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1.068_-_The_Pen

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1.068_-_The_Pen

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KEYS (10k)

   1 Vivekananda
   1 Terence James Stannus Gray
   1 Origen
   1 Elon Musk
   1 Saint Thomas Aquinas

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   10 Anonymous
   5 Carl Jung
   4 Terry Pratchett
   4 Plato
   4 Malala Yousafzai
   3 Stephen King
   3 Rumi
   3 Miguel de Cervantes
   3 Israelmore Ayivor
   3 Ernest Hemingway
   3 Edward Bulwer Lytton
   3 Daniel Ellsberg
   3 Brittainy C Cherry
   2 Yann Martel
   2 Woodrow Wilson
   2 William Graham Sumner
   2 Umberto Eco
   2 Tom Robbins
   2 Shad Helmstetter
   2 Seneca

1:l that the seeker can find is his own absence." ~ Terence James Stannus Gray, (1895 - 1986), under the pen name "Wei Wu Wei", he published eight books on Taoist philosophy, Wikipedia.,

2:The resolution of every duality is nameless… For no non-duality can be a thing or an object." ~ Terence James Stannus Gray, (1895 - 1986), under the pen name "Wei Wu Wei", he published eight books on Taoist philosophy, Wikipedia.,

3:Liberation is liberation from the idea of liberation. There is no one to be bound, no one to be free." ~ Terence James Stannus Gray, (1895 - 1986), under the pen name "Wei Wu Wei", he published eight books on Taoist philosophy, Wikipedia.,

4:When you kick a man when he is down — do you realize that you are kicking yourself? Give him another kick — if you think you deserve it." ~ Terence James Stannus Gray, (1895 - 1986), under the pen name "Wei Wu Wei", he published eight books on Taoist philosophy, Wikipedia.,

5:You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink. ~ G K Chesterton,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:The pen is the tongue of the mind. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove

2:The pen is the tongue of the hand; a silent utterer of words for the eye. ~ henry-ward-beecher, @wisdomtrove

3:The pen is the tongue of the soul; as are the thoughts engendered there, so will be the things written. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove

4:The pen is the language of the soul; as the concepts that in it are generated, such will be its writings. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove

5:When the tongue or the pen is let loose in a frenzy of passion, it is the man, and not the subject, that becomes exhausted. ~ thomas-paine, @wisdomtrove

6:I consider it an indubitable mark of mean-spiritedness and pitiful vanity to court applause from the pen or tongue of man. ~ george-washington, @wisdomtrove

7:Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end. ~ robert-louis-stevenson, @wisdomtrove

8:Do you think I am standing here, making this up as I go? I am sorry to disillusion you. I am not Robin Williams. I am the king of the pen. ~ mitch-hedberg, @wisdomtrove

9:The camera need not be a cold mechanical device. Like the pen, it is as good as the man who uses it. It can be the extension of mind and heart. ~ john-steinbeck, @wisdomtrove

10:So, I sit at the hotel at night and I think of something that's funny. Or, If the pen is too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of wasn't funny. ~ mitch-hedberg, @wisdomtrove

11:To write history one must be more than a man, since the author who holds the pen of this great justiciary must be free from all preoccupation of interest or vanity. ~ napoleon-bonaparte, @wisdomtrove

12:Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame. ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

13:Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ jane-austen, @wisdomtrove

14:Before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson etched across the pages of history the majestic words of the Declaration of Independence, we were here. ~ martin-luther-king, @wisdomtrove

15:The slanders of the pen pierce to the heart; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits; they dwell ever present in the mind and render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. ~ washington-irving, @wisdomtrove

16:Like most arts, the link between the mind and the pen can chain you like an enslaved workaholic. Even on an intended vacation you suddenly have this killer urge to record whatever the vacation may teach. ~ criss-jami, @wisdomtrove

17:The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper; on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I. ~ virginia-woolf, @wisdomtrove

18:For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver. ~ virginia-woolf, @wisdomtrove

19:Every job from the heart is, ultimately, of equal value. The nurse injects the syringe; the writer slides the pen; the farmer plows the dirt; the comedian draws the laughter. Monetary income is the perfect deceiver of a man's true worth. ~ criss-jami, @wisdomtrove

