody might see through them, deep down. But precisely to them came the cleverer mistrusters and nutcrackers: precisely their most hidden fish were fished out. It is the bright, the bold, the transparent who are cleverest among those who are silent: their ground is down so deep that even the brightest water does not betray it. You snow-bearded silent winter sky, you round-eyed white-head above mel 0 you heavenly parable of my soul and its pranks! And must I not conceal myself like one who has swallowed gold, lest they slit open my soul? Must I not walk on stilts that they overlook my long legs-all these grudge-joys and drudge-boys who surround me? These smoky, room-temperature, used-up, wilted, fretful souls -how could their grudge endure my happiness? Hence I show them only the ice and the winter of my peaksand not that my mountain still winds all the belts of the sun round itself. They hear only my winter winds whistling-and not that I also cross warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot south winds. They still have pity on 175 my accidents; but my word says, "Let accidents come to me, they are innocent as little children.' How could they endure my happiness if I did not wrap my happiness in accidents and winter distress and polar-bear caps and covers of snowy heavens-if I myself did not have mercy on their pity, which is the pity of grudge-joys and drudge-boys, if I myself did not sigh before them and chatter with cold and patiently suffer them to wrap me in their pity. This is the wise frolicsomeness and friendliness of my soul, that it does not conceal its winter and its icy winds; nor does it conceal its chilblains. Loneliness can be the escape of the sick; loneliness can also be escape from the sick. Let them hear me chatter and sigh with the winter cold, all these poor jealous jokers around me! With such sighing and chattering I still escape their heated rooms. Let them suffer and sigh over my chilblains. "The ice of knowledge will yet freeze him to death!" they moan. Meanwhile I run crisscross on my mount of olives with warm feet; in the sunny nook of my mount of olives I sing and I mock all pity. Thus sang Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, UPON THE MOUNT OF OLIVES ,

205:Amours De Voyage, Canto Iv Eastward, or Northward, or West? I wander and ask as I wander; Weary, yet eager and sure, Where shall I come to my love? Whitherward hasten to seek her? Ye daughters of Italy, tell me, Graceful and tender and dark, is she consorting with you? Thou that out-climbest the torrent, that tendest thy goats to the summit, Call to me, child of the Alp, has she been seen on the heights? Italy, farewell I bid thee! for whither she leads me, I follow. Farewell the vineyard! for I, where I but guess her, must go; Weariness welcome, and labour, wherever it be, if at last it Bring me in mountain or plain into the sight of my love. I. Claude to Eustace,--from Florence. Gone from Florence; indeed! and that is truly provoking;-Gone to Milan, it seems; then I go also to Milan. Five days now departed; but they can travel but slowly;-I quicker far; and I know, as it happens, the home they will go to.-Why, what else should I do? Stay here and look at the pictures, Statues and churches? Alack, I am sick of the statues and pictures!-No, to Bologna, Parma, Piacenza, Lodi, and Milan, Off go we to-night,--and the Venus go to the Devil! II. Claude to Eustace,--from Bellaggio. Gone to Como, they said; and I have posted to Como. There was a letter left; but the cameriere had lost it. Could it have been for me? They came, however, to Como, And from Como went by the boat,--perhaps to the Splügen,-Or to the Stelvio, say, and the Tyrol; also it might be By Porlezza across to Lugano, and so to the Simplon Possibly, or the St. Gothard,--or possibly, too, to Baveno, Orta, Turin, and elsewhere. Indeed, I am greatly bewildered. 37 III. Claude to Eustace,--from Bellaggio. I have been up the Splügen, and on the Stelvio also: Neither of these can I find they have followed; in no one inn, and This would be odd, have they written their names. I have been to Porlezza; There they have not been seen, and therefore not at Lugano. What shall I do? Go on through the Tyrol, Switzerland, Deutschland, Seeking, an inverse Saul, a kingdom to find only asses? There is a tide, at least, in the love affairs of mortals, Which, when taken at flood, leads on to the happiest fortune,-Leads to the marriage-morn and the orange-flowers and the altar, And the long lawful line of crowned joys to crowned joys succeeding.-Ah, it has ebbed with me! Ye gods, and when it was flowing, Pitiful fool that I was, to stand fiddle-faddling in that way! IV. Claude to Eustace,--from Bellaggio. I have returned and found their names in the book at Como. Certain it is I was right, and yet I am also in error. Added in feminine hand, I read, By the boat to Bellaggio.-So to Bellaggio again, with the words of he writing to aid me. Yet at Bellaggio I find no trace, no sort of remembrance. So I am here, and wait, and know every hour will remove them. V. Claude to Eustace,--from Bellaggio. I have but one chance left,--and that is going to Florence. But it is cruel to turn. The mountains seem to demand me,-Peak and valley from far to beckon and motion me onward. Somewhere amid their folds she passes whom fain I would follow; Somewhere amid those heights she haply calls me to seek her. Ah, could I hear her call! could I catch the glimpse of her raiment! Turn, however, I must, though it seem I turn to desert her; For the sense of the thing is simply to hurry to Florence, Where the certainty yet may be learnt, I suppose, from the Ropers. 38 VI. Mary Trevellyn, from Lucerne, to Miss Roper, at Florence. Dear Miss Roper,--By this you are safely away, we are hoping, Many a league from Rome; ere long we trust we shall see you. How have you travelled? I wonder;--was Mr. Claude your companion? As for ourselves, we went from Como straight to Lugano; So by the Mount St. Gothard; we meant to go by Porlezza, Taking the steamer, and stopping, as you had advised, at Bellaggio, Two or three days or more; but this was suddenly altered, After we left the hotel, on the very way to the steamer. So we have seen, I fear, not one of the lakes in perfection. Well, he is not come, and now, I suppose, he will not come. What will you think, meantime? and yet I must really confess it;-What will you say? I wrote him a note. We left in a hurry, Went from Milan to Como, three days before we expected. But I thought, if he came all the way to Milan, he really Ought not to be disappointed: and so I wrote three lines to Say I had heard he was coming, desirous of joining our party;-If so, then I said, we had started for Como, and meant to Cross the St. Gothard, and stay, we believed, at Lucerne, for the summer. Was it wrong? and why, if it was, has it failed to bring him? Did he not think it worth while to come to Milan? He knew (you Told him) the house we should go to. Or may it, perhaps, have miscarried? Any way, now, I repent, and am heartily vexed that I wrote it. There is a home on the shore of the Alpine sea, that upswelling High up the mountain-sides spreads in the hollow between; Wilderness, mountain, and snow from the land of the olive conceal it; Under Pilatus's hill low by the river it lies; Italy, utter the word, and the olive and vine will allure not,-Wilderness, forest, and snow will not the passage impede; Italy, unto thy cities receding, the clue to recover, Hither, recovered the clue, shall not the traveller haste? ~ Arthur Hugh Clough,

206:Song Of The Guitar. In the tenth year of Yuanhe I was banished and demoted to be assistant official in Jiujiang. In the summer of the next year I was seeing a friend leave Penpu and heard in the midnight from a neighbouring boat a guitar played in the manner of the capital. Upon inquiry, I found that the player had formerly been a dancinggirl there and in her maturity had been married to a merchant. I invited her to my boat to have her play for us. She told me her story, heyday and then unhappiness. Since my departure from the capital I had not felt sad; but that night, after I left her, I began to realize my banishment. And I wrote this long poem -- six hundred and twelve characters. I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Xunyang River, Where maple-leaves and full-grown rushes rustled in the autumn. I, the host, had dismounted, my guest had boarded his boat, And we raised our cups and wished to drink-but, alas, there was no music. For all we had drunk we felt no joy and were parting from each other, When the river widened mysteriously toward the full moon -We had heard a sudden sound, a guitar across the water. Host forgot to turn back home, and guest to go his way. We followed where the melody led and asked the player's name. The sound broke off...then reluctantly she answered. We moved our boat near hers, invited her to join us, Summoned more wine and lanterns to recommence our banquet. Yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us, Still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar. ...She turned the tuning-pegs and tested several strings; We could feel what she was feeling, even before she played: Each string a meditation, each note a deep thought, As if she were telling us the ache of her whole life. She knit her brows, flexed her fingers, then began her music, Little by little letting her heart share everything with ours. She brushed the strings, twisted them slow, swept them, plucked them -First the air of The Rainbow Skirt, then The Six Little Ones. The large strings hummed like rain, The small strings whispered like a secret, Hummed, whispered-and then were intermingled Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade. We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers. We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand... By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken 61 As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament, Told even more in silence than they had told in sound.... A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water, And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote -And, before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke, And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk There was quiet in the east boat and quiet in the west, And we saw the white autumnal moon enter the river's heart. ...When she had slowly placed the pick back among the strings, She rose and smoothed her clothing and, formal, courteous, Told us how she had spent her girlhood at the capital, Living in her parents' house under the Mount of Toads, And had mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen, With her name recorded first in the class-roll of musicians, Her art the admiration even of experts, Her beauty the envy of all the leading dancers, How noble youths of Wuling had lavishly competed And numberless red rolls of silk been given for one song, And silver combs with shell inlay been snapped by her rhythms, And skirts the colour of blood been spoiled with stains of wine.... Season after season, joy had followed joy, Autumn moons and spring winds had passed without her heeding, Till first her brother left for the war, and then her aunt died, And evenings went and evenings came, and her beauty faded -With ever fewer chariots and horses at her door; So that finally she gave herself as wife to a merchant Who, prizing money first, careless how he left her, Had gone, a month before, to Fuliang to buy tea. And she had been tending an empty boat at the river's mouth, No company but the bright moon and the cold water. And sometimes in the deep of night she would dream of her triumphs And be wakened from her dreams by the scalding of her tears. Her very first guitar-note had started me sighing; Now, having heard her story, I was sadder still. "We are both unhappy -- to the sky's end. We meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter? I came, a year ago, away from the capital And am now a sick exile here in Jiujiang -And so remote is Jiujiang that I have heard no music, Neither string nor bamboo, for a whole year. My quarters, near the River Town, are low and damp, 62 With bitter reeds and yellowed rushes all about the house. And what is to be heard here, morning and evening? -The bleeding cry of cuckoos, the whimpering of apes. On flowery spring mornings and moonlit autumn nights I have often taken wine up and drunk it all alone, Of course there are the mountain songs and the village pipes, But they are crude and-strident, and grate on my ears. And tonight, when I heard you playing your guitar, I felt as if my hearing were bright with fairy-music. Do not leave us. Come, sit down. Play for us again. And I will write a long song concerning a guitar." ...Moved by what I said, she stood there for a moment, Then sat again to her strings-and they sounded even sadder, Although the tunes were different from those she had played before.... The feasters, all listening, covered their faces. But who of them all was crying the most? This Jiujiang official. My blue sleeve was wet. ~ Bai Juyi,

207:Passage To America I. On the day of the feast death had its celebration the teevees and the movies told us the same story death in the morning death in the evening death in the cellar death in the alley death on the highway the boy returning from the rally death in the cornfield the girl going to the grocer's death in the valley and high on the mountain death from pollution and great disillusion death in the mind in the womb in the cradle death from belief and its comic relief the winds from the north and the winds from the south sowed the seeds of death and waited for the harvest death was riding nightmares on the streets of civilization someone had coughed in the women's room and kleenex caught her vaginal sneeze while history knocked at the door and waited in the winter outside the computer counted the errors and discounted others a woman had died but it was a mistake someone wanted to undo it learned it was too late and walked to the seashore and watched the tidal waves death was riding the receding waves death was roaring in the generation gap and lying in history's lap was sucking on its sap on the day of the feast death had its celebration knocked out of sleep by the casualty list someone was still groping in daylight but it's christmas and new year time to stop worrying over those that are dead time to start thinking of living yet 24 while the sun is still hot and the day not done perhaps a mistake to suppose it so it's easy enough to suppose it so and it's easy enough to die in these circumstances but think of the horror and the glory of having to live II. My sitar my guitar from east or west i do not care whatever i dare is for the best fingers of the left tripping on nipples fingers of the right strumming the ripples around the lotus bud as we set on the bed each petal quakes as the raga awakes raises in dizzy spirals towers and gyres steeples and spires domes and minarets pagodas pyramids fabled hoofs trot on gabled roofs as the tala quickens we rocket to the heavens to gather the starlust and then we fall falter and fall like flakes of feathered snow sprinkled with stardust o my guitar o my sitar III. Having learnt in a short lifetime that chalk doesn't write on chalk 25 he turned to look for sunflowers in beds of roses IV. Twice-punctured silver belle suspended in the cerulean her sea of tranquility disturbed by hymen penetration her darkness filmed and douched unable to recover her cherry nights fears yet longs for the next assault in sweet dread of periodic stress her bashful beams dreaming downward for a metallic man-thrust V. The poet chews the afternoon like his moustache he drones on about a new civilization his mystic beard points to the seed of time his tongue trips on the syllables of a sutra my girl she sleeps and slides on to my shoulder her breasts rise and fall where the words of the poet rebound her dark green shirt exudes the smell of sweat her golden hair the sinuous oily flesh of hair curves creeps and curls into my veins words wary sliders reveal their mystery my girl she stirs turns around her bellybutton shows a foetus face a snake tongue smacks her swollen lips the soft hairs on her upper lip now moist and alive a dog walks in and lies down at my feet he listens to the poet reading chanting enchanting like a dream called off in the middle the poet pauses poised for breath between the mantras the tangled thighs of minutes 26 the dog gets up stretches himself walks away wagging his tail in total agreement soft nervous fingers touch me from the side they keep me from the poet a dog is dignified by his tail i wish i had one VI. Time to say farewell Pale faces after a nightlong wake do not need to kiss Before another nightfall sometime during the day we have to say farewell How shall we part then Write an autograph and put a period after it Take a long walk and sigh in the wind Recite a few verses and smile at the end Perhaps a last smutty story to leave a scratch on the memory Look how the spring sun Struggles with the rain! VII. It's as if i suddenly meet you on the way when i go for my usual walk in the evening the earth that begins at your feet seems to end at mine the air you breathe out enters into my lungs and the light that escapes from your eyes focuses on mine america i see your map like the palm of a hand stretched out on my lap mississippi traces your lifeline to the south while the great lakes draw circles along the st lawrence headline 27 but where is your heartline on the mount of jupiter new england cocks its eyes at europe your venus is still in heat in the far south of florida and the mount of moon shimmers on the california beach but america where has vanished your heartline has some test explosion sucked it underground i remember river phalgun that goes dry in summer defying our prayers where once the buddha got enlightenment and learned to take the earth for a begging bowl but here the fission and the fusion your scientists envision offer your palmist nothing but confusion sailing back from mescalin to marijuana someone said there never was such a line in this ancient newborn land where we grow corn and PL 480 and make cover tv sets in plenty till our chests are nearly empty and brains spout tons of TNT it's christmas again the shape of a heart neatly pinned to a cross that stands on a hill we have set up with skill (Translated by the author, with the help of J.O. Perry, Dakshinamoorthy, K. Satchidanandan, and Esther Y. Smith.) ~ Ayyappa Paniker,

208:Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!   Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?   Nephewssons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well   She, men would have to be your mother once,   Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!   What's done is done, and she is dead beside,   Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,   And as she died so must we die ourselves,   And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.   Life, how and what is it? As here I lie   In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,   Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask   Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.   Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;   And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought   With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:   Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;   Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South   He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!   Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence   One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,   And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,   And up into the aery dome where live   The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk   And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,   And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,   With those nine columns round me, two and two,   The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:   Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe   As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.   Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,   Put me where I may look at him! True peach,   Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!   Draw close: that conflagration of my church   What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!   My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig   The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,   Drop water gently till the surface sink,   And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I!   Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,   And corded up in a tight olive-frail,   Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,   Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,   Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast   Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,   That brave Frascati villa with its bath,   So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,   Like God the Father's globe on both His hands   Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,   For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!   Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:   Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?   Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black   'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else   Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?   The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,   Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,   The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,   Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan   Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,   And Moses with the tables . . . but I know   Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,   Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope   To revel down my villas while I gasp   Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine   Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!   Nay, boys, ye love meall of jasper, then!   'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve.   My bath must needs be left behind, alas!   One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,   There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world   And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray   Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,   And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?   That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,   Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,   No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line   Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!   And then how I shall lie through centuries,   And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,   And see God made and eaten all day long,   And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste   Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!   For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,   Dying in state and by such slow degrees,   I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,   And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,   And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop   Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:   And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts   Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,   About the life before I lived this life,   And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,   Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,   Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,    And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,    And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,    Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?   No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!   Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.   All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope   My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?   Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick,   They glitter like your mother's for my soul,   Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,   Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase   With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term,   And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx   That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,   To comfort me on my entablature   Whereon I am to lie till I must ask   "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!   For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude   To deathye wish itGod, ye wish it! Stone   Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat   As if the corpse they keep were oozing through   And no more lapis to delight the world!   Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,   But in a row: and, going, turn your backs   Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,   And leave me in my church, the church for peace,   That I may watch at leisure if he leers   Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,   As still he envied me, so fair she was! ~ Robert Browning, Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church, Rome, The ,

209:XXII - WALPURGIS-NIGHT'S DREAM OBERON AND TITANIA's GOLDEN WEDDING INTERMEZZO MANAGER Sons of Mieding, rest to-day! Needless your machinery: Misty vale and mountain gray, That is all the scenery. HERALD That the wedding golden be. Must fifty years be rounded: But the Golden give to me, When the strife's compounded. OBERON Spirits, if you're here, be seen Show yourselves, delighted! Fairy king and fairy queen, They are newly plighted. PUCK Cometh Puck, and, light of limb, Whisks and whirls in measure: Come a hundred after him, To share with him the pleasure. ARIEL Ariel's song is heavenly-pure, His tones are sweet and rare ones: Though ugly faces he allure, Yet he allures the fair ones. OBERON Spouses, who would fain agree, Learn how we were mated! If your pairs would loving be, First be separated! TITANIA If her whims the wife control, And the man berate her, Take him to the Northern Pole, And her to the Equator! ORCHESTRA. TUTTI. Fortissimo. Snout of fly, mosquito-bill, And kin of all conditions, Frog in grass, and cricket-trill, These are the musicians! SOLO See the bagpipe on our track! 'Tis the soap-blown bubble: Hear the schnecke-schnicke-schnack Through his nostrils double! SPIRIT, JUST GROWING INTO FORM Spider's foot and paunch of toad, And little wingswe know 'em! A little creature 'twill not be, But yet, a little poem. A LITTLE COUPLE Little step and lofty leap Through honey-dew and fragrance: You'll never mount the airy steep With all your tripping vagrance. INQUISITIVE TRAVELLER Is't but masquerading play? See I with precision? Oberon, the beauteous fay, Meets, to-night, my vision! ORTHODOX Not a claw, no tail I see! And yet, beyond a cavil, Like "the Gods of Greece," must he Also be a devil. NORTHERN ARTIST I only seize, with sketchy air, Some outlines of the tourney; Yet I betimes myself prepare For my Italian journey. PURIST My bad luck brings me here, alas! How roars the orgy louder! And of the witches in the mass, But only two wear powder. YOUNG WITCH Powder becomes, like petticoat, A gray and wrinkled noddy; So I sit naked on my goat, And show a strapping body. MATRON We've too much tact and policy To rate with gibes a scolder; Yet, young and tender though you be, I hope to see you moulder. LEADER OF THE BAND Fly-snout and mosquito-bill, Don't swarm so round the Naked! Frog in grass and cricket-trill, Observe the time, and make it! WEATHERCOCK (towards one side) Society to one's desire! Brides only, and the sweetest! And bachelors of youth and fire. And prospects the completest! WEATHERCOCK (towards the other side) And if the Earth don't open now To swallow up each ranter, Why, then will I myself, I vow, Jump into hell instanter! XENIES Us as little insects see! With sharpest nippers flitting, That our Papa Satan we May honor as is fitting. HENNINGS How, in crowds together massed, They are jesting, shameless! They will even say, at last, That their hearts are blameless. MUSAGETES Among this witches' revelry His way one gladly loses; And, truly, it would easier be Than to comm and the Muses. CI-DEVANT GENIUS OF THE AGE The proper folks one's talents laud: Come on, and none shall pass us! The Blocksberg has a summit broad, Like Germany's Parnassus. INQUISITIVE TRAVELLER Say, who's the stiff and pompous man? He walks with haughty paces: He snuffles all he snuffle can: "He scents the Jesuits' traces." CRANE Both clear and muddy streams, for me Are good to fish and sport in: And thus the pious man you see With even devils consorting. WORLDLING Yes, for the pious, I suspect, All instruments are fitting; And on the Blocksberg they erect Full many a place of meeting. DANCER A newer chorus now succeeds! I hear the distant drumming. "Don't be disturbed! 'tis, in the reeds, The bittern's changeless booming." DANCING-MASTER How each his legs in nimble trip Lifts up, and makes a clearance! The crooked jump, the heavy skip, Nor care for the appearance. GOOD FELLOW The rabble by such hate are held, To maim and slay delights them: As Orpheus' lyre the brutes compelled, The bagpipe here unites them. DOGMATIST I'll not be led by any lure Of doubts or critic-cavils: The Devil must be something, sure, Or how should there be devils? IDEALIST This once, the fancy wrought in me Is really too despotic: Forsooth, if I am all I see, I must be idiotic! REALIST This racking fuss on every hand, It gives me great vexation; And, for the first time, here I stand On insecure foundation. SUPERNATURALIST With much delight I see the play, And grant to these their merits, Since from the devils I also may Infer the better spirits. SCEPTIC The flame they follow, on and on, And think they're near the treasure: But Devil rhymes with Doubt alone, So I am here with pleasure. LEADER OF THE BAND Frog in green, and cricket-trill. Such dilettants!perdition! Fly-snout and mosquito-bill, Each one's a fine musician! THE ADROIT Sans souci, we call the clan Of merry creatures so, then; Go a-foot no more we can, And on our heads we go, then. THE AWKWARD Once many a bit we sponged, but now, God help us! that is done with: Our shoes are all danced out, we trow, We've but naked soles to run with. WILL-O'-THE WISPS From the marshes we appear, Where we originated; Yet in the ranks, at once, we're here As glittering gallants rated. SHOOTING-STAR Darting hither from the sky, In star and fire light shooting, Cross-wise now in grass I lie: Who'll help me to my footing? THE HEAVY FELLOWS Room! and round about us, room! Trodden are the grasses: Spirits also, spirits come, And they are bulky masses. PUCK Enter not so stall-fed quite, Like elephant-calves about one! And the heaviest weight to-night Be Puck, himself, the stout one! ARIEL If loving Nature at your back, Or Mind, the wings uncloses, Follow up my airy track To the mount of roses! ORCHESTRA pianissimo Cloud and trailing mist o'erhead Are now illuminated: Air in leaves, and wind in reed, And all is dissipated. DREARY DAY ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, OBERON AND TITANIA's GOLDEN WEDDING ,

210:THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he felt frozen and lonely: for much that was cold and lonely passed through his mind and made his limbs too feel colder. But as he climbed on and on, up and down, now past green pastures, then again over wild stony places where an impatient brook might once have made its bed, all at once he felt warmer and more cheerful again. "What happened to me?" he asked himself. "Something warm and alive refreshes me, something that must be near me. Even now I am less alone; unknown companions and brothers roam about me; their warm breath touches my soul." But when he looked around to find those who had comforted his loneliness, behold, they were cows, standing together on a knoll; their proximity and smell had warmed his heart. These cows, however, seemed to be listening eagerly to a speaker and did not heed him that was approaching. But when Zarathustra had come quite close to them, he heard distinctly that a human voice was speaking in the middle of the herd; and they had evidently all turned their heads toward the speaker. Thereupon Zarathustra jumped up eagerly and pushed the animals apart, for he was afraid that somebody had suffered some harm here, which the pity of cows could scarcely cure. But he was wrong, for behold, there sat a man on the ground, and he seemed to be urging the animals to have no fear of him, a peaceful man and sermonizer on the mount out of whose eyes goodness itself was preaching. "What do you seek here?" shouted Zarathustra, amazed. "What do I seek here?" he replied. "The same thing 269 you are seeking, you disturber of the peace: happiness on earth. But I want to learn that from these cows. For, you know, I have already been urging them half the morning, and just now they wanted to tell me. Why do you disturb them? "Except we turn back and become as cows, we shall not enter the kingdom of heaven. For we ought to learn one thing from them: chewing the cud. And verily, what would it profit a man if he gained the whole world and did not learn this one thing: chewing the cudl He would not get rid of his melancholy-Lhis great melancholy; but today that is called nausea. Who today does not have his heart, mouth, and eyes full of nausea? You tool You tool But behold these cowsl" Thus spoke the sermonizer on the mount, and then he turned his own eyes toward Zarathustra, for until then they had dwelt lovingly on the cows. But then his eyes changed. "Who is this to whom I am talking?" he cried, startled, and jumped up from the ground. "This is the man without nausea, this is Zarathustra himself, the man who overcame the great nausea; this is the eye, this is the mouth, this is the heart of Zarathustra himself." And as he spoke thus, he kissed the hands of the man to whom he was talking, and his eyes welled over, and he behaved exactly as one to whom a precious gift and treasure falls unexpectedly from the sky. But the cows watched all this with amazement. "Do not speak of me, you who are so strange, so lovely" Zarathustra said and restrained his tender affection. "First speak to me of yourself. Are you not the voluntary beggar who once threw away great riches? Who was ashamed of his riches and of the rich, and fled to the poorest to give them his fullness and his heart? But they did not accept him." 270 "But they did not accept me," said the voluntary beggar; "you know it. So I finally went to the animals and to these cows." "There you have learned," Zarathustra interrupted the speaker, "how right giving is harder than right receiving, and that to give presents well is an art and the ultimate and most cunning master-art of graciousness. "Especially today," answered the voluntary beggar; "today, I mean, when everything base has become rebellious and shy and, in its own way, arrogant-I mean, in the way of the mob. For the hour has come, you know it, for the great, bad, long, slow revolt of the mob and slaves: it grows and grows. Now the base are outraged by any charity and any little giving away; and the overrich should beware. Whoever drips today, like bulging bottles out of all-too-narrow necks-such bottles they like to seize today to break their necks. Lascivious greed, galled envy, aggrieved vengefulness, mob pride: all that leaped into my face. It is no longer true that the poor are blessed. But the kingdom of heaven is among the cows." "And why is it not among the rich?" asked Zarathustra temptingly as he warded off the cows, which were breathing trustingly on the peaceful man. "Why do you tempt me?" he replied. "You yourself know it even better than I. What was it after all that drove me to the poorest, 0 Zarathustra? Was it not that I was nauseated by our richest men? By the convicts of riches, who pick up their advantage out of any rubbish, with cold eyes, lewd thoughts; by this rabble that stinks to high heaven; by this gilded, false mob whose fathers have been pickpockets or carrion birds or ragpickers-with women, obliging, lascivious, and for- 271 getful: for none of them is too far from the whoresmob above and mob below What do 'poor' and 'rich' matter today? This difference I have forgotten. I fled, farther, ever farther, till I came to these cows." Thus spoke the peaceful man, and he himself breathed hard and sweated as he spoke, so that the cows were amazed again. But Zarathustra kept looking into his face, smiling as he spoke so harshly, and silently he shook his head. "You do yourself violence, you sermonizer on the mount, when you use such harsh words. Your mouth was not formed for such harshness, nor your eyes. Nor, it seems to me, your stomach either: it is offended by all such wrath and hatred and frothing. Your stomach wants gentler things: you are no butcher. You seem much more like a plant-and-root man to me. Perhaps you gnash grain. Certainly, however, you are averse to the joys of the flesh and you love honey." "You have unriddled me well," answered the voluntary beggar, his heart relieved. "I love honey; I also gnash grain, for I sought what tastes lovely and gives a pure breath; also what takes a long time, a day's and a mouth's work for gentle idlers and loafers. Nobody, to be sure, has achieved more than these cows: they invented for themselves chewing the cud and lying in the sun. And they abstain from all grave thoughts, which bloat the heart." "Well then!" said Zarathustra. "You should also see my animals, my eagle and my serpent: their like is not to be found on earth today. Behold, there goes the way to my cave: be its guest tonight. And talk with my animals of the happiness of animals-till I myself return home. For now a cry of distress urgently calls me away from you. You will also find new honey in my cave, icefresh golden comb honey: eat that But now quickly 272 take leave from your cows, you who are so strange, so lovelyl-though it may be hard for you. For they are your warmest friends and teachers." "Excepting one whom I love still more," answered the voluntary beggar. "You yourself are good, and even better than a cow, 0 Zarathustra." "Away, away with you, you wicked flatterer!" Zarathustra cried with malice. "Why do you corrupt me with such praise and honeyed flattery? Away, away from me!" he cried once more and brandished his stick at the affectionate beggar, who ran away quickly. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR ,

211:The Kalevala - Rune Xli WAINAMOINEN'S HARP-SONGS. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, Laves his hands to snowy whiteness, Sits upon the rock of joyance, On the stone of song be settles, On the mount of silver clearness, On the summit, golden colored; Takes the harp by him created, In his hands the harp of fish-bone, With his knee the arch supporting, Takes the harp-strings in his fingers, Speaks these words to those assembled: 'Hither come, ye Northland people, Come and listen to my playing, To the harp's entrancing measures, To my songs of joy and gladness.' Then the singer of Wainola Took the harp of his creation, Quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, Deftly plied his skillful fingers To the strings that he had fashioned. Now was gladness rolled on gladness, And the harmony of pleasure Echoed from the hills and mountains: Added singing to his playing, Out of joy did joy come welling, Now resounded marvelous music, All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands, On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to listen to his playing, Came to hear his songs of joyance. Leaped the squirrels from the branches, Merrily from birch to aspen; Climbed the ermines on the fences, 186 O'er the plains the elk-deer bounded, And the lynxes purred with pleasure; Wolves awoke in far-off swamp-lands, Bounded o'er the marsh and heather, And the bear his den deserted, Left his lair within the pine-wood, Settled by a fence to listen, Leaned against the listening gate-posts, But the gate-posts yield beneath him; Now he climbs the fir-tree branches That he may enjoy and wonder, Climbs and listens to the music Of the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest senior, Metsola's most noble landlord, And of Tapio, the people, Young and aged, men and maidens, Flew like red-deer up the mountains There to listen to the playing, To the harp, of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest mistress, Hostess of the glen and forest, Robed herself in blue and scarlet, Bound her limbs with silken ribbons, Sat upon the woodland summit, On the branches of a birch-tree, There to listen to the playing, To the high-born hero's harping, To the songs of Wainamoinen. All the birds that fly in mid-air Fell like snow-flakes from the heavens, Flew to hear the minstrel's playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Eagles in their lofty eyrie Heard the songs of the enchanter; Swift they left their unfledged young ones, Flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended, From the, clouds down swooped the falcon, Ducks arose from inland waters, Swans came gliding from the marshes; Tiny finches, green and golden, 187 Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, Came in myriads to listen ' Perched upon the head and shoulders Of the charming Wainamoinen, Sweetly singing to the playing Of the ancient bard and minstrel. And the daughters of the welkin, Nature's well-beloved daughters, Listened all in rapt attention; Some were seated on the rainbow, Some upon the crimson cloudlets, Some upon the dome of heaven. In their hands the Moon's fair daughters Held their weaving-combs of silver; In their hands the Sun's sweet maidens Grasped the handles of their distaffs, Weaving with their golden shuttles, Spinning from their silver spindles, On the red rims of the cloudlets, On the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Quick they drop their combs of silver, Drop the spindles from their fingers, And the golden threads are broken, Broken are the threads of silver. All the fish in Suomi-waters Heard the songs of the magician, Came on flying fins to listen To the harp of Wainamoinen. Came the trout with graceful motions, Water-dogs with awkward movements, From the water-cliffs the salmon, From the sea-caves came the whiting, From the deeper caves the bill-fish; Came the pike from beds of sea-fern, Little fish with eyes of scarlet, Leaning on the reeds and rushes, With their heads above the surface; Came to bear the harp of joyance, Hear the songs of the enchanter. Ahto, king of all the waters, 188 Ancient king with beard of sea-grass, Raised his head above the billows, In a boat of water-lilies, Glided to the coast in silence, Listened to the wondrous singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. These the words the sea-king uttered: 'Never have I heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the sea was fashioned, As the songs of this enchanter, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen.' Satko's daughters from the blue-deep, Sisters of the wave-washed ledges, On the colored strands were sitting, Smoothing out their sea-green tresses With the combs of molten silver, With their silver-handled brushes, Brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Fall their brushes on the billows, Fall their combs with silver handles To the bottom of the waters, Unadorned their heads remaining, And uncombed their sea-green tresses. Came the hostess of the waters, Ancient hostess robed in flowers, Rising from her deep sea-castle, Swimming to the shore in wonder, Listened to the minstrel's playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. As the magic tones re-echoed, As the singer's song out-circled, Sank the hostess into slumber, On the rocks of many colors, On her watery couch of joyance, Deep the sleep that settled o'er her. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Played one day and then a second, Played the third from morn till even. There was neither man nor hero, 189 Neither ancient dame, nor maiden, Not in Metsola a daughter, Whom he did not touch to weeping; Wept the young, and wept the aged, Wept the mothers, wept the daughters Wept the warriors and heroes At the music of his playing, At the songs of the magician. Wainamoinen's tears came flowing, Welling from the master's eyelids, Pearly tear-drops coursing downward, Larger than the whortle-berries, Finer than the pearls of ocean, Smoother than the eggs of moor-hens, Brighter than the eyes of swallows. From his eves the tear-drops started, Flowed adown his furrowed visage, Falling from his beard in streamlets, Trickled on his heaving bosom, Streaming o'er his golden girdle, Coursing to his garment's border, Then beneath his shoes of ermine, Flowing on, and flowing ever, Part to earth for her possession, Part to water for her portion. As the tear-drops fall and mingle, Form they streamlets from the eyelids Of the minstrel, Wainamoinen, To the blue-mere's sandy margin, To the deeps of crystal waters, Lost among the reeds and rushes. Spake at last the ancient minstrel: 'Is there one in all this concourse, One in all this vast assembly That can gather up my tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters?' Thus the younger heroes answered, Answered thus the bearded seniors: 'There is none in all this concourse, None in all this vast assembly, That can gather up thy tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters.' 190 Spake again wise Wainamoinen: 'He that gathers up my tear-drops From the deeps of crystal waters Shall receive a beauteous plumage.' Came a raven, flying, croaking, And the minstrel thus addressed him: 'Bring, O raven, bring my tear-drops From the crystal lake's abysses; I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.' But the raven failed his master. Came a duck upon the waters, And the hero thus addressed him: 'Bring O water-bird, my tear-drops; Often thou dost dive the deep-sea, Sink thy bill upon the bottom Of the waters thou dost travel; Dive again my tears to gather, I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.' Thereupon the duck departed, Hither, thither, swam, and circled, Dived beneath the foam and billow, Gathered Wainamoinen's tear-drops From the blue-sea's pebbly bottom, From the deep, pellucid waters; Brought them to the great magician, Beautifully formed and colored, Glistening in the silver sunshine, Glimmering in the golden moonlight, Many-colored as the rainbow, Fitting ornaments for heroes, Jewels for the maids of beauty. This the origin of sea-pearls, And the blue-duck's beauteous plumage. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

212:PIANO DI SORRENTO Fort, Fort, my beloved one, Sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes, Let me keep you amused till he vanish In black from the skies, With telling my memories over As you tell your beads; All the Plain saw me gather, I garland -The flowers or the weeds. Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn Had net-worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches, Marked like a quail's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads,-speckled white Over brown like a great spider's back, As I told you last night,- Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting In halves on the tree: And betwixt the loose walls of great flint-stone, Or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, Wherever could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower Its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, Some five for one cup. So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, What change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets Which woke me before I could open my shutter, made fast With a bough and a stone, And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs, Sole lattice that's known. Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, While, busy beneath, Your priest and his brother tugged at them, The rain in their teeth. And out upon all the flat house-roofs Where split figs lay drying, The girls took the frails under cover: Nor use seemed in trying To get out the boats and go fishing, For, under the cliff, Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock. No seeing our skiff Arrive about noon from Amalfi, -Our fisher arrive And pitch down his basket before us, All trembling alive With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit; You touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at, While round him like imps Cling screaming the children as naked And brown as his shrimps; Himself too as bare to the middle -You see round his neck The string and its brass coin suspended, That saves him from wreck. But to-day not a bout reached Salerno, So back, to a man, Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards Grape-harvest began. In the vat, halfway up in our house-side, Like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort To keep the grapes under, Since still when he seems all but master, In pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going With basket on shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain's driving; Your girls that are older,- For under the hedges of aloe, And where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple Lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snails Tempted out by this first rainy weather,- Your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, When, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, Three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow In slippery ropes, And gourds fried in great purple slices, That colour of popes. Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you: The rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence: Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball That peels, flake by flake, Like an onion, each smoother and whiter; Next, sip this weak wine From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, A leaf of the vine; And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh That leaves thro' its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. Scirocco is loose! Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives Which, thick in one's track, Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, Tho' not yet half black! How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, The medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees Snap off, figs and all, For here comes the whole of the tempest! No refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, And listen or sleep. O how will your country show next week, When all the vine-boughs Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture The mules and the cows? Last eve, I rode over the mountains; Your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles That offered, each side, Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,- Or strip from the sorbs A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, Those hairy gold orbs! But my mule picked his sure sober path out, Just stopping to neigh When he recognized down in the valley His mates on their way With the ****s and barrels of water; And soon we emerged From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow; And still as we urged Our way, the woods wondered, and left us, As up still we trudged Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, And place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones Like the loose broken teeth Of some monster which climbed there to die From the ocean beneath- Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed That clung to the path, And dark rosemary ever a-dying That, 'spite the wind's wrath, So loves the salt rock's face to seaward, And lentisks as staunch To the stone where they root and bear berries, And what shows a branch Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets Of pale seagreen leaves; Over all trod my mule with the caution Of gleaners o'er sheaves, Still, foot after foot like a lady, Till, round after round, He climbed to the top of Calvano, And God's own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains, And under, the sea, And within me my heart to bear witness What was and shall be. Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal! No rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived In the blue solitudes. Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! Still moving with you; For, ever some new head and breast of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder; you see it If quickly you turn And before they escape you surprise them. They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over And love (they pretend) -Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches, The wild fruit-trees bend, E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut: All is silent and grave: 'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty, How fair! but a slave. So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered As greenly as ever Those isles of the siren, your Galli; No ages can sever The Three, nor enable their sister To join them,-halfway On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses- No farther to-day, Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave, Watches breast-high and steady From under the rock, her bold sister Swum halfway already. Fort, shall we sail there together And see from the sides Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts Where the siren abides? Shall we sail round and round them, close over The rocks, tho' unseen, That ruffle the grey glassy water To glorious green? Then scramble from splinter to splinter, Reach land and explore, On the largest, the strange square black turret With never a door, Just a loop to admit the quick lizards; Then, stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us What life is, so clear? -The secret they sang to Ulysses When, ages ago, He heard and he knew this life's secret I hear and I know. Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano; He strikes the great gloom And flutters it o'er the mount's summit In airy gold fume. All is over. Look out, see the gipsy, Our tinker and smith, Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, And down-squatted forthwith To his hammering, under the wall there; One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting His jews'-harps to proof, While the other, thro' locks of curled wire, Is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall -Chew, abbot's own cheek! All is over. Wake up and come out now, And down let us go, And see the fine things got in order At church for the show Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To-morrow's the Feast Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means Of Virgins the least, As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse Which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, Was getting by heart. Not a pillar nor post but is dizened With red and blue papers; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar A-blaze with long tapers; But the great masterpiece is the scaffold Rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers And trumpeters bold, Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, Who, when the priest's hoarse, Will strike us up something that's brisk For the feast's second course. And then will the flaxen-wigged Image Be carried in pomp Thro' the plain, while in gallant procession The priests mean to stomp. All round the glad church lie old bottles With gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters, Religiously popped; And at night from the crest of Calvano Great bonfires will hang, On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, And more poppers bang. At all events, come-to the garden As far as the wall; See me tap with a hoe on the plaster Till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers! -``Such trifles!'' you say? Fort, in my England at home, Men meet gravely to-day And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws Be righteous and wise -If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish In black from the skies! The mastic tree (resinous). ~ Robert Browning, The Englishman In Italy ,

213:The Kalevala - Rune Xlv BIRTH OF THE NINE DISEASES. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Heard the word in Sariola, Heard the Dews with ears of envy, That Wainola lives and prospers, That Osmoinen's wealth increases, Through the ruins of the Sampo, Ruins of the lid in colors. Thereupon her wrath she kindled, Well considered, long reflected, How she might prepare destruction For the people of Wainola, For the tribes of Kalevala. With this prayer she turns to Ukko, Thus entreats the god of thunder: 'Ukko, thou who art in heaven, Help me slay Wainola's people With thine iron-hail of justice, With thine arrows tipped with lightning, Or from sickness let them perish, Let them die the death deserving; Let the men die in the forest, And the women in the hurdles!' The blind daughter of Tuoni, Old and wicked witch, Lowyatar, Worst of all the Death-land women, Ugliest of Mana's children, Source of all the host of evils, All the ills and plagues of Northland, Black in heart, and soul, and visage, Evil genius of Lappala, Made her couch along the wayside, On the fields of sin and sorrow; Turned her back upon the East-wind, To the source of stormy weather, To the chilling winds of morning. When the winds arose at evening, 234 Heavy-laden grew Lowyatar, Through the east-wind's impregnation, On the sand-plains, vast and barren. Long she bore her weight of trouble, Many morns she suffered anguish, Till at last she leaves the desert, Makes her couch within the forest, On a rock upon the mountain; Labors long to leave her burden By the mountain-springs and fountains, By the crystal waters flowing, By the sacred stream and whirlpool, By the cataract and fire-stream; But her burden does not lighten. Blind Lowyatar, old and ugly, Knew not where to look for succor, How to lose her weight of sorrow, Where to lay her evil children. Spake the Highest from the heavens, These, the words of mighty Ukko: 'Is a triangle in Swamp-field, Near the border of the ocean, In the never-pleasant Northland, In the dismal Sariola; Thither go and lay thy burden, In Pohyola leave thine offspring; There the Laplanders await thee, There will bid thy children welcome.' Thereupon the blind Lowyatar, Blackest daughter of Tuoni, Mana's old and ugly maiden, Hastened on her journey northward, To the chambers of Pohyola, To the ancient halls of Louhi, There to lay her heavy burdens, There to leave her evil offspring. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Old and toothless witch of Pohya, Takes Lowyatar to her mansion; Silently she leads the stranger To the bath-rooms of her chamber, Pours the foaming beer of barley, 235 Lubricates the bolts and hinges, That their movements may be secret, Speaks these measures to Lowyatar: 'Faithful daughter of Creation, Thou most beautiful of women, First and last of ancient mothers, Hasten on thy feet to ocean, To the ocean's centre hasten, Take the sea-foam from the waters, Take the honey of the mermaids, And anoint thy sacred members, That thy labors may be lightened. 'Should all this be unavailing, Ukko, thou who art in heaven, Hasten hither, thou art needed, Come thou to thy child in trouble, Help the helpless and afflicted. Take thy golden-colored sceptre, Charm away opposing forces, Strike the pillars of the stronghold, Open all resisting portals, That the great and small may wander From their ancient hiding-places, Through the courts and halls of freedom.' Finally the blind Lowyatar, Wicked witch of Tuonela, Was delivered of her burden, Laid her offspring in the cradle, Underneath the golden covers. Thus at last were born nine children, In an evening of the summer, From Lowyatar, blind and ancient, Ugly daughter of Tuoni. Faithfully the virgin-mother Guards her children in affection, As an artist loves and nurses What his skillful hands have fashioned. Thus Lowyatar named her offspring, Colic, Pleurisy, and Fever, Ulcer, Plague, and dread Consumption, Gout, Sterility, and Cancer. And the worst of these nine children 236 Blind Lowyatar quickly banished, Drove away as an enchanter, To bewitch the lowland people, To engender strife and envy. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Banished all the other children To the fog-point in the ocean, To the island forest-covered; Banished all the fatal creatures, Gave these wicked sons of evil To the people of Wainola, To the youth of Kalevala, For the Kalew-tribe's destruction. Quick Wainola's maidens sicken, Young and aged, men and heroes, With the worst of all diseases, With diseases new and nameless; Sick and dying is Wainola. Thereupon old Wainamoinen, Wise and wonderful enchanter, Hastens to his people's rescue, Hastens to a war with Mana, To a conflict with Tuoni, To destroy the evil children Of the evil maid, Lowyatar. Wainamoinen heats the bath-rooms, Heats the blocks of healing-sandstone With the magic wood of Northland, Gathered by the sacred river; Water brings in covered buckets From the cataract and whirlpool; Brooms he brings enwrapped with ermine, Well the bath the healer cleanses, Softens well the brooms of birch-wood; Then a honey-heat be wakens, Fills the rooms with healing vapors, From the virtue of the pebbles Glowing in the heat of magic, Thus he speaks in supplication: 'Come, O Ukko, to my rescue, God of mercy, lend thy presence, Give these vapor-baths new virtues, 237 Grant to them the powers of healing, And restore my dying people; Drive away these fell diseases, Banish them to the unworthy, Let the holy sparks enkindle, Keep this heat in healing limits, That it may not harm thy children, May not injure the afflicted. When I pour the sacred waters On the heated blocks of sandstone, May the water turn to honey Laden with the balm of healing. Let the stream of magic virtues Ceaseless flow to all my children, From this bath enrolled in sea-moss, That the guiltless may not suffer, That my tribe-folk may not perish, Till the Master gives permission, Until Ukko sends his minions, Sends diseases of his choosing, To destroy my trusting people. Let the hostess of Pohyola, Wicked witch that sent these troubles, Suffer from a gnawing conscience, Suffer for her evil doings. Should the Master of Wainola Lose his magic skill and weaken, Should he prove of little service To deliver from misfortune, To deliver from these evils, Then may Ukko be our healer, Be our strength and wise Physician. 'Omnipresent God of mercy, Thou who livest in the heavens, Hasten hither, thou art needed, Hasten to thine ailing children, To observe their cruel tortures, To dispel these fell diseases, Drive destruction from our borders. Bring with thee thy mighty fire-sword, Bring to me thy blade of lightning, That I may subdue these evils, 238 That these monsters I may banish, Send these pains, and ills, and tortures, To the empire of Tuoni, To the kingdom of the east-winds, To the islands of the wicked, To the caverns of the demons, To the rocks within the mountains, To the hidden beds of iron, That the rocks may fall and sicken, And the beds of iron perish. Rocks and metals do not murmur At the hands of the invader. 'Torture-daughter of Tuoni, Sitting on the mount of anguish, At the junction of three rivers, Turning rocks of pain and torture, Turn away these fell diseases Through the virtues of the blue-stone; Lead them to the water-channels, Sink them in the deeps of ocean, Where the winds can never find them, Where the sunlight never enters. 'Should this prayer prove unavailing, O, Health-virgin, maid of beauty Come and heal my dying people, Still their agonies and anguish., Give them consciousness and comfort, Give them healthful rest and slumber; These diseases take and banish, Take them in thy copper vessel, To thy eaves within the mountains, To the summit of the Pain-rock, Hurl them to thy boiling caldrons. In the mountain is a touch-stone, Lucky-stone of ancient story, With a hole bored through the centre, Through this pour these pains and tortures, Wretched feelings, thoughts of evil, Human ailments, days unlucky, Tribulations, and misfortunes, That they may not rise at evening, May not see the light of morning.' 239 Ending thus, old Wainamoinen, The eternal, wise enchanter, Rubbed his sufferers with balsams, Rubbed the tissues, red and painful, With the balm of healing flowers, Balsams made of herbs enchanted, Sprinkled all with healing vapors, Spake these words in supplication. 'Ukko, thou who art in heaven, God of justice, and of mercy, Send us from the east a rain-cloud, Send a dark cloud from the North-west, From the north let fall a third one, Send us mingled rain and honey, Balsam from the great Physician, To remove this plague of Northland. What I know of healing measures, Only comes from my Creator; Lend me, therefore, of thy wisdom, That I may relieve my people, Save them from the fell destroyer, If my hands should fall in virtue, Let the hands of Ukko follow, God alone can save from trouble. Come to us with thine enchantment, Speak the magic words of healing, That my people may not perish; Give to all alleviation From their sicknesses and sorrows; In the morning, in the evening, Let their wasting ailments vanish; Drive the Death-child from Wainola, Nevermore to visit Northland, Never in the course of ages, Never while the moonlight glimmers O'er the lakes of Kalevala.' Wainamoinen, the enchanter, The eternal wisdom-singer, Thus expelled the nine diseases, Evil children or Lowyatar, Healed the tribes of Kalevala, Saved his people from destruction. 240 ~ Elias Lönnrot,

214:Hail to thee, mountain beloved, with thy glittering purple-dyed summit! Hail to thee also, fair sun, looking so lovingly on! Thee, too, I hail, thou smiling plain, and ye murmuring lindens, Ay, and the chorus so glad, cradled on yonder high boughs; Thee, too, peaceably azure, in infinite measure extending Round the dusky-hued mount, over the forest so green, Round about me, who now from my chamber's confinement escaping, And from vain frivolous talk, gladly seek refuge with thee. Through me to quicken me runs the balsamic stream of thy breezes, While the energetical light freshens the gaze as it thirsts. Bright o'er the blooming meadow the changeable colors are gleaming, But the strife, full of charms, in its own grace melts away Freely the plain receives me,with carpet far away reaching, Over its friendly green wanders the pathway along. Round me is humming the busy bee, and with pinion uncertain Hovers the butterfly gay over the trefoil's red flower. Fiercely the darts of the sun fall on me,the zephyr is silent, Only the song of the lark echoes athwart the clear air. Now from the neighboring copse comes a roar, and the tops of the alders Bend low down,in the wind dances the silvery grass; Night ambrosial circles me round; in the coolness so fragrant Greets me a beauteous roof, formed by the beeches' sweet shade. In the depths of the wood the landscape suddenly leaves me And a serpentine path guides up my footsteps on high. Only by stealth can the light through the leafy trellis of branches Sparingly pierce, and the blue smilingly peeps through the boughs, But in a moment the veil is rent, and the opening forest Suddenly gives back the day's glittering brightness to me! Boundlessly seems the distance before my gaze to be stretching, And in a purple-tinged hill terminates sweetly the world. Deep at the foot of the mountain, that under me falls away steeply, Wanders the greenish-hued stream, looking like glass as it flows. Endlessly under me see I the ether, and endlessly o'er Giddily look I above, shudderingly look I below, But between the infinite height and the infinite hollow Safely the wanderer moves over a well-guarded path. Smilingly past me are flying the banks all teeming with riches, And the valley so bright boasts of its industry glad. See how yonder hedgerows that sever the farmer's possessions Have by Demeter been worked into the tapestried plain! Kindly decree of the law, of the Deity mortal-sustaining, Since from the brazen world love vanished forever away. But in freer windings the measured pastures are traversed (Now swallowed up in the wood, now climbing up to the hills) By a glimmering streak, the highway that knits lands together; Over the smooth-flowing stream, quietly glide on the rafts. Ofttimes resound the bells of the flocks in the fields that seem living, And the shepherd's lone song wakens the echo again. Joyous villages crown the stream, in the copse others vanish, While from the back of the mount, others plunge wildly below. Man still lives with the land in neighborly friendship united, And round his sheltering roof calmly repose still his fields; Trustingly climbs the vine high over the low-reaching window, While round the cottage the tree circles its far-stretching boughs. Happy race of the plain! Not yet awakened to freedom, Thou and thy pastures with joy share in the limited law; Bounded thy wishes all are by the harvest's peaceable circuit, And thy lifetime is spent e'en as the task of the day! But what suddenly hides the beauteous view? A strange spirit Over the still-stranger plain spreads itself quickly afar Coyly separates now, what scarce had lovingly mingled, And 'tis the like that alone joins itself on to the like. Orders I see depicted; the haughty tribes of the poplars Marshalled in regular pomp, stately and beauteous appear. All gives token of rule and choice, and all has its meaning, 'Tis this uniform plan points out the Ruler to me. Brightly the glittering domes in far-away distance proclaim him. Out of the kernel of rocks rises the city's high wall. Into the desert without, the fauns of the forest are driven, But by devotion is lent life more sublime to the stone. Man is brought into nearer union with man, and around him Closer, more actively wakes, swifter moves in him the world. See! the emulous forces in fiery conflict are kindled, Much, they effect when they strive, more they effect when they join. Thousands of hands by one spirit are moved, yet in thousands of bosoms Beats one heart all alone, by but one feeling inspired Beats for their native land, and glows for their ancestors' precepts; Here on the well-beloved spot, rest now time-honored bones. Down from the heavens descends the blessed troop of immortals, In the bright circle divine making their festal abode; Granting glorious gifts, they appear: and first of all, Ceres Offers the gift of the plough, Hermes the anchor brings next, Bacchus the grape, and Minerva the verdant olive-tree's branches, Even his charger of war brings there Poseidon as well. Mother Cybele yokes to the pole of her chariot the lions, And through the wide-open door comes as a citizen in. Sacred stones! 'Tis from ye that proceed humanity's founders, Morals and arts ye sent forth, e'en to the ocean's far isles. 'Twas at these friendly gates that the law was spoken by sages; In their Penates' defence, heroes rushed out to the fray. On the high walls appeared the mothers, embracing their infants, Looking after the march, till the distance 'twas lost. Then in prayer they threw themselves down at the deities' altars, Praying for triumph and fame, praying for your safe return. Honor and triumph were yours, but naught returned save your glory, And by a heart-touching stone, told are your valorous deeds. "Traveller! when thou com'st to Sparta, proclaim to the people That thou hast seen us lie here, as by the law we were bid." Slumber calmly, ye loved ones! for sprinkled o'er by your life-blood, Flourish the olive-trees there, joyously sprouts the good seed. In its possessions exulting, industry gladly is kindled. And from the sedge of the stream smilingly signs the blue god. Crushingly falls the axe on the tree, the Dryad sighs sadly; Down from the crest of the mount plunges the thundering load. Winged by the lever, the stone from the rocky crevice is loosened; Into the mountain's abyss boldly the miner descends. Mulciber's anvil resounds with the measured stroke of the hammer; Under the fist's nervous blow, spurt out the sparks of the steel. Brilliantly twines the golden flax round the swift-whirling spindles, Through the strings of the yarn whizzes the shuttle away. Far in the roads the pilot calls, and the vessels are waiting, That to the foreigner's land carry the produce of home; Others gladly approach with the treasures of far-distant regions, High on the mast's lofty head flutters the garland of mirth. See how yon markets, those centres of life and of gladness, are swarming! Strange confusion of tongues sounds in the wondering ear. On to the pile the wealth of the earth is heaped by the merchant, All that the sun's scorching rays bring forth on Africa's soil, All that Arabia prepares, that the uttermost Thule produces, High with heart-gladdening stores fills Amalthea her horn. Fortune wedded to talent gives birth there to children immortal, Suckled in liberty's arms, flourish the arts there of joy. With the image of life the eyes by the sculptor are ravished, And by the chisel inspired, speaks e'en the sensitive stone. Skies artificial repose on slender Ionian columns, And a Pantheon includes all that Olympus contains. Light as the rainbow's spring through the air, as the dart from the bowstring, Leaps the yoke of the bridge over the boisterous stream. But in his silent chamber the thoughtful sage is projecting Magical circles, and steals e'en on the spirit that forms, Proves the force of matter, the hatreds and loves of the magnet, Follows the tune through the air, follows through ether the ray, Seeks the familiar law in chance's miracles dreaded, Looks for the ne'er-changing pole in the phenomena's flight. Bodies and voices are lent by writing to thought ever silent, Over the centuries' stream bears it the eloquent page. Then to the wondering gaze dissolves the cloud of the fancy, And the vain phantoms of night yield to the dawning of day. Man now breaks through his fetters, the happy one! Oh, let him never Break from the bridle of shame, when from fear's fetters he breaks Freedom! is reason's cry,ay, freedom! The wild raging passions Eagerly cast off the bonds Nature divine had imposed. Ah! in the tempest the anchors break loose, that warningly held him On to the shore, and the stream tears him along in its flood, Into infinity whirls him,the coasts soon vanish before him, High on the mountainous waves rocks all-dismasted the bark; Under the clouds are hid the steadfast stars of the chariot, Naught now remains,in the breast even the god goes astray. Truth disappears from language, from life all faith and all honor Vanish, and even the oath is but a lie on the lips. Into the heart's most trusty bond, and into love's secrets, Presses the sycophant base, tearing the friend from the friend. Treason on innocence leers, with looks that seek to devour, And the fell slanderer's tooth kills with its poisonous bite. In the dishonored bosom, thought is now venal, and love, too, Scatters abroad to the winds, feelings once god-like and free. All thy holy symbols, O truth, deceit has adopted, And has e'en dared to pollute Nature's own voices so fair, That the craving heart in the tumult of gladness discovers; True sensations are now mute and can scarcely be heard. Justice boasts at the tribune, and harmony vaunts in the cottage, While the ghost of the law stands at the throne of the king. Years together, ay, centuries long, may the mummy continue, And the deception endure, apeing the fulness of life. Until Nature awakes, and with hands all-brazen and heavy 'Gainst the hollow-formed pile time and necessity strikes. Like a tigress, who, bursting the massive grating iron, Of her Numidian wood suddenly, fearfully thinks, So with the fury of crime and anguish, humanity rises Hoping nature, long-lost in the town's ashes, to find. Oh then open, ye walls, and set the captive at freedom To the long desolate plains let him in safety return! But where am I? The path is now hid, declivities rugged Bar, with their wide-yawning gulfs, progress before and behind. Now far behind me is left the gardens' and hedges' sure escort, Every trace of man's hand also remains far behind. Only the matter I see piled up, whence life has its issue, And the raw mass of basalt waits for a fashioning hand. Down through its channel of rock the torrent roaringly rushes, Angrily forcing a path under the roots of the trees. All is here wild and fearfully desolate. Naught but the eagle Hangs in the lone realms of air, knitting the world to the clouds. Not one zephyr on soaring pinion conveys to my hearing Echoes, however remote, marking man's pleasures and pains. Am I in truth, then, alone? Within thine arms, on thy bosom, Nature, I lie once again!Ah, and 'twas only a dream That assailed me with horrors so fearful; with life's dreaded phantom, And with the down-rushing vale, vanished the gloomy one too. Purer my life I receive again from thine altar unsullied, Purer receive the bright glow felt by my youth's hopeful days. Ever the will is changing its aim and its rule, while forever, In a still varying form, actions revolve round themselves. But in enduring youth, in beauty ever renewing. Kindly Nature, with grace thou dost revere the old law! Ever the same, for the man in thy faithful hands thou preservest That which the child in its sport, that which the youth lent to thee; At the same breast thou dost suckle the ceaselessly-varying ages; Under the same azure vault, over the same verdant earth, Races, near and remote, in harmony wander together, See, even Homer's own sun looks on us, too, with a smile! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Walk ,

215:THE STILLEST HOUR What happened to me, my friends? You see me distracted, driven away, unwillingly obedient, prepared to go-alas, to go away from you. Indeed, Zarathustra must return once more to his solitude; but this time the bear goes back to his cave without joy. What happened to me? Who ordered this? Alas, my angry mistress wants it, she spoke to me; have I ever yet mentioned her name to you? Yesterday, toward evening, there spoke to me my stillest hour: that is the name of my awesome mistress. And thus it happened; for I must tell you everything lest your hearts harden against me for departing suddenly. Do you know the fright of him who falls asleep? He is frightened down to his very toes because the ground gives under him and the dream begins. This I say to you as a parable. Yesterday, in the stillest hour, the ground gave under me, the dream began. The hand moved, the clock of my life drew a breath; never had I heard such stillness around me: my heart took fright. Then it spoke to me without voice: "You know it, Zarathustra?" And I cried with fright at this whispering, and the blood left my face; but I remained silent. Then it spoke to me again without voice: "You know it, Zarathustra, but you do not say itl" And at last I answered defiantly: "Yes, I know it, but I do not want to say itl" Then it spoke to me again without voice: "You do not want to, Zarathustra? Is this really true? Do not hide in your defiance." And I cried and trembled like a child and spoke: "Alas, I would like to, but how can I? Let me off from this! It is beyond my strength!" Then it spoke to me again without voice: "What do 146 you matter, Zarathustra? Speak your word and break" And I answered: "Alas, is it my word? Who am l? I await the worthier one; I am not worthy even of being broken by it." Then it spoke to me again without voice: "What do you matter? You are not yet humble enough for me. Humility has the toughest hide." And I answered: ' at the foot of my height. How high are my peaks? No one has told me yet. But my valleys I know well." Then it spoke to me again without voice: "O Zarathustra, he who has to move mountains also moves valleys and hollows." And I answered: "As yet my words have not moved mountains, and what I said did not reach men. Indeed, I have gone to men, but as yet I have not arrived." Then it spoke to me again without voice: "What do you know of that? The dew falls on the grass when the night is most silent." And I answered: "They mocked me when I found and went my own way; and in truth my feet were trembling then. And thus they spoke to me: 'You have forgotten the way, now you have also forgotten how to walk.'" Then it spoke to me again without voice: "What matters their mockery? You are one who has forgotten how to obey: now you shall command. Do you not know who is most needed by all? He that commands great things. To do great things is difficult; but to comm and great things is more difficult. This is what is most unforgivable in you: you have the power, and you do not want to rule." And I answered: "I lack the lion's voice for commanding." Then it spoke to me again as a whisper: "It is the stillest words that bring on the storm. Thoughts that come on doves' feet guide the world. 0 Zarathustra, you 147 shall go as a shadow of that which must come: thus you will comm and and, commanding, lead the way." And I answered: "I am ashamed." Then it spoke to me again without voice: "You must yet become as a child and without shame. The pride of youth is still upon you; you have become young late; but whoever would become as a child must overcome his youth too." And I reflected for a long time and trembled. But at last I said what I had said at first; "I do not want to." Then laughter surrounded me. Alas, how this laughter tore my entrails and slit open my heart! And it spoke to me for the last time: "O Zarathustra, your fruit is ripe, but you are not ripe for your fruit. Thus you must return to your solitude again; for you must yet become mellow." And again it laughed and fled; then it became still around me as with a double stillness. But I lay on the ground and sweat poured from my limbs. Now you have heard all, and why I must return to my solitude. Nothing have I kept from you, my friends. But this too you have heard from me, who is still the most taciturn of all men-and wants to be. Alas, my friends, I still could tell you something, I still could give you something. Why do I not give it? Am I stingy? But when Zarathustra had spoken these words he was overcome by the force of his pain and the nearness of his parting from his friends, and he wept loudly; and no one knew how to comfort him. At night, however, he went away alone and left his friends. 148 Thus Spoke Zarathustra: Third Part You look up when you feel the need for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? Whoever climbs the highest mountains laughs at all tragic plays and tragic seriousness. (Zarathustra, "On Reading and Writing," I, p. 40) TRANSLATOR S NOTES 1. The Wanderer: The contrast between Zarathustra's sentimentality and his praise of hardness remains characteristic of the rest of the book. 2. On the Vision and the Riddle: Zarathustra's first account of the eternal recurrence (see my Nietzsche, .i, II) is followed by a proto-surrealistic vision of a triumph over nausea. 3. On Involuntary Bliss: Zarathustra still cannot face the thought of the eternal recurrence. 4. Before Sunrise: An ode to the sky. Another quotation from Zweig's essay on Nietzsche seems pertinent: "His nerves immediately register every meter of height and every pressure of the weather as a pain in his organs, and they react rebelliously to every revolt in nature. Rain or gloomy skies lower his vitality ('overcast skies depress me deeply'), the weight of low clouds he feels down into his very intestines, rain 'lowers the potential,' humidity debilitates, dryness vivifies, sunshine is salvation, winter is a kind of paralysis and death. The quivering barometer needle of his April-like, changeable nerves never stands still-most nearly perhaps in cloudless landscapes, on the windless tablelands of the Engadine." In this chapter the phrase "beyond good and evil" is introduced; also one line, slightly varied, of the "Drunken Song" (see below). Another important 149 theme in Nietzsche's thought: the praise of chance and "a little reason" as opposed to any divine purpose. 5. On Virtue That Makes Small: "Do whatever you will, but . . .": What Nietzsche is concerned with is not casuistry but character, not a code of morals but a kind of man, not a syllabus of behavior but a state of being. 6. Upon the Mount of Olives: "'The ice of knowledge will yet freeze him to death!' they moan." Compare Stefan George's poem on the occasion of Nietzsche's death (my Nietzsche, Prologue, II): "He came too late who said to thee imploring: There is no way left over icy cliffs." 7. On Passing By: Zarathustra's ape, or "grunting swine," unintentionally parodies Zarathustra's attitude and style. His denunciations are born of wounded vanity and vengefulness, while Zarathustra's contempt is begotten by love; and "where one can no longer love, there one should pass by." 8. On Apostates: Stylistically, Zarathustra is now often little better than his ape. But occasional epigrams show his old power: the third paragraph in section 2, for instance. 9. The Return Home: "Among men you will always seem wild and strange," his solitude says to Zarathustra. But "here all things come caressingly to your discourse and flatter you, for they want to ride on your back. On every parable you ride to every truth." The discipline of communication might have served the philosopher better than the indiscriminate flattery of his solitude. But in this respect too, it was not given to Nietzsche to live in blissful ignorance: compare, for example, "The Song of Melancholy" in Part Four. io. On the Three Evils: The praise of so-called evil as an ingredient of greatness is central in Nietzsche's thought, from his early fragment, Homer's Contest, to his Antichrist. There are few problems the self-styled immoralist pursued so persistently. Whether he calls attention to the element of cruelty in the Greek agon or denounces Christianity for vilifying sex, whether he contrasts sublimation and extirpation or the egoism of the creative and the vengeful: all these are variations of one theme. In German, the three evils in this chapter are Wollust, Herrschsucht, Selbstsucht. For the first there is no exact equivalent in English. In this chapter, "lust" might do in some sentences, "voluptuousness" in others, but each would be quite inaccurate half the time, and the context makes it imperative that the same word be used throughout. There is only one word in English that renders Nietzsche's meaning perfectly in every single sentence: sex. Its only disadvantage: it is, to put it mildly, a far less poetic word than Wollust, and hence modifies the tone though not Nietzsche's meaning. But if we reflect on the three things which, according to Nietzsche, had been maligned most, under the influence of Christianity, and which he sought to rehabilitate or revaluate-were they not selfishness, the will to power, and sex? Nietzsche's early impact was in some ways comparable to that of Freud or Havelock Ellis. But prudery was for him at most one of three great evils, one kind of hypocrisy, one aspect of man's betrayal of the earth and of himself. i1. On the Spirit of Gravity: It is not only the metaphor of the camel that points back to the first chapter of Part One: the dead weight of convention is a prime instance of what is meant by the spirit of gravity; and the bird that outsoars tradition is, like the child and the self-propelled wheel at the beginning of the book, a symbol of creativity. The creator, however, is neither an "evil beast" nor an "evil tamer of beasts"-neither a profligate nor an ascetic: he integrates what is in him, perfects and lavishes himself, and says, "This is my way; where is yours?" Michelangelo and Mozart do not offer us "the way" but a challenge and a promise of what is possible. 12. On Old and New Tablets: Attempt at a grand summary, full of allusions to, and quotations from, previous chapters Its unevenness is nowhere more striking than in section 12, with its puns on "crusades." Such sections as 5, 7, and 8, on the other hand, certainly deserve attention. The despot in section ii, who has all history rewritten, seems to point forward in time to Hitler, of whose racial legislation it 151 could indeed be said: "with the grandfa ther, however, time ends." Section 15 points back to Luther. Section zo exposes in advance Stefan George's misconception when he ended his second poem on Nietzsche (my Nietzsche, p. iil): "The warner went-the wheel that downward rolls / To emptiness no arm now tackles in the spokes." The penultimate paragraph of this section is more "playful" in the original: Ein Vorspiel bin ich besserer Spieler, oh meine Braiderl Ein Beispiell In section 25 the key word is Versuch, one of Nietzsche's favorite words, which means experiment, attempt, trial. Sometimes he associates it with suchen, searching. (In Chapter 2, "On the Vision and the Riddle," Sucher, Versucher has been rendered "searchers, researchers.") Section 29, finally, is used again, with minute changes, to conclude Twilight of the Idols. 13. The Convalescent: Zarathustra still cannot face the thought of the eternal recurrence but speaks about human speech and cruelty. In the end, his animals expound the eternal recurrence. 14 On the Great Longing: Hymn to his soul: Zarathustra and his soul wonder which of them should be grateful to the other. 15. The Other Dancing Song: Life and wisdom as women again; but in this dancing song, life is in complete control, and when Zarathustra's imagination runs away with him he gets his face slapped. What he whispers into the ear of life at the end of section 2 is, no doubt, that after his death he will yet recur eternally. The song at the end, punctuated by the twelve strokes of the bell, is interpreted in "The Drunken Song" in Part Four. i6. The Seven Seals: The eternal recurrence of the small man no longer nauseates Zarathustra. His affirmation now is boundless and without reservation: "For I love you, 0 eternity." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, THE STILLEST HOUR ,