20:I write jokes for a living, man. See I sit in my hotel at night, I think of something that's funny and then I go get a pen and I write it down. Or if the pen's too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of ain't funny. ~ mitch-hedberg, @wisdomtrove

21:There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told. Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clew regain? The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain! ~ henry-wadsworth-longfellow, @wisdomtrove

22:You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink. ~ g-k-chesterton, @wisdomtrove

23:Considering the multitude of mortals that handle the pen in these days, and can mostly spell, and write without glaring violations of grammar, the question naturally arises: How is it, then, that no work proceeds from them, bearing any stamp of authenticity and permanence; of worth for more than one day? ~ thomas-carlyle, @wisdomtrove

24:You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterwards in a recasting... It will come if it is there and if you will let it come. ~ gertrude-stein, @wisdomtrove

25:[E]very plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its dénouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we can plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points tend to the development of the intention. ~ edgar-allan-poe, @wisdomtrove

26:Oh! why was I born with a different face? why was I not born like the rest of my race? when I look,each one starts! when I speak, I offend; then Im silent & passive & lose every friend. Then my verse I dishonour, my pictures despise, my person degrade & my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; all my talents I bury, and dead is my fame. Im either too low or too highly prized; when elate I m envy'd, when meek Im despis'd ~ william-blake, @wisdomtrove

27:It is (to describe it figuratively) as if an author were to make a slip of the pen, and as if this clerical error became conscious of being such. Perhaps this was no error but in a far higher sense was an essential part of the whole exposition. It is, then, as if this clerical error were to revolt against the author, out of hatred for him, were to forbid him to correct it, and were to say, "No, I will not be erased, I will stand as a witness against thee, that thou art a very poor writer." ~ soren-kierkegaard, @wisdomtrove

28:The good diarist writes either for himself alone or for a posterity so distant that it can safely hear every secret and justly weigh every motive. For such an audience there is need neither of affectation nor of restraint. Sincerity is what they ask, detail, and volume; skill with the pen comes in conveniently, but brilliance is not necessary; genius is a hindrance even; and should you know your business and do it manfully, posterity will let you off mixing with great men, reporting famous affairs, or having lain with the first ladies in the land. ~ virginia-woolf, @wisdomtrove

29:In the immensity of consciousness, a light appears, a tiny point that moves rapidly and traces shapes, thoughts and feelings, concepts and ideas, like the pen writing on paper. And the ink that leaves a trace is memory. You are that tiny point and by your movement the world is ever re-created. Stop moving, and there will be no world. Look within and you will find that the point of light is the reflection of the immensity of light in the body, as the sense &

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:All I'm about is just the pen. ~ Pusha T,

2:The chisel is the pen of the sculptor. ~ Pope Pius IX,

3:THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD!!!! ~ Rick Riordan,

4:The pencil is mightier than the pen. ~ Robert M Pirsig,

5:Put down the pen someone else gave you. ~ Jack Kerouac,

6:The pen is the tongue of the mind. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

7:THE pen is mightier than the sword ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,

8:The pen is mightier than the sword! ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,

9:Wine is a clog to the pen, not an inspiration. ~ Mark Twain,

10:Stroke of the pen. Law of the land. Kinda cool. ~ Paul Begala,

11:I can dip the pen in my own blood if I choose. ~ Marie Corelli,

12:Life in the pen ain't for me 'cos I'd rather die. ~ Tupac Shakur,

13:The pen is the tongue of the mind. ~ Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,

14:The pen is the lever that moves the world. ~ Thomas De Witt Talmage,

15:three fingers hold the pen, but the whole body works. ~ Umberto Eco,

16:When all else fails, use the pen. EMW ~ Erik Martin Will n,

17:Sadness takes up the pen more readily than joy. ~ Henri Frederic Amiel,

18:As an artist, you reach for the pen that's full of blood. ~ Paul Monette,

19:The pen is in your hands, the rest is still unwritten. ~ Natasha Bedingfield,

20:I am a man-pen. I feel through the pen, because of the pen. ~ Gustave Flaubert,

21:I break into a sweat when I find a Sharpie cap, but not the pen. ~ Helen Ellis,

22:the pen is as wise as the mind that speaks through it ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,

23:The ink in the pen that writes success stories is "FOCUS"... ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