216:The Kalevala - Rune Xliii THE SAMPO LOST IN THE SEA. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Called her many tribes together, Gave the archers bows and arrows, Gave her brave men spears and broadswords; Fitted out her mightiest war-ship, In the vessel placed her army, With their swords a hundred heroes, With their bows a thousand archers; Quick erected masts and sail-yards, On the masts her sails of linen Hanging like the clouds of heaven, Like the white-clouds in the ether, Sailed across the seas of Pohya, To re-take the wondrous Sampo From the heroes of Wainola. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Sailed across the deep, blue waters, Spake these words to Lemminkainen: 'O thou daring son of Lempo, Best of all my friends and heroes, Mount the highest of the topmasts, Look before you into ether, Look behind you at the heavens, Well examine the horizon, Whether clear or filled with trouble.' Climbed the daring Lemminkainen, Ever ready for a venture, To the highest of the mastheads; Looked he eastward, also westward, Looked he northward, also southward, Then addressed wise Wainamoinen. 'Clear the sky appears before me, But behind a dark horizon; In the north a cloud is rising, And a longer cloud at north-west.' Wainamoinen thus made answer: 205 Art thou speaking truth or fiction? I am fearful that the war-ships Of Pohyola are pursuing; Look again with keener vision.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Looked again and spake as follows: 'In the distance seems a forest, In the south appears an island, Aspen-groves with falcons laden, Alders laden with the wood-grouse.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Surely thou art speaking falsehood; 'Tis no forest in the distance, Neither aspen, birch, nor alders, Laden with the grouse, or falcon; I am fearful that Pohyola Follows with her magic armies; Look again with keener vision.' Then the daring Lemminkainen Looked the third time from the topmast, Spake and these the words be uttered: 'From the north a boat pursues us, Driven by a hundred rowers, Carrying a thousand heroes!' Knew at last old Wainamoinen, Knew the truth of his inquiry, Thus addressed his fleeing people: 'Row, O blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Row, O mighty Lemminkainen, Row, all ye my noble oarsmen, That our boat may skim the waters, May escape from our pursuers!' Rowed the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Rowed the mighty Lemminkainen, With them rowed the other heroes; Heavily groaned the helm of birch-wood, Loudly rattled all the row-locks; All the vessel shook and trembled, Like a cataract it thundered As it plowed the waste of waters, Tossing sea-foam to the heavens. Strongly rowed Wainola's forces, 206 Strongly were their arms united; But the distance did not widen Twixt the boat and their pursuers. Quick the hero, Wainamoinen, Saw misfortune hanging over, Saw destruction in the distance Heavy-hearted, long reflecting, Trouble-laden, spake as follows: 'Only is there one salvation, Know one miracle for safety!' Then he grasped his box of tinder, From the box he took a flint-stone, Of the tinder took some fragments, Cast the fragments on the waters, Spake these words of master-magic. 'Let from these arise a mountain From the bottom of the deep-sea, Let a rock arise in water, That the war-ship of Pohyola, With her thousand men and heroes, May be wrecked upon the summit, By the aid of surging billows.' Instantly a reef arises, In the sea springs up a mountain, Eastward, westward, through the waters. Came the war-ship of the Northland, Through the floods the boat came steering, Sailed against the mountain-ledges, Fastened on the rocks in water, Wrecked upon the Mount of Magic. In the deep-sea fell the topmasts, Fell the sails upon the billows, Carried by the winds and waters O'er the waves of toil and trouble. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Tries to free her sinking vessel, Tries to rescue from destruction; But she cannot raise the war-ship, Firmly fixed upon the mountain; Shattered are the ribs and rudder, Ruined is the ship of Pohya. Then the hostess of the Northland, 207 Much disheartened, spake as follows: 'Where the force, in earth or heaven, That will help a soul in trouble?' Quick she changes form and feature, Makes herself another body; Takes five sharpened scythes of iron, Also takes five goodly sickles, Shapes them into eagle-talons; Takes the body of the vessel, Makes the frame-work of an eagle; Takes the vessel's ribs and flooring Makes them into wings and breastplate; For the tail she shapes the rudder; In the wings she plants a thousand Seniors with their bows and arrows; Sets a thousand magic heroes In the body, armed with broadswords In the tail a hundred archers, With their deadly spears and cross-bows, Thus the bird is hero-feathered. Quick she spreads her mighty pinions, Rises as a monster-eagle, Flies on high, and soars, and circles With one wing she sweeps the heavens, While the other sweeps the waters. Spake the hero's ocean-mother: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Turn thy vision to the north-east, Cast thine eyes upon the sunrise, Look behind thy fleeing vessel, See the eagle of misfortune!' Wainamoinen turned as bidden, Turned his vision to the north-east, Cast his eyes upon the sunrise, There beheld the Northland-hostess, Wicked witch of Sariola, Flying as a monster-eagle, Swooping on his mighty war-ship; Flies and perches on the topmast, On the sail-yards firmly settles; Nearly overturns the vessel Of the heroes of Wainola, 208 Underneath the weight of envy. Then the hero, Ilmarinen, Turned to Ukko as his refuge, Thus entreated his Creator: 'Ukko, thou O God in heaven, Thou Creator full of mercy, Guard us from impending danger, That thy children may not perish, May not meet with fell destruction. Hither bring thy magic fire-cloak, That thy people, thus protected, May resist Pohyola's forces, Well may fight against the hostess Of the dismal Sariola, May not fall before her weapons, May not in the deep-sea perish!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Thus addressed the ancient Louhi: 'O thou hostess of Pohyola, Wilt thou now divide the Sampo, On the fog-point in the water, On the island forest-covered? Thus the Northland hostess answered: 'I will not divide the Sampo, Not with thee, thou evil wizard, Not with wicked Wainamoinen!' Quick the mighty eagle, Louhi, Swoops upon the lid in colors, Grasps the Sampo in her talons; But the daring Lemminkainen Straightway draws his blade of battle, Draws his broadsword from his girdle, Cleaves the talons of the eagle, One toe only is uninjured, Speaks these magic words of conquest: 'Down, ye spears, and down, ye broadswords, Down, ye thousand witless heroes, Down, ye feathered hosts of Louhi!' Spake the hostess of Pohyola, Calling, screeching, from the sail-yards: 'O thou faithless Lemminkainen, Wicked wizard, Kaukomieli, 209 To deceive thy trusting mother! Thou didst give to her thy promise, Not to go to war for ages, Not to war for sixty summers, Though desire for gold impels thee, Though thou wishest gold and silver! Wainamoinen, ancient hero, The eternal wisdom-singer, Thinking he had met destruction, Snatched the rudder from the waters, With it smote the monster-eagle, Smote the, eagle's iron talons, Smote her countless feathered heroes. From her breast her hosts descended, Spearmen fell upon the billows, From the wings descend a thousand, From the tail, a hundred archers. Swoops again the bird of Pohya To the bottom of the vessel, Like the hawk from birch or aspen, Like the falcon from the linden; Grasps the Sampo with one talon, Drags the treasure to the waters, Drops the magic lid in colors From the red rim of the war-ship To the bottom of the deep-sea, Where the Sampo breaks in pieces, Scatters through the Alue-waters, In the mighty deeps for ages, To increase the ocean's treasures, Treasures for the hosts of Ahto. Nevermore will there be wanting Richness for the Ahto-nation, Never while the moonlight brightens On the waters of the Northland. Many fragments of the Sampo Floated on the purple waters, On the waters deep and boundless, Rocked by winds and waves of Suomi, Carried by the rolling billows To the sea-sides of Wainola. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, 210 Saw the fragments of the treasure Floating on the billows landward, Fragments of the lid in colors, Much rejoicing, spake as follows: 'Thence will come the sprouting seed-grain, The beginning of good fortune, The unending of resources, From the plowing and the sowing, From the glimmer of the moonlight, From the splendor of the sunshine, On the fertile plains of Suomi, On the meads of Kalevala.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus addressed old Wainamoinen: 'Know I other mighty measures, Know I means that are efficient, And against thy golden moonlight, And the splendor of thy sunshine, And thy plowing, and thy reaping; In the rocks I'll sink the moonbeams, Hide the sun within the mountain, Let the frost destroy thy sowings, Freeze the crops on all thy corn-fields; Iron-hail I'll send from heaven, On the richness of thine acres, On the barley of thy planting; I will drive the bear from forests, Send thee Otso from the thickets, That he may destroy thy cattle, May annihilate thy sheep-folds, May destroy thy steeds at pasture. I will send thee nine diseases, Each more fatal than the other, That will sicken all thy people, Make thy children sink and perish, Nevermore to visit Northland, Never while the moonlight glimmers On the plains of Kalevala!' Thus the ancient bard made answer: 'Not a Laplander can banish Wainamoinen and his people; Never can a Turyalander 211 Drive my tribes from Kalevala; God alone has power to banish, God controls the fate of nations, Never trusts the arms of evil, Never gives His strength to others. As I trust in my Creator, Call upon benignant Ukko, He will guard my crops from danger Drive the Frost-fiend from my corn-fields, Drive great Otso to his caverns. 'Wicked Louhi of Pohyola, Thou canst banish evil-doers, In the rocks canst hide the wicked, In thy mountains lock the guilty; Thou canst never hide the moonlight, Never bide the silver sunshine, In the caverns of thy kingdom. Freeze the crops of thine own planting, Freeze the barley of thy sowing, Send thine iron-hail from heaven To destroy the Lapland corn-fields, To annihilate thy people, To destroy the hosts of Pohya; Send great Otso from the heather, Send the sharp-tooth from the forest, To the fields of Sariola, On the herds and flocks of Louhi!' Thus the wicked hostess answered: 'All my power has departed, All my strength has gone to others, All my hope is in the deep-sea; In the waters lies my Sampo!' Then the hostess of Pohyola Home departed, weeping, wailing, To the land of cold and darkness; Only took some worthless fragments Of the Sampo to her people; Carried she the lid to Pohya, In the blue-sea left the handle; Hence the poverty of Northland, And the famines of Pohyola. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, 212 Hastened to the broad-sea's margin, Stepped upon the shore in joyance; Found there fragments of the Sampo, Fragments of the lid in colors, On the borders of the waters, On the curving sands and sea-sides; Gathered well the Sampo-relics From the waters near the fog-point, On the island forest-covered. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen, Spake these words in supplication: 'Grant, O Ukko, our Creator, Grant to us, thy needful children, Peace, and happiness, and plenty, That our lives may be successful, That our days may end in honor, On the vales and hills of Suomi, On the prairies of Wainola, In the homes of Kalevala! 'Ukko, wise and good Creator, Ukko, God of love and mercy, Shelter and protect thy people From the evil-minded heroes, From the wiles of wicked women, That our country's plagues may leave us, That thy faithful tribes may prosper. Be our friend and strong protector, Be the helper of thy children, In the night a roof above them, In the day a shield around them, That the sunshine may not vanish, That the moonlight may not lessen, That the killing frosts may leave them, And destructive hail pass over. Build a metal wall around us, From the valleys to the heavens; Build of stone a mighty fortress On the borders of Wainola, Where thy people live and labor, As their dwelling-place forever, Sure protection to thy people, Where the wicked may not enter, 213 Nor the thieves break through and pilfer, Never while the moonlight glistens, And the Sun brings golden blessings To the plains of Kalevala.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

217:The Kalevala - Rune Xxxix WAINAMOINEN'S SAILING. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Spake these words to Ilmarinen: 'O thou wonder-working brother, Let us go to Sariola, There to gain the magic Sampo, There to see the lid in colors.' Ilmarinen gave this answer: 'Hard indeed to seize the Sampo, Neither can the lid be captured From the never-pleasant Northland, From the dismal Sariola. Louhi took away the Sampo, Carried off the lid in colors To the stone-mount of Pohyola; Hid it in the copper mountain, Where nine locks secure the treasure. Many young roots sprout around it, Grow nine fathoms deep in sand-earth, One great root beneath the mountain, In the cataract a second, And a third beneath the castle Built upon the mount of ages.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Brother mine, and wonder-worker, Let us go to Sariola, That we may secure the Sampo; Let us build a goodly vessel, Bring the Sampo to Wainola, Bring away the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain. Where the miracle lies anchored.' Ilmarinen thus made answer: 'By the land the way is safer, Lempo travels on the ocean, Ghastly Death upon his shoulder; 534 On the sea the waves will drift us, And the storm-winds wreck our vessel; Then our bands must do the rowing, And our feet must steer us homeward.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Safe indeed by land to journey, But the way is rough and trying, Long the road and full of turnings; Lovely is the ship on ocean, Beautiful to ride the billows, Journey easy o'er the waters, Sailing in a trusty vessel; Should the West-wind cross our pathway, Will the South-wind drive us northward. Be that as it may, my brother, Since thou dost not love the water, By the land then let us journey. Forge me now the sword of battle, Forge for me the mighty fire-sword, That I may destroy the wild-beasts, Frighten all the Northland people, As we journey for the Sampo To the cold and dismal village, To the never-pleasant Northland, To the dismal Sariola.' Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, The eternal forger-artist, Laid the metals in the furnace, In the fire laid steel and iron, In the hot-coals, gold and silver, Rightful measure of the metals; Set the workmen at the furnace, Lustily they plied the bellows. Like the wax the iron melted, Like the dough the hard steel softened, Like the water ran the silver, And the liquid gold flowed after. Then the minstrel, Ilmarinen, The eternal wonder-forger, Looks within his magic furnace, On the border of his oven, There beholds the fire-sword forming, 535 Sees the blade with golden handle; Takes the weapon from the furnace, Lays it on his heavy anvil For the falling of the hammer; Forges well the blade of magic, Well the heavy sword be tempers, Ornaments the hero-weapon With the finest gold and silver. Wainamoinen, the magician, Comes to view the blade of conquest, Lifts admiringly the fire-sword, Then these words the hero utters: 'Does the weapon match the soldier, Does the handle suit the bearer? Yea, the blade and hilt are molded To the wishes of the minstrel.' On the sword-point gleams the moonlight, On the blade the sun is shining, On the hilt the bright stars twinkle, On the edge a horse is neighing, On the handle plays a kitten, On the sheath a dog is barking. Wainamoinen wields his fire-sword, Tests it on the iron-mountain, And these words the hero utters: 'With this broadsword I could quickly Cleave in twain the mount of Pohya, Cut the flinty rocks asunder.' Spake the blacksmith, Ilmarinen: 'Wherewith shall I guard from danger, How protect myself from evil, From the ills by land and water? Shall I wear an iron armor, Belt of steel around my body? Stronger is a man in armor, Safer in a mail of copper.' Now the time has come to journey To the never-pleasant Northland; Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, And his brother, Ilmarinen, Hasten to the field and forest, Searching for their fiery coursers, 536 In each shining belt a bridle, With a harness on their shoulders. In the woods they find a race; In the glen a steed of battle, Ready for his master's service. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, And the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Throw the harness on the courser, Hitch him to the sledge of conquest, Hasten on their journey Northward; Drive along the broad-sea's margin Till they bear some one lamenting On the strand hear something wailing Near the landing-place of vessels. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Speaks these words in wonder, guessing, 'This must be some maiden weeping, Some fair daughter thus lamenting; Let us journey somewhat nearer, To discover whence this wailing.' Drew they nearer, nearer, nearer, Hoping thus to find a maiden Weeping on the sandy sea-shore. It was not a maiden weeping, But a vessel, sad, and lonely, Waiting on the shore and wailing. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Why art weeping, goodly vessel, What the cause of thy lamenting? Art thou mourning for thy row-locks, Is thy rigging ill-adjusted? Dost thou weep since thou art anchored On the shore in times of trouble?' Thus the war-ship spake in answer: 'To the waters would this vessel Haste upon the well-tarred rollers, As a happy maiden journeys To the cottage of her husband. I, alas! a goodly vessel, Weep because I lie at anchor, Weep and wail because no hero Sets me free upon the waters, 537 Free to ride the rolling billows. It was said when I was fashioned, Often sung when I was building, That this bark should be for battle, Should become a mighty war-ship, Carry in my hull great treasures, Priceless goods across the ocean. Never have I sailed to conquest, Never have I carried booty; Other vessels not as worthy To the wars are ever sailing, Sailing to the songs of battle. Three times in the summer season Come they home with treasures laden, In their hulls bring gold and silver; I, alas! a worthy vessel, Many months have lain at anchor, I, a war-ship well constructed, Am decaying in the harbor, Never having sailed to conquest; Worms are gnawing at my vitals, In my hull their dwelling-places, And ill-omened birds of heaven Build their nests within my rigging; Frogs and lizards of the forest Play about my oars and rudder; Three times better for this vessel Were he but a valley birch-tree, Or an aspen on the heather, With the squirrels in his branches, And the dogs beneath them barking!' Wainamoinen, old and faithfull Thus addressed the ship at anchor: 'Weep no more, thou goodly vessel, Man-of-war, no longer murmur; Thou shalt sail to Sariola, Sing the war-songs of the Northland, Sail with us to deadly combat. Wert thou built by the Creator, Thou canst sail the roughest waters, Sidewise journey o'er the ocean; Dost not need the hand to touch thee, 538 Dost not need the foot to turn thee, Needing nothing to propel thee.' Thus the weeping boat made answer: 'Cannot sail without assistance, Neither can my brother-vessels Sail unaided o'er the waters, Sail across the waves undriven.' Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'Should I lead thee to the broad-sea, Wilt thou journey north unaided, Sail without the help of rowers, Sail without the aid of south-winds, Sail without the b elm to guide thee? Thus the wailing ship replying: Cannot sail without assistance, Neither can my brother-vessels Sail without the aid of rowers, Sail without the help of south-winds, Nor without the helm to guide them.' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'Wilt thou run with aid of oarsmen When the south-winds give assistance, Guided by a skillful pilot?' This the answer of the war-ship: 'Quickly can I course these waters, When my oars are manned by rowers, When my sails are filled with south-winds, All my goodly brother-vessels Sail the ocean with assistance, When the master holds the rudder.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Left the racer on the sea-side, Tied him to the sacred birch-tree, Hung the harness on a willow, Rolled the vessel to the waters, Sang the ship upon the broad-sea, Asked the boat this simple question: 'O thou vessel, well-appearing From the mighty oak constructed, Art thou strong to carry treasures As in view thou art commanding? Thus the goodly ship made answer: 539 'Strong am I to carry treasures, In my hull a golden cargo; I can bear a hundred oarsmen, And of warriors a thousand.' Wainamoinen, the magician, Then began his wondrous singing. On one side the magic vessel, Sang he youth with golden virtues, Bearded youth with strength of heroes, Sang them into mail of copper. On the other side the vessel, Sang he silver-tinselled maidens, Girded them with belts of copper, Golden rings upon their fingers. Sings again the great magician, Fills the magic ship with heroes, Ancient heroes, brave and mighty; Sings them into narrow limits, Since the young men came before them. At the helm himself be seated, Near the last beam of the vessel, Steered his goodly boat in joyance, Thus addressed the willing war-ship: 'Glide upon the trackless waters, Sail away, my ship of magic, Sail across the waves before thee, Speed thou like a dancing bubble, Like a flower upon the billows!' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Set the young men to the rowing, Let the maidens sit in waiting. Eagerly the youthful heroes Bend the oars and try the row-locks, But the distance is not lessened. Then the minstrel, Wainamoinen, Set the maidens to the rowing, Let the young men rest in waiting. Eagerly the merry maidens Bend the aspen-oars in rowing, But the distance is not lessened. Then the master, Wainamoinen, Set the old men to the rowing, 540 Let the youth remain in waiting. Lustily the aged heroes Bend and try the oars of aspen, But the distance is not lessened. Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, Grasped the oars with master-magic, And the boat leaped o'er the surges, Swiftly sped across the billows; Far and wide the oars resounded, Quickly was the distance lessened. With a rush and roar of waters Ilmarinen sped his vessel, Benches, ribs, and row-locks creaking, Oars of aspen far resounding; Flap the sails like wings of moor-cocks, And the prow dips like a white-swan; In the rear it croaks like ravens, Loud the oars and rigging rattle. Straightway ancient Wainamoinen Sitting by the bending rudder, Turns his magic vessel landward, To a jutting promontory, Where appears a Northland-village. On the point stands Lemminkainen, Kaukomieli, black magician, Ahti, wizard of Wainola, Wishing for the fish of Pohya, Weeping for his fated dwelling, For his perilous adventures, Hard at work upon a vessel, On the sail-yards of a fish-boat, Near the hunger-point and island, Near the village-home deserted. Good the ears of the magician, Good the wizard's eyes for seeing; Casts his vision to the South-east, Turns his eyes upon the sunset, Sees afar a wondrous rainbow, Farther on, a cloudlet hanging; But the bow was a deception, And the cloudlet a delusion; 'Tis a vessel swiftly sailing, 541 'Tis a war-ship flying northward, O'er the blue-back of the broad-sea, On the far-extending waters, At the helm the master standing, At the oars a mighty hero. Spake the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Do not know this wondrous vessel, Not this well-constructed war-ship, Coming from the distant Suomi, Rowing for the hostile Pohya.' Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Called aloud in tones of thunder O'er the waters to the vessel; Made the distant hills re-echo With the music of his calling: 'Whence this vessel on the waters, Whose the war-ship sailing hither?' Spake the master of the vessel To the reckless Lemminkainen: 'Who art thou from fen or forest, Senseless wizard from the woodlands, That thou dost not know this vessel, Magic war-ship of Wainola? Dost not know him at the rudder, Nor the hero at the row-locks?' Spake the wizard, Lemminkainen: 'Well I know the helm-director, And I recognize the rower; Wainamoinen, old and trusty, At the helm directs the vessel; Ilmarinen does the rowing. Whither is the vessel sailing, Whither wandering, my heroes? Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: 'We are sailing to the Northland, There to gain the magic Sampo, There to get the lid in colors, From the stone-berg of Pohyola, From the copper-bearing mountain.' Spake the evil Lemminkainen: 'O, thou good, old Wainamoinen, Take me with thee to Pohyola, 542 Make me third of magic heroes, Since thou goest for the Sampo, Goest for the lid in colors; I shall prove a valiant soldier, When thy wisdom calls for fighting; I am skilled in arts of warfare!' Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Gave assent to Ahti's wishes; Thereupon wild Lemminkainen Hastened to Wainola's war-ship, Bringing floats of aspen-timber, To the ships of Wainamoinen. Thus the hero of the Northland Speaks to reckless Lemminkainen: 'There is aspen on my vessel, Aspen-floats in great abundance, And the boat is heavy-laden. Wherefore dost thou bring the aspen To the vessel of Wainola?' Lemminkainen gave this answer: 'Not through caution sinks a vessel, Nor a hay-stack by its proppings; Seas abound in hidden dangers, Heavy storms arise and threaten Fell destruction to the sailor That would brave the angry billows.' Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: 'Therefore is this warlike vessel Built of trusty steel and copper, Trimmed and bound in toughest iron, That the winds may, not destroy it, May not harm my ship of magic.' ~ Elias Lönnrot,

218:Lohengrin THE holy bell, untouched by human hands, Clanged suddenly, and tolled with solemn knell. Between the massive, blazoned temple-doors, Thrown wide, to let the summer morning in, Sir Lohengrin, the youngest of the knights, Had paused to taste the sweetness of the air. All sounds came up the mountain-side to him, Softened to music,— noise of laboring men, The cheerful cock-crow and the low of kine, Bleating of sheep, and twittering of the birds, Commingled into murmurous harmonies— When harsh, and near, and clamorous tolled the bell. He started, with his hand upon his sword; His face, an instant since serene and fair, And simple with the beauty of a boy, Heroic, flushed, expectant all at once. The lovely valley stretching out beneath Was now a painted picture,— nothing more; All music of the mountain or the vale Rang meaningless to him who heard the bell. 'I stand upon the threshold, and am called,' His clear, young voice shrilled gladly through the air, And backward through the sounding corridors. 'And have ye heard the bell, my brother knights, Untouched by human hands or winds of heaven? It called me, yea, it called my very name!' So, breathing still of morning, Lohengrin Sprang 'midst the gathering circle of the knights, Eager, exalted. 'Nay, it called us all: It rang as it hath often rung before,— Because the good cause, somewhere on the earth, Requires a champion,' with a serious smile, An older gravely answered. 'Where to go? We know not, and we know not whom to serve.' Then spake Sir Percivale, their holiest knight, And father of the young Sir Lohengrin: 'All that to us seems old, familiar, stale, 106 Unto the boy is vision, miracle. Cross him not, brethren, in his first desire. I will dare swear the summons rang to him, Not sternly solemn, as it tolled to us, But gracious, sweet, and gay as marriage-bells.' His pious hands above the young man's head Wandered in blessing, lightly touching it, As fondly as a mother. 'Lohengrin, My son, farewell,— God send thee faith and strength.' ' God send me patience and humility,' Murmured the boyish knight, from contrite heart, With head downcast for those anointing hands. Then raising suddenly wide, innocent eyes,— 'Father, my faith is boundless as God's love.' Complete in glittering silver armor clad, With silver maiden-shield, blank of device, Sir Lohengrin rode down the Montsalvatsch, With Percivale and Tristram, Frimutelle And Eliduc, to speed him on his quest. They fared in silence, for the elder knights Were filled with grave misgivings, solemn thoughts Of fate and sorrow, and they heard the bell Tolling incessant; while Sir Lohengrin, Buoyant with hope, and dreaming like a girl, With wild blood dancing in his veins, had made The journey down the mount unconsciously, Surprised to find that he had reached the vale. Distinct and bowered in green the mountain loomed, Topped with the wondrous temple, with its cross Smitten to splendor by the eastern sun. Around them lay the valley beautiful, Imparadised with flowers and light of June; And through the valley flowed a willowy stream, Golden and gray, at this delicious hour, With purity and sunshine. Here the knights, Irresolute, gave pause — which path to choose? 'God lead me right!' said meek Sir Lohengrin; And as he spoke afar upon the stream, He saw a shining swan approaching them. Full-breasted, with the current it sailed down, Dazzling in sun and shadow, air and wave, 107 With unseen movement, wings a little spread, Their downy under-feathers fluttering, Stirred by its stately progress; in its beak It held a silver chain, and drew thereby A dainty carven shallop after it, Embossed with silver and with ivory. 'Lead ye my charger up the mount again,' Cried Lohengrin, and leaped unto the ground, 'For I will trust my guidance to the swan.' ' Nay, hold, Sir Lohengrin,' said Eliduc, ' Thou hast not made provision for this quest.' ' God will provide,' the pious knight replied. Then Percival: 'Be faithful to thy vows; Bethink thee of thine oath when thou art asked Thy mission in the temple, or thy race. Farewell, farewell.' 'Farewell,' cried Lohengrin, And sprang into the shallop as it passed, And waved farewells unto his brother knights, Until they saw the white and silver shine Of boat and swan and armor less and less, Till in the willowy distance they were lost. Skirting the bases of the rolling hills, He glided on the river hour by hour, All through the endless summer day. At first On either side the willows brushed his boat, Then underneath their sweeping arch he passed, Into a rich, enchanted wilderness, Cool, full of mystic shadows and rare lights, Wherein the very river changed its hue, Reflecting tender shades of waving green, And mossy undergrowth of grass and fern. Here yellow lilies floated 'midst broad leaves, Upon their reedy stalks, and far below, Beneath the flags and rushes, coppery bream Sedately sailed, and flickering perch, and dace With silvery lustres caught the glancing rays Of the June sun upon their mottled scales. 'Midst the close sedge the bright-eyed water-mouse Nibbled its food, while overhead, its kin, The squirrel, frisked among the trees. The air Was full of life and sound of restless birds, 108 Darting with gayer tints of red and blue And speckled plumage 'mid gray willow leaves, And sober alders, and light-foliaged birch. Unnumbered insects fluttered o'er the banks, Some dimpling the smooth river's slippery floor, Leaping from point to point. Then passed the knight 'Twixt broad fields basking in excess of light, And girt around by range on range of hills, Green, umber, purple, waving limitless, Unto the radiant crystal of the sky. Through unfamiliar solitudes the swan Still led him, and he saw no living thing Save creatures of the wood, no human face, Nor sign of human dwelling. But he sailed, Holding high thoughts and vowing valorous vows, Filled with vast wonder and keen happiness, At the world's very beauty, and his life Opened in spacious vistas measureless, As lovely as the stream that bore him on. So dazzled was the boyish Lohengrin By all the vital beauty of the real, And the yet wilder beauty of his dreams, That he had lost all sense of passing time, And woke as from a trance of centuries, To find himself within the heart of hills, The river widened to an ample lake, And the swan faring towards a narrow gorge, That seemed to lead him to the sunset clouds. Suffused with color were the extremest heights; The river rippled in a glassy flood, Glorying in the glory of the sky. O what a moment for a man to take Down with him in his memory to the grave! Life at that hour appeared as infinite As expectation, sacred, wonderful, A vision and a privilege. The stream Lessened to force its way through rocky walls, Then swerved and flowed, a purple brook, through woods Dewy with evening, sunless, odorous. There Lohengrin, with eyes upon the stream, Now brighter than the earth, saw, deep and clear, The delicate splendor of the earliest star. 109 All night, too full of sweet expectancy, Too reverent of the loveliness, for sleep, He watched the rise and setting of the stars.. All things were new upon that magic day, Suggesting nobler possibilities, For a life passed in wise serenity, Confided with sublimely simple faith Unto the guidance of the higher will. In the still heavens hung the large round moon, White on the blue-black ripples glittering, And rolled soft floods of slumberous, misty light Over dim fields and colorless, huge hills. But the pure swan still bore its burden on, The ivory shallop and the silver knight, Pale-faced in that white lustre, neither made For any port, but seemed to float at will Aimlessly in a strange, unpeopled land. So passed the short fair night, and morning broke Upon the river where it flowed through flats Wide, fresh, and vague in gray, uncertain dawn, With cool air sweet from leagues of dewy grass. Then 'midst the flush and beauty of the east, The risen sun made all the river flow, Smitten with light, in gold and gray again. Rightly he judged his voyage but begun, When the swan loitered by low banks set thick With cresses, and red berries, and sweet herbs, That he might pluck and taste thereof; for these Such wondrous vigor in his frame infused, They seemed enchanted and ambrosial fruits. Day waxed and waned and vanished many times, And many suns still found him journeying; But when the sixth night darkened hill and wold, He seemed bewitched as by a wizard's spell, By this slow, constant progress, and deep sleep Possessed his spirit, and his head drooped low On the hard pillow of his silver shield. Unconscious he was borne through silent hours, Nor wakened by the dawn of a new day, But in his dreamless sleep he never lost The sense of moving forward on a stream. Now fared the swan through tilled and cultured lands, 110 Dappled with sheep and kine on pastures soft, Sprinkled with trim and pleasant cottages, With men and women working noiselessly, As in a picture; nearer then they drew, And sounds of rural labor, spoken words, Sir Lohengrin might hear, but still he slept, Nor saw the shining turrets of a town, Gardens and castles, domes and cross-topped spires Fair in the distance, and the flowing stream, Cleaving its liquid path 'midst many men, And glittering galleries filled with courtly folk, Ranged for a tourney-show in open air. Ah! what a miracle it seemed to these,— The white bird bearing on the river's breast That curious, sparkling shallop, and within The knight in silver armor, with bared head, And crisp hair blown about his angel face, Asleep upon his shield! They gazed on him As on the incarnate spirit of pure faith, And as the very ministrant of God. But one great damsel throned beside a king, With coroneted head and white, wan face, Flushed suddenly, and clasped her hands in prayer, And raised large, lucid eyes in thanks to Heaven. Then, in his dreamless slumber, Lohengrin, Feeling the steady motion of the boat Suddenly cease, awoke. Refreshed, alert, He knew at once that he had reached his port, And saw that peerless maiden thanking Heaven For his own advent, and his heart leaped up Into his throat, and love o'ermastered him. After the blare of flourished trumpets died, A herald thus proclaimed the tournament: 'Greetings and glory to the majesty Of the imperial Henry. By his grace, This tourney has been granted to the knight, Frederick of Telramund, who claims the hand Of Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant, His ward, and stands prepared to prove in arms His rights against all champions in the lists, Whom his unwilling mistress may select. Sir Frederick, Lord of Telramund, is here: 111 What champion will espouse the lady's cause?' Sir Frederick, huge in stature and in bulk, In gleaming armor terribly equipped, Advanced defiant, as the herald ceased. Then Lohengrin, with spear and shield in hand, Sprang lightly, from his shallop, in the lists. His beaver raised disclosed his ardent face, His whole soul shining from inspired eyes. With cast-back head, sun-smitten silver mail, Quivering with spirit, light, and life, he stood, And flung his gauntlet at Sir Frederick's feet, Crying with shrill, clear voice that rang again, 'Sir Lohengrin adopts the lady's cause.' Then these with shock of conflict couched their spears In deadly combat; but their weapons clanged Harmless against their mail impregnable, Or else were nimbly foiled by dexterous shields. Unequal and unjust it seemed at first,— The slender boy matched with the warrior huge, Who bore upon him with the skill and strength Of a tried conqueror; but the stranger knight Displayed such agile grace in parrying blows, Such fiery valor dealing his own strokes, That men looked on in wonder, and his foe Was hardly put upon it for his life. Thrice they gave praise, to breathe, and to prepare For fiercer battle, and the galleries rang With plaudits, and the names of both the knights. And they, with spirits whetted by the strife, Met for the fourth, last time, and fenced and struck, And the keen lance of Lohengrin made way, Between the meshes of Sir Frederick's mail, Through cuirass and through jerkin, to the flesh, With pain so sharp and sudden that he fell. Then Henry threw his warder to the ground, And cried the stranger knight had won the day; And all the lesser voices, following his, Called, ' Lohengrin—Sir Lohengrin hath won!' He, flushed with victory, standing in the lists, Deafened with clamor of his very name, Reëchoed to the heavens, felt himself Alone and alien, and would fain float back 112 Unto the temple, had he not recalled The fair, great damsel throned beside the king. But lo! the swan had vanished, and the boat He fancied he descried a tiny star, Glimmering in the shining distances. 'His Majesty would greet Sir Lohengrin; And Lady Elsie, Duchess of Brabant, Would thank him for his prowess.' Thus proclaimed The herald, while the unknown knight was led To the imperial throne. Then Elsie spake: 'Thou hast redeemed my life from misery; How may I worthily reward or thank? Be thou the nearest to our ducal throne, The highest knight of Limburg and Brabant, The greatest gentleman,— unless thy rank, In truth, be suited to thine own deserts, And thou, a prince, art called to higher aims.' 'Madam, my thanks are rather due to Fate, For having chosen so poor an instrument For such a noble end. A knight am I, The champion of the helpless and oppressed, Bound by fast vows to own no other name Than Lohengrin, the Stranger, in this land, And to depart when asked my race or rank. Trusting in God I came, and, trusting Him, I must remain, for all my fate hath changed, All my desires and hopes, since I am here.' So ended that great joust, and in the days Thereafter Elsie and Sir Lohengrin, United by a circumstance so strange, Loved and were wedded. A more courteous duke, A braver chevalier, Brabant ne'er saw. Such grace breathed from his person and his deeds, Such simple innocence and faith looked forth From eyes well-nigh too beautiful for man, That whom he met, departed as his friend. But Elsie, bound to him by every bond Of love and honor and vast gratitude, Being of lesser faith and confidence, Tortured herself with envious jealousies, Misdoubting her own beauty, and her power 113 To win and to retain so great a heart. Each year Sir Lohengrin proclaimed a joust In memory of the tourney where he won His lovely Duchess, and his lance prevailed Against all lesser knights. When his twain sons, Loyal and brave and gentle as their sire, Had grown to stalwart men, and his one girl, Eyed like himself and as his Duchess fair, Floramie, grew to gracious maidenhood, He gave a noble tourney, and o'erthrew The terrible and potent Duke of Cleves. 'Ha!' sneered the Dame of Cleves, 'this Lohengrin May be a knight adroit and valorous, But who knows whence he sprang?' and lightly laughed, Seeing the hot blood kindle Elsie's cheek. That night Sir Lohengrin sought rest betimes, By hours of crowded action quite forespent, And found the Duchess Elsie on her couch, Staining the silken broideries with her tears. 'Why dost thou weep?' he questioned tenderly, Kissing her delicate hands, and parting back Her heavy yellow hair from brow and face. 'The Duchess Anne of Cleves hath wounded me.' 'Sweet, am not I at hand to comfort thee?' And he caressed her as an ailing child, Until she smiled and slept. But the next night He found her weeping, and he questioned her, With the same answer, and again she slept; Then the third night he asked her why she grieved And she uprising, white, with eager eyes, Cried, 'Lohengrin, my lord, my only love, For our sons' sake, who know not whence they spring, Our daughter who remains a virgin yet, Let me not hear folk girding at thy race. I know thy blood is royal, I have faith; But tell me all, that I may publish it Unto our dukedom.' Hurt and wondering, He answered simply, 'I am Lohengrin, Son to Sir Percivale, and ministrant Within the holy temple of the Grail. I would thy faith were greater, this is all. Now must I bid farewell.' ' O Lohengrin, 114 What have I done?' She clung about his neck, And moistened all his beard with streaming tears; But he with one long kiss relaxed her arms Calmly from his embrace, and stood alone. ' Blame not thy nature now with vain reproofs. This also is our fate: in all things else. We have submitted,—let us yield in this, With no less grace now that God tries our hearts, Than when He sent us victory and love.' ' Yea, go, — you never loved me,' faltered she; ' I will not blame my nature, but your own. Through all our wedded years I doubted you; Your eyes have never brightened meeting mine As I have seen them in religious zeal, Or in exalted hours of victory.' A look of perfect weariness, unmixed With wrath or grief, o'erspread the knight's pale face; But with the pity that a god might show Towards one with ills impossible to him, He drew anear, caressing her, and sighed: ' Through all our wedded years you doubted me? Poor child, poor child! and it has come to this. Thank Heaven, I gave no cause for your mistrust, Desiring never an ideal more fair Of womanhood than was my chosen wife.' She, broken, sobbing, leaned her delicate head On his great shoulder, and remorseful cried, ' O loyal, honest, simple Lohengrin, Thy wife has been unworthy: this is why Thou sayest farewell in accents cold and strange, With alien eyes that even now behold Things fairer, better, than her mournful face.' But he with large allowance answered her: 'If this be truth, it is because I feel That I belong no more unto myself, Neither to thee, for God withdraws my soul Beyond all earthly passions unto Him. Now that we know our doom, with serious calm, Beside thee I will sit, till break of day, Thus holding thy chill hand and tell thee all. This will resign thee, for I cannot think How any human soul that hath beheld 115 Life's compensations and its miracles, Can fail to trust in what is yet to come.' Then he began from that auroral hour When he first heard the temple bell, and told The wonder of the swan that came for him, His journey down the stream, the tournament, His strength unwonted, combating the knight Who towered above him with superior force Of flesh and sinew,— how he prayed through all, Imploring God to let the just cause win, Unconscious of the close-thronged galleries, Feeling two eyes alone that burned his soul. She knew the rest. Therewith he kissed her brow And ended,—' Now the knights will take me back Into the temple; all who keep their vows, Are welcomed there again to peace and rest. There will my years fall from me like a cloak, And I will stand again at manhood's prime. Then when all errors of the flesh are purged From these I loved here, they may follow me, Unto perpetual worship and to peace.' She lay quite calm, and smiling heard his voice, Already grown to her remote and changed, And when he ceased, arose and gazed in awe On his transfigured face and kissed his brow, And understood, accepting all her fate. Anon he called his children, and to these: 'Farewell, sweet Florance and dear Percivale; Here is my horn, and here mine ancient sword,— Guard them with care and win with them repute. Here, Elsie, is the ring my mother gave,— Part with it never; and thou, Floramie, Take thou my love,—I have naught else to give; Be of strong faith in him thou mean'st to wed.' So these communed together, till the night Died from the brightening skies, and in the east The morning star hung in aerial rose, And the blue deepened; while moist lawn and hedge Breathed dewy freshness through the windows oped. Then on the stream, that nigh the palace flowed, A stainless swan approached them; in its beak It held a silver chain, and drew thereby 116 A dainty, carven shallop after it, Embossed with silver and with ivory. Followed by waved farewells and streaming eyes, Sir Lohengrin embarked and floated forth Unto perpetual worship and to peace. ~ Emma Lazarus,

219:The Kalevala - Rune L MARIATTA--WAINAMOINEN'S DEPARTURE. Mariatta, child of beauty, Grew to maidenhood in Northland, In the cabin of her father, In the chambers of her mother, Golden ringlets, silver girdles, Worn against the keys paternal, Glittering upon her bosom; Wore away the father's threshold With the long robes of her garments; Wore away the painted rafters With her beauteous silken ribbons; Wore away the gilded pillars With the touching of her fingers; Wore away the birchen flooring With the tramping of her fur-shoes. Mariatta, child of beauty, Magic maid of little stature, Guarded well her sacred virtue, Her sincerity and honor, Fed upon the dainty whiting, On the inner bark of birch-wood, On the tender flesh of lambkins. When she hastened in the evening To her milking in the hurdles, Spake in innocence as follows: 'Never will the snow-white virgin Milk the kine of one unworthy!' When she journeyed over snow-fields, On the seat beside her father, Spake in purity as follows: 'Not behind a steed unworthy Will I ever ride the snow-sledge!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a virgin with her mother, As a maiden highly honored, Lived in innocence and beauty, 68 Daily drove her flocks to pasture, Walking with the gentle lambkins. When the lambkins climbed the mountains, When they gamboled on the hill-tops, Stepped the virgin to the meadow, Skipping through a grove of lindens, At the calling of the cuckoo, To the songster's golden measures. Mariatta, child of beauty, Looked about, intently listened, Sat upon the berry-meadow Sat awhile, and meditated On a hillock by the forest, And soliloquized as follows: 'Call to me, thou golden cuckoo, Sing, thou sacred bird of Northland, Sing, thou silver breasted songster, Speak, thou strawberry of Ehstland, Tell bow long must I unmarried, As a shepherdess neglected, Wander o'er these bills and mountains, Through these flowery fens and fallows. Tell me, cuckoo of the woodlands, Sing to me how many summers I must live without a husband, As a shepherdess neglected!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Lived a shepherd-maid for ages, As a virgin with her mother. Wretched are the lives of shepherds, Lives of maidens still more wretched, Guarding flocks upon the mountains; Serpents creep in bog and stubble, On the greensward dart the lizards; But it was no serpent singing, Nor a sacred lizard calling, It was but the mountain-berry Calling to the lonely maiden: 'Come, O virgin, come and pluck me, Come and take me to thy bosom, Take me, tinsel-breasted virgin, Take me, maiden, copper-belted, 69 Ere the slimy snail devours me, Ere the black-worm feeds upon me. Hundreds pass my way unmindful, Thousands come within my hearing, Berry-maidens swarm about me, Children come in countless numbers, None of these has come to gather, Come to pluck this ruddy berry.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Listened to its gentle pleading, Ran to pick the berry, calling, With her fair and dainty fingers,. Saw it smiling near the meadow, Like a cranberry in feature, Like a strawberry in flavor; But be Virgin, Mariatta, Could not pluck the woodland-stranger, Thereupon she cut a charm-stick, Downward pressed upon the berry, When it rose as if by magic, Rose above her shoes of ermine, Then above her copper girdle, Darted upward to her bosom, Leaped upon the maiden's shoulder, On her dimpled chin it rested, On her lips it perched a moment, Hastened to her tongue expectant To and fro it rocked and lingered, Thence it hastened on its journey, Settled in the maiden's bosom. Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus became a bride impregnate, Wedded to the mountain-berry; Lingered in her room at morning, Sat at midday in the darkness, Hastened to her couch at evening. Thus the watchful mother wonders: 'What has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, That she throws aside her girdle, Shyly slips through hall and chamber, Lingers in her room at morning, 70 Hastens to her couch at evening, Sits at midday in the darkness?' On the floor a babe was playing, And the young child thus made answer: 'This has happened to our Mary, To our virgin, Mariatta, This misfortune to the maiden: She has lingered by the meadows, Played too long among the lambkins, Tasted of the mountain-berry.' Long the virgin watched and waited, Anxiously the days she counted, Waiting for the dawn of trouble. Finally she asked her mother, These the words of Mariatta: 'Faithful mother, fond and tender, Mother whom I love and cherish, Make for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the mother: 'Woe to thee, thou Hisi-maiden, Since thou art a bride unworthy, Wedded only to dishonor!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus replied in truthful measures: 'I am not a maid of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; As a shepherdess I wandered With the lambkins to the glen-wood, Wandered to the berry-mountain, Where the strawberry had ripened; Quick as thought I plucked the berry, On my tongue I gently laid it, To and fro it rocked and lingered, Settled in my heaving bosom. This the source of all my trouble, Only cause of my dishonor!' As the mother was relentless, Asked the maiden of her father, This the virgin-mother's pleading: 71 O my father, full of pity, Source of both my good and evil, Build for me a place befitting, Where my troubles may be lessened, And my heavy burdens lightened.' This the answer of the father, Of the father unforgiving: 'Go, thou evil child of Hisi, Go, thou child of sin and sorrow, Wedded only to dishonor, To the Great Bear's rocky chamber, To the stone-cave of the growler, There to lessen all thy troubles, There to cast thy heavy burdens!' Mariatta, child of beauty, Thus made answer to her father: 'I am not a child of Hisi, I am not a bride unworthy, Am not wedded to dishonor; I shall bear a noble hero, I shall bear a son immortal, Who will rule among the mighty, Rule the ancient Wainamoinen.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Wandered hither, wandered thither, Seeking for a place befitting, Seeking for a worthy birth-place For her unborn son and hero; Finally these words she uttered 'Piltti, thou my youngest maiden, Trustiest of all my servants, Seek a place within the village, Ask it of the brook of Sara, For the troubled Mariatta, Child of sorrow and misfortune.' Thereupon the little maiden, Piltti, spake these words in answer: 'Whom shall I entreat for succor, Who will lend me his assistance? These the words of Mariatta: 'Go and ask it of Ruotus, Where the reed-brook pours her waters.' 72 Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Ever hopeful, ever willing, Hastened to obey her mistress, Needing not her exhortation; Hastened like the rapid river, Like the flying smoke of battle To the cabin of Ruotus. When she walked the hill-tops tottered, When she ran the mountains trembled; Shore-reeds danced upon the pasture, Sandstones skipped about the heather As the maiden, Piltti, hastened To the dwelling of Ruotus. At his table in his cabin Sat Ruotus, eating, drinking, In his simple coat of linen. With his elbows on the table Spake the wizard in amazement: 'Why hast thou, a maid of evil, Come to see me in my cavern, What the message thou art bringing? Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Gave this answer to the wizard: 'Seek I for a spot befitting, Seek I for a worthy birth-place, For an unborn child and hero; Seek it near the Sara-streamlet, Where the reed-brook pours her waters. Came the wife of old Ruotus, Walking with her arms akimbo, Thus addressed the maiden, Piltti: 'Who is she that asks assistance, Who the maiden thus dishonored, What her name, and who her kindred?' 'I have come for Mariatta, For the worthy virgin-mother.' Spake the wife of old Ruotus, Evil-minded, cruel-hearted: 'Occupied are all our chambers, All our bath-rooms near the reed-brook; in the mount of fire are couches, is a stable in the forest, 73 For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta!' Thereupon the servant, Piltti, Hastened to her anxious mistress, Spake these measures, much regretting. 'There is not a place befitting, on the silver brook of Sara. Spake the wife of old Ruotus: 'Occupied are all the chambers, All the bath-rooms near the reed-brook; In the mount of fire are couches, Is a stable, in the forest, For the flaming horse of Hisi; In the stable is a manger, Fitting birth-place for the hero From the wife of cold misfortune, Worthy couch for Mariatta.'' Thereupon the hapless maiden, Mariatta, virgin-mother, Fell to bitter tears and murmurs, Spake these words in depths of sorrow: 'I, alas! must go an outcast, Wander as a wretched hireling, Like a servant in dishonor, Hasten to the burning mountain, To the stable in the forest, Make my bed within a manger, Near the flaming steed of Hisi!' Quick the hapless virgin-mother, Outcast from her father's dwelling, Gathered up her flowing raiment, Grasped a broom of birchen branches, Hastened forth in pain and sorrow To the stable in the woodlands, On the heights of Tapio's mountains, Spake these words in supplication: 'Come, I pray thee, my Creator, Only friend in times of trouble, Come to me and bring protection 74 To thy child, the virgin-mother, To the maiden, Mariatta, In this hour of sore affliction. Come to me, benignant Ukko, Come, thou only hope and refuge, Lest thy guiltless child should perish, Die the death of the unworthy!' When the virgin, Mariatta, Had arrived within the stable Of the flaming horse of Hisi, She addressed the steed as follows: 'Breathe, O sympathizing fire-horse, Breathe on me, the virgin-mother, Let thy heated breath give moisture, Let thy pleasant warmth surround me, Like the vapor of the morning; Let this pure and helpless maiden Find a refuge in thy manger!' Thereupon the horse, in pity, Breathed the moisture of his nostrils On the body of the virgin, Wrapped her in a cloud of vapor, Gave her warmth and needed comforts, Gave his aid to the afflicted, To the virgin, Mariatta. There the babe was born and cradled Cradled in a woodland-manger, Of the virgin, Mariatta, Pure as pearly dews of morning, Holy as the stars in heaven. There the mother rocks her infant, In his swaddling clothes she wraps him, Lays him in her robes of linen; Carefully the babe she nurtures, Well she guards her much-beloved, Guards her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver. But alas! the child has vanished, Vanished while the mother slumbered. Mariatta, lone and wretched, Fell to weeping, broken-hearted, Hastened off to seek her infant. 75 Everywhere the mother sought him, Sought her golden child of beauty, Her beloved gem of silver; Sought him underneath the millstone, In the sledge she sought him vainly, Underneath the sieve she sought him, Underneath the willow-basket, Touched the trees, the grass she parted, Long she sought her golden infant, Sought him on the fir-tree-mountain, In the vale, and hill, and heather; Looks within the clumps of flowers, Well examines every thicket, Lifts the juniper and willow, Lifts the branches of the alder. Lo! a star has come to meet her, And the star she thus beseeches-. 'O, thou guiding-star of Northland, Star of hope, by God created, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Thus the star of Northland answers: 'If I knew, I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Set me here to watch at evening, In the cold to shine forever, Here to twinkle in the darkness.' Comes the golden Moon to meet her, And the Moon she thus beseeches: 'Golden Moon, by Ukko fashioned, Hope and joy of Kalevala, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden? Speaks the golden Moon in answer: 'If I knew I would not tell thee; 'Tis thy child that me created, Here to wander in the darkness, All alone at eve to wander On my cold and cheerless journey, Sleeping only in the daylight, 76 Shining for the good of others.' Thereupon the virgin-mother Falls again to bitter weeping, Hastens on through fen and forest, Seeking for her babe departed. Comes the silver Sun to meet her, And the Sun she thus addresses: 'Silver Sun by Ukko fashioned, Source of light and life to Northland, Dost thou know and wilt thou tell me Where my darling child has wandered, Where my holy babe lies hidden?' Wisely does the Sun make answer: 'Well I know thy babe's dominions, Where thy holy child is sleeping, Where Wainola's light lies hidden; 'Tis thy child that me created, Made me king of earth and ether, Made the Moon and Stars attend me, Set me here to shine at midday, Makes me shine in silver raiment, Lets me sleep and rest at evening; Yonder is thy golden infant, There thy holy babe lies sleeping, Hidden to his belt in water, Hidden in the reeds and rushes.' Mariatta, child of beauty, Virgin-mother of the Northland, Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land, Finds him in the reeds and rushes; Takes the young child on her bosom To the dwelling of her father. There the infant grew in beauty, Gathered strength, and light, and wisdom, All of Suomi saw and wondered. No one knew what name to give him; When the mother named him, Flower, Others named him, Son-of-Sorrow. When the virgin, Mariatta, Sought the priesthood to baptize him, Came an old man, Wirokannas, With a cup of holy water, 77 Bringing to the babe his blessing; And the gray-beard spake as follows: 'I shall not baptize a wizard, Shall not bless a black-magician With the drops of holy water; Let the young child be examined, Let us know that he is worthy, Lest he prove the son of witchcraft.' Thereupon old Wirokannas Called the ancient Wainamoinen, The eternal wisdom-singer, To inspect the infant-wonder, To report him good or evil. Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Carefully the child examined, Gave this answer to his people: 'Since the child is but an outcast, Born and cradled in a manger, Since the berry is his father; Let him lie upon the heather, Let him sleep among the rushes, Let him live upon the mountains; Take the young child to the marshes, Dash his head against the birch-tree.' Then the child of Mariatta, Only two weeks old, made answer: 'O, thou ancient Wainamoinen, Son of Folly and Injustice, Senseless hero of the Northland, Falsely hast thou rendered judgment. In thy years, for greater follies, Greater sins and misdemeanors, Thou wert not unjustly punished. In thy former years of trouble, When thou gavest thine own brother, For thy selfish life a ransom, Thus to save thee from destruction, Then thou wert not sent to Swamp-land To be murdered for thy follies. In thy former years of sorrow, When the beauteous Aino perished In the deep and boundless blue-sea, 78 To escape thy persecutions, Then thou wert not evil-treated, Wert not banished by thy people.' Thereupon old Wirokannas, Of the wilderness the ruler, Touched the child with holy water, Crave the wonder-babe his blessing, Gave him rights of royal heirship, Free to live and grow a hero, To become a mighty ruler, King and Master of Karyala. As the years passed Wainamoinen Recognized his waning powers, Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, Sang his farewell song to Northland, To the people of Wainola; Sang himself a boat of copper, Beautiful his bark of magic; At the helm sat the magician, Sat the ancient wisdom-singer. Westward, westward, sailed the hero O'er the blue-back of the waters, Singing as he left Wainola, This his plaintive song and echo: 'Suns may rise and set in Suomi, Rise and set for generations, When the North will learn my teachings, Will recall my wisdom-sayings, Hungry for the true religion. Then will Suomi need my coming, Watch for me at dawn of morning, That I may bring back the Sampo, Bring anew the harp of joyance, Bring again the golden moonlight, Bring again the silver sunshine, Peace and plenty to the Northland.' Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, In his copper-banded vessel, Left his tribe in Kalevala, Sailing o'er the rolling billows, Sailing through the azure vapors, Sailing through the dusk of evening, 79 Sailing to the fiery sunset, To the higher-landed regions, To the lower verge of heaven; Quickly gained the far horizon, Gained the purple-colored harbor. There his bark be firmly anchored, Rested in his boat of copper; But be left his harp of magic, Left his songs and wisdom-sayings, To the lasting joy of Suomi. EPILOGUE. Now I end my measured singing, Bid my weary tongue keep silence, Leave my songs to other singers. Horses have their times of resting After many hours of labor; Even sickles will grow weary When they have been long at reaping; Waters seek a quiet haven After running long in rivers; Fire subsides and sinks in slumber At the dawning of the morning Therefore I should end my singing, As my song is growing weary, For the pleasure of the evening, For the joy of morn arising. Often I have heard it chanted, Often heard the words repeated: 'Worthy cataracts and rivers Never empty all their waters.' Thus the wise and worthy singer Sings not all his garnered wisdom; Better leave unsung some sayings Than to sing them out of season. Thus beginning, and thus ending, Do I roll up all my legends, Roll them in a ball for safety, In my memory arrange them, In their narrow place of resting, Lest the songs escape unheeded, While the lock is still unopened, While the teeth remain unparted, 80 And the weary tongue is silent. Why should I sing other legends, Chant them in the glen and forest, Sing them on the hill and heather? Cold and still my golden mother Lies beneath the meadow, sleeping, Hears my ancient songs no longer, Cannot listen to my singing; Only will the forest listen, Sacred birches, sighing pine-trees, Junipers endowed with kindness, Alder-trees that love to bear me, With the aspens and the willows. When my loving mother left me, Young was I, and low of stature; Like the cuckoo of the forest, Like the thrush upon the heather, Like the lark I learned to twitter, Learned to sing my simple measures, Guided by a second mother, Stern and cold, without affection; Drove me helpless from my chamber To the wind-side of her dwelling, To the north-side of her cottage, Where the chilling winds in mercy Carried off the unprotected. As a lark I learned to wander, Wander as a lonely song-bird, Through the forests and the fenlands Quietly o'er hill and heather; Walked in pain about the marshes, Learned the songs of winds and waters, Learned the music of the ocean, And the echoes of the woodlands. Many men that live to murmur, Many women live to censure, Many speak with evil motives; Many they with wretched voices Curse me for my wretched singing, Blame my tongue for speaking wisdom, Call my ancient songs unworthy, Blame the songs and curse the singer. 81 Be not thus, my worthy people, Blame me not for singing badly, Unpretending as a minstrel. I have never had the teaching, Never lived with ancient heroes, Never learned the tongues of strangers, Never claimed to know much wisdom. Others have had language-masters, Nature was my only teacher, Woods and waters my instructors. Homeless, friendless, lone, and needy, Save in childhood with my mother, When beneath her painted rafters, Where she twirled the flying spindle, By the work-bench of my brother, By the window of my sister, In. the cabin of my father, In my early days of childhood. Be this as it may, my people, This may point the way to others, To the singers better gifted, For the good of future ages, For the coming generations, For the rising folk of Suomi. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

220:The Ancient Banner In boundless mercy, the Redeemer left, The bosom of his Father, and assumed A servant's form, though he had reigned a king, In realms of glory, ere the worlds were made, Or the creating words, 'Let there be light' In heaven were uttered. But though veiled in flesh, His Deity and his Omnipotence, Were manifest in miracles. Disease Fled at his bidding, and the buried dead Rose from the sepulchre, reanimate, At his command, or, on the passing bier Sat upright, when he touched it. But he came, Not for this only, but to introduce A glorious dispensation, in the place Of types and shadows of the Jewish code. Upon the mount, and round Jerusalem, He taught a purer, and a holier law,— His everlasting Gospel, which is yet To fill the earth with gladness; for all climes Shall feel its influence, and shall own its power. He came to suffer, as a sacrifice Acceptable to God. The sins of all Were laid upon Him, when in agony He bowed upon the cross. The temple's veil Was rent asunder, and the mighty rocks, Trembled, as the incarnate Deity, By his atoning blood, opened that door, Through which the soul, can have communion with Its great Creator; and when purified, From all defilements, find acceptance too, Where it can finally partake of all The joys of His salvation. But the pure Church he planted,—the pure Church Which his apostles watered,—and for which, The blood of countless martyrs freely flowed, In Roman Amphitheatres,—on racks,— And in the dungeon's gloom,—this blessed Church, Which grew in suffering, when it overspread Surrounding nations, lost its purity. 278 Its truth was hidden, and its light obscured By gross corruption, and idolatry. As things of worship, it had images, And even painted canvas was adored. It had a head and bishop, but this head Was not the Saviour, but the Pope of Rome. Religion was a traffic. Men defiled, Professed to pardon sin, and even sell, The joys of heaven for money,—and to raise Souls out of darkness to eternal light, For paltry silver lavished upon them. And thus thick darkness, overspread the Church As with a mantle. At length the midnight of apostacy Passed by, and in the horizon appeared, Day dawning upon Christendom. The light, Grew stronger, as the Reformation spread. For Luther, and Melancthon, could not be Silenced by papal bulls, nor by decrees Of excommunication thundered forth Out of the Vatican. And yet the light, Of Luther's reformation, never reached Beyond the morning's dawn. The noontide blaze Of Truth's unclouded day, he never saw. Yet after him, its rising sun displayed More and more light upon the horizon. Though thus enlightened, the professing Church, Was far from many of the precious truths Of the Redeemer's gospel; and as yet, Owned not his Spirit's government therein. But now the time approached, when he would pour A larger measure of his light below; And as he chose unlearned fishermen To spread his gospel when first introduced, So now he passed mere human learning by, And chose an instrument, comparable To the small stone the youthful David used, To smite the champion who defied the Lord. Apart from human dwellings, in a green Rich pasturage of England, sat a youth, Who seemed a shepherd, for around him there A flock was feeding, and the sportive lambs 279 Gambolled amid the herbage. But his face Bore evidence of sadness. On his knee The sacred book lay open, upon which The youth looked long and earnestly, and then, Closing the book, gazed upward, in deep thought This was the instrument by whom the Lord Designed to spread a clearer light below And fuller reformation. He appeared, Like ancient Samuel, to be set apart For the Lord's service from his very birth. Even in early childhood, he refrained From youthful follies, and his mind was turned To things of highest moment. He was filled With awful feelings, by the wickedness He saw around him. As he grew in years, Horror of sin grew stronger; and his mind Became so clothed with sadness, and so full Of soul-felt longings, for the healing streams Of heavenly consolation, that he left His earthly kindred, seeking quietude In solitary places, where he read The book of inspiration, and in prayer, Sought heavenly counsel. In this deep-proving season he was told, Of priests, whose reputation had spread wide For sanctity and wisdom; and from these He sought for consolation,—but in vain. One of these ministers became enraged, Because the youth had inadvertently Misstepped within his garden; and a priest Of greater reputation, counselled him To use tobacco, and sing holy psalms! And the inquirer found a third to be But as an empty, hollow cask at best. Finding no help in man, the youthful Fox, Turned to a higher and a holier source, For light and knowledge. In his Saviour's school, He sat a scholar, and was clearly shown The deep corruption, that had overspread Professing Christendom. And one by one, The doctrines of the Gospel, were unveiled, To the attentive student,—doctrines, which, 280 Though clearly written on the sacred page, Had long been hidden, by the rubbish man's Perversions and inventions heaped thereon. He saw that colleges, could not confer, A saving knowledge of the way of Truth, Nor qualify a minister to preach The everlasting Gospel; but that Christ, Is the true Teacher, and that he alone Has power to call, anoint, and qualify, And send a Gospel minister to preach Glad tidings of salvation. He was shown, No outward building, made of wood and stone Could be a holy place,—and that the Church— The only true and living Church—must be A holy people gathered to the Lord, And to his teaching. He was clearly taught, The nature of baptism, by which souls Are purified and fitted for this Church; That this was not, by being dipped into, Or sprinkled with clear water, but it was The one baptism of the Holy Ghost. He saw the Supper was no outward food, Made and administered by human hands,— But the Lord's Table was within the heart; Where in communion with him, holy bread Was blessed and broken, and the heavenly wine, Which cheers the fainting spirit, handed forth. The Saviour showed him that all outward wars, Are now forbidden,—that the warfare here, Is to be waged within. Its weapons too, Though mighty, even to the pulling down, Of the strong holds of Satan, are yet all The Spirit's weapons. He was shown, that oaths Judicial or profane, are banished from The Christian dispensation, which commands, 'Swear not at all.' He saw the compliments,— Hat honour, and lip service of the world, Sprang from pride's evil root, and were opposed To the pure spirit of Christ's holy law. And by His inward Light, was clearly seen The perfect purity of heart and life For which that Saviour calls, who never asked, 281 Things unattainable. These truths and others, being thus revealed, Fox was prepared and qualified to preach, The unveiled Gospel, to the sons of men. Clothed with divine authority, he went Abroad through Britain, and proclaimed that Light, Which Christ's illuminating Spirit sheds, In the dark heart of man. Some heard of this, Who seemed prepared and waiting, to receive His Gospel message, and were turned to Him, Whose Holy Spirit sealed it on their hearts. And not a few of these, were called upon, To take the message, and themselves declare The way of Truth to others. But the Priests, Carnal professors, and some magistrates, Heard of the inward light, and purity, With indignation, and they seized upon, And thrust the Preacher within prison walls. Not once alone, but often was he found, Amid the very dregs of wickedness— With robbers, and with blood-stained criminals, Locked up in loathsome jails. And when abroad Upon his Master's service, he was still Reviled and buffeted, and spit upon. But none of these things moved him, for within He felt that soul-sustaining evidence, Which bore his spirit high above the waves, Of bitter persecution. But now the time approached, for his release From suffering and from labour. He had spent, Long years in travel for the cause of Truth,— Not all in Britain,—for he preached its light, And power in Holland,—the West Indian isles, And North America. Far through the wild, And trackless wilderness, this faithful man, Carried his Master's message; he lived, To see Truth's banner fearlessly displayed Upon both continents. He lived to see, Pure hearted men and women gathered to The inward teaching of the Saviour's will,— Banded together in the covenant, Of light and life. But his allotted work, 282 Was now accomplished, and his soul prepared, For an inheritance with saints in light, And with his loins all girded, he put off His earthly shackles, triumphing in death, That the Seed reigned, and Truth was over all! Where the dark waters of the Delaware, Roll onward to the ocean, sweeping by, Primeval forests, where the red man still, Built his rude wigwam, and the timid deer Fled for concealment from the Indian's eye, And the unerring arrow of his bow; There, in the shadow of these ancient woods, A sea-worn ship has anchored. On her deck, Men of grave mien are gathered. One of whom, Of noble figure, and quick searching eyes, Surveys the scene, wrapt in the deepest thought. And this is William Penn. He stands among, Fellow believers, who have sought a home, And place of refuge, in this wilderness. Born of an ancient family, his sire An English Admiral, the youthful Penn, Might, with his talents, have soon ranked among The proudest subjects of the British throne. He chose the better part—to serve that King Who is immortal and invisible. While yet a student within college halls, He heard Truth's message, and his heart was reached, And fully owned it, though it came through one Of that despised and persecuted class, Called in derision Quakers. Thus convinced, He left the college worship, to commune In spirit with his Maker. And for this, He was expelled from Oxford; and was soon Maltreated by his father, who, enraged, Because his only son, had turned away From brilliant prospects, to pursue the path Of self-denial, drove him harshly forth From the paternal roof. But William Penn, Had still a Father, who supported him, With strength and courage to perform his will; And he was called and qualified to preach, And to bear witness of that blessed Light 283 Which shines within. He suffered in the cause, His share of trial. He was dragged before Judges and juries, and was shut within The walls of prisons. Looking abroad through England, he was filled With deep commiseration, for the jails— The loathsome, filthy jails—were crowded with His brethren in the Truth. For their relief, He sought the ear of royalty, and plead Their cruel sufferings; and their innocence; And thus became the instrument through which Some prison doors were opened. But he sought A place of refuge from oppression's power, That Friends might worship the Creator there, Free from imprisonment and penalties. And such a place soon opened to his view, Far in the Western Wilderness, beyond The Atlantic's wave. And here is William Penn, and here a band Of weary emigrants, who now behold The promised land before them; but it is The Indian's country, and the Indian's home. Penn had indeed, received a royal grant, To occupy it; but a grant from one Who had no rightful ownership therein; He therefore buys it honestly from those Whose claims are aboriginal, and just. With these inhabitants, behold, he stands Beneath an ancient elm, whose spreading limbs O'erhang the Delaware. The forest chiefs Sit in grave silence, while the pipe of peace Goes round the circle. They have made a league With faithful Onas—a perpetual league, And treaty of true friendship, to endure While the sun shines, and while the waters run. And here was founded in the wilderness, A refuge from oppression, where all creeds Found toleration, and where truth and right Were the foundation of its government, And its protection. In that early day, The infant colony sought no defence But that of justice and of righteousness; 284 The only guarantees of peace on earth, Because they ever breathe, good will to men. His colony thus planted, William Penn Sought his old field of labour, and again, Both through the press and vocally, he plead The right of conscience, and the rights of man; And frequently, and forcibly he preached Christ's universal and inshining Light. His labour was incessant; and the cares, And the perplexities connected with His distant province, which he visited A second time, bore heavily upon His burdened spirit, which demanded rest;— That rest was granted. In the midst of all His labour and his trials, there was drawn A veil, in mercy, round his active mind, Which dimmed all outward things; but he still saw The beauty and the loveliness of Truth, And found sweet access to the Source of good. And thus, shut out from the perplexities And sorrows of the world, he was prepared To hear the final summons, to put off His tattered garments, and be clothed upon With heavenly raiment. Scotland, thou hadst a noble citizen, In him of Ury! Born amid thy hills, Though educated where enticing scenes, Crowd giddy Paris, he rejected all The world's allurements, and unlike the youth Who talked with Jesus, Barclay turned away From great possessions, and embraced the Truth. He early dedicated all the powers Of a well cultivated intellect To the Redeemer and His holy cause. He was a herald, to proclaim aloud, Glad tidings of salvation; and his life Preached a loud sermon by its purity. Not only were his lips made eloquent, By the live coal that touched them, but his pen, Moved by a force from the same altar, poured Light, truth, and wisdom. From it issued forth The great Apology, which yet remains 285 One of the best expositors of Truth That man has published, since that sacred book Anciently written. Seekers are still led By its direction, to that blessed Light, And inward Teacher, who is Jesus Christ. But now, this noble servant of the Lord, Rests from his faithful labour, while his works Yet follow him. Early believers in the light of Truth, Dwelt not at ease in Zion. They endured Conflicts and trials, and imprisonments. Even the humble Penington, whose mind Seemed purged and purified from all the dross Of human nature—who appeared as meek And harmless as an infant—was compelled To dwell in loathsome prisons. But he had, Though in the midst of wickedness, sublime And holy visions of the purity, And the true nature of Christ's living Church. While Edmundson, the faithful pioneer Of Truth in Ireland, was compelled to drink Deeply of suffering for the blessed cause. Dragged from his home, half naked, by a mob Who laid that home in ashes, he endured Heart-rending cruelties. But all of these, Stars of the morning, felt oppression's hand, And some endured it to the closing scene. Burroughs, a noble servant of the Lord, Whose lips and pen were eloquent for Truth, Drew his last breath in prison. Parnel, too, A young and valiant soldier of the Lamb, Died, a true martyr in a dungeon's gloom. Howgill and Hubberthorn, both ministers Of Christ's ordaining, were released from all Their earthly trials within prison walls. And beside these, there was a multitude Of faithful men, and noble women too, Who past from scenes of conflict, to the joys Of the Redeemer's kingdom, within jails, And some in dungeons. But amid it all, Light spread in Britain, and a living Church Was greatly multiplied. The tender minds, 286 Even of children, felt the power of Truth, And showed the fruit and firmness it affords. When persecution, rioted within The town of Bristol, and all older Friends Were locked in prison, little children met, Within their place of worship, by themselves, To offer praises, in the very place From which their parents had been dragged to jail. But let us turn from Britain, and look down, Upon an inland sea whose swelling waves Encircle Malta. There a cloudless sun, In Eastern beauty, pours its light upon The Inquisition. All without its walls Seems calm and peaceful, let us look within. There, stretched upon the floor, within a close, Dark, narrow cell, inhaling from a crack A breath of purer air, two women lie. But who are these, and wherefore are they here? These are two ministers of Christ, who left Their homes in England, faithfully to bear, The Saviour's message into eastern lands. And here at Malta they were seized upon By bigotted intolerance, and shut Within this fearful engine of the Pope. Priests and Inquisitor assail them here, And urge the claims of popery. The rack, And cruel deaths are threatened; and again Sweet liberty is offered, as the price Of their apostacy. All, all in vain! For years these tender women have been thus, Victims of cruelty. At times apart, Confined in gloomy, solitary cells. But all these efforts to convert them failed: The Inquisition had not power enough To shake their faith and confidence in Him, Whose holy presence was seen anciently To save his children from devouring flames; He, from this furnace of affliction, brought These persecuted women, who came forth Out of the burning, with no smell of fire Upon their garments, and again they trod, Their native land rejoicing. 287 In Hungary, two ministers of Christ, Were stretched upon the rack. Their tortured limbs Were almost torn asunder, but no force Could tear them from their Master, and they came Out of the furnace, well refined gold. Nor were these all who suffered for the cause Of truth and righteousness, in foreign lands. For at Mequinez and Algiers, some toiled, And died in slavery. But nothing could Discourage faithful messengers of Christ From his required service. They were found Preaching repentance where the Israelites Once toiled in Egypt, and the ancient Nile Still rolls its waters. And the holy light Of the eternal Gospel was proclaimed, Where its great Author had first published it— Where the rich temple of King Solomon, Stood in its ancient glory. Even there, The haughty Musselmen, were told of Him, The one great Prophet, who now speaks within. For their refusing to participate In carnal warfare, many early Friends, Were made to suffer. On a ship of war Equipped for battle, Richard Sellers bore, With a meek, Christian spirit, cruelties The most atrocious, for obeying Him Who was his heavenly Captain, and by whom, War is forbidden. Sellers would not touch, The instruments of carnage, nor could all The cruelties inflicted, move his soul From a reliance on that holy Arm, Which had sustained him in the midst of all His complicated trials; and he gained A peaceful, but a greater victory Than that of battle, for he wearied out Oppression, by his constancy, and left A holy savor, with that vessel's crew. But let us turn from persecuting scenes, That stain the annals of the older world, To young America, whose virgin shores Offer a refuge from oppression's power. Here lies a harbour in the noble bay 288 Of Massachusetts. Many little isles Dot its expanding waters, and Nahant Spreads its long beach and eminence beyond, A barrier to the ocean. The whole scene, Looks beautiful, in the clear northern air, And loveliness of morning. On the heights That overlook the harbour, there is seen An infant settlement. Let us approach, And anchor where the Puritans have sought, For liberty of conscience. But there seems, Disquietude in Boston. Men appear Urged on by stormy passions, and some wear A look of unrelenting bitterness. But what is that now rising into view, Where crowds are gathered on an eminence? These are the Puritans. They now surround A common gallows. On its platform, stands A lovely woman in the simple garb Worn by the early Quakers. Of the throng, She only seems unmoved, although her blood They madly thirst for. The first professors of Christ's inward Light, Who brought this message into Boston bay, Were inoffensive women. They were searched For signs of witchcraft, and their books were burned. The captain who had brought them, was compelled To carry them away. But others came, Both men and women, zealous for the Truth. These were received with varied cruelties— By frequent whippings and imprisonments. Law after law was made excluding them; But all in vain, for still these faithful ones Carried their Master's message undismayed Among the Puritans, and still they found Those who received it, and embraced the Truth, And steadily maintained it, in the midst Of whipping posts, and pillories, and jails! A law was then enacted, by which all The banished Quakers, who were found again Within the province, were to suffer death. But these, though ever ready to obey All just enactments, when laws trespassed on 289 The rights of conscience, and on God's command, Could never for a moment hesitate, Which to obey.—And soon there stood upon A scaffold of New England, faithful friends, Who, in obeying Christ, offended man! Of these was Mary Dyer, who exclaimed, While passing to this instrument of death, 'No eye can witness, and no ear can hear, No tongue can utter, nor heart understand The incomes and refreshings from the Lord Which now I feel.' And in the spirit which These words a little pictured, Robinson, Past to the presence of that Holy One For whom he laboured, and in whom he died. Then Stevenson, another faithful steward And servant of the Lamb, was ushered from Deep scenes of suffering into scenes of joy. But Mary Dyer, who was all prepared, To join these martyrs in their heavenward flight, Was left a little longer upon earth. But a few fleeting months had rolled away, Ere this devoted woman felt constrained, Again to go among the Puritans, In Massachusetts, and in Boston too. And here she stands! the second time, upon A gallows of New England. No reprieve Arrests her sentence now. But still she feels The same sweet incomes, and refreshing streams From the Lord's Holy Spirit. In the midst Of that excited multitude, she seems The most resigned and peaceful.—But the deed Is now accomplished, and the scene is closed! Among the faithful martyrs of the Lamb, Gathered forever round His Holy Throne, She doubtless wears a pure and spotless robe, And bears the palm of victory. The blood of Leddra was soon after shed, Which closed the scene of martyrdom among The early Quakers in this colony, But not the scene of suffering. Women were Dragged through its towns half-naked, tied to carts, While the lash fell upon their unclothed backs, 290 And bloody streets, showed where they past along. And such inhuman treatment was bestowed On the first female minister of Christ, Who preached the doctrine of his inward Light. But in New England, there was really found A refuge from oppression, justice reigned Upon Rhode Island. In that early day, The rights of conscience were held sacred there, And persecution was a thing unknown. A bright example, as a governor, Was William Coddington. He loved the law— The perfect law of righteousness—and strove To govern by it; and all faithful Friends Felt him a brother in the blessed Truth. In North America, the Puritans Stood not alone in efforts to prevent The introduction and the spread of light. The Dutch plantation of New Amsterdam, Sustained a measure of the evil work. The savage cruelties inflicted on The faithful Hodgson, have few parallels In any age or country; but the Lord Was with His servant in the midst of all, And healed his tortured and his mangled frame. The early Friends were bright and shining stars, For they reflected the clear holy light The Sun of Righteousness bestowed on them. They followed no deceiving, transient glare— No ignis fatuus of bewildered minds; They followed Jesus in the holiness Of His unchanging Gospel. They endured Stripes and imprisonment and pillories, Torture and slavery and banishment, And even death; but they would not forsake Their Holy Leader, or His blessed cause. Their patient suffering, and firm steadfastness, Secured a rich inheritance for those Who have succeeded them. Do these now feel That firm devotion to the cause of Truth—That singleheartedness their fathers felt? Do they appreciate the price and worth Of the great legacy and precious trust 291 Held for their children? The great cruelties Borne by the fathers, have not been entailed On their descendants, who now dwell at ease. The world does not revile them. Do not some Love it the more for this? and do they not Make more alliance with it, and partake More and more freely of its tempting baits, Its fashions and its spirit? but are these More pure and holy than they were of old, When in the light of Truth, their fathers saw That deep corruption overspread the world? Other professors latterly have learned To speak of Quakers with less bitterness Than when the name reproachfully was cast In ridicule upon them. Has not this Drawn watchmen from the citadel of Truth? Has it not opened doors that had been closed, And should have been forever? And by these, Has not an enemy been stealing in, To spoil the goods of many; to assail, And strive in secrecy to gather strength, To overcome the citadel at last? Is it not thought illiberal to refuse Alliances with those who now profess Respect and friendship? Must the Quaker then Bow in the house of Rimmon, saying, Lord Pardon in this thy servant? Do not some Fail to resist encroachments, when they come Clothed in enticing words, and wear the guise Of charity and kindness, and are veiled, Or sweetened to the taste, by courtesy? But is a snare less certain, when concealed By some enticing bait? or is a ball Less sure and fatal, when it flies unheard, Or, when the hand that sends it is unseen, Or offers friendship? Did not Joab say, 'Art thou in health my brother?' and appeared To kiss Amasa, while he thrust his sword Into his life-blood? And when Jonas fled From the Lord's service, and the stormy waves Threatened the ship that bore him, was the cause Not found within it? Was there not a calm 292 When he, whose disobedience to the Lord Had raised the tempest, was no longer there? Truth has a standard openly displayed, Untorn—unsullied. Man indeed may change, And may forsake it; but the Standard still Remains immutable. May all who love This Holy Banner, rally to it now! May all whose dwellings are upon the sand, Seek for a building on that living Rock, Which stands forever;—for a storm has come— A storm that tries foundations! Even now, The flooding rains are falling, and the winds Rapidly rising to a tempest, beat Upon all dwellings. They alone can stand Which have the Rock beneath them, and above The Omnipresent and Omnipotent Creator and Defender of His Church! ~ Anonymous Americas,