24:The pen isn’t really the weapon - the work ethic is the weapon. ~ Lemon Andersen,

25:The pen is mightier than the sword, if you know where to poke it. ~ Jeremy C Shipp,

26:where the pen was fitted to the matter as the plough is to the furrow; ~ Willa Cather,

27:The pen is mightier than the sword” was written by a pen making it biased. ~ Anonymous,

28:The pen is mightier than the sword, if you shoot that pen out of a gun ~ Stephen Colbert,

29:When one has no particular talent for anything, one takes to the pen. ~ Honore de Balzac,

30:You say grace before meals. I say grace before I dip the pen in the ink. ~ G K Chesterton,

31:If the pen is mightier than the sword, then bureaucracy is a Challenger tank. ~ Mina Carter,

32:God writes the story of our lives with the pen strokes of our own free choices. ~ Peter Kreeft,

33:Read the heart and not the letter for the pen cannot draw near the good intent. ~ Michelangelo,

34:The pen is the tongue of the hand; a silent utterer of words for the eye. ~ Henry Ward Beecher,

35:What a heavy oar the pen is, and what a strong current ideas are to row in! ~ Gustave Flaubert,

36:I jack, I rob, I sin. Aw man, I'm Jackie Robinson 'Cept when I run base, I dodge the pen ~ Jay Z,

37:You can call anyone you want a traitor as long as you're the one holding the pen. ~ Nihad Sirees,

38:Beneath the rule of men entirely great, the pen is mightier than the sword. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,

39:the finest achievements are those of the pen. ... To me God the Father is a writer. ~ Leslie Caron,

40:It isn’t the pen—it’s the writer; it isn’t the road—it’s the runner that counts. ~ Shad Helmstetter,

41:Your eyelashes will write on my heart the poem that could never come from the pen of a poet. ~ Rumi,

42:Anyone who thinks the pen is mightier than the sword has not been stabbed with both. ~ Daniel Handler,

43:The gun is mightier than the pen, was our true opinion, and the RPG is mightier still. ~ Lydia Millet,

44:The magic of the pen lies in the concentration of your thoughts upon one object. ~ George Henry Lewes,

45:[T]he Pictures of the Pen shall outlast those of the Pencil, and even Worlds themselves. ~ Aphra Behn,

46:Your eyelashes will write on my heart the poem that could never come from the pen of a poet. ~ Rumi,

47:at me again, and then the pen. “If you want that money,” he said, “you had better sign. ~ Louis L Amour,

48:The pen to a writer is like a cigarette to a smoker; they need it to take the edge off. ~ Kellie Elmore,

49:It is through the tongue, the pen, and the press that truth is principally propagated. ~ Angelina Grimke,

50:Read the heart and not the letter for the pen cannot draw near the good intent. ~ Michelangelo Buonarroti,

51:Waiting for the pen to dry up so he can start fresh with thoughts that are worth new ink. ~ Brian Andreas,

52:When we leave the pen in His hands we will never be disappointed with the story of our lives. ~ Eric Ludy,

53:If they cut off both hands, I will compose music anyway holding the pen in my teeth. ~ Dmitri Shostakovich,

54:This is where I begin to do the writing. I am now going to be the pen and not the paper. ~ Peter Greenaway,

55:From the pen of ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER June 10, 1886 Paris, France My dearest Amelia, ~ Barbara A Shapiro,

56:The camera is simply not the supple and powerful instrument of description that the pen is. ~ Janet Malcolm,

57:The pen is mightier than the sword, but the tongue is mightier than them both put together. ~ Marcus Garvey,

58:The pen is mightier than the sword if the sword is very short, and the pen is very sharp. ~ Terry Pratchett,

59:The pen is mightier than the sword… if the sword is very small and the pen is very sharp. ~ Terry Pratchett,

60:this is not the first time that intimidation by typewriter has caused me to consider the pen. ~ Tom Robbins,

61:I jotted the name down mentally on that tattered notepad I call a memory. The pen skipped. ~ Jonathan Lethem,

62:Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword, obviously never encountered automatic weapons. ~ Greig Beck,

63:Anyone who says the pen is mightier than the sword has never come face-to-face with a gun. ~ Rabih Alameddine,

64:Since day one, since the first time I touched the pen, I wanted to be the best at what I do. ~ Kendrick Lamar,

65:Do not pick up the pen unless you understand how heavy it is, and how long you may carry it for. ~ Jason Ellis,

66:I used the pen name because I knew I wanted to write better novels under my own name someday. ~ Nelson DeMille,

67:Autobiography, we know, is flawed from the moment the nib of the pen touches the parchment. ~ Zia Haider Rahman,

68:Now, as we close one chapter, the pen is gradually inking up, preparing itself to write the next. ~ Mie Hansson,

69:The pen is mightier than the sword ... if the sword is very short, and the pen is very sharp. ~ Terry Pratchett,

70:The pen is a poor exchange for the long-barreled gun." "It does more execution, nevertheless, ~ Frederick Marryat,

71:I am not afraid of the pen, or the scaffold, or the sword. I will tell the truth wherever I please. ~ Mother Jones,

72:I prefer the pen. There is something elemental about the glide and flow of nib and ink on paper. ~ James Robertson,

73:Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword obviously never encountered automatic weapons. ~ Douglas MacArthur,

74:The pen is mightier than the sword” only if the brain behind it knows how to wield the word!’ Tony Buzan ~ Tony Buzan,

75:Did you know the pen is stronger than the knife: they can kill you once but they can't kill you twice. ~ Damian Marley,

76:There was power in the pen, I knew this for certain...It was there all the time, just waiting for me. ~ Shay Youngblood,

77:But it made her smile, to see it, to see how the pen formed the shapes and the shapes told a story of a name. ~ Lois Lowry,

78:The illiterate of the future will be the person ignorant of the use of the camera as well as the pen. ~ Laszlo Moholy Nagy,

79:Why don’t they want girls to go to school?’ I asked my father. ‘They are scared of the pen,’ he replied. ~ Malala Yousafzai,

80:the pen and the words that come from it can be much more powerful than machine guns, tanks or helicopters. ~ Malala Yousafzai,

81:The pen is the tongue of the soul; as are the thoughts engendered there, so will be the things written. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

82:The pen is the language of the soul; as the concepts that in it are generated, such will be its writings. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

83:The pen might not be mightier than the sword, but maybe the printing press was heavier that the siege weapon. ~ Terry Pratchett,

84:The pen feels unnatural in my hand. It’s so much weightier than pencil. Permanent. There are no erasers, in life. ~ Cynthia Hand,

85:White House had to know the consequences of the Pen- tagon's reticence about reconstruction well before the Iraq War ~ Anonymous,

86:The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing. ~ William Wordsworth,

87:The pen writes upside down. You can even use it in outer space.” “You're sending me to outer space?” “Don't tempt me. ~ Eva Simone,

88:Jesus is too colossal for the pen of phrasemongers, however artful. No man can dispose of Christianity with a bon mot ~ Albert Einstein,

89:There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen to write. ~ William Makepeace Thackeray,

90:The pen might be mightier than the sword, but it’s probably not going to end well for you if you bring one to a gunfight. ~ Steve McHugh,

91:I never said I was good,” he told her, taking the pen. “Just that I liked doing it.” “That’s the best kind of good. ~ Jennifer E Smith,

92:The man who said the pen was mightier than the sword ought to have tried reading "The Mill on the Floss" to Motor Mechanics. ~ Tom Sharpe,

93:When the tongue or the pen is let loose in a frenzy of passion, it is the man, and not the subject, that becomes exhausted. ~ Thomas Paine,

94:Like Ice Cube asks, "Why are more niggers in the pen than in college?" It's easier to go to the pen than it is to go to college. ~ Snoop Dogg,

95:I consider it an indubitable mark of mean-spiritedness and pitiful vanity to court applause from the pen or tongue of man. ~ George Washington,

96:Be yourself behind the pen, not Hemingway, Joyce or Faulkner. Find your own voice. Let your own mind run through your fingers. ~ Mark Rubinstein,

97:Nature herself seems, I say, to take the pen out of his hand, and to write for him with her own bare, sheer, penetrating power. ~ Matthew Arnold,

98:I began to see that the pen and the words that come from it can be much more powerful than machine guns, tanks or helicopters. ~ Malala Yousafzai,

99:success, ultimately, is up to the individual. It isn’t the pen—it’s the writer; it isn’t the road—it’s the runner that counts. ~ Shad Helmstetter,