221:had to instruct the announcers to say "'Dillan,' the way he himself pronounced it". His middle name, Marlais, was given to him in honour of his great-uncle, Unitarian minister William Thomas, whose bardic name was Gwilym Marles. His childhood was spent largely in Swansea, with regular summer trips to visit his maternal aunts' Carmarthenshire farms. These rural sojourns and the contrast with the town life of Swansea provided inspiration for much of his work, notably many short stories, radio essays, and the poem Fern Hill. Thomas was known to be a sickly child who suffered from bronchitis and asthma. He shied away from school and preferred reading on his own. He was considered too frail to fight in World War II, instead serving the war effort by writing scripts for the government. Thomas's formal education began at Mrs. Hole's Dame school, a private school which was situated a few streets away on Mirador Crescent. He described his experience there in Quite Early One Morning: Never was there such a dame school as ours, so firm and kind and smelling of galoshes, with the sweet and fumbled music of the piano lessons drifting down from upstairs to the lonely schoolroom, where only the sometimes tearful wicked sat over undone sums, or to repent a little crime — the pulling of a girl's hair during geography, the sly shin kick under the table during English literature. In October 1925, Thomas attended the single-sex Swansea Grammar School, in the Mount Pleasant district of the city, where his father taught. He was an undistinguished student. Thomas's first poem was published in the school's magazine. He later became its editor. He began keeping poetry notebooks and amassed 200 poems in four such journals between 1930 and 1934. He left school at 16 to become a reporter for the local newspaper, the South Wales Daily Post, only to leave the job under pressure 18 months later in 1932. After leaving the job he filled his notebooks even faster. Of the 90 poems he published, half were written during these first years. He then joined an amateur dramatic group in Mumbles called Little Theatre (Now Known as Swansea Little Theatre), but still continued to work as a freelance journalist for a few more years. Thomas spent his time visiting the cinema in the Uplands, walking along Swansea Bay, visiting a theatre where he used to perform, and frequenting Swansea's pubs. He especially patronised those in the Mumbles area such the Antelope Hotel and the Mermaid Hotel. A short walk from the local newspaper where he worked was the Kardomah Café in Castle Street, central Swansea. At the café he met with various artist contemporaries, such as his good friend the poet Vernon Watkins. These writers, musicians and artists became known as 'The Kardomah Gang'. In 1932, Thomas embarked on what would be one of his various visits to London. In February 1941, Swansea was bombed by the German Luftwaffe in a "three nights' blitz". Castle Street was just one of the many streets in Swansea that suffered badly; the rows of shops, including the 'Kardomah Café', were destroyed. Thomas later wrote about this in his radio play Return Journey Home, in which he describes the café as being "razed to the snow". Return Journey Home was first broadcast on 15 June 1947, having been written soon after the bombing raids. Thomas walked through the bombed-out shell of the town centre with his friend Bert Trick. Upset at the sight, he concluded: "Our Swansea is dead". The Kardomah Café later reopened on Portland Street, not far from the original location Career and Family It is often commented that Thomas was indulged like a child and he was, in fact, still a teenager when he published many of the poems he would become famous for: “And death shall have no dominion" “Before I Knocked” and “The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower". "And death shall have no dominion", appeared in the New English Weekly in May 1933 and further work appeared in The Listener in 1934 catching the attention of two of the most senior poets of the day T. S. Eliot and Stephen Spender. His highly acclaimed first poetry volume, 18 Poems, was published on 18 December 1934, and went on to win a contest run by The Sunday Referee, netting him new admirers from the London poetry world, including Edith Sitwell. The anthology was published by Fortune Press, which did not pay its writers and expected them to buy a certain number of copies themselves. A similar arrangement would later be used by a number of other new authors, including Philip Larkin. His passionate musical lyricism caused a sensation in these years of desiccated Modernism; the critic Desmond Hawkins said it was “the sort of bomb that bursts no more than once in three years”. In all, he wrote half of his poems while living at 5 Cwmdonkin Drive before he moved to London.It was also the time that Thomas's reputation for heavy drinking developed. In the spring of 1936, ~ Dylan Thomas met dancer Caitlin Macnamara in the Wheatsheaf pub, in the Fitzrovia area of London's West End. They were introduced by Augustus John, who was Macnamara's lover at the time (there were rumours that she continued her relationship with John after she married Thomas). A drunken Thomas proposed to Macnamara on the spot, and the two began a courtship. On 11 July 1937, Thomas married Macnamara in a register office in Penzance, Cornwall. In 1938, the couple rented a cottage in the village of Laugharne, Carmarthenshire, West Wales. Their first child, Llewelyn Edouard, was born on 30 January 1939 (d. 2000). Their daughter, Aeronwy Thomas-Ellis, was born on 3 March 1943 (d. 2009). A second son, Colm Garan Hart, was born on 24 July 1949. Wartime and After At the outset of the Second World War, Thomas was designated C3, which meant that although he could, in theory, be called up for service he would be in one of the last groups to be so. He was saddened to see his friends enter active service leaving him behind and drank whilst struggling to support his family. He lived on tiny fees from writing and reviewing and borrowed heavily from friends and acquaintances, writing begging letters to random literary figures in hope of support, envisaging this as a plan of long term regular income. He wrote to the director of the films division of the Ministry of Information asking for employment but after a rebuff eventually ended up working for Strand Films. Strand produced films for the Ministry of Information and Thomas scripted at least five in 1942 with titles such as This Is Colour (about dye), New Towns For Old, These Are The Men and Our Country (a sentimental tour of Britain). He actively sought to build a reputation as a raconteur and outrageous writer, heavy drinker and wit. The publication of Deaths and Entrances in 1946 was a major turning point for Thomas. Poet and critic W. J. Turner commented in The Spectator "This book alone, in my opinion, ranks him as a major poet". Thomas was well known for being a versatile and dynamic speaker, best known for his poetry readings. He made over 200 broadcasts for the BBC. Often considered his greatest single work, Under Milk Wood, a radio play featuring the characters of Llareggub, is set in a fictional Welsh fishing village ('Llareggub' is 'Bugger All' backwards, implying that there is absolutely nothing to do there). The BBC credited their producer Stella Hillier with ensuring the play actually materialised. Assigned "some of the more wayward characters who were then writing for the BBC", she dragged the notoriously unreliable Thomas out of the pub and back to her office to finish the work. The play took several years to write, the first half mostly in South Leigh, Oxford, in 1948, whilst the second half was mostly written in America in May 1953. Fewer than 300 lines were written in Laugharne, according to one account, which also explains the influence of New Quay on the play. New York John Malcolm Brinnin invited Thomas to New York and in 1950 embarked on a lucrative three month tour of arts centres and campuses in the States. He toured there again in 1952, this time with Caitlin, who discovered that he had been unfaithful on his 1950 trip. They both drank heavily, as if in competition, Thomas's health beginning to suffer with gout and lung problems. Thomas performed a 'work in progress' version of Under Milk Wood solo for the first time on 3 May at Harvard during his early 1953 US tour, and then with a cast at the Poetry Centre in New York on 14 May. He worked on the play further in Wales, where in its completed form it premiered the Lyric Theatre, Carmarthen, Wales on 8 October 1953, just 12 miles away from Laugharne. It was said Thomas gave a 'supreme virtuoso performance'. He then travelled to London and on the 19 October he flew to America. He died in New York on 5 November 1953 before the BBC could record the play. Richard Burton starred in the first broadcast in 1954 and was joined by Elizabeth Taylor in a subsequent film. Thomas's last collection Collected Poems, 1934–1952, published when he was 38, won the Foyle poetry prize. He wrote "Do not go gentle into that good night", a villanelle, to his dying father, who passed away in 1952, one of the poet's last poems. Death Thomas arrived in New York on 20 October 1953, to take part in a performance of Under Milk Wood at the city's prestigious Poetry Centre. He was already ill and had a history of blackouts and heart problems, using an inhaler in New York to help his breathing. Thomas had liked to boast of his addiction to drinking, saying "An alcoholic is someone you don't like, who drinks as much as you do." He "liked the taste of whisky" and had a powerful reputation for his drinking. The writer Elizabeth Hardwick recalled how intoxicating a performer he was and how the tension would build before a performance: “Would he arrive only to break down on the stage? Would some dismaying scene take place at the faculty party? Would he be offensive, violent, obscene? These were alarming and yet exciting possibilities.” His wife Caitlin said in her embittered memoir “Nobody ever needed encouragement less, and he was drowned in it.” Thomas “exhibited the excesses and experienced the adulation which would later be associated with rock stars,” however the amount he is supposed to have drunk in his lifetime and in New York before his death, may well have been exaggerated as Thomas became mythologised. On the evening of 27 October 1953, Thomas's 39th birthday, the poet attended a party in his honour but felt so unwell that he returned to his hotel. On 28 October 1953, he took part in Poetry And The Film, a recorded symposium at Cinema 16, which included panellists Amos Vogel, Maya Deren, Parker Tyler, and Willard Maas. The director of the Poetry Centre, John Brinnin, was also Thomas's tour agent. Brinnin didn't travel to New York, remaining at home in Boston and handed responsibility to his assistant, Liz Reitell. Reitell met Thomas at Idlewild Airport (now JFK airport) and he told her that he had had a terrible week, had missed her terribly and wanted to go to bed with her. Despite Reitell's previous misgivings about their relationship they spent the rest of the day and night together at the Chelsea Hotel. The next day she invited him to her apartment but he declined, saying that he was not feeling well and retired to his bed for the rest of the afternoon. After spending the night at the hotel with Thomas, Reitell went back to her own apartment for a change of clothes. At breakfast Herb Hannum noticed how sick Thomas looked and suggested a visit to a Dr. Feltenstein before the performance of Under Milk Wood that evening. The doctor went to work with his needle, and Thomas made it through the two performances of Under Milk Wood, but collapsed straight afterwards. Reitell would later describe Feltenstein as a wild doctor who believed injections could cure anything. A turning point came on 2 November. Air pollution in New York had risen significantly and exacerbated chest illnesses, such as Thomas had. By the end of the month, over two hundred New Yorkers had died from the smog. On 3 November Thomas spent most of that day in bed drinking He went out in the evening to keep two drink appointments. After returning to the hotel, he went out again for a drink at 2am. After drinking at the White Horse Tavern, a pub he'd found through Scottish poet Ruthven Todd, Thomas returned to the Hotel Chelsea, declaring, "I've had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record!" The barman and the owner of the pub who served Thomas at the time later commented that Thomas couldn't have imbibed more than half that amount. Thomas had an appointment to visit a clam house in New Jersey on 4 November. When phoned at the Chelsea that morning, he said that he was feeling awful and asked to take a rain-check. Later, he did go drinking with Reitell at the White Horse and, feeling sick again, returned to the hotel. Dr. Feltenstein came to see him three times that day, on the third call prescribing morphine, which seriously affected Thomas's breathing. At midnight on 5 November, his breathing became more difficult and his face turned blue. Reitell unsuccessfully tried to get hold of Feltenstein. Thomas was admitted to the emergency ward at nearby St Vincent's hospital. The medical notes state that he arrived in a coma at 1.58am, and that the "impression upon admission was acute alcoholic encephalopathy damage to the brain by alcohol, for which the patient was treated without response". The duty doctors found bronchitis in all parts of his bronchial tree, both left and right sides. An X-ray showed pneumonia, and a raised white cell count confirmed the presence of an infection. Caitlin in Laugharne was sent a telegram on 5 November, notifying her that Dylan was in hospital. She flew to America the following day and was taken, with a police escort, to the hospital. Her alleged first words were "Is the bloody man dead yet?" The pneumonia worsened and Thomas died, whilst in coma, at noon on 9 November. Poetry Thomas's verbal style played against strict verse forms, such as in the villanelle Do not go gentle into that good night. His images were carefully ordered in a patterned sequence, and his major theme was the unity of all life, the continuing process of life and death and new life that linked the generations. Thomas saw biology as a magical transformation producing unity out of diversity, and in his poetry he sought a poetic ritual to celebrate this unity. He saw men and women locked in cycles of growth, love, procreation, new growth, death, and new life again. Therefore, each image engenders its opposite. Thomas derived his closely woven, sometimes self-contradictory images from the Bible, Welsh folklore and preaching, and Freud. Thomas's poetry is notable for its musicality, most clear in poems such as Fern Hill, In Country Sleep, Ballad of the Long-legged Bait or In the White Giant's Thigh from Under Milkwood: Who once were a bloom of wayside brides in the hawed house and heard the lewd, wooed field flow to the coming frost, the scurrying, furred small friars squeal in the dowse of day, in the thistle aisles, till the white owl crossed Thomas once confided that the poems which had most influenced him were Mother Goose rhymes which his parents taught him when he was a child: I should say I wanted to write poetry in the beginning because I had fallen in love with words. The first poems I knew were nursery rhymes and before I could read them for myself I had come to love the words of them. The words alone. What the words stood for was of a very secondary importance. [...] I fell in love, that is the only expression I can think of, at once, and am still at the mercy of words, though sometimes now, knowing a little of their behavior very well, I think I can influence them slightly and have even learned to beat them now and then, which they appear to enjoy. I tumbled for words at once. And, when I began to read the nursery rhymes for myself, and, later, to read other verses and ballads, I knew that I had discovered the most important things, to me, that could be ever. A Child's Christmas In Wales One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen. It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horriblewhiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white backgarden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared. We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder. "Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong. And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room. Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and smacking at the smoke with a slipper. "Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong. "There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas." There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting. "Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and ran out of the house to the telephone box. "Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires." But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?" Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea." "But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards." "Were there postmen then, too?" "With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells." "You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?" "I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them." "I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells." "There were church bells, too." "Inside them?" "No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence." "Get back to the postmen" "They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles ...." "Ours has got a black knocker...." "And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out." "And then the presents?" "And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs. "He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone." "Get back to the Presents." "There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why." "Go on the Useless Presents." "Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; 10 and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy HobbiGames for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons." "Were there Uncles like in our house?" "There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the highheaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers." Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawnbowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing 11 home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself. I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar. Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements. "I bet people will think there's been hippos." "What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?" "I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail." "What would you do if you saw two hippos?" Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house. "Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box." "Let's write things in the snow." "Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn." Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?" The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their 12 necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year. Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?" "No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town. "Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said. "Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading. "Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that. Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept. 13 ~ Dylan Thomas,

222:Orpheus ORPHEUS. LAUGHTER and dance, and sounds of harp and lyre, Piping of flutes, singing of festal songs, Ribbons of flame from flaunting torches, dulled By the broad summer sunshine, these had filled Since the high noon the pillared vestibules, The peristyles and porches, in the house Of the bride's father. Maidens, garlanded With rose and myrtle dedicate to Love, Adorned with chaplets fresh the bride, and veiled The shining head and wistful, girlish face, Ineffable sweetness of divided lips, Large light of clear, gray eyes, low, lucid brows, White as a cloud, beneath pale, clustering gold. When sunless skies uncertain twilight cast, That makes a friend's face as an alien's strange, Investing with a foreign mystery The dear green fields about our very home. Then waiting stood the gilded chariot Before the porch, and from the vine-wreathed door, Issued the white-veiled bride, while jocund youths And mænads followed her with dance and song. She came with double glory; for her lord, Son of Apollo and Calliope, Towered beside her, beautiful in limb And feature, as though formed to magic strains, Like the Bœotian city, that arose In airy structures to Amphion's lute. The light serene shone from his brow and eyes, Of one whose lofty thoughts keep consonance With the celestial music of the spheres. His smile was fluent, and his speech outsang The cadences of soft-stringed instruments. He to the chariot led Eurydice, And these twain, mounting with their paranymph, Drove onward through the dusky twilit fields, Preceded by the nymphs and singing youths, And boys diffusing light and odors warm, With flaming brands of aromatic woods, 138 And matrons bearing symbols of the life Of careful wives, the distaff and the sieve; And followed by the echoes of their songs, The fragrance crushed from moist and trodden grass, The blessing of the ever-present gods, Whom they invoked with earnest hymns and prayer. From Orpheus' portico, festooned with vines, Issued a flood of rare, ambrosial light, As though Olympian portals stood ajar, And Hymen, radiant by his torch's flame, Mystic with saffron vest and purple, stood With hands munificent to greet and bless. Ripe fruits were poured upon the married pair Alighting, and the chariot wheels were burnt, A token that the bride returned no more Unto her father's house. With step resolved, She crossed the threshold soft with flowers, secure That his heroic soul who guided her, Was potent and alert to grace her life, With noble outlines and ideal hues, Uplifting it to equal height with his. EPITHALAMIUM. TO ZEUS. Because thou art enthroned beyond our reach, Behind the brightest and the farthest star, And silence is as eloquent as speech, To thee who knowest us for what we are, We bring thee naught save brief and simple prayer, Strong in its naked, frank sincerity. Send sacred joys of marriage to this pair, With fertile increase and prosperity. Three nymphs had met beneath an oak that cast Cool, dappled shadow on the glowing grass, And liquid gleam of the translucent brook. The air was musical with frolic sounds Of feminine voices, and of laughter blithe. Patines of sunshine fell like mottled gold On the rose-white of bright bare limbs and neck, On flowing, snowy mantles, and again With sudden splendor on the gloriole Of warm, rich hair. The fairest nymph reclined Beneath the tree, and leaned her yellow head, With its crisp, clustering rings, against the trunk, 139 And dipped her pure feet in the colorless brook, Stirring the ripples into circles wide, With cool, delicious plashings in the stream. Her young companions lay upon the grass, With indolent eyes half closed, and parted lips Half-smiling, in the languor of the noon. But suddenly these twain, arising, cried, Startled and sharply, 'Lo, Eurydice, Behold!' and she, uplifting frightened eyes, Saw a strange shepherd watching with bold glance. Veiling their faces with their mantles light, Her sisters fled swift-footed, with shrill cries, Adown the meadow, but her wet feet clung To the dry grasses and the earthy soil. 'Eurydice, I love thee! fear me not, For I am Aristæus, with gray groves Of hoary olives, and innumerous flocks, And precious swarms of yellow-vested bees.' But she with sudden strength eluding him, Sprang o'er the flowery turf, with back-blown hair, And wing-like garments, shortened breath, and face Kindled with shame and terror. In her flight She ran through fatal flowers and tangled weeds, And thick rank grass beside a stagnant pool, When, with a keen and breathless cry of pain, Abrupt she fell amidst the tall, green reeds. Then Aristæus reached her, as a snake Crept back in sinuous lines amidst the slime. Desire was changed to pity, when he saw The wounded dryad in her agony Strive vainly to escape, repelling him With feeble arms. 'Forgive me, nymph,' he cried; ' I will not touch, save with most reverent hands, Thy sacred form. But let me bear thee hence, And soothe thy bruise with healing herbs. 'Too late, Leave me,' she sighed, 'and lead thou Orpheus here, That I may see him ere the daylight fails.' He left her pale with suffering, —earth seemed strange Unto her eyes, who knew she looked her last On level-stretching meadows, hazy hills, And all the light and color of the sky. Brief as a dream she saw her happy life, 140 Her father's face, her mother's blessed eyes, The hero who, unheralded, appeared, And all was changed,— all things put forth a voice, As in the season of the singing birds. She looked around revived, and saw again The lapsing river and abiding sky. Across the sunny fields came Aristæus, With Orpheus following,— and after these, Sad nymphs and heroes grave with sympathy. Quite calm she lay, and almost wished to die Before they reached her, if the throbbing pain Of limb and heart could only thus be stilled. But Orpheus hastened to her side, and mourned, 'Eurydice, Eurydice! Remain, — For there is no delight of speech nor song Among the dead. Will the gods jest with me, And call this life, which must forevermore Be but a void, a hunger, a desire, A stretching out of empty hands to grasp What earth nor sea nor heaven will restore? Is this the life that I conceived and sang, Rich with all noble opportunities And beautiful realities?' But she: 'Brave Orpheus, search thou not the eternal gods, Surely they love us dearer than we know. Do thou refrain, for yet I hold my faith. When I am gone, thou still wilt have thy lyre; Love it and cherish,— it is Fate's best gift, And with death's clearer vision, I can see That in all ages men will be upraised Nearer to gods through this than through aught else. My death may but inspire a larger note, A passionate cadence to thy strain, which else Were not quite human, and thus incomplete. And with this thought I am content to die. Cease not to sing to me when I am gone; Thy voice will reach me in the farthest spheres, Or wake me out of silence. Now begin, That I may float on those celestial waves Into the darkness, as I oft have longed.' ORPHEUS. Once in a wild, bright vision, came to me 141 Beautiful music, luminous as morn, An effluence of light and rapture born, With eyes as full of splendor as the sea; Dazzling as youth, with pinions frail as air, Yet potent to uplift and soar as prayer. Again I see her, cypress in her wreath, Sad with all grave and tender mysteries; Tears in her unimaginable eyes, That look their first with wondering awe on Death. Never again, in all the after years, Will her lips laugh with utter mirthfulness; Nor the strange longing in her eyes grow less, Nor any time dispel their mist of tears. Yea, with new numbers she completes her strain, A song unsung before by gods or men; But she hath lost, ah! lost for evermore, The ringing note of joy ineffable, The high assurance proud, that all is well, The glad refrain that pealed from shore to shore. O lyre, thou hast done with joyous things, Triumphant ecstasies, exultant song; Of subtle pain, keen anguish, hopeless wrong, I fashion now another of thy strings, And strike thee with a strong hand passionate, Into a fuller music, adequate Unto a soul that seeks insatiably, With fond, illusive hope and faith divine; For through all ages will my soul seek thine, Eurydice, my lost Eurydice! What solace to lament with empty hands And smitten heart, above a mound of earth, Vivid with mockery of perpetual flowers, O'er one small urn that holds beneath its lid, With overmeasure, all the flameless dust And soulless ashes of our love? Yet this Was Orpheus' life, to mourn beside the grave, From his stringed lyre compelling wild response And thrilling intonation of his grief, That made the hearts of gnarled and knotty oaks Ache as with human sympathy, and rived The adamantine centre of the rock, And lured the forest beasts, and hushed the birds, 142 Mavis and lark, while with wide, awful wings, The eagle shadowed his exalted brow. 'Surely,' he cried, 'the senseless dust hears not, More than the burnt brand hears old natural sounds Innumerable rustle of young leaves. It cannot be that only these remain, The ashes of her glittering limbs, warm flesh, And blessed hair,— my love had more than these Where is the vital soul, that was to me An inspiration and an influence? The gods are not unstable like rash man, Aimlessly to create and discreate, With cruel and capricious fantasy, For thus the immaculate skies would be a lie; Eurydice is but withdrawn from me, And disembodied, while mine eyesight blinds, My senses are a hindrance, and obstruct The accurate perception of my soul. When mine own spirit, nightly disenthralled, Soars to the land of dreams, whose boundaries, By day, loom infinitely far and vague, And yet, at night, become our very home,— There still I see thee with the same bright form, The same auroral eyes that made for me Perpetual morning; and I stretch mine arms Hungering after thee, and, calling, wake Unto the vapid glare of languid dawn. Yet all these things address my very soul, Telling it that thou art not dead; for death Is but the incarnation of man's fears; Gods do not recognize it. If thou art (As I have faith) in the known universe, Yea, though it be in the extremest land, Beyond the sunset, with its shining isles, I will go forth and seek thee, nor will cease To mourn thee and desire, till I have found.' Thus Orpheus fared across the full-fed streams Of Hebrus and of Strymon, and beyond The purple outlines and aerial crags, Snow-glittering of Scardus, Rhodope, And grand Orbelus; through fair, fertile fields Of Thessaly with increase of ripe corn, 143 Through Attica, Bœotia and Eubœa, And southward to the royal-citied state, Beautiful Corinth, throned upon the base Of green Acrocorinthus, whose soft slope Was dedicate with temples to the gods, And towering over all the sacred shrine Of Aphrodite. Upward from the town The mountain rose defensive, where the walls Of Corinth ended, and beyond the gates, The radiant plain of the Corinthian Gulf Stretched infinitely. Orpheus rested here, Till he bethought him to ascend the mount, With offerings at Aphrodite's shrine— Not sanguine victims, but fresh myrtle wreath And faultless rose—to sue the oracle For help and guidance. All the town was still, The bright red band of sunrise lit the sky Above the dark blue gulf, and Orpheus heard A hundred birds saluting, from the brake, Aurora, and cool rush of waterfalls. Made murmurous music, while Athené breathed The vigor of the morning in his soul. Up the steep mountain side he passed, beyond The silver growth of olives, and the belt Of pines, to where the foam-white temple stood, Smitten at once by all the beams of morn. He saw the double peak, rose-white with snow And early sunshine, of Parnassus cleave The northern sky, and sacred Helicon Erect its head, crowned with the Muses' grove, The Bay of Crissa and Corinthian Gulf, Below flashed restless, and a path of gold Divided with clear, tremulous light the waves. From the large beauty of the morn, he went Into the holy limits of the shrine, With warm air heavy with the odorous rose. ORPHEUS. I put into my prayer to thee, O mother, The tumult and the passion of the ocean, The unflecked purity of winnowed foam-wreaths; To thee who sprang from these, the incarnation 144 Of all the huge sea holds of grace or splendor, With its own light between thine amorous eyelids. For I, in thy most sacred cause a pilgrim, Have wandered tireless, from Thrace to Corinth, 'Midst foreign scenes and alien men and women. And at my right hand Grief incessant follows, And at my left walks Memory with the semblance Of lost Eurydice's ethereal beauty. Infatuate I gaze, until the vision Thrills me to madness, and I start and tremble, Remembering also Grief is my companion. Onward through spacious fields, by copious waters, Through purple growth of amaranth and crocus, And past the marble beauty of great cities, We three have journeyed,— strangers saw me reckless, And knew at once that I had walked with sorrow, And that the gods had chosen me their victim. Are all my carols useless, worse than useless? Shall my long pilgrimage, thus unrewarded, End at the blank, insuperable ocean? Hast thou no wise compassion, goddess, mother? In all the measureless years' unfathomed chances, Is the dear past to be repeated never? O supreme mother! crowned with blessed poppy As well as myrtle,— bring her here, or compass My soul with death, that elsewhere I may seek her. He ceased, and through the temple spread a mist Ambrosial, and above the shrine a star Serenely brightened, and a heavenly voice Made sweet response: ' Love guides himself thy course To the last sea-girt rock. No worthy soul May ever truly seek, and fail to find.' Still southward Orpheus journeyed, till he reached Cape Tænarus, the last bleak point of Greece, Desolate o'er an infinite waste of waves, While sunset lit the western sea and sky With yellow floods of warm, diffusive light, Kindling his serious face and earnest eyes, And glittering on his lyre. Long time he stood, And gazed upon the trouble of the waves, Expectant of a word, a sign— and still No answer made the wild, indifferent sea. 145 Impetuous, he smote his quivering lyre To reckless and sonorous melody, Vibrating o'er the watery turbulence. Then far below its western bath, the sun Dipped and was gone, and all the sea was gray. Still through the air rang those imploring notes, Unutterably plaintive— till there came From out the ocean cave of Tænarus The shining forms of Oceanides, With myriad faces raised supremely fair, And myriad arms that beckoned as he sang. Behold! a stir amidst the frothing brine, As though upheaved by powers submarine, In implicate confusion, wave on wave, Then rose with windy manes and fiery eyes, Proudly careering, the immortal steeds, Bearing, within the shell-shaped car, the god Of august aspect and imperial port, With such profusion of ambrosial locks As curl around the very front of Zeus. He with benign regard the minstrel viewed, Then whirling thrice his massy trident, struck The scarpéd promontory with its fork. And Orpheus felt the solid basis yield, And heard the hollow rumbling, as when earth Rocks to her centre, and high hills spit flame. And lo! he stood before a sulphurous throne, Set in an open space, wherefrom there streamed Four rivers stagnant, black. Here Ades reigned, His very presence unto mortal sense Oppressive as low thunder in the air. The triple-headed guardian of his realm Crouched at his feet, and in the dismal murk, The hideous Harpies hovered o'er his head. The serpent-haired Eumenides stood near, Brow-bound with sanguine fillets, and the Fates Wielded the distaff, spindle, and sharp shears. The air was dense with noisome influence, And shadowy apparitions seemed to float Athwart the dusk. But on the infernal throne Conspicuous in beauty, by her lord, Persephone was seated. Wonderment 146 Looked from her eyes, in seeing him, no god, Who came before his time among the dead, Unarmed with spear or shield, a glistening lyre Nigh slipping from the loose grasp of his hands. 'Who comes unsummoned to my realm?' began The baleful godhead in discordant tones, Widely reverberant; and the low, clear voice Of Orpheus answered: 'One who would remain, If but the impotent body could be free To follow the desires of the soul,— Orpheus, an unskilled singer.' 'Birth and death Are preordained for thee, presumptuous man. What narrow space of time the Fates accord, 'Twould best become thee to bear worthily, With dignity, and leave the rest to them, The end as the beginning.' 'Plead for me, O beautiful Persephone, — behold! Eurydice was snatched with violent hand From out mine eager arms, and I have sought Her image o'er the peopled earth in vain.' Then she: 'I may not summon her, nor hope To swerve the haughty purpose of my lord. With influence of thy familiar voice, If thou canst touch her spirit, she is thine.' But Ades: 'Who recalls the dead by prayer? They whose calm souls are once possessed by death, Find such a solid joy in grasping firm, After life's phantasms, this reality, That wisdom, grief, nor love persuadeth them Their liberated spirits to confine With fleshly limitations. Nathless sing,— And prove life's glittering evanescence vain, Outweighed by death's sublime security.' ORPHEUS. I render thanks, eternal gods, that ye Empower myself to call Eurydice. Man only can fulfill his own desire; And if I fail, the sorrow rests with me. Ye give what we deserve; I pray alone Ne'er to be cursed with what I have not won. And to whom else would I intrust my lyre, This supreme invocation to intone? 147 But in myself I feel the love, the power, The lyric inspiration, while the flower Of all my life brings forth its proper fruit, In this my loftiest, most godlike hour. If I could make ye feel the agony Of the strong man, O gods, condemned to see The light fail from dear eyes, the white lips mute, The elusive soul take flight eternally To where we cannot follow it nor find, With the most subtle searchings of the mind, With the most passionate longings of the soul, Deaf, unresponsive as the empty wind; Then would your pity as your power be, 'Twould crown us all with immortality, And grace us with completeness, make us whole, Worthy to be the peers of deity. For we are mighty now to slay and bless, Yea, gifted with strange strength of steadfastness, To conquer bodiless and viewless foes Within ourselves, yet in our helplessness, As children, in the presence of this Death, Whom nor revolt nor patience conquereth, Implacable, with grim mouth fastened close, That with no hope our anguish answereth. Resound with wildest utterance, O my lyre; Let each note be a living flame of fire, To reach her, to burn through her, to compel, Strong with the infinite strength of my desire. I am no god, yet Fate, Eurydice, A goddess for my slave hath given me,— Immortal Music, pure, ineffable; And I send her, my handmaid, after thee. If all wherein I put my faith as sure, Be not delusions vain which death will cure; If the sublime reliance of the soul On her own powers be no empty lure, Whereat the high gods laugh in bitter scorn; If what I have achieved and what forborne, Will lead me nearer to a worthy goal, If all life's promises be not forsworn,— Eurydice, appear! Before mine eyes, O gods, I see a formless essence rise, 148 That moulds itself unto the music's beat, Appareled in the glory of the skies. Now, while I ring a more celestial tone, The spirit more divinely bright hath grown, To larger modulations, strains complete, The white limbs from the shapeless mist are won, As from the bosom of a summer cloud, Wherewith a goddess would her semblance shroud. Is this mine own creation? Is it truth, That with warm life I have blank air endowed? The soft cloud parts asunder,— yea, 'tis she! Once more the face that was my star I see, Crowned with the beauty of immortal youth, Eurydice, my lost Eurydice! Silent beside his silent, fallen lyre, The singer stood, and clasped her in his arms, Gazing upon this pale, fair face as one Whose heart's supreme desire is satisfied. 'Is not this hour the hour I have foreseen, Through all obstructions and infirmities Of my mortality, and is it not More glorious in fruition than I dreamed! Yea, I have dreamed it all, eternal gods, Even as now have pressed her to my heart With the same clinging effort to retain, And seen this breathing form, these lucent eyes Vivid as now, instinct with life and love. Yet have I waked to chill discouragement, To vacant disappointment, and the sense Of aching, unassuaged desire. O speak, For in my dreams I never hear thy voice, Save veiled and indistinct, a mockery Of the old limpid music. Speak to me: Thy flesh is warm, thy heart beats close to mine, Thine upturned face is wet with human tears; O speak to me,— lest I should wake again To barren fields and empty skies of Thrace.' Then in low, natural tones, Eurydice: 'Thy voice hath reached me in the farthest spheres, And waked me out of silence.' 'Follow me,— It is thyself,— if I must wake from this, 'Twill be to death or madness. Follow me, 149 From darkness palpable, to earth, to light Of ample skies, and freshness of blown grass And rolling waters.' 'Hold!' the jarring voice Of Ades interposed: ''Tis excellent The attribute we gave thee, to convert To such a weapon as may overcome The old hereditary foes of man, Sleep, death, corruption, and necessity. But to reveal thyself the peer of gods, Not only through inspired ecstasy, But through a continent persistency, This never was accomplished by thy race, And thou must yet be tried. This soul is thine, For thou hast won her from the jaws of Hell; Yea, she may follow thee as free as light,— Lead thou the way and charm the hostile fiends. Look forward ever; if thine eyes revert But once to gaze on her, to reassure Unworthy fears, or sate a mean desire, Thou art not mate for us. She will dissolve To empty air —never to be recalled. ORPHEUS. Back to the vital earth, O follow me, Regained Eurydice. To rippling well-heads and to sunlit plains, Greened by soft wash of rains. See orchards rosy with prolific bloom, And vineyards' purple gloom. Lulled by the languid flow of lilied streams, There will I sing my dreams. Behold! I chant a hymn of adoration, Triumphant exultation, For I can see, in all the universe, No error and no curse. The gods have naught withheld, in power and sway, From him who will obey Their own divine and everlasting laws. Above the world's applause, As vigorous as morning, he can rise, Wrest the desired prize From the clenched hands of Nemesis and Fate. With victory elate, 150 I chant unmitigated prayer and praise To gods who part our ways, Seeing 'midst clamorous change incredible, That all is ordered well. In more harmonious strains, O lyre, express My twice-born happiness; Yea, utter and translate with larger sense My rich experience, That makes complete life's solemn threnody Joy unalloyed and free, Grief unexampled, victory at last, When strife is overpast. Through pathways hedged with horrors still they fared Invulnerable. Darkness stayed them not, Nor yet more dreadful light, revealing oft The hideous fiends who rose on every side, Huge shapes of ill, to gaze upon the twain. A Greek, who, fleeing, smote a vibrant lyre, That chimed to carols more divinely quired Than those that fill with ravishment a grove, Misty with moonlight, where the plain brown bird Makes midnight vocal. Closely following him, A woman with grave aspect, parted lips, Upraising, in enthralléd ecstasy, Large eyes serene, fulfilled with holier light For having pierced beyond the boundaries Of time and of mortality. The day Shone through the murk at last, and filled their path With dusky sunbeams; and far-stretching fields Of soft, delicious green, and crystal skies, Encouraged them; all perils past save one. But a black, stagnant river crawled along, Spanned by no bridge, and ferried by no sail, With muddy tide between the day and them. And Orpheus with enamored eyes passed on, And saw not how the loathsome waters crept, Nor how his magic song enchanted them To solid substance; but he missed at once The footsteps light that had inspired his lay. Impetuous he turned to reassure His fearful soul, and sate his hungry eyes; But as he turned, the inspiration fled, 151 His lips refused to frame the fruitless words, His eyes beheld,—O gods! Eurydice Removed already far away from him, By all the wide-expanded space, between Our loftiest dream and our unworthy deed. She gazed with no reproachful glance nor tears, And Orpheus felt himself beneath her, fall, Momently down from empyreal heights, And lo! he stood within the fields of Thrace, On earth familiar, 'neath familiar skies, And heard a voice float through the shining air, From unimaginable distances, Faint as a dream, — 'Farewell, farewell, farewell.' 'Woe! woe! what lamentations may express The fullness of my new calamity! I, overbearing, who presumed to reach The lordly and severe stability Of the immortals, — whom may I invoke? To whom may man appeal when he hath failed Unto himself? What god will interpose To thwart invincible necessity? Lost, lost forever! I stood elevate, For one brief moment dreaming I had won The skill and power of true divinity. Gods! with what lofty and superb disdain Ye must look down on mine unworthy haste,— Ye, who with grandeur of sublime repose, And majesty of patience, still abide Invariable through eternity! Alas! my mighty visions were to me Auspicious omens, and they fed my heart With vigor and encouragement; but now, This was no dream; for Hope, full-flushed and fair, Born, like the freshness of auroral dew, From unseen air, and traceless vanishing, Consorts not with this mighty goddess, Truth, With solemn and unfathomable eyes, For Truth is one with Death and Destiny. With what a depth of meaning didst thou turn, For the last time, to me, Eurydice, A glory 'midst the darkness, with that glance Of infinite compassion, hands outstretched, 152 As if to save the from mine own defect. With what humiliation and despair I saw thee rising unattainably!— The vault, the stream accursed had disappeared; I was in Thrace uplooking to the sky. O, to what harmonies I might have wed The blessed tidings which all men await! Now I can only make my song express A distant echo, a suggestion vague, Of the serene contentment of thy voice. Sing this, my lyre, that all who hark to thee With an attentive and a gentle ear, May hear the promise, faint and yet assured, Recall the grace and the deliciousness Of immortality, and strive anew Towards the ideal unattained by me, Yet still accessible to stronger souls.' Thus Orpheus, when the first wild burst of woe Had passed; no need to seek her now; No need to wander o'er the peopled earth. Was he in truth a victim of the gods, Or rather with a fairer fortune blest Than happier men, selected for a fate Divinely tragical, that he might know The fullness of a life's experience, And find expression adequate for all, Simple as wisdom, and as dignified As silence? From his kind he lived apart, As one who cherishes a grief, nor seeks Forgetfulness nor comfort; elevate To glittering eminence by destiny, And lonely through the privacy of woe Beyond the reaches of man's sympathy. Where lucid Hebrus bathes its golden sands, He sat discoursing gracious harmonies, Amidst the morning fields, when on his ears Sounded with horrid dissonance the clang Of smitten cymbals and the throb of drums. But still the revelers remained unseen, Till, rounding suddenly a neighboring hill, The whole mad troop came dancing into sight. First marched a jovial bacchanal, who bore 153 A crystal vessel, decked with branching vine, Then youth and nymphs with ivy chapleted, In purfled raiment of hues delicate, With mitres, thyrsi, cymbals, drums and flutes, Some balancing upon their graceful heads, Regal with crisp-curled gold, their burdens light Of baskets heaped with figs and dusky grapes. And 'midst them all the sacrificial goat, Adorned with berries. Thus the festal throng, With wanton gestures, and with antic bounds, And wild embracings, mad with wine, approached, With peals of laughter, echoing faintly back From jocund hill to hill, and lusty shouts Of 'Bacché, Bacché!' SONG. With wassail all the night, Celestial Bacchus, we have worshipped thee! With riotous revel and with festal wine. Still on the hills in early morning light, With frolic dances and brisk jollity, Our hymns of praise are thine. For we have seen thee, god! The fawn-skin slipping from thy shoulder bare, Thy gestures lithe and loose, thine eyes that shine, Thy rosy hands that waved a clustered rod Of uncrushed grapes, and thine ambrosial hair, Dripping with myrrh and wine. Thou art not strict, severe, Like loftier gods and ruthless goddesses, Implacable like Pallas, Zeus, or Truth; But to humanity akin and near, Eager for folly, and the luxuries Of lustful health and youth. This crystal-vialed balm, Divinely brewed, soothing as Lethe's streams, Is the most generous gift of Deity, Informing us with soft oblivion calm Of Death and Fate, with joys beyond the dreams Of grave sobriety. Come, let us drink again. Resound, O timbrels, and thou bird-voiced flute; Thyrsus and pipes make shrill and dear acclaim, 154 To Bacchus, who impurples hill and plain With vineyards bursting with increase of fruit, Subtle as liquid flame. Œoë! quaff and sing! Who drinks no more, offends the deity Of Bacchus! lo on Hebrus' grassy brink, A minstrel sits, with gold lute glistening, Marring our rites with stern solemnity, Who doth not chant nor drink. Ho! Orpheus, laugh again, From mirthful heart, and join our happy throng; Cease to lament with unappeased desire. We bring a cordial for all grief and pain. Add to the choral strain thy siren song, And thine enchanted lyre. For Fate hath answered thee With cold derision; Death respondeth not. Here is a god who soothes tire soul and sense With sweet nepenthe,—thy Eurydice Thou wilt not lure to earthly grove nor grot With suasive eloquence. Here, nymphs no whit less fair Are waiting thee, with warm, caressing arms And loving eyes, lips fit for gods to kiss, And rosy shoulders, dimpling white and bare,— Pliant and graceful, with innumerous Charms, To sate thy heart with bliss. ORPHEUS. Hence, thou ignoble throng! Dare ye profane the splendid purity, The high nobility of morn, with rites Lewd and disgusting, and delirious song, Completing in dear sunshine, shamelessly, Rude orgies of wild nights? BACCHANTES. Ha! he insults the god, With his presumptuous and impious scorn. Avenge, O bacchanals, the cause divine; Compel him with the sacred cup and rod, To quaff his salutation to the morn, In frothing, Massic wine! ORPHEUS. 155 Mad bacchanals, begone! I honor all the gods and Nemesis. They favor not such frantic revelry, But blameless lives, and deeds most like their own, The service of a patient heart submiss, And staunch integrity. Behold the morning hills, Sky-kissed Libethra, delicate as air; The fragile grasses gray with wreaths of dew. Hark to the tumbling of the mountain rills To Eos and Athene your first prayer And sacrifice are due. BACCHANTES. With shameless blasphemy, He dares proscribe, O god, thy rank and fame. Enough! enough! he hath despised us long, Bewailing his beloved Eurydice. O nymphs, avenge yourselves in Liber's name, Slay him 'midst dance and song. Your deadly javelins fling With flinty missiles at the singer proud, Who deems himself an equal of the gods, Because he hath the skill to pipe and sing, With facile fluency of speech endowed. Smite him with spears and rods. ORPHEUS. Ring forth, my lyre, again,— With magic harmonies my doom avert, In tones as plaintive and as rich as life. BACCHANTES. Our stones and javelins we have hurled in vain; His lyre enchants them, he remains unhurt, 'Midst all the wrath and strife. Toss the loud tambourine, Its tight-drawn skin with noisy fingers smite; Clash ye the cymbals, sing with fatal art; Cast ye his sundered limbs the stream within,— They irritate us, soft and bare and white; Rend them, O nymphs, apart. ORPHEUS. Sweet Death, deliver me Out of the reach of envy, lust, and hate; 156 Enfold me in thy large-embracing arms. BACCHANTES. Ah! will he now invoke Eurydice, Madly resisting his allotted fate With vile, unhallowed charms? So with a clamorous swell Of drums and timbrels, we o'erpower the breath Of dulcet and persuasive melody. ORPHEUS. The maniacs conquer! O my lyre, farewell! Approach, thou beautiful and welcome Death, With lost Eurydice. ~ Emma Lazarus,