100:Things seemed clear in my head and even when I talked before the crowd, but the words never came out of the pen right. Besides, ~ Suzanne Collins,

101:To idealize: all writing is a campaign against cliché. Not just clichés of the pen but clichés of the mind and clichés of the heart. ~ Martin Amis,

102:My heart is inditing a good matter: I speak of the things which I have made touching the king: my tongue [is] the pen of a ready writer. ~ Anonymous,

103:If the pen really is mightier than the sword then you guys better watch out, because I wrote my whole 700,000 w0rd trilogy in longhand! ~ M R Mathias,

104:There are no accusations with writing, no judgment, no shame, only freedom. As the pen touches the paper, for a moment, I'm alive. ~ Jessica Sorensen,

105:It was a fatal day when the public discovered that the pen is mightier than the paving-stone and can be made as offensive as a brickbat. ~ Oscar Wilde,

106:Is the pen really mightier than the sword? I suppose that depends on how sharp the pen is, and the strength of the warrior wielding it. ~ Max Hawthorne,

107:Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,

108:That’s what the pig in the pen says when his brother gets knifed for dinner.” He shrugged. “You’re still in the pen. Still gonna die. ~ Paolo Bacigalupi,

109:[This philosophy] does not … regard the pen as the only fit organ for the revelation of truth, but the eye and ear, the hand and foot ~ Ludwig Feuerbach,

110:Do you think I am standing here, making this up as I go? I am sorry to disillusion you. I am not Robin Williams. I am the king of the pen. ~ Mitch Hedberg,

111:There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a third power stronger than both, that of women. ~ Malala Yousafzai,

112:The possibility of being as free with the camera as we are with the pen is a fantastic prospect for the creative life of the 21st century. ~ Carlos Fuentes,

113:The pen is to thought what the stick is to walking, but one walks most easily without a stick, and thinks most perfectly when no pen is at hand. ~ Anonymous,

114:I used to steal pens at the store. Back in the day when you would write checks, I would write a check and use the pen, and I would keep the pen. ~ Rich Fulcher,

115:So it happened at last: I was about to become a thief, a cheap milk-stealer. Here was your lash-in-the-pen genius, your one story-writer: a thief. ~ John Fante,

116:The camera need not be a cold mechanical device. Like the pen, it is as good as the man who uses it. It can be the extension of mind and heart. ~ John Steinbeck,

117:What do people have against convicts? Is living together in the pen of freedom, where young people engage in mutual psychology, any more beautiful? ~ Karl Kraus,

118:As the belletrist extraordinaire Christopher Hitchens once told me, mastering the pen and the podium means never having to dine or sleep alone. ~ Michael Shermer,

119:In writing, you discover interior sonorities in words. Dipthongs sound differently beneath the pen. One hears them with their sounds divorced. ~ Gaston Bachelard,

120:Keeping the pen out of your hand as much as possible is the best way to write a song, in my estimation. But the pen must come in to tighten it up. ~ Glen Hansard,

121:The mere physical man is like the ant crawling on the paper, who observes black lettering and attributes its production to the pen and nothing more. ~ Al-Ghazali,

122:My earlier metaphor had been wrong, I discovered. The splash of ink from the pen dropping onto the page looked nothing like a spray of blood at all. ~ Lyndsay Faye,

123:But our wounds are part of who we are...and there is nothing left to chance....And pain's the pen that writes the songs....That call us forth to dance ~ Michael Card,

124:Writing without words? Its not easy, I tell you! I stab the pen into my heart and let the blood flow. No more ink, no more words, no more b.s. Just me. ~ Allison Mackie,

125:A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream. ~ Gaston Bachelard,

126:Burn worldly love, rub the ashes and make ink of it, make the heart the pen, the intellect the writer, write that which has no end or limit. ~ Guru Nanak,

127:To describe women, the pen should be dipped in the humid colors of the rainbow, and the paper dried with the dust gathered from the wings of a butterfly. ~ Denis Diderot,

128:Freedom begins the moment you realize someone else has been writing your story and it's time you took the pen from his hand and started writing it yourself. ~ Bill Moyers,

129:If my life was to be a story, I wanted to take control of the pen. I wanted to change the paper, crumple up what had been written so far and start over. I ~ Kandi Steiner,

130:I pick up my guitar and play. Something might come, and then the pen comes out. Then an edit, until something comes out that you're actually satisfied with. ~ Glen Hansard,

131:I've always been sceptical when people say 'The pen is mightier than the sword.' It's only true if the pen is glued to the handle of a German steel cutlass. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

132:I believe in the rest of the story. I believe there's still ink in the pen.... and someday all that's hazy through a clouded glass will be clear at last. ~ Nichole Nordeman,

133:the only way I can remember what happened is if i sit down & pray to the paper & hope the pen is a believer.- to make up for the fact that i'm not. ~ Amanda Lovelace,

134:There are days now where I think, "Oh man, that would've been a great entry," but I'm putting the pen down until I clear my head, or think of another book idea. ~ Andy Cohen,

135:My dad never blew anything up, but he probably had friends who did. He and my mom have always preached that the pen is mightier than a Molotov cocktail. ~ Joseph Gordon Levitt,

136:"Most of our lapses of the tongue, of the pen, of memory, and the like, are traceable to these [unconscious] disturbances, and are likewise all neurotic symptoms. " ~ Carl Jung,

137:Me? I'm just a literary girl gone wrong. Slow with the tongue. Quick with the pen. Undeniably cute. But, on the whole, ill-equipped for the privilege of living. ~ Koren Zailckas,

138:MY MOTHER AND HER ELDEST brother have facility with language, insight into people and social conditions. He became a famous poet (under the pen name Shivasagar), ~ Sujatha Gidla,

139:You must get an education. You must go to school, and you must learn to protect yourself. And you must learn to protect yourself with the pen, and not the gun. ~ Josephine Baker,

140:I tell him, and I write it down as I go. It makes me feel better, as if the weirdness is flowing out of my blood and onto the page, through the dark point of the pen ~ Robin Sloan,

141:One day you will take my heart completely and make it more fiery than a dragon. Your eyelashes will write on my heart the poem that could never come from the pen of a poet. ~ Rumi,

142:Doesn’t matter,” Maren said. “As long as the wolf enters the pen, who cares if it happens to eat the sheep?” Mac shook his head. “You can bet your ass the sheep cares. ~ Steve Alten,

143:Go ahead and eat your bread, a time will come when it shall get to you breath. Go ahead and leave your pen, exams will come when you shall remember the pen! ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,

144:So, I sit at the hotel at night and I think of something that's funny. Or, If the pen is too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of wasn't funny. ~ Mitch Hedberg,

145:Lucas Brothers Series Contemporary Romantic Comedy   Perfect Stroke Raging Heart On   Books Written Under the Pen Name Baylee Rose   Unlawful Seizure Unjustified Demands ~ Jordan Marie,

146:Read in the name of your Lord Who created. He created man from a clot.Read and your Lord is Most Honorable, Who taught (to write) with the pen. Taught man what he knew not. ~ Anonymous,

147:The incessant driving of the pen over paper causes intense fatigue of the hand and the whole arm because of the continuous ... strain on the muscles and tendons. ~ Bernardino Ramazzini,

148:To write history one must be more than a man, since the author who holds the pen of this great justiciary must be free from all preoccupation of interest or vanity. ~ Napoleon Bonaparte,

149:To write history one must be more than a man, since the author who holds the pen of this great justiciary must be free from all preoccupation of interest or vanity. ~ Napol on Bonaparte,

150:She held up the pen and gave him a lazy grin. "It's a rose." He came close. "It's a pen." He tried to pluck it from her hand. "You are seriously lacking in imagination. ~ Ronie Kendig,

151:If I’m going to lose it, I want to be broken in right.” The pen fell from Trenton’s mouth to the floor, and he bent down to pick it up. “Uh . . . any, uh . . . any special font? ~ Jamie McGuire,

152:Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame. ~ William Blake,

153:You have a great advantage as a writer, Monsieur,' said Poirot. 'You can relieve your feelings by expedient of the printed word. You have the power of the pen over your enemies. ~ Agatha Christie,

154:I paused with the pen in my hand. "He burst into flames?" "He became engulfed in fire." "Was his buddy made out of orange rocks and at any point yell, 'It's clobbering time'? ~ Ilona Andrews,