223:BOOK THE FIRST The Creation of the World Of bodies chang'd to various forms, I sing: Ye Gods, from whom these miracles did spring, Inspire my numbers with coelestial heat; 'Till I my long laborious work compleat: And add perpetual tenour to my rhimes, Deduc'd from Nature's birth, to Caesar's times. Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball, And Heav'n's high canopy, that covers all, One was the face of Nature; if a face: Rather a rude and indigested mass: A lifeless lump, unfashion'd, and unfram'd, Of jarring seeds; and justly Chaos nam'd. No sun was lighted up, the world to view; No moon did yet her blunted horns renew: Nor yet was Earth suspended in the sky, Nor pois'd, did on her own foundations lye: Nor seas about the shores their arms had thrown; But earth, and air, and water, were in one. Thus air was void of light, and earth unstable, And water's dark abyss unnavigable. No certain form on any was imprest; All were confus'd, and each disturb'd the rest. For hot and cold were in one body fixt; And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixt. But God, or Nature, while they thus contend, To these intestine discords put an end: Then earth from air, and seas from earth were driv'n, And grosser air sunk from aetherial Heav'n. Thus disembroil'd, they take their proper place; The next of kin, contiguously embrace; And foes are sunder'd, by a larger space. The force of fire ascended first on high, And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky: Then air succeeds, in lightness next to fire; Whose atoms from unactive earth retire. Earth sinks beneath, and draws a num'rous throng Of pondrous, thick, unwieldy seeds along. About her coasts, unruly waters roar; And rising, on a ridge, insult the shore. Thus when the God, whatever God was he, Had form'd the whole, and made the parts agree, That no unequal portions might be found, He moulded Earth into a spacious round: Then with a breath, he gave the winds to blow; And bad the congregated waters flow. He adds the running springs, and standing lakes; And bounding banks for winding rivers makes. Some part, in Earth are swallow'd up, the most In ample oceans, disembogu'd, are lost. He shades the woods, the vallies he restrains With rocky mountains, and extends the plains. And as five zones th' aetherial regions bind, Five, correspondent, are to Earth assign'd: The sun with rays, directly darting down, Fires all beneath, and fries the middle zone: The two beneath the distant poles, complain Of endless winter, and perpetual rain. Betwixt th' extreams, two happier climates hold The temper that partakes of hot, and cold. The fields of liquid air, inclosing all, Surround the compass of this earthly ball: The lighter parts lye next the fires above; The grosser near the watry surface move: Thick clouds are spread, and storms engender there, And thunder's voice, which wretched mortals fear, And winds that on their wings cold winter bear. Nor were those blustring brethren left at large, On seas, and shores, their fury to discharge: Bound as they are, and circumscrib'd in place, They rend the world, resistless, where they pass; And mighty marks of mischief leave behind; Such is the rage of their tempestuous kind. First Eurus to the rising morn is sent (The regions of the balmy continent); And Eastern realms, where early Persians run, To greet the blest appearance of the sun. Westward, the wanton Zephyr wings his flight; Pleas'd with the remnants of departing light: Fierce Boreas, with his off-spring, issues forth T' invade the frozen waggon of the North. While frowning Auster seeks the Southern sphere; And rots, with endless rain, th' unwholsom year. High o'er the clouds, and empty realms of wind, The God a clearer space for Heav'n design'd; Where fields of light, and liquid aether flow; Purg'd from the pondrous dregs of Earth below. Scarce had the Pow'r distinguish'd these, when streight The stars, no longer overlaid with weight, Exert their heads, from underneath the mass; And upward shoot, and kindle as they pass, And with diffusive light adorn their heav'nly place. Then, every void of Nature to supply, With forms of Gods he fills the vacant sky: New herds of beasts he sends, the plains to share: New colonies of birds, to people air: And to their oozy beds, the finny fish repair. A creature of a more exalted kind Was wanting yet, and then was Man design'd: Conscious of thought, of more capacious breast, For empire form'd, and fit to rule the rest: Whether with particles of heav'nly fire The God of Nature did his soul inspire, Or Earth, but new divided from the sky, And, pliant, still retain'd th' aetherial energy: Which wise Prometheus temper'd into paste, And, mixt with living streams, the godlike image cast. Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother tend, Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies. From such rude principles our form began; And earth was metamorphos'd into Man. The Golden Age The golden age was first; when Man yet new, No rule but uncorrupted reason knew: And, with a native bent, did good pursue. Unforc'd by punishment, un-aw'd by fear, His words were simple, and his soul sincere; Needless was written law, where none opprest: The law of Man was written in his breast: No suppliant crowds before the judge appear'd, No court erected yet, nor cause was heard: But all was safe, for conscience was their guard. The mountain-trees in distant prospect please, E're yet the pine descended to the seas: E're sails were spread, new oceans to explore: And happy mortals, unconcern'd for more, Confin'd their wishes to their native shore. No walls were yet; nor fence, nor mote, nor mound, Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound: Nor swords were forg'd; but void of care and crime, The soft creation slept away their time. The teeming Earth, yet guiltless of the plough, And unprovok'd, did fruitful stores allow: Content with food, which Nature freely bred, On wildings and on strawberries they fed; Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest, And falling acorns furnish'd out a feast. The flow'rs unsown, in fields and meadows reign'd: And Western winds immortal spring maintain'd. In following years, the bearded corn ensu'd From Earth unask'd, nor was that Earth renew'd. From veins of vallies, milk and nectar broke; And honey sweating through the pores of oak. The Silver Age But when good Saturn, banish'd from above, Was driv'n to Hell, the world was under Jove. Succeeding times a silver age behold, Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold. Then summer, autumn, winter did appear: And spring was but a season of the year. The sun his annual course obliquely made, Good days contracted, and enlarg'd the bad. Then air with sultry heats began to glow; The wings of winds were clogg'd with ice and snow; And shivering mortals, into houses driv'n, Sought shelter from th' inclemency of Heav'n. Those houses, then, were caves, or homely sheds; With twining oziers fenc'd; and moss their beds. Then ploughs, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke, And oxen labour'd first beneath the yoke. The Brazen Age To this came next in course, the brazen age: A warlike offspring, prompt to bloody rage, Not impious yet... The Iron Age Hard steel succeeded then: And stubborn as the metal, were the men. Truth, modesty, and shame, the world forsook: Fraud, avarice, and force, their places took. Then sails were spread, to every wind that blew. Raw were the sailors, and the depths were new: Trees, rudely hollow'd, did the waves sustain; E're ships in triumph plough'd the watry plain. Then land-marks limited to each his right: For all before was common as the light. Nor was the ground alone requir'd to bear Her annual income to the crooked share, But greedy mortals, rummaging her store, Digg'd from her entrails first the precious oar; Which next to Hell, the prudent Gods had laid; And that alluring ill, to sight display'd. Thus cursed steel, and more accursed gold, Gave mischief birth, and made that mischief bold: And double death did wretched Man invade, By steel assaulted, and by gold betray'd, Now (brandish'd weapons glittering in their hands) Mankind is broken loose from moral bands; No rights of hospitality remain: The guest, by him who harbour'd him, is slain, The son-in-law pursues the father's life; The wife her husb and murders, he the wife. The step-dame poyson for the son prepares; The son inquires into his father's years. Faith flies, and piety in exile mourns; And justice, here opprest, to Heav'n returns. The Giants' War Nor were the Gods themselves more safe above; Against beleaguer'd Heav'n the giants move. Hills pil'd on hills, on mountains mountains lie, To make their mad approaches to the skie. 'Till Jove, no longer patient, took his time T' avenge with thunder their audacious crime: Red light'ning plaid along the firmament, And their demolish'd works to pieces rent. Sing'd with the flames, and with the bolts transfixt, With native Earth, their blood the monsters mixt; The blood, indu'd with animating heat, Did in th' impregnant Earth new sons beget: They, like the seed from which they sprung, accurst, Against the Gods immortal hatred nurst, An impious, arrogant, and cruel brood; Expressing their original from blood. Which when the king of Gods beheld from high (Withal revolving in his memory, What he himself had found on Earth of late, Lycaon's guilt, and his inhumane treat), He sigh'd; nor longer with his pity strove; But kindled to a wrath becoming Jove: Then call'd a general council of the Gods; Who summon'd, issue from their blest abodes, And fill th' assembly with a shining train. A way there is, in Heav'n's expanded plain, Which, when the skies are clear, is seen below, And mortals, by the name of Milky, know. The ground-work is of stars; through which the road Lyes open to the Thunderer's abode: The Gods of greater nations dwell around, And, on the right and left, the palace bound; The commons where they can: the nobler sort With winding-doors wide open, front the court. This place, as far as Earth with Heav'n may vie, I dare to call the Louvre of the skie. When all were plac'd, in seats distinctly known, And he, their father, had assum'd the throne, Upon his iv'ry sceptre first he leant, Then shook his head, that shook the firmament: Air, Earth, and seas, obey'd th' almighty nod; And, with a gen'ral fear, confess'd the God. At length, with indignation, thus he broke His awful silence, and the Pow'rs bespoke. I was not more concern'd in that debate Of empire, when our universal state Was put to hazard, and the giant race Our captive skies were ready to imbrace: For tho' the foe was fierce, the seeds of all Rebellion, sprung from one original; Now, wheresoever ambient waters glide, All are corrupt, and all must be destroy'd. Let me this holy protestation make, By Hell, and Hell's inviolable lake, I try'd whatever in the godhead lay: But gangren'd members must be lopt away, Before the nobler parts are tainted to decay. There dwells below, a race of demi-gods, Of nymphs in waters, and of fawns in woods: Who, tho' not worthy yet, in Heav'n to live, Let 'em, at least, enjoy that Earth we give. Can these be thought securely lodg'd below, When I my self, who no superior know, I, who have Heav'n and Earth at my command, Have been attempted by Lycaon's hand? At this a murmur through the synod went, And with one voice they vote his punishment. Thus, when conspiring traytors dar'd to doom The fall of Caesar, and in him of Rome, The nations trembled with a pious fear; All anxious for their earthly Thunderer: Nor was their care, o Caesar, less esteem'd By thee, than that of Heav'n for Jove was deem'd: Who with his hand, and voice, did first restrain Their murmurs, then resum'd his speech again. The Gods to silence were compos'd, and sate With reverence, due to his superior state. Cancel your pious cares; already he Has paid his debt to justice, and to me. Yet what his crimes, and what my judgments were, Remains for me thus briefly to declare. The clamours of this vile degenerate age, The cries of orphans, and th' oppressor's rage, Had reach'd the stars: I will descend, said I, In hope to prove this loud complaint a lye. Disguis'd in humane shape, I travell'd round The world, and more than what I heard, I found. O'er Maenalus I took my steepy way, By caverns infamous for beasts of prey: Then cross'd Cyllene, and the piny shade More infamous, by curst Lycaon made: Dark night had cover'd Heaven, and Earth, before I enter'd his unhospitable door. Just at my entrance, I display'd the sign That somewhat was approaching of divine. The prostrate people pray; the tyrant grins; And, adding prophanation to his sins, I'll try, said he, and if a God appear, To prove his deity shall cost him dear. 'Twas late; the graceless wretch my death prepares, When I shou'd soundly sleep, opprest with cares: This dire experiment he chose, to prove If I were mortal, or undoubted Jove: But first he had resolv'd to taste my pow'r; Not long before, but in a luckless hour, Some legates, sent from the Molossian state, Were on a peaceful errand come to treat: Of these he murders one, he boils the flesh; And lays the mangled morsels in a dish: Some part he roasts; then serves it up, so drest, And bids me welcome to this humane feast. Mov'd with disdain, the table I o'er-turn'd; And with avenging flames, the palace burn'd. The tyrant in a fright, for shelter gains The neighb'ring fields, and scours along the plains. Howling he fled, and fain he wou'd have spoke; But humane voice his brutal tongue forsook. About his lips the gather'd foam he churns, And, breathing slaughters, still with rage he burns, But on the bleating flock his fury turns. His mantle, now his hide, with rugged hairs Cleaves to his back; a famish'd face he bears; His arms descend, his shoulders sink away To multiply his legs for chase of prey. He grows a wolf, his hoariness remains, And the same rage in other members reigns. His eyes still sparkle in a narr'wer space: His jaws retain the grin, and violence of his face This was a single ruin, but not one Deserves so just a punishment alone. Mankind's a monster, and th' ungodly times Confed'rate into guilt, are sworn to crimes. All are alike involv'd in ill, and all Must by the same relentless fury fall. Thus ended he; the greater Gods assent; By clamours urging his severe intent; The less fill up the cry for punishment. Yet still with pity they remember Man; And mourn as much as heav'nly spirits can. They ask, when those were lost of humane birth, What he wou'd do with all this waste of Earth: If his dispeopl'd world he would resign To beasts, a mute, and more ignoble line; Neglected altars must no longer smoke, If none were left to worship, and invoke. To whom the Father of the Gods reply'd, Lay that unnecessary fear aside: Mine be the care, new people to provide. I will from wondrous principles ordain A race unlike the first, and try my skill again. Already had he toss'd the flaming brand; And roll'd the thunder in his spacious hand; Preparing to discharge on seas and land: But stopt, for fear, thus violently driv'n, The sparks should catch his axle-tree of Heav'n. Remembring in the fates, a time when fire Shou'd to the battlements of Heaven aspire, And all his blazing worlds above shou'd burn; And all th' inferior globe to cinders turn. His dire artill'ry thus dismist, he bent His thoughts to some securer punishment: Concludes to pour a watry deluge down; And what he durst not burn, resolves to drown. The northern breath, that freezes floods, he binds; With all the race of cloud-dispelling winds: The south he loos'd, who night and horror brings; And foggs are shaken from his flaggy wings. From his divided beard two streams he pours, His head, and rheumy eyes distill in show'rs, With rain his robe, and heavy mantle flow: And lazy mists are lowring on his brow; Still as he swept along, with his clench'd fist He squeez'd the clouds, th' imprison'd clouds resist: The skies, from pole to pole, with peals resound; And show'rs inlarg'd, come pouring on the ground. Then, clad in colours of a various dye, Junonian Iris breeds a new supply To feed the clouds: impetuous rain descends; The bearded corn beneath the burden bends: Defrauded clowns deplore their perish'd grain; And the long labours of the year are vain. Nor from his patrimonial Heaven alone Is Jove content to pour his vengeance down; Aid from his brother of the seas he craves, To help him with auxiliary waves. The watry tyrant calls his brooks and floods, Who rowl from mossie caves (their moist abodes); And with perpetual urns his palace fill: To whom in brief, he thus imparts his will. Small exhortation needs; your pow'rs employ: And this bad world, so Jove requires, destroy. Let loose the reins to all your watry store: Bear down the damms, and open ev'ry door. The floods, by Nature enemies to land, And proudly swelling with their new command, Remove the living stones, that stopt their way, And gushing from their source, augment the sea. Then, with his mace, their monarch struck the ground; With inward trembling Earth receiv'd the wound; And rising streams a ready passage found. Th' expanded waters gather on the plain: They float the fields, and over-top the grain; Then rushing onwards, with a sweepy sway, Bear flocks, and folds, and lab'ring hinds away. Nor safe their dwellings were, for, sap'd by floods, Their houses fell upon their houshold Gods. The solid piles, too strongly built to fall, High o'er their heads, behold a watry wall: Now seas and Earth were in confusion lost; A world of waters, and without a coast. One climbs a cliff; one in his boat is born: And ploughs above, where late he sow'd his corn. Others o'er chimney-tops and turrets row, And drop their anchors on the meads below: Or downward driv'n, they bruise the tender vine, Or tost aloft, are knock'd against a pine. And where of late the kids had cropt the grass, The monsters of the deep now take their place. Insulting Nereids on the cities ride, And wond'ring dolphins o'er the palace glide. On leaves, and masts of mighty oaks they brouze; And their broad fins entangle in the boughs. The frighted wolf now swims amongst the sheep; The yellow lion wanders in the deep: His rapid force no longer helps the boar: The stag swims faster, than he ran before. The fowls, long beating on their wings in vain, Despair of land, and drop into the main. Now hills, and vales no more distinction know; And levell'd Nature lies oppress'd below. The most of mortals perish in the flood: The small remainder dies for want of food. A mountain of stupendous height there stands Betwixt th' Athenian and Boeotian lands, The bound of fruitful fields, while fields they were, But then a field of waters did appear: Parnassus is its name; whose forky rise Mounts thro' the clouds, and mates the lofty skies. High on the summit of this dubious cliff, Deucalion wafting, moor'd his little skiff. He with his wife were only left behind Of perish'd Man; they two were human kind. The mountain nymphs, and Themis they adore, And from her oracles relief implore. The most upright of mortal men was he; The most sincere, and holy woman, she. When Jupiter, surveying Earth from high, Beheld it in a lake of water lie, That where so many millions lately liv'd, But two, the best of either sex, surviv'd; He loos'd the northern wind; fierce Boreas flies To puff away the clouds, and purge the skies: Serenely, while he blows, the vapours driv'n, Discover Heav'n to Earth, and Earth to Heav'n. The billows fall, while Neptune lays his mace On the rough sea, and smooths its furrow'd face. Already Triton, at his call, appears Above the waves; a Tyrian robe he wears; And in his hand a crooked trumpet bears. The soveraign bids him peaceful sounds inspire, And give the waves the signal to retire. His wri then shell he takes; whose narrow vent Grows by degrees into a large extent, Then gives it breath; the blast with doubling sound, Runs the wide circuit of the world around: The sun first heard it, in his early east, And met the rattling ecchos in the west. The waters, listning to the trumpet's roar, Obey the summons, and forsake the shore. A thin circumference of land appears; And Earth, but not at once, her visage rears, And peeps upon the seas from upper grounds; The streams, but just contain'd within their bounds, By slow degrees into their channels crawl; And Earth increases, as the waters fall. In longer time the tops of trees appear, Which mud on their dishonour'd branches bear. At length the world was all restor'd to view; But desolate, and of a sickly hue: Nature beheld her self, and stood aghast, A dismal desart, and a silent waste. Which when Deucalion, with a piteous look Beheld, he wept, and thus to Pyrrha spoke: Oh wife, oh sister, oh of all thy kind The best, and only creature left behind, By kindred, love, and now by dangers joyn'd; Of multitudes, who breath'd the common air, We two remain; a species in a pair: The rest the seas have swallow'd; nor have we Ev'n of this wretched life a certainty. The clouds are still above; and, while I speak, A second deluge o'er our heads may break. Shou'd I be snatcht from hence, and thou remain, Without relief, or partner of thy pain, How cou'dst thou such a wretched life sustain? Shou'd I be left, and thou be lost, the sea That bury'd her I lov'd, shou'd bury me. Oh cou'd our father his old arts inspire, And make me heir of his informing fire, That so I might abolisht Man retrieve, And perisht people in new souls might live. But Heav'n is pleas'd, nor ought we to complain, That we, th' examples of mankind, remain. He said; the careful couple joyn their tears: And then invoke the Gods, with pious prayers. Thus, in devotion having eas'd their grief, From sacred oracles they seek relief; And to Cephysus' brook their way pursue: The stream was troubled, but the ford they knew; With living waters, in the fountain bred, They sprinkle first their garments, and their head, Then took the way, which to the temple led. The roofs were all defil'd with moss, and mire, The desart altars void of solemn fire. Before the gradual, prostrate they ador'd; The pavement kiss'd; and thus the saint implor'd. O righteous Themis, if the Pow'rs above By pray'rs are bent to pity, and to love; If humane miseries can move their mind; If yet they can forgive, and yet be kind; Tell how we may restore, by second birth, Mankind, and people desolated Earth. Then thus the gracious Goddess, nodding, said; Depart, and with your vestments veil your head: And stooping lowly down, with losen'd zones, Throw each behind your backs, your mighty mother's bones. Amaz'd the pair, and mute with wonder stand, 'Till Pyrrha first refus'd the dire command. Forbid it Heav'n, said she, that I shou'd tear Those holy reliques from the sepulcher. They ponder'd the mysterious words again, For some new sense; and long they sought in vain: At length Deucalion clear'd his cloudy brow, And said, the dark Aenigma will allow A meaning, which, if well I understand, From sacrilege will free the God's command: This Earth our mighty mother is, the stones In her capacious body, are her bones: These we must cast behind. With hope, and fear, The woman did the new solution hear: The man diffides in his own augury, And doubts the Gods; yet both resolve to try. Descending from the mount, they first unbind Their vests, and veil'd, they cast the stones behind: The stones (a miracle to mortal view, But long tradition makes it pass for true) Did first the rigour of their kind expel, And suppled into softness, as they fell; Then swell'd, and swelling, by degrees grew warm; And took the rudiments of human form. Imperfect shapes: in marble such are seen, When the rude chizzel does the man begin; While yet the roughness of the stone remains, Without the rising muscles, and the veins. The sappy parts, and next resembling juice, Were turn'd to moisture, for the body's use: Supplying humours, blood, and nourishment; The rest, too solid to receive a bent, Converts to bones; and what was once a vein, Its former name and Nature did retain. By help of pow'r divine, in little space, What the man threw, assum'd a manly face; And what the wife, renew'd the female race. Hence we derive our nature; born to bear Laborious life; and harden'd into care. The rest of animals, from teeming Earth Produc'd, in various forms receiv'd their birth. The native moisture, in its close retreat, Digested by the sun's aetherial heat, As in a kindly womb, began to breed: Then swell'd, and quicken'd by the vital seed. And some in less, and some in longer space, Were ripen'd into form, and took a sev'ral face. Thus when the Nile from Pharian fields is fled, And seeks, with ebbing tides, his ancient bed, The fat manure with heav'nly fire is warm'd; And crusted creatures, as in wombs, are form'd; These, when they turn the glebe, the peasants find; Some rude, and yet unfinish'd in their kind: Short of their limbs, a lame imperfect birth: One half alive; and one of lifeless earth. For heat, and moisture, when in bodies join'd, The temper that results from either kind Conception makes; and fighting 'till they mix, Their mingled atoms in each other fix. Thus Nature's hand the genial bed prepares With friendly discord, and with fruitful wars. From hence the surface of the ground, with mud And slime besmear'd (the faeces of the flood), Receiv'd the rays of Heav'n: and sucking in The seeds of heat, new creatures did begin: Some were of sev'ral sorts produc'd before, But of new monsters, Earth created more. Unwillingly, but yet she brought to light Thee, Python too, the wondring world to fright, And the new nations, with so dire a sight: So monstrous was his bulk, so large a space Did his vast body, and long train embrace. Whom Phoebus basking on a bank espy'd; E're now the God his arrows had not try'd But on the trembling deer, or mountain goat; At this new quarry he prepares to shoot. Though ev'ry shaft took place, he spent the store Of his full quiver; and 'twas long before Th' expiring serpent wallow'd in his gore. Then, to preserve the fame of such a deed, For Python slain, he Pythian games decred. Where noble youths for mastership shou'd strive, To quoit, to run, and steeds, and chariots drive. The prize was fame: in witness of renown An oaken garl and did the victor crown. The laurel was not yet for triumphs born; But every green alike by Phoebus worn, Did, with promiscuous grace, his flowing locks adorn. The Transformation of Daphne into a Lawrel The first and fairest of his loves, was she Whom not blind fortune, but the dire decree Of angry Cupid forc'd him to desire: Daphne her name, and Peneus was her sire. Swell'd with the pride, that new success attends, He sees the stripling, while his bow he bends, And thus insults him: Thou lascivious boy, Are arms like these for children to employ? Know, such atchievements are my proper claim; Due to my vigour, and unerring aim: Resistless are my shafts, and Python late In such a feather'd death, has found his fate. Take up the torch (and lay my weapons by), With that the feeble souls of lovers fry. To whom the son of Venus thus reply'd, Phoebus, thy shafts are sure on all beside, But mine of Phoebus, mine the fame shall be Of all thy conquests, when I conquer thee. He said, and soaring, swiftly wing'd his flight: Nor stopt but on Parnassus' airy height. Two diff'rent shafts he from his quiver draws; One to repel desire, and one to cause. One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold: To bribe the love, and make the lover bold: One blunt, and tipt with lead, whose base allay Provokes disdain, and drives desire away. The blunted bolt against the nymph he drest: But with the sharp transfixt Apollo's breast. Th' enamour'd deity pursues the chace; The scornful damsel shuns his loath'd embrace: In hunting beasts of prey, her youth employs; And Phoebe rivals in her rural joys. With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare; And with a fillet binds her flowing hair. By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains, And still her vow'd virginity maintains. Impatient of a yoke, the name of bride She shuns, and hates the joys, she never try'd. On wilds, and woods, she fixes her desire: Nor knows what youth, and kindly love, inspire. Her father chides her oft: Thou ow'st, says he, A husb and to thy self, a son to me. She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed: She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head. Then casting round his neck her tender arms, Sooths him with blandishments, and filial charms: Give me, my Lord, she said, to live, and die, A spotless maid, without the marriage tye. 'Tis but a small request; I beg no more Than what Diana's father gave before. The good old sire was soften'd to consent; But said her wish wou'd prove her punishment: For so much youth, and so much beauty join'd, Oppos'd the state, which her desires design'd. The God of light, aspiring to her bed, Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed; And is, by his own oracles, mis-led. And as in empty fields the stubble burns, Or nightly travellers, when day returns, Their useless torches on dry hedges throw, That catch the flames, and kindle all the row; So burns the God, consuming in desire, And feeding in his breast a fruitless fire: Her well-turn'd neck he view'd (her neck was bare) And on her shoulders her dishevel'd hair; Oh were it comb'd, said he, with what a grace Wou'd every waving curl become her face! He view'd her eyes, like heav'nly lamps that shone, He view'd her lips, too sweet to view alone, Her taper fingers, and her panting breast; He praises all he sees, and for the rest Believes the beauties yet unseen are best: Swift as the wind, the damsel fled away, Nor did for these alluring speeches stay: Stay Nymph, he cry'd, I follow, not a foe. Thus from the lyon trips the trembling doe; Thus from the wolf the frighten'd lamb removes, And, from pursuing faulcons, fearful doves; Thou shunn'st a God, and shunn'st a God, that loves. Ah, lest some thorn shou'd pierce thy tender foot, Or thou shou'dst fall in flying my pursuit! To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline; Abate thy speed, and I will bate of mine. Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly; Nor basely born, nor shepherd's swain am I. Perhaps thou know'st not my superior state; And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate. Me Claros, Delphi, Tenedos obey; These hands the Patareian scepter sway. The King of Gods begot me: what shall be, Or is, or ever was, in Fate, I see. Mine is th' invention of the charming lyre; Sweet notes, and heav'nly numbers, I inspire. Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart; But ah! more deadly his, who pierc'd my heart. Med'cine is mine; what herbs and simples grow In fields, and forrests, all their pow'rs I know; And am the great physician call'd, below. Alas that fields and forrests can afford. No remedies to heal their love-sick lord! To cure the pains of love, no plant avails: And his own physick, the physician falls. She heard not half; so furiously she flies; And on her ear th' imperfect accent dies, Fear gave her wings; and as she fled, the wind Increasing, spread her flowing hair behind; And left her legs and thighs expos'd to view: Which made the God more eager to pursue. The God was young, and was too hotly bent To lose his time in empty compliment: But led by love, and fir'd with such a sight, Impetuously pursu'd his near delight. As when th' impatient greyhound slipt from far, Bounds o'er the glebe to course the fearful hare, She in her speed does all her safety lay; And he with double speed pursues the prey; O'er-runs her at the sitting turn, and licks His chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix: She scapes, and for the neighb'ring covert strives, And gaining shelter, doubts if yet she lives: If little things with great we may compare, Such was the God, and such the flying fair, She urg'd by fear, her feet did swiftly move, But he more swiftly, who was urg'd by love. He gathers ground upon her in the chace: Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace; And just is fast'ning on the wish'd embrace. The nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright, Spent with the labour of so long a flight; And now despairing, cast a mournful look Upon the streams of her paternal brook; Oh help, she cry'd, in this extreamest need! If water Gods are deities indeed: Gape Earth, and this unhappy wretch intomb; Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come. Scarce had she finish'd, when her feet she found Benumb'd with cold, and fasten'd to the ground: A filmy rind about her body grows; Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs: The nymph is all into a lawrel gone; The smoothness of her skin remains alone. Yet Phoebus loves her still, and casting round Her bole, his arms, some little warmth he found. The tree still panted in th' unfinish'd part: Not wholly vegetive, and heav'd her heart. He fixt his lips upon the trembling rind; It swerv'd aside, and his embrace declin'd. To whom the God, Because thou canst not be My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree: Be thou the prize of honour, and renown; The deathless poet, and the poem, crown. Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn, And, after poets, be by victors worn. Thou shalt returning Caesar's triumph grace; When pomps shall in a long procession pass. Wreath'd on the posts before his palace wait; And be the sacred guardian of the gate. Secure from thunder, and unharm'd by Jove, Unfading as th' immortal Pow'rs above: And as the locks of Phoebus are unshorn, So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn. The grateful tree was pleas'd with what he said; And shook the shady honours of her head. The Transformation of Io into a Heyfer An ancient forest in Thessalia grows; Which Tempe's pleasing valley does inclose: Through this the rapid Peneus take his course; From Pindus rolling with impetuous force; Mists from the river's mighty fall arise: And deadly damps inclose the cloudy skies: Perpetual fogs are hanging o'er the wood; And sounds of waters deaf the neighbourhood. Deep, in a rocky cave, he makes abode (A mansion proper for a mourning God). Here he gives audience; issuing out decrees To rivers, his dependant deities. On this occasion hither they resort; To pay their homage, and to make their court. All doubtful, whether to congratulate His daughter's honour, or lament her fate. Sperchaeus, crown'd with poplar, first appears; Then old Apidanus came crown'd with years: Enipeus turbulent, Amphrysos tame; And Aeas last with lagging waters came. Then, of his kindred brooks, a num'rous throng Condole his loss; and bring their urns along. Not one was wanting of the wat'ry train, That fill'd his flood, or mingled with the main: But Inachus, who in his cave, alone, Wept not another's losses, but his own, For his dear Io, whether stray'd, or dead, To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed. He sought her through the world; but sought in vain; And no where finding, rather fear'd her slain. Her, just returning from her father's brook, Jove had beheld, with a desiring look: And, Oh fair daughter of the flood, he said, Worthy alone of Jove's imperial bed, Happy whoever shall those charms possess; The king of Gods (nor is thy lover less) Invites thee to yon cooler shades; to shun The scorching rays of the meridian sun. Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the grove Alone, without a guide; thy guide is Jove. No puny Pow'r, but he whose high comm and Is unconfin'd, who rules the seas and land; And tempers thunder in his awful hand, Oh fly not: for she fled from his embrace O'er Lerna's pastures: he pursu'd the chace Along the shades of the Lyrcaean plain; At length the God, who never asks in vain, Involv'd with vapours, imitating night, Both Air, and Earth; and then suppress'd her flight, And mingling force with love, enjoy'd the full delight. Mean-time the jealous Juno, from on high, Survey'd the fruitful fields of Arcady; And wonder'd that the mist shou'd over-run The face of day-light, and obscure the sun. No nat'ral cause she found, from brooks, or bogs, Or marshy lowlands, to produce the fogs; Then round the skies she sought for Jupiter, Her faithless husband; but no Jove was there: Suspecting now the worst, Or I, she said, Am much mistaken, or am much betray'd. With fury she precipitates her flight: Dispels the shadows of dissembled night; And to the day restores his native light. Th' Almighty Leacher, careful to prevent The consequence, foreseeing her descent, Transforms his mistress in a trice; and now In Io's place appears a lovely cow. So sleek her skin, so faultless was her make, Ev'n Juno did unwilling pleasure take To see so fair a rival of her love; And what she was, and whence, enquir'd of Jove: Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree? The God, half caught, was forc'd upon a lye: And said she sprung from Earth. She took the word, And begg'd the beauteous heyfer of her lord. What should he do? 'twas equal shame to Jove Or to relinquish, or betray his love: Yet to refuse so slight a gift, wou'd be But more t' increase his consort's jealousie: Thus fear, and love, by turns, his heart assail'd; And stronger love had sure, at length, prevail'd: But some faint hope remain'd, his jealous queen Had not the mistress through the heyfer seen. The cautious Goddess, of her gift possest, Yet harbour'd anxious thoughts within her breast; As she who knew the falshood of her Jove; And justly fear'd some new relapse of love. Which to prevent, and to secure her care, To trusty Argus she commits the fair. The head of Argus (as with stars the skies) Was compass'd round, and wore an hundred eyes. But two by turns their lids in slumber steep; The rest on duty still their station keep; Nor cou'd the total constellation sleep. Thus, ever present, to his eyes, and mind, His charge was still before him, tho' behind. In fields he suffer'd her to feed by Day, But when the setting sun to night gave way, The captive cow he summon'd with a call; And drove her back, and ty'd her to the stall. On leaves of trees, and bitter herbs she fed, Heav'n was her canopy, bare earth her bed: So hardly lodg'd, and to digest her food, She drank from troubled streams, defil'd with mud. Her woeful story fain she wou'd have told, With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold. Her head to her ungentle keeper bow'd, She strove to speak, she spoke not, but she low'd: Affrighted with the noise, she look'd around, And seem'd t' inquire the author of the sound. Once on the banks where often she had play'd (Her father's banks), she came, and there survey'd Her alter'd visage, and her branching head; And starting, from her self she wou'd have fled. Her fellow nymphs, familiar to her eyes, Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise. Ev'n Inachus himself was ignorant; And in his daughter, did his daughter want. She follow'd where her fellows went, as she Were still a partner of the company: They stroak her neck; the gentle heyfer stands, And her neck offers to their stroaking hands. Her father gave her grass; the grass she took; And lick'd his palms, and cast a piteous look; And in the language of her eyes, she spoke. She wou'd have told her name, and ask'd relief, But wanting words, in tears she tells her grief. Which, with her foot she makes him understand; And prints the name of Io in the sand. Ah wretched me! her mournful father cry'd; She, with a sigh, to wretched me reply'd: About her milk-white neck, his arms he threw; And wept, and then these tender words ensue. And art thou she, whom I have sought around The world, and have at length so sadly found? So found, is worse than lost: with mutual words Thou answer'st not, no voice thy tongue affords: But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast; And speech deny'd, by lowing is express'd. Unknowing, I prepar'd thy bridal bed; With empty hopes of happy issue fed. But now the husb and of a herd must be Thy mate, and bell'wing sons thy progeny. Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief: But now my God-head but extends my grief: Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see, And makes me curse my immortality! More had he said, but fearful of her stay, The starry guardian drove his charge away, To some fresh pasture; on a hilly height He sate himself, and kept her still in sight. The Eyes of Argus transform'd into a Peacock's Train Now Jove no longer cou'd her suff'rings bear; But call'd in haste his airy messenger, The son of Maia, with severe decree To kill the keeper, and to set her free. With all his harness soon the God was sped, His flying hat was fastned on his head, Wings on his heels were hung, and in his hand He holds the vertue of the snaky wand. The liquid air his moving pinions wound, And, in the moment, shoot him on the ground. Before he came in sight, the crafty God His wings dismiss'd, but still retain'd his rod: That sleep-procuring wand wise Hermes took, But made it seem to sight a sherpherd's hook. With this, he did a herd of goats controul; Which by the way he met, and slily stole. Clad like a country swain, he pip'd, and sung; And playing, drove his jolly troop along. With pleasure, Argus the musician heeds; But wonders much at those new vocal reeds. And whosoe'er thou art, my friend, said he, Up hither drive thy goats, and play by me: This hill has browz for them, and shade for thee. The God, who was with ease induc'd to climb, Began discourse to pass away the time; And still betwixt, his tuneful pipe he plies; And watch'd his hour, to close the keeper's eyes. With much ado, he partly kept awake; Not suff'ring all his eyes repose to take: And ask'd the stranger, who did reeds invent, And whence began so rare an instrument? The Transformation of Syrinx into Reeds Then Hermes thus: A nymph of late there was Whose heav'nly form her fellows did surpass. The pride and joy of fair Arcadia's plains, Belov'd by deities, ador'd by swains: Syrinx her name, by Sylvans oft pursu'd, As oft she did the lustful Gods delude: The rural, and the woodl and Pow'rs disdain'd; With Cynthia hunted, and her rites maintain'd: Like Phoebe clad, even Phoebe's self she seems, So tall, so streight, such well-proportion'd limbs: The nicest eye did no distinction know, But that the goddess bore a golden bow: Distinguish'd thus, the sight she cheated too. Descending from Lycaeus, Pan admires The matchless nymph, and burns with new desires. A crown of pine upon his head he wore; And thus began her pity to implore. But e'er he thus began, she took her flight So swift, she was already out of sight. Nor stay'd to hear the courtship of the God; But bent her course to Ladon's gentle flood: There by the river stopt, and tir'd before; Relief from water nymphs her pray'rs implore. Now while the lustful God, with speedy pace, Just thought to strain her in a strict embrace, He fill'd his arms with reeds, new rising on the place. And while he sighs, his ill success to find, The tender canes were shaken by the wind; And breath'd a mournful air, unheard before; That much surprizing Pan, yet pleas'd him more. Admiring this new musick, Thou, he said, Who canst not be the partner of my bed, At least shall be the confort of my mind: And often, often to my lips be joyn'd. He form'd the reeds, proportion'd as they are, Unequal in their length, and wax'd with care, They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair. While Hermes pip'd, and sung, and told his tale, The keeper's winking eyes began to fail, And drowsie slumber on the lids to creep; 'Till all the watchman was at length asleep. Then soon the God his voice, and song supprest; And with his pow'rful rod confirm'd his rest: Without delay his crooked faulchion drew, And at one fatal stroke the keeper slew. Down from the rock fell the dissever'd head, Opening its eyes in death; and falling, bled; And mark'd the passage with a crimson trail: Thus Argus lies in pieces, cold, and pale; And all his hundred eyes, with all their light, Are clos'd at once, in one perpetual night. These Juno takes, that they no more may fail, And spreads them in her peacock's gaudy tail. Impatient to revenge her injur'd bed, She wreaks her anger on her rival's head; With Furies frights her from her native home; And drives her gadding, round the world to roam: Nor ceas'd her madness, and her flight, before She touch'd the limits of the Pharian shore. At length, arriving on the banks of Nile, Wearied with length of ways, and worn with toil, She laid her down; and leaning on her knees, Invok'd the cause of all her miseries: And cast her languishing regards above, For help from Heav'n, and her ungrateful Jove. She sigh'd, she wept, she low'd; 'twas all she cou'd; And with unkindness seem'd to tax the God. Last, with an humble pray'r, she beg'd repose, Or death at least, to finish all her woes. Jove heard her vows, and with a flatt'ring look, In her behalf to jealous Juno spoke, He cast his arms about her neck, and said, Dame, rest secure; no more thy nuptial bed This nymph shall violate; by Styx I swear, And every oath that binds the Thunderer. The Goddess was appeas'd; and at the word Was Io to her former shape restor'd. The rugged hair began to fall away; The sweetness of her eyes did only stay, Tho' not so large; her crooked horns decrease; The wideness of her jaws and nostrils cease: Her hoofs to hands return, in little space: The five long taper fingers take their place, And nothing of the heyfer now is seen, Beside the native whiteness of the skin. Erected on her feet she walks again: And two the duty of the four sustain. She tries her tongue; her silence softly breaks, And fears her former lowings when she speaks: A Goddess now, through all th' Aegyptian State: And serv'd by priests, who in white linnen wait. Her son was Epaphus, at length believ'd The son of Jove, and as a God receiv'd; With sacrifice ador'd, and publick pray'rs, He common temples with his mother shares. Equal in years, and rival in renown With Epaphus, the youthful Phaeton Like honour claims; and boasts his sire the sun. His haughty looks, and his assuming air, The son of Isis could no longer bear: Thou tak'st thy mother's word too far, said he, And hast usurp'd thy boasted pedigree. Go, base pretender to a borrow'd name. Thus tax'd, he blush'd with anger, and with shame; But shame repress'd his rage: the daunted youth Soon seeks his mother, and enquires the truth: Mother, said he, this infamy was thrown By Epaphus on you, and me your son. He spoke in publick, told it to my face; Nor durst I vindicate the dire disgrace: Even I, the bold, the sensible of wrong, Restrain'd by shame, was forc'd to hold my tongue. To hear an open slander, is a curse: But not to find an answer, is a worse. If I am Heav'n-begot, assert your son By some sure sign; and make my father known, To right my honour, and redeem your own. He said, and saying cast his arms about Her neck, and beg'd her to resolve the doubt. 'Tis hard to judge if Clymene were mov'd More by his pray'r, whom she so dearly lov'd, Or more with fury fir'd, to find her name Traduc'd, and made the sport of common fame. She stretch'd her arms to Heav'n, and fix'd her eyes On that fair planet that adorns the skies; Now by those beams, said she, whose holy fires Consume my breast, and kindle my desires; By him, who sees us both, and clears our sight, By him, the publick minister of light, I swear that Sun begot thee; if I lye, Let him his chearful influence deny: Let him no more this perjur'd creature see; And shine on all the world but only me. If still you doubt your mother's innocence, His eastern mansion is not far from hence; With little pains you to his Leve go, And from himself your parentage may know. With joy th' ambitious youth his mother heard, And eager, for the journey soon prepar'd. He longs the world beneath him to survey; To guide the chariot; and to give the day: From Meroe's burning sands he bends his course, Nor less in India feels his father's force: His travel urging, till he came in sight; And saw the palace by the purple light. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE FIRST ,

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

225:The Court Of Love With timerous hert and trembling hand of drede, Of cunning naked, bare of eloquence, Unto the flour of port in womanhede I write, as he that non intelligence Of metres hath, ne floures of sentence; Sauf that me list my writing to convey, In that I can to please her hygh nobley. The blosmes fresshe of Tullius garden soote Present thaim not, my mater for to borne: Poemes of Virgil taken here no rote, Ne crafte of Galfrid may not here sojorne: Why nam I cunning? O well may I morne, For lak of science that I can-not write Unto the princes of my life a-right No termes digne unto her excellence, So is she sprong of noble stirpe and high: A world of honour and of reverence There is in her, this wil I testifie. Calliope, thou sister wise and sly, And thou, Minerva, guyde me with thy grace, That langage rude my mater not deface. Thy suger-dropes swete of Elicon Distill in me, thou gentle Muse, I pray; And thee, Melpomene, I calle anon, Of ignoraunce the mist to chace away; And give me grace so for to write and sey, That she, my lady, of her worthinesse, Accepte in gree this litel short tretesse, That is entitled thus, 'The Court of Love.' And ye that ben metriciens me excuse, I you besech, for Venus sake above; 748 For what I mene in this ye need not muse: And if so be my lady it refuse For lak of ornat speche, I wold be wo, That I presume to her to writen so. But myn entent and all my besy cure Is for to write this tretesse, as I can, Unto my lady, stable, true, and sure, Feithfull and kind, sith first that she began Me to accept in service as her man: To her be all the plesure of this boke, That, whan her like, she may it rede and loke. When I was yong, at eighteen yere of age, Lusty and light, desirous of pleasaunce, Approching on full sadde and ripe corage, Love arted me to do myn observaunce To his astate, and doon him obeysaunce, Commaunding me the Court of Love to see, A lite beside the mount of Citharee, There Citherea goddesse was and quene Honoured highly for her majestee; And eke her sone, the mighty god, I wene, Cupid the blind, that for his dignitee A thousand lovers worship on their knee; There was I bid, on pain of death, t'apere, By Mercury, the winged messengere. So than I went by straunge and fer contrees, Enquiring ay what costes to it drew, The Court of Love: and thiderward, as bees, At last I sey the peple gan pursue: Anon, me thought, som wight was there that knew Where that the court was holden, ferre or ny, And after thaim ful fast I gan me hy. 749 Anone as I theim overtook, I said, 'Hail, frendes! whider purpose ye to wend?' 'Forsooth,' quod oon that answered lich a maid, 'To Loves Court now go we, gentill frend.' 'Where is that place,' quod I, 'my felowe hend?' 'At Citheron, sir,' seid he, 'without dowte, The King of Love, and all his noble rowte, Dwelling within a castell ryally.' So than apace I jorned forth among, And as he seid, so fond I there truly. For I beheld the towres high and strong, And high pinácles, large of hight and long, With plate of gold bespred on every side, And presious stones, the stone-werk for to hide. No saphir ind, no rubè riche of price, There lakked than, nor emeraud so grene, Baleis Turkeis, ne thing to my devise, That may the castell maken for to shene: All was as bright as sterres in winter been; And Phebus shoon, to make his pees agayn, For trespas doon to high estates tweyn, Venus and Mars, the god and goddesse clere, Whan he theim found in armes cheined fast: Venus was then full sad of herte and chere. But Phebus bemes, streight as is the mast, Upon the castell ginneth he to cast, To plese the lady, princesse of that place, In signe he loketh aftir Loves grace. For there nis god in heven or helle, y-wis, But he hath ben right soget unto Love: Jove, Pluto, or what-so-ever he is, Ne creature in erth, or yet above; Of thise the révers may no wight approve. But furthermore, the castell to descry, 750 Yet saw I never non so large and high. For unto heven it streccheth, I suppose, Within and out depeynted wonderly, With many a thousand daisy, rede as rose, And white also, this saw I verily: But what tho daises might do signify, Can I not tell, sauf that the quenes flour Alceste it was that kept there her sojour; Which under Venus lady was and quene, And Admete king and soverain of that place, To whom obeyed the ladies gode ninetene, With many a thowsand other, bright of face. And yong men fele came forth with lusty pace, And aged eke, their homage to dispose; But what thay were, I could not well disclose. Yet ner and ner furth in I gan me dresse Into an halle of noble apparaile, With arras spred and cloth of gold, I gesse, And other silk of esier availe: Under the cloth of their estate, saunz faile, The king and quene ther sat, as I beheld: It passed joye of Helisee the feld. There saintes have their comming and resort, To seen the king so ryally beseyn, In purple clad, and eke the quene in sort: And on their hedes saw I crownes tweyn, With stones fret, so that it was no payn, Withouten mete and drink, to stand and see The kinges honour and the ryaltee. And for to trete of states with the king, That been of councell chief, and with the quene, The king had Daunger ner to him standing, 751 The Quene of Love, Disdain, and that was seen: For by the feith I shall to god, I wene, Was never straunger [non] in her degree Than was the quene in casting of her ee. And as I stood perceiving her apart, And eke the bemes shyning of her yen, Me thought thay were shapen lich a dart, Sherp and persing, smale, and streight as lyne. And all her here, it shoon as gold so fyne, Dishevel, crisp, down hinging at her bak A yarde in length: and soothly than I spak:— 'O bright Regina, who made thee so fair? Who made thy colour vermelet and white? Where woneth that god? how fer above the eyr? Greet was his craft, and greet was his delyt. Now marvel I nothing that ye do hight The Quene of Love, and occupy the place Of Citharee: now, sweet lady, thy grace.' In mewet spak I, so that nought astert, By no condicion, word that might be herd; B[ut] in myn inward thought I gan advert, And oft I seid, 'My wit is dulle and hard:' For with her bewtee, thus, god wot, I ferd As doth the man y-ravisshed with sight, When I beheld her cristall yen so bright, No respect having what was best to doon; Till right anon, beholding here and there, I spied a frend of myne, and that full soon, A gentilwoman, was the chamberer Unto the quene, that hote, as ye shall here, Philobone, that lovëd all her life: Whan she me sey, she led me furth as blyfe; 752 And me demaunded how and in what wise I thider com, and what myne erand was? 'To seen the court,' quod I, 'and all the guyse; And eke to sue for pardon and for grace, And mercy ask for all my greet trespace, That I non erst com to the Court of Love: Foryeve me this, ye goddes all above!' 'That is well seid,' quod Philobone, 'in-dede: But were ye not assomoned to apere By Mercury? For that is all my drede.' 'Yes, gentil fair,' quod I, 'now am I here; Ye, yit what tho, though that be true, my dere?' 'Of your free will ye shuld have come unsent: For ye did not, I deme ye will be shent. For ye that reign in youth and lustinesse, Pampired with ese, and jolif in your age, Your dewtee is, as fer as I can gesse, To Loves Court to dressen your viage, As sone as Nature maketh you so sage, That ye may know a woman from a swan, Or whan your foot is growen half a span. But sith that ye, by wilful necligence, This eighteen yere have kept yourself at large, The gretter is your trespace and offence, And in your nek ye moot bere all the charge: For better were ye ben withouten barge, Amiddë see, in tempest and in rain, Than byden here, receiving woo and pain, That ordeined is for such as thaim absent Fro Loves Court by yeres long and fele. I ley my lyf ye shall full soon repent; For Love will reyve your colour, lust, and hele: Eke ye must bait on many an hevy mele: No force, y-wis, I stired you long agoon 753 To draw to court,' quod litell Philobon. 'Ye shall well see how rough and angry face The King of Love will shew, when ye him see; By myn advyse kneel down and ask him grace, Eschewing perell and adversitee; For well I wot it wol non other be, Comfort is non, ne counsel to your ese; Why will ye than the King of Love displese?' 'O mercy, god,' quod ich, 'I me repent, Caitif and wrecche in hert, in wille, and thought! And aftir this shall be myne hole entent To serve and plese, how dere that love be bought: Yit, sith I have myn own penaunce y-sought, With humble spirit shall I it receive, Though that the King of Love my life bereyve. And though that fervent loves qualitè In me did never worch truly, yit I With all obeisaunce and humilitè, And benign hert, shall serve him til I dye: And he that Lord of might is, grete and highe, Right as him list me chastice and correct, And punish me, with trespace thus enfect.' Thise wordes seid, she caught me by the lap, And led me furth intill a temple round, Large and wyde: and, as my blessed hap And good avénture was, right sone I found A tabernacle reised from the ground, Where Venus sat, and Cupid by her syde; Yet half for drede I gan my visage hyde. And eft again I loked and beheld, Seeing full sundry peple in the place, And mister folk, and som that might not weld 754 Their limmes well, me thought a wonder cas; The temple shoon with windows all of glas, Bright as the day, with many a fair image; And there I sey the fresh quene of Cartage, Dido, that brent her bewtee for the love Of fals Eneas; and the weymenting Of hir, Anelida, true as turtill-dove, To Arcite fals: and there was in peinting Of many a prince, and many a doughty king, Whose marterdom was shewed about the walles; And how that fele for love had suffered falles. But sore I was abasshed and astonied Of all tho folk that there were in that tyde; And than I asked where thay had [y-]woned: 'In dyvers courtes,' quod she, 'here besyde.' In sondry clothing, mantil-wyse full wyde, They were arrayed, and did their sacrifice Unto the god and goddesse in their guyse. 'Lo! yonder folk,' quod she, 'that knele in blew, They were the colour ay, and ever shall, In sign they were, and ever will be trew Withouten chaunge: and sothly, yonder all That ben in blak, with morning cry and call Unto the goddes, for their loves been Som fer, som dede, som all to sherpe and kene.' 'Ye, than,' quod I, 'what doon thise prestes here, Nonnes and hermits, freres, and all thoo That sit in white, in russet, and in grene?' 'For-soth,' quod she, 'they wailen of their wo.' 'O mercy, lord! may thay so come and go Freely to court, and have such libertee?' 'Ye, men of ech condicion and degree, 755 And women eke: for truly, there is non Excepcion mad, ne never was ne may: This court is ope and free for everichon, The King of Love he will nat say thaim nay: He taketh all, in poore or riche array, That meekly sewe unto his excellence With all their herte and all their reverence.' And, walking thus about with Philobone, I sey where cam a messenger in hy Streight from the king, which let commaund anon, Through-out the court to make an ho and cry: 'A! new-come folk, abyde! and wot ye why? The kinges lust is for to seen you soon: Com ner, let see! his will mot need be doon.' Than gan I me present to-fore the king, Trembling for fere, with visage pale of hew, And many a lover with me was kneling, Abasshed sore, till unto tyme thay knew The sentence yeve of his entent full trew: And at the last the king hath me behold With stern visage, and seid, 'What doth this old, Thus fer y-stope in yeres, come so late Unto the court?' 'For-soth, my liege,' quod I, 'An hundred tyme I have ben at the gate Afore this tyme, yit coud I never espy Of myn acqueyntaunce any with mine y; And shamefastnes away me gan to chace; But now I me submit unto your grace.' 'Well! all is perdoned, with condicion That thou be trew from hensforth to thy might, And serven Love in thyn entencion: Swere this, and than, as fer as it is right, Thou shalt have grace here in my quenes sight.' 'Yis, by the feith I ow your crown, I swere, 756 Though Deth therfore me thirlith with his spere!' And whan the king had seen us everichoon, He let commaunde an officer in hy To take our feith, and shew us, oon by oon, The statuts of the court full besily. Anon the book was leid before their y, To rede and see what thing we must observe In Loves Court, till that we dye and sterve. And, for that I was lettred, there I red The statuts hole of Loves Court and hall: The first statut that on the boke was spred, Was, To be true in thought and dedes all Unto the King of Love, the Lord ryall; And to the Quene, as feithful and as kind, As I coud think with herte, and will and mind. The secund statut, Secretly to kepe Councell of love, nat blowing every-where All that I know, and let it sink or flete; It may not sown in every wightes ere: Exyling slaunder ay for dred and fere, And to my lady, which I love and serve, Be true and kind, her grace for to deserve. The thrid statut was clerely write also, Withouten chaunge to live and dye the same, Non other love to take, for wele ne wo, For brind delyt, for ernest nor for game: Without repent, for laughing or for grame, To byden still in full perseveraunce: Al this was hole the kinges ordinaunce. The fourth statut, To purchace ever to here, And stiren folk to love, and beten fyr On Venus awter, here about and there, 757 And preche to thaim of love and hot desyr, And tell how love will quyten well their hire: This must be kept; and loth me to displese: If love be wroth, passe forby is an ese. The fifth statut, Not to be daungerous, If that a thought wold reyve me of my slepe: Nor of a sight to be over squeymous; And so, verily, this statut was to kepe, To turne and walowe in my bed and wepe, When that my lady, of her crueltè, Wold from her herte exylen all pitè. The sixt statut, it was for me to use, Alone to wander, voide of company, And on my ladys bewtee for to muse, And to think [it] no force to live or dye; And eft again to think the remedy, How to her grace I might anon attain, And tell my wo unto my souverain. The seventh statut was, To be pacient, Whether my lady joyfull were or wroth; For wordes glad or hevy, diligent, Wheder that she me helden lefe or loth: And hereupon I put was to myn oth, Her for to serve, and lowly to obey, Shewing my chere, ye, twenty sith a-day. The eighth statut, to my rememb[e]raunce, Was, To speke, and pray my lady dere, With hourly labour and gret attendaunce, Me for to love with all her herte entere, And me desyre, and make me joyfull chere, Right as she is, surmounting every faire, Of bewtie well, and gentill debonaire. 758 The ninth statut, with lettres writ of gold, This was the sentence, How that I and all Shuld ever dred to be to over-bold Her to displese; and truly, so I shall; But ben content for thing[es] that may falle, And meekly take her chastisement and yerd, And to offende her ever ben aferd. The tenth statut was, Egally discern By-twene thy lady and thyn abilitee, And think, thy-self art never like to yern, By right, her mercy, nor of equitee, But of her grace and womanly pitee: For though thy-self be noble in thy strene, A thowsand-fold more nobill is thy quene, Thy lyves lady, and thy souverayn, That hath thyn herte all hole in governaunce. Thou mayst no wyse hit taken to disdayn, To put thee humbly at her ordinaunce, And give her free the rein of her plesaunce; For libertee is thing that women loke, And truly, els the mater is a-croke. The eleventh statut, Thy signes for to con With y and finger, and with smyles soft, And low to cough, and alway for to shon, For dred of spyes, for to winken oft: But secretly to bring a sigh a-loft, And eke beware of over-moch resort; For that, paraventure, spilleth al thy sport. The twelfth statut remember to observe: For al the pain thow hast for love and wo, All is to lite her mercy to deserve, Thow must then think, where-ever thou ryde or go; And mortall woundes suffer thow also, All for her sake, and thinke it well beset 759 Upon thy love, for it may be no bet. The thirteenth statut, Whylom is to thinke, What thing may best thy lady lyke and plese, And in thyn hertes botom let it sinke: Som thing devise, and take [it] for thyn ese, And send it her, that may her herte apese: Some hert, or ring, or lettre, or device, Or precious stone; but spare not for no price. The fourteenth statut eke thou shalt assay Fermly to kepe the most part of thy lyfe: Wish that thy lady in thyne armes lay, And nightly dreme, thow hast thy hertes wyfe Swetely in armes, straining her as blyfe: And whan thou seest it is but fantasy, See that thow sing not over merily, For to moche joye hath oft a wofull end. It longith eke, this statut for to hold, To deme thy lady evermore thy frend, And think thyself in no wyse a cocold. In every thing she doth but as she shold: Construe the best, beleve no tales newe, For many a lie is told, that semeth full trewe. But think that she, so bounteous and fair, Coud not be fals: imagine this algate; And think that tonges wikke wold her appair, Slaundering her name and worshipfull estat, And lovers true to setten at debat: And though thow seest a faut right at thyne y, Excuse it blyve, and glose it pretily. The fifteenth statut, Use to swere and stare, And counterfet a lesing hardely, To save thy ladys honour every-where, 760 And put thyself to fight [for her] boldly: Sey she is good, virtuous, and gostly, Clere of entent, and herte, and thought and wille; And argue not, for reson ne for skille, Agayn thy ladys plesir ne entent, For love wil not be countrepleted, indede: Sey as she seith, than shalt thou not be shent, The crow is whyte; ye, truly, so I rede: And ay what thing that she thee will forbede, Eschew all that, and give her sovereintee, Her appetyt folow in all degree. The sixteenth statut, kepe it if thow may:— Seven sith at night thy lady for to plese, And seven at midnight, seven at morow-day; And drink a cawdell erly for thyn ese. Do this, and kepe thyn hede from all disese, And win the garland here of lovers all, That ever come in court, or ever shall. Ful few, think I, this statut hold and kepe; But truly, this my reson giveth me fele, That som lovers shuld rather fall aslepe, Than take on hand to plese so oft and wele. There lay non oth to this statut a-dele, But kepe who might, as gave him his corage: Now get this garland, lusty folk of age. Now win who may, ye lusty folk of youth, This garland fresh, of floures rede and whyte, Purpill and blewe, and colours ful uncouth, And I shal croune him king of all delyt! In al the court there was not, to my sight, A lover trew, that he ne was adred, When he expresse hath herd the statut red. 761 The seventeenth statut, Whan age approchith on, And lust is leid, and all the fire is queint, As freshly than thou shalt begin to fon, And dote in love, and all her image paint In rémembraunce, til thou begin to faint, As in the first seson thyn hert began: And her desire, though thou ne may ne can Perform thy living actuell, and lust; Regester this in thy rememb[e]raunce: Eke when thou mayst not kepe thy thing from rust, Yit speke and talk of plesaunt daliaunce; For that shall make thyn hert rejoise and daunce. And when thou mayst no more the game assay, The statut bit thee pray for hem that may. The eighteenth statut, hoolly to commend, To plese thy lady, is, That thou eschewe With sluttishness thy-self for to offend; Be jolif, fresh, and fete, with thinges newe, Courtly with maner, this is all thy due, Gentill of port, and loving clenlinesse; This is the thing that lyketh thy maistresse. And not to wander lich a dulled ass, Ragged and torn, disgysed in array, Ribaud in speche, or out of mesure pass, Thy bound exceding; think on this alway: For women been of tender hertes ay, And lightly set their plesire in a place; Whan they misthink, they lightly let it passe. The nineteenth statut, Mete and drink forgete: Ech other day, see that thou fast for love, For in the court they live withouten mete, Sauf such as cometh from Venus all above; They take non heed, in pain of greet reprove, Of mete and drink, for that is all in vain; 762 Only they live by sight of their soverain. The twentieth statut, last of everichoon, Enroll it in thyn hertes privitee; To wring and wail, to turn, and sigh and grone, When that thy lady absent is from thee; And eke renew the wordes [all] that she Bitween you twain hath seid, and all the chere That thee hath mad thy lyves lady dere. And see thyn herte in quiet ne in rest Sojorn, to tyme thou seen thy lady eft; But wher she won by south, or est, or west, With all thy force, now see it be not left: Be diligent, till tyme thy lyfe be reft, In that thou mayst, thy lady for to see; This statut was of old antiquitee. An officer of high auctoritee, Cleped Rigour, made us swere anon: He nas corrupt with parcialitee, Favour, prayer, ne gold that cherely shoon; 'Ye shall,' quod he, 'now sweren here echoon, Yong and old, to kepe, in that ye may, The statuts truly, all, aftir this day.' O god, thought I, hard is to make this oth! But to my pouer shall I thaim observe; In all this world nas mater half so loth, To swere for all; for though my body sterve, I have no might the hole for to reserve. But herkin now the cace how it befell: After my oth was mad, the trouth to tell, I turned leves, loking on this boke, Where other statuts were of women shene; And right furthwith Rigour on me gan loke 763 Full angrily, and seid unto the quene I traitour was, and charged me let been: 'There may no man,' quod he, 'the statut[s] know, That long to woman, hy degree ne low. In secret wyse thay kepten been full close, They sowne echon to libertie, my frend; Plesaunt thay be, and to their own purpose; There wot no wight of thaim, but god and fend, Ne naught shall wit, unto the worldes end. The quene hath yeve me charge, in pain to dye, Never to rede ne seen thaim with myn ye. For men shall not so nere of councell ben, With womanhode, ne knowen of her gyse, Ne what they think, ne of their wit th'engyn; I me report to Salamon the wyse, And mighty Sampson, which begyled thryes With Dalida was: he wot that, in a throw, There may no man statut of women knowe. For it paravénture may right so befall, That they be bound by nature to disceive, And spinne, and wepe, and sugre strewe on gall, The hert of man to ravissh and to reyve, And whet their tong as sharp as swerd or gleyve: It may betyde, this is their ordinaunce; So must they lowly doon the observaunce, And kepe the statut yeven thaim of kind, Or such as love hath yeve hem in their lyfe. Men may not wete why turneth every wind, Nor waxen wyse, nor ben inquisityf To know secret of maid, widow, or wyfe; For they their statutes have to thaim reserved, And never man to know thaim hath deserved. 764 Now dress you furth, the god of Love you gyde!' Quod Rigour than, 'and seek the temple bright Of Cither[e]a, goddess here besyde; Beseche her, by [the] influence and might Of al her vertue, you to teche a-right, How for to serve your ladies, and to plese, Ye that ben sped, and set your hert in ese. And ye that ben unpurveyed, pray her eke Comfort you soon with grace and destinee, That ye may set your hert there ye may lyke, In suche a place, that it to love may be Honour and worship, and felicitee To you for ay. Now goth, by one assent.' 'Graunt mercy, sir!' quod we, and furth we went Devoutly, soft and esy pace, to see Venus the goddes image, all of gold: And there we founde a thousand on their knee, Sum freshe and feire, som dedely to behold, In sondry mantils new, and som were old, Som painted were with flames rede as fire, Outward to shew their inward hoot desire: With dolefull chere, full fele in their complaint Cried 'Lady Venus, rewe upon our sore! Receive our billes, with teres all bedreint; We may not wepe, there is no more in store; But wo and pain us frettith more and more: Thou blisful planet, lovers sterre so shene, Have rowth on us, that sigh and carefull been; And ponish, Lady, grevously, we pray, The false untrew with counterfet plesaunce, That made their oth, be trew to live or dey, With chere assured, and with countenaunce; And falsly now thay foten loves daunce, Barein of rewth, untrue of that they seid, 765 Now that their lust and plesire is alleyd.' Yet eft again, a thousand milion, Rejoysing, love, leding their life in blis: They seid:—'Venus, redresse of all division, Goddes eterne, thy name y-heried is! By loves bond is knit all thing, y-wis, Best unto best, the erth to water wan, Bird unto bird, and woman unto man; This is the lyfe of joye that we ben in, Resembling lyfe of hevenly paradyse; Love is exyler ay of vice and sin; Love maketh hertes lusty to devyse; Honour and grace have thay, in every wyse, That been to loves law obedient; Love makith folk benigne and diligent; Ay stering theim to drede[n] vice and shame: In their degree it maketh thaim honorable; And swete it is of love [to] bere the name, So that his love be feithfull, true, and stable: Love prunith him, to semen amiable; Love hath no faut, there it is exercysed, But sole with theim that have all love dispised. Honour to thee, celestiall and clere Goddes of love, and to thy celsitude, That yevest us light so fer down from thy spere, Persing our hertes with thy pulcritude! Comparison non of similitude May to thy grace be mad in no degree, That hast us set with love in unitee. Gret cause have we to praise thy name and thee, For [that] through thee we live in joye and blisse. Blessed be thou, most souverain to see! 766 Thy holy court of gladness may not misse: A thousand sith we may rejoise in this, That we ben thyn with harte and all y-fere, Enflamed with thy grace, and hevinly fere.' Musing of tho that spakin in this wyse, I me bethought in my rememb[e]raunce Myne orison right goodly to devyse, And plesauntly, with hartes obeisaunce, Beseech the goddes voiden my grevaunce; For I loved eke, sauf that I wist nat where; Yet down I set, and seid as ye shall here. 'Fairest of all that ever were or be! Lucerne and light to pensif crëature! Myn hole affiaunce, and my lady free, My goddes bright, my fortune and my ure, I yeve and yeld my hart to thee full sure, Humbly beseching, lady, of thy grace Me to bestowe into som blessed place. And here I vow me feithfull, true, and kind, Without offence of mutabilitee, Humbly to serve, whyl I have wit and mind, Myn hole affiaunce, and my lady free! In thilkë place, there ye me sign to be: And, sith this thing of newe is yeve me, ay To love and serve, needly must I obey. Be merciable with thy fire of grace, And fix myne hert there bewtie is and routh, For hote I love, determine in no place, Sauf only this, by god and by my trouth, Trowbled I was with slomber, slepe, and slouth This other night, and in a visioun I sey a woman romen up and down, 767 Of mene stature, and seemly to behold, Lusty and fresh, demure of countynaunce, Yong and wel shap, with here [that] shoon as gold, With yen as cristall, farced with plesaunce; And she gan stir myne harte a lite to daunce; But sodenly she vanissh gan right there: Thus I may sey, I love and wot not where. For what she is, ne her dwelling I not, And yet I fele that love distraineth me: Might ich her know, that wold I fain, god wot, Serve and obey with all benignitee. And if that other be my destinee, So that no wyse I shall her never see, Than graunt me her that best may lyken me, With glad rejoyse to live in parfit hele, Devoide of wrath, repent, or variaunce; And able me to do that may be wele Unto my lady, with hertes hy plesaunce: And, mighty goddes! through thy purviaunce My wit, my thought, my lust and love so gyde, That to thyne honour I may me provyde To set myne herte in place there I may lyke, And gladly serve with all affeccioun. Gret is the pain which at myn hert doth stik, Till I be sped by thyn eleccioun: Help, lady goddes! that possessioun I might of her have, that in all my lyfe I clepen shall my quene and hertes wife. And in the Court of Love to dwell for ay My wille it is, and don thee sacrifice: Daily with Diane eke to fight and fray, And holden werre, as might well me suffice: That goddes chaste I kepen in no wyse To serve; a fig for all her chastitee! 768 Her lawe is for religiositee.' And thus gan finish preyer, lawde, and preise, Which that I yove to Venus on my knee, And in myne hert to ponder and to peise, I gave anon hir image fressh bewtie; 'Heil to that figure sweet! and heil to thee, Cupide,' quod I, and rose and yede my way; And in the temple as I yede I sey A shryne sormownting all in stones riche, Of which the force was plesaunce to myn y, With diamant or saphire; never liche I have non seyn, ne wrought so wonderly. So whan I met with Philobone, in hy I gan demaund, 'Who[s] is this sepulture?' 'Forsoth,' quod she, 'a tender creature Is shryned there, and Pitè is her name. She saw an egle wreke him on a fly, And pluk his wing, and eke him, in his game, And tender herte of that hath made her dy: Eke she wold wepe, and morn right pitously To seen a lover suffre gret destresse. In all the court nas non that, as I gesse, That coude a lover half so well availe, Ne of his wo the torment or the rage Aslaken, for he was sure, withouten faile, That of his grief she coud the hete aswage. In sted of Pitè, spedeth hot corage The maters all of court, now she is dede; I me report in this to womanhede. For weile and wepe, and crye, and speke, and pray,— Women wold not have pitè on thy plaint; Ne by that mene to ese thyn hart convey, 769 But thee receiven for their own talent: And sey, that Pitè causith thee, in consent Of rewth, to take thy service and thy pain In that thow mayst, to plese thy souverain. But this is councell, keep it secretly;' Quod she, 'I nold, for all the world abowt, The Quene of Love it wist; and wit ye why? For if by me this matter springen out, In court no lenger shuld I, owt of dowt, Dwellen, but shame in all my life endry: Now kepe it close,' quod she, 'this hardely. Well, all is well! Now shall ye seen,' she seid, 'The feirest lady under son that is: Come on with me, demene you liche a maid, With shamefast dred, for ye shall spede, y-wis, With her that is the mir[th] and joy and blis: But sumwhat straunge and sad of her demene She is, be ware your countenaunce be sene, Nor over light, ne recheless, ne to bold, Ne malapert, ne rinning with your tong; For she will you abeisen and behold, And you demaund, why ye were hens so long Out of this court, without resort among: And Rosiall her name is hote aright, Whose harte as yet [is] yeven to no wight. And ye also ben, as I understond, With love but light avaunced, by your word; Might ye, by hap, your fredom maken bond, And fall in grace with her, and wele accord, Well might ye thank the god of Love and lord; For she that ye sawe in your dreme appere, To love suche one, what are ye than the nere? 770 Yit wot ye what? as my rememb[e]raunce Me yevith now, ye fayn, where that ye sey That ye with love had never acqueintaunce, Sauf in your dreme right late this other day: Why, yis, parde! my life, that durst I lay, That ye were caught upon an heth, when I Saw you complain, and sigh full pitously; Within an erber, and a garden fair With floures growe, and herbes vertuous, Of which the savour swete was and the eyr, There were your-self full hoot and amorous: Y-wis, ye ben to nice and daungerous; A! wold ye now repent, and love som new?'— 'Nay, by my trouth,' I seid, 'I never knew The goodly wight, whos I shall be for ay: Guyde me the lord that love hath made and me.' But furth we went in-till a chambre gay, There was Rosiall, womanly to see, Whose stremes sotell-persing of her ee Myn hart gan thrill for bewtie in the stound: 'Alas,' quod I, 'who hath me yeve this wound?' And than I dred to speke, till at the last I gret the lady reverently and wele, Whan that my sigh was gon and over-past; And down on knees full humbly gan I knele, Beseching her my fervent wo to kele, For there I took full purpose in my mind, Unto her grace my painfull hart to bind. For if I shall all fully her discryve, Her hede was round, by compace of nature, Her here as gold,—she passed all on-lyve,— And lily forhede had this crëature, With lovelich browes, flawe, of colour pure, Bytwene the which was mene disseveraunce 771 From every brow, to shewe[n] a distaunce. Her nose directed streight, and even as lyne, With fourm and shap therto convenient, In which the goddes milk-whyt path doth shine; And eke her yen ben bright and orient As is the smaragde, unto my juggement, Or yet thise sterres hevenly, smale and bright; Her visage is of lovely rede and whyte. Her mouth is short, and shit in litell space, Flaming somdele, not over-rede, I mene, With pregnant lippes, and thik to kiss, percas; (For lippes thin, not fat, but ever lene, They serve of naught, they be not worth a bene; For if the basse ben full, there is delyt, Maximian truly thus doth he wryte.) But to my purpose:—I sey, whyte as snow Ben all her teeth, and in order thay stond Of oon stature; and eke hir breth, I trow, Surmounteth alle odours that ever I fond In sweetnes; and her body, face, and hond Ben sharply slender, so that from the hede Unto the fote, all is but womanhede. I hold my pees of other thinges hid:— Here shall my soul, and not my tong, bewray:— But how she was arrayed, if ye me bid, That shall I well discover you and say: A bend of gold and silk, full fressh and gay; With here in tresse[s], browdered full well, Right smothly kept, and shyning every-del. About her nek a flour of fressh devyse With rubies set, that lusty were to sene; And she in gown was, light and somer-wyse, 772 Shapen full wele, the colour was of grene, With aureat seint about her sydes clene, With dyvers stones, precious and riche:— Thus was she rayed, yet saugh I never her liche. For if that Jove had [but] this lady seyn, Tho Calixto ne [yet] Alcmenia, Thay never hadden in his armes leyn; Ne he had loved the faire Europa; Ye, ne yet Dane ne Antiopa! For al their bewtie stood in Rosiall; She semed lich a thing celestiall In bowntè, favor, port, and semliness, Plesaunt of figure, mirrour of delyt, Gracious to sene, and rote of gentilness, With angel visage, lusty rede and white: There was not lak, sauf daunger had a lite This goodly fressh in rule and governaunce; And somdel straunge she was, for her plesaunce. And truly sone I took my leve and went, Whan she had me enquyred what I was; For more and more impressen gan the dent Of Loves dart, whyl I beheld her face; And eft again I com to seken grace, And up I put my bill, with sentence clere That folwith aftir; rede and ye shall here. 'O ye [the] fressh, of [all] bewtie the rote, That nature hath fourmed so wele and made Princesse and Quene! and ye that may do bote Of all my langour with your wordes glad! Ye wounded me, ye made me wo-bestad; Of grace redress my mortall grief, as ye Of all myne harm the verrey causer be. 773 Now am I caught, and unwar sodenly, With persant stremes of your yën clere, Subject to ben, and serven you meekly, And all your man, y-wis, my lady dere, Abiding grace, of which I you requere, That merciles ye cause me not to sterve; But guerdon me, liche as I may deserve. For, by my troth, the dayes of my breth I am and will be youre in wille and hert, Pacient and meek, for you to suffre deth If it require; now rewe upon my smert; And this I swere, I never shall out-stert From Loves Court for none adversitee, So ye wold rewe on my distresse and me. My destinee, my fate, and ure I bliss, That have me set to ben obedient Only to you, the flour of all, y-wis: I trust to Venus never to repent; For ever redy, glad, and diligent Ye shall me finde in service to your grace, Till deth my lyfe out of my body race. Humble unto your excellence so digne, Enforcing ay my wittes and delyt To serve and plese with glad herte and benigne, And ben as Troilus, [old] Troyes knight, Or Antony for Cleopatre bright, And never you me thinkes to reney: This shall I kepe unto myne ending-day. Enprent my speche in your memorial Sadly, my princess, salve of all my sore! And think that, for I wold becomen thrall, And ben your own, as I have seyd before, Ye must of pity cherissh more and more Your man, and tender aftir his desert, 774 And yive him corage for to ben expert. For where that oon hath set his herte on fire, And findeth nether refut ne plesaunce, Ne word of comfort, deth will quyte his hire. Allas! that there is none allegeaunce Of all their wo! allas, the gret grevaunce To love unloved! But ye, my Lady dere, In other wyse may govern this matere.' 'Truly, gramercy, frend, of your good will, And of your profer in your humble wyse! But for your service, take and kepe it still. And where ye say, I ought you well cheryse, And of your gref the remedy devyse, I know not why: I nam acqueinted well With you, ne wot not sothly where ye dwell.' 'In art of love I wryte, and songes make, That may be song in honour of the King And Quene of Love; and than I undertake, He that is sad shall than full mery sing. And daunger[o]us not ben in every thing Beseche I you, but seen my will and rede, And let your aunswer put me out of drede.' 'What is your name? reherse it here, I pray, Of whens and where, of what condicion That ye ben of? Let see, com of and say! Fain wold I know your disposicion:— Ye have put on your old entencion; But what ye mene to servë me I noot, Sauf that ye say ye love me wonder hoot.' 'My name? alas, my hert, why [make it straunge?] Philogenet I cald am fer and nere, Of Cambrige clerk, that never think to chaunge 775 Fro you that with your hevenly stremes clere Ravissh myne herte and gost and all in-fere: This is the first, I write my bill for grace, Me think, I see som mercy in your face. And what I mene, by god that al hath wrought, My bill, that maketh finall mencion, That ye ben, lady, in myne inward thought Of all myne hert without offencion, That I best love, and have, sith I begon To draw to court. Lo, than! what might I say? I yeld me here, [lo!] unto your nobley. And if that I offend, or wilfully By pompe of hart your precept disobey, Or doon again your will unskillfully, Or greven you, for ernest or for play, Correct ye me right sharply than, I pray, As it is sene unto your womanhede, And rewe on me, or ellis I nam but dede.' 'Nay, god forbede to feffe you so with grace, And for a worde of sugred eloquence, To have compassion in so litell space! Than were it tyme that som of us were hens! Ye shall not find in me suche insolence. Ay? what is this? may ye not suffer sight? How may ye loke upon the candill-light, That clere[r] is and hotter than myn y? And yet ye seid, the bemes perse and frete:— How shall ye than the candel-[l]ight endry? For wel wot ye, that hath the sharper hete. And there ye bid me you correct and bete, If ye offend,—nay, that may not be doon: There come but few that speden here so soon. 776 Withdraw your y, withdraw from presens eke: Hurt not yourself, through foly, with a loke; I wold be sory so to make you seke: A woman shuld be ware eke whom she toke: Ye beth a clark:—go serchen [in] my boke, If any women ben so light to win: Nay, byde a whyl, though ye were all my kin. So soon ye may not win myne harte, in trouth The gyse of court will seen your stedfastness, And as ye don, to have upon you rewth. Your own desert, and lowly gentilness, That will reward you joy for heviness; And though ye waxen pale, and grene and dede, Ye must it use a while, withouten drede, And it accept, and grucchen in no wyse; But where as ye me hastily desyre To been to love, me think, ye be not wyse. Cese of your language! cese, I you requyre! For he that hath this twenty yere ben here May not obtayn; than marveile I that ye Be now so bold, of love to trete with me.' 'Ah! mercy, hart, my lady and my love, My rightwyse princesse and my lyves guyde! Now may I playn to Venus all above, That rewthles ye me give these woundes wyde! What have I don? why may it not betyde, That for my trouth I may received be? Alas! your daunger and your crueltè! In wofull hour I got was, welaway! In wofull hour [y-]fostred and y-fed, In wofull hour y-born, that I ne may My supplicacion swetely have y-sped! The frosty grave and cold must be my bedde, Without ye list your grace and mercy shewe, 777 Deth with his axe so faste on me doth hewe. So greet disese and in so litell whyle, So litell joy, that felte I never yet; And at my wo Fortune ginneth to smyle, That never erst I felt so harde a fit: Confounded ben my spirits and my wit, Till that my lady take me to her cure, Which I love best of erthely crëature. But that I lyke, that may I not com by; Of that I playn, that have I habondaunce; Sorrow and thought, thay sit me wounder ny; Me is withhold that might be my plesaunce: Yet turne again, my worldly suffisaunce! O lady bright! and save your feithfull true, And, er I die, yet on[e]s upon me rewe.' With that I fell in sounde, and dede as stone, With colour slain, and wan as assh[es] pale; And by the hand she caught me up anon, 'Aryse,' quod she, 'what? have ye dronken dwale? Why slepen ye? it is no nightertale.' 'Now mercy, swete,' quod I, y-wis affrayed: 'What thing,' quod she, 'hath mad you so dismayed? Now wot I well that ye a lover be, Your hewe is witnesse in this thing,' she seid: 'If ye were secret, [ye] might know,' quod she, 'Curteise and kind, all this shuld be allayed: And now, myn herte! all that I have misseid, I shall amend, and set your harte in ese.' 'That word it is,' quod I, 'that doth me plese.' 'But this I charge, that ye the statuts kepe, And breke thaim not for sloth nor ignoraunce.' With that she gan to smyle and laughen depe. 778 'Y-wis,' quod I, 'I will do your plesaunce; The sixteenth statut doth me grete grevaunce, But ye must that relesse or modifie.' 'I graunt,' quod she, 'and so I will truly.' And softly than her colour gan appeare, As rose so rede, through-out her visage all, Wherefore me think it is according here, That she of right be cleped Rosiall. Thus have I won, with wordes grete and small, Some goodly word of hir that I love best, And trust she shall yit set myne harte in rest. 'Goth on,' she seid to Philobone, 'and take This man with you, and lede him all abowt Within the court, and shew him, for my sake, What lovers dwell withinne, and all the rowte Of officers; for he is, out of dowte, A straunger yit:'—'Come on,' quod Philobone, 'Philogenet, with me now must ye gon.' And stalking soft with esy pace, I saw About the king [ther] stonden environ, Attendaunce, Diligence, and their felaw Fortherer, Esperaunce, and many oon; Dred-to-offend there stood, and not aloon; For there was eke the cruell adversair, The lovers fo, that cleped is Dispair, Which unto me spak angrely and fell, And said, my lady me deceiven shall: 'Trowest thow,' quod she, 'that all that she did tell, Is true? Nay, nay, but under hony gall! Thy birth and hers, [they] be nothing egall: Cast of thyn hart, for all her wordes whyte, For in good faith she lovith thee but a lyte. 779 And eek remember, thyn habilite May not compare with hir, this well thow wot.' Ye, than cam Hope and said, 'My frend, let be! Beleve him not: Dispair, he ginneth dote.' 'Alas,' quod I, 'here is both cold and hot: The tone me biddeth love, the toder nay; Thus wot I not what me is best to say. But well wot I, my lady graunted me, Truly to be my woundes remedy; Her gentilness may not infected be With dobleness, thus trust I till I dy.' So cast I void Dispaires company, And taken Hope to councell and to frend. 'Ye, kepe that wele,' quod Philobone, 'in mind.' And there besyde, within a bay-window, Stood oon in grene, full large of brede and length, His berd as blak as fethers of the crow; His name was Lust, of wounder might and strength; And with Delyt to argue there he thenkth, For this was all his [hool] opinion, That love was sin! and so he hath begon To reson fast, and legge auctoritè: 'Nay,' quod Delyt, 'love is a vertue clere, And from the soule his progress holdeth he: Blind appetyt of lust doth often stere, And that is sin: for reson lakketh there, For thow [dost] think thy neigbours wyfe to win: Yit think it well that love may not be sin; For god and seint, they love right verely, Void of all sin and vice: this knowe I wele, Affeccion of flessh is sin, truly; But verray love is vertue, as I fele, For love may not thy freil desire akele: For [verray] love is love withouten sin.' 780 'Now stint,' quoth Lust, 'thow spekest not worth a pin.' And there I left thaim in their arguing, Roming ferther in the castell wyde, And in a corner Lier stood talking Of lesings fast, with Flatery there besyde; He seid that women were attire of pryde, And men were founde of nature variaunt, And coud be false, and shewen beau semblaunt. Than Flatery bespake and seid, y-wis: 'See, so she goth on patens faire and fete, Hit doth right wele: what prety man is this That rometh here? Now truly, drink ne mete Nede I not have; myne hart for joye doth bete Him to behold, so is he goodly fressh: It semeth for love his harte is tender nessh.' This is the court of lusty folk and glad, And wel becometh their habit and array: O why be som so sorry and so sad, Complaining thus in blak and whyte and gray? Freres they ben, and monkes, in good fay: Alas, for rewth! greet dole it is to seen, To see thaim thus bewaile and sory been. See how they cry and wring their handes whyte, For they so sone went to religion! And eke the nonnes, with vaile and wimple plight, There thought that they ben in confusion: 'Alas,' thay sayn, 'we fayn perfeccion, In clothes wide, and lak our libertè; But all the sin mote on our frendes be. For, Venus wot, we wold as fayn as ye, That ben attired here and wel besene, Desiren man, and love in our degree, 781 Ferme and feithfull, right as wold the quene: Our frendes wikke, in tender youth and grene, Ayenst our will made us religious; That is the cause we morne and wailen thus.' Than seid the monks and freres in the tyde, 'Wel may we curse our abbeys and our place, Our statuts sharp, to sing in copes wyde, Chastly to kepe us out of loves grace, And never to fele comfort ne solace; Yet suffre we the hete of loves fire, And after than other haply we desire. O Fortune cursed, why now and wherefore Hast thow,' they seid, 'beraft us libertè, Sith nature yave us instrument in store, And appetyt to love and lovers be? Why mot we suffer suche adversitè, Diane to serve, and Venus to refuse? Ful often sith this matier doth us muse. We serve and honour, sore ayenst our will, Of chastitè the goddes and the quene; Us leffer were with Venus byden still, And have reward for love, and soget been Unto thise women courtly, fressh, and shene. Fortune, we curse thy whele of variaunce! There we were wele, thou revest our plesaunce.' Thus leve I thaim, with voice of pleint and care, In raging wo crying ful pitously; And as I yede, full naked and full bare Some I behold, looking dispitously, On povertè that dedely cast their y; And 'Welaway!' they cried, and were not fain, For they ne might their glad desire attain. 782 For lak of richesse worldely and of gode, They banne and curse, and wepe, and sein, 'Alas, That poverte hath us hent that whylom stode At hartis ese, and free and in good case! But now we dar not shew our-self in place, Ne us embolde to duelle in company, There-as our hart wold love right faithfully.' And yet againward shryked every nonne, The prang of love so straineth thaim to cry: 'Now wo the tyme,' quod thay, 'that we be boun! This hateful ordre nyse will don us dy! We sigh and sobbe, and bleden inwardly, Freting our-self with thought and hard complaint, That ney for love we waxen wode and faint.' And as I stood beholding here and there, I was war of a sort full languisshing, Savage and wild of loking and of chere, Their mantels and their clothës ay tering; And oft thay were of nature complaining, For they their members lakked, fote and hand, With visage wry and blind, I understand. They lakked shap, and beautie to preferre Theim-self in love: and seid, that god and kind Hath forged thaim to worshippen the sterre, Venus the bright, and leften all behind His other werkes clene and out of mind: 'For other have their full shape and bewtee, And we,' quod they, 'ben in deformitè.' And nye to thaim there was a company, That have the susters waried and misseid; I mene, the three of fatall destinè, That be our werdes; and sone, in a brayd, Out gan they cry as they had been affrayd, 'We curse,' quod thay, 'that ever hath nature 783 Y-formed us, this wofull lyfe t'endure!' And there he was contrite, and gan repent, Confessing hole the wound that Citherè Hath with the dart of hot desire him sent, And how that he to love must subjet be: Than held he all his skornes vanitè, And seid, that lovers lede a blisful lyfe, Yong men and old, and widow, maid and wyfe. 'Bereve me, goddesse,' quod he, '[of] thy might, My skornes all and skoffes, that I have No power forth, to mokken any wight, That in thy service dwell: for I did rave: This know I well right now, so god me save, And I shal be the chief post of thy feith, And love uphold, the révers who-so seith.' Dissemble stood not fer from him in trouth, With party mantill, party hood and hose; And said, he had upon his lady rowth, And thus he wound him in, and gan to glose Of his entent full doble, I suppose: And al the world, he seid, he loved it wele; But ay, me thoughte, he loved her nere a dele. Eek Shamefastness was there, as I took hede, That blusshed rede, and durst nat ben a-knowe She lover was, for thereof had she drede; She stood and hing her visage down alowe; But suche a sight it was to sene, I trow, As of these roses rody on their stalk: There cowd no wight her spy to speke or talk In loves art, so gan she to abasshe, Ne durst not utter all her privitè: Many a stripe and many a grevous lasshe 784 She gave to thaim that wolden loveres be, And hindered sore the simpill comonaltè, That in no wyse durst grace and mercy crave; For were not she, they need but ask and have; Where if they now approchin for to speke, Than Shamefastness returnith thaim again: Thay think, if we our secret councell breke, Our ladies will have scorn on us, certain, And [per]aventure thinken greet disdain: Thus Shamefastness may bringin in Dispeir, Whan she is dede, the toder will be heir. Com forth, Avaunter! now I ring thy bell! I spyed him sone; to god I make a-vowe, He loked blak as fendes doth in hell:— 'The first,' quod he, 'that ever [I] did wowe, Within a word she com, I wot not how, So that in armes was my lady free; And so hath ben a thousand mo than she. In Englond, Bretain, Spain, and Pycardie, Arteys, and Fraunce, and up in hy Holand, In Burgoyne, Naples, and [in] Italy, Naverne, and Grece, and up in hethen land, Was never woman yit that wold withstand To ben at myn commaundement, whan I wold: I lakked neither silver, coin, ne gold. And there I met with this estate and that; And here I broched her, and here, I trow: Lo! there goth oon of myne; and wot ye what? Yon fressh attired have I leyd full low; And such oon yonder eke right well I know: I kept the statut whan we lay y-fere; And yet yon same hath made me right good chere.' 785 Thus hath Avaunter blowen every-where Al that he knowith, and more, a thousand-fold; His auncetrye of kin was to Lière, For firste he makith promise for to hold His ladies councell, and it not unfold; Wherfore, the secret when he doth unshit, Than lyeth he, that all the world may wit. For falsing so his promise and behest, I wounder sore he hath such fantasie; He lakketh wit, I trowe, or is a best, That can no bet him-self with reson gy. By myn advice, Love shal be contrarie To his availe, and him eke dishonoure, So that in court he shall no more sojoure. 'Take hede,' quod she, this litell Philobone, 'Where Envy rokketh in the corner yond, And sitteth dirk; and ye shall see anone His lenë bodie, fading face and hond; Him-self he fretteth, as I understond; Witnesse of Ovid Methamorphosose; The lovers fo he is, I wil not glose. For where a lover thinketh him promote, Envy will grucch, repyning at his wele; Hit swelleth sore about his hartes rote, That in no wyse he can not live in hele; And if the feithfull to his lady stele, Envy will noise and ring it round aboute, And sey moche worse than don is, out of dowte.' And Prevy Thought, rejoysing of him-self, Stood not fer thens in habit mervelous; 'Yon is,' thought [I], 'som spirit or some elf, His sotill image is so curious: How is,' quod I, 'that he is shaded thus With yonder cloth, I not of what colour?' 786 And nere I went, and gan to lere and pore, And frayned him [a] question full hard. 'What is,' quod I, 'the thing thou lovest best? Or what is boot unto thy paines hard? Me think, thow livest here in grete unrest; Thow wandrest ay from south to est and west, And est to north; as fer as I can see, There is no place in court may holden thee. Whom folowest thow? where is thy harte y-set? But my demaunde asoile, I thee require.' 'Me thought,' quod he, 'no crëature may let Me to ben here, and where-as I desire: For where-as absence hath don out the fire, My mery thought it kindleth yet again, That bodily, me think, with my souverain I stand and speke, and laugh, and kisse, and halse, So that my thought comforteth me full oft: I think, god wot, though all the world be false, I will be trewe; I think also how soft My lady is in speche, and this on-loft Bringeth myn hart to joye and [greet] gladnesse; This prevey thought alayeth myne hevinesse. And what I thinke, or where to be, no man In all this erth can tell, y-wis, but I: And eke there nis no swallow swift, ne swan So wight of wing, ne half [so] yern can fly; For I can been, and that right sodenly, In heven, in helle, in paradise, and here, And with my lady, whan I will desire. I am of councell ferre and wyde, I wot, With lord and lady, and their previtè I wot it all; but be it cold or hot, 787 They shall not speke without licence of me, I mene, in suche as sesonable be; For first the thing is thought within the hert, Ere any word out from the mouth astert.' And with that word Thought bad farewell and yede: Eke furth went I to seen the courtes gyse: And at the dore cam in, so god me spede, Twey courteours of age and of assyse Liche high, and brode, and, as I me advyse, The Golden Love, and Leden Love thay hight: The ton was sad, the toder glad and light. ... 'Yis! draw your hart, with all your force and might, To lustiness, and been as ye have seid; And think that I no drop of favour hight, Ne never had to your desire obeyd, Till sodenly, me thought, me was affrayed, To seen you wax so dede of countenaunce; And Pitè bad me don you some plasaunce. Out of her shryne she roos from deth to lyve, And in myne ere full prevely she spak, 'Doth not your servaunt hens away to dryve, Rosiall,' quod she; and than myn harte [it] brak, For tender reuth: and where I found moch lak In your persoune, than I my-self bethought; And seid, 'This is the man myne harte hath sought.'' 'Gramercy, Pitè! might I but suffice To yeve the lawde unto thy shryne of gold, God wot, I wold; for sith that thou did rise From deth to lyve for me, I am behold To thanken you a thousand tymes told, And eke my lady Rosiall the shene, Which hath in comfort set myn harte, I wene. 788 And here I make myn protestacion, And depely swere, as [to] myn power, to been Feithfull, devoid of variacion, And her forbere in anger or in tene, And serviceable to my worldes quene, With al my reson and intelligence, To don her honour high and reverence.' I had not spoke so sone the word, but she, My souverain, did thank me hartily, And seid, 'Abyde, ye shall dwell still with me Till seson come of May; for than, truly, The King of Love and all his company Shall hold his fest full ryally and well:' And there I bode till that the seson fell. On May-day, whan the lark began to ryse, To matens went the lusty nightingale Within a temple shapen hawthorn-wise; He might not slepe in all the nightertale, But 'Domine labia,' gan he crye and gale, 'My lippes open, Lord of Love, I crye, And let my mouth thy preising now bewrye.' The eagle sang 'Venite, bodies all, And let us joye to love that is our helth.' And to the deske anon they gan to fall, And who come late, he pressed in by stelth: Than seid the fawcon, our own hartis welth, 'Domine, Dominus noster, I wot, Ye be the god that don us bren thus hot.' 'Celi enarrant,' said the popingay, 'Your might is told in heven and firmament.' And than came in the goldfinch fresh and gay, And said this psalm with hertly glad intent, 789 'Domini est terra; this Laten intent, The god of Love hath erth in governaunce:' And than the wren gan skippen and to daunce. 'Jube, Domine, Lord of Love, I pray Commaund me well this lesson for to rede; This legend is of all that wolden dey Marters for love; god yive the sowles spede! And to thee, Venus, sing we, out of drede, By influence of all thy vertue grete, Beseching thee to kepe us in our hete.' The second lesson robin redebrest sang, 'Hail to the god and goddess of our lay!' And to the lectorn amorously he sprang:— 'Hail,' quod [he] eke, 'O fresh seson of May, Our moneth glad that singen on the spray! Hail to the floures, rede, and whyte, and blewe, Which by their vertue make our lustes newe!' The thrid lesson the turtill-dove took up, And therat lough the mavis [as] in scorn: He said, 'O god, as mot I dyne or sup, This folissh dove will give us all an horn! There been right here a thousand better born, To rede this lesson, which, as well as he, And eke as hot, can love in all degree.' The turtill-dove said, 'Welcom, welcom, May, Gladsom and light to loveres that ben trewe! I thank thee, Lord of Love, that doth purvey For me to rede this lesson all of dewe; For, in gode sooth, of corage I pursue To serve my make till deth us must depart:' And than 'Tu autem' sang he all apart. 'Te deum amoris,' sang the thrustell-cok: 790 Tuball him-self, the first musician, With key of armony coude not unlok So swete [a] tewne as that the thrustill can: 'The Lord of Love we praisen,' quod he than, 'And so don all the fowles, grete and lyte; Honour we May, in fals lovers dispyte.' 'Dominus regnavit,' seid the pecok there, 'The Lord of Love, that mighty prince, y-wis, He hath received her[e] and every-where: Now Jubilate sing:'—'What meneth this?' Seid than the linet; 'welcom, Lord of blisse!' Out-stert the owl with 'Benedicite,' What meneth al this mery fare?' quod he. 'Laudate,' sang the lark with voice full shrill; And eke the kite, 'O admirabile; This quere will throgh myne eris pers and thrill; But what? welcom this May seson,' quod he; 'And honour to the Lord of Love mot be, That hath this feest so solemn and so high:' 'Amen,' seid all; and so seid eke the pye. And furth the cokkow gan procede anon, With 'Benedictus' thanking god in hast, That in this May wold visite thaim echon, And gladden thaim all whyl the fest shall last: And therewithall a-loughter out he brast, 'I thank it god that I shuld end the song, And all the service which hath been so long.' Thus sang thay all the service of the fest, And that was don right erly, to my dome; And furth goth all the Court, both most and lest, To feche the floures fressh, and braunche and blome; And namly, hawthorn brought both page and grome. With fressh garlandës, partie blewe and whyte, And thaim rejoysen in their greet delyt. 791 Eke eche at other threw the floures bright, The prymerose, the violet, the gold; So than, as I beheld the ryall sight, My lady gan me sodenly behold, And with a trew-love, plited many-fold, She smoot me through the [very] hert as blyve; And Venus yet I thanke I am alyve. ~ Anonymous Olde English,

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