155:Tacitus has written an entire work on the manners of the Germans. This work is short, but it comes from the pen of Tacitus, who was always concise, because he saw everything at a glance. ~ Tacitus,

156:I paused with the pen in my hand. “He burst into flames?” “He became engulfed in fire.” “Was his buddy made out of orange rocks and did he at any point yell, ‘It’s clobbering time’? ~ Ilona Andrews,

157:It's also worth noting that, when you meet someone, you never ask if he's right- or left-handed. After all: Does it really matter to anyone other than the person holding the pen? ~ Jodi Picoult,

158:When I'm sitting at the desk not being able to write line one, it's silence and despair! It's not so easy to put the pen to the legal pad or type the first sentence on the computer screen. ~ Erica Jong,

159:Rational typefaces are drawn, not written, but their origins still come from the pen. Using a method called “expansion,” stroke weight is defined by the pressure applied to a pointed pen. ~ Stephen Coles,

160:Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ Jane Austen,

161:We need technology in every classroom and in every student and teacher's hand, because it is the pen and paper of our time, and it is the lens through which we experience much of our world. ~ David Warlick,

162:Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove any thing. ~ Jane Austen,

163:There's no such thing as a writer's block. If you're having trouble writing, well, pick up the pen and write. No matter what, keep that hand moving. Writing is really a physical activity. ~ Natalie Goldberg,

164:You know, I'm a big believer in touch and digital reading, but I still think that some mixture of voice, the pen and a real keyboard - in other words a netbook - will be the mainstream on that. ~ Bill Gates,

165:I try not to get analytical in the writing process. I try to just kind of keep the flow from my brain to my hand as far as the pen is concerned and go with the moment and go with my guts. ~ Quentin Tarantino,

166:Before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson etched across the pages of history the majestic words of the Declaration of Independence, we were here. ~ Martin Luther King Jr,

167:The slanders of the pen pierce to the heart; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits; they dwell ever present in the mind and render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. ~ Washington Irving,

168:A man who keeps a diary pays, Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful—then, His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness. ~ William Allingham,

169:I sometimes wish desperately that I could write like someone else, be someone else. No one particularly. Just if I could put the pen down on paper and suddenly come out in a totally different way. ~ Harold Pinter,

170:Many red devils ran from my heart And out upon the page, They were so tiny The pen could mash them. And many struggled in the ink. It was strange To write in this red muck Of things from my heart. ~ Stephen Crane,

171:Your brother thinks you’re embarrassed by him,” her mom suggested. “Well, when Father Luis asked what Billy was doing, and I said, ‘Three to five in the pen,’ I wasn’t exactly beaming with pride. ~ Christie Craig,

172:I never got a good look at Dr. Tuttle's eyes. I suspect that they were crazy eyes, black and shiny, like a crow's. The pen she used was long and purple and had a purple feather at the end of it. ~ Ottessa Moshfegh,

173:To Those Without Pity Cruel of heart, lay down my song, Your reading eyes have done me wrong, Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written. ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay,

174:Dumb. He should have gotten the pen. Jewelry was so public... and personal, which was why he'd bought it. He couldn't buy Eleanor a pen. Or a bookmark. He didn't have bookmarklike feelings for her. ~ Rainbow Rowell,

175:To Those Without Pity Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written. ~ Edna St Vincent Millay,

176:Sometimes my feelings are so hot that I have to take the pen and put them out on paper to keep them from setting me afire inside; then all that ink and labor are wasted because I can't print the results ~ Mark Twain,

177:I'm called an oral historian, which is something of a joke. Oral history was here long before the pen, long before Gutenberg and the printing press. The difference is I have a tape recorder in my hand. ~ Studs Terkel,

178:Like most arts, the link between the mind and the pen can chain you like an enslaved workaholic. Even on an intended vacation you suddenly have this killer urge to record whatever the vacation may teach. ~ Criss Jami,

179:So many of man's inventions - the syringe, the sword, the pen, the gun - were metaphorical cocks, but the internal combustion engine had to have been dreamt up by a man who had looked upon the human heart. ~ Joe Hill,

180:With taxes, if they aren't working right, we can change them with a stroke of the pen. It's basically a market-type mechanism. People make their own choices. You run the taxes, and you get the results. ~ Paul R Ehrlich,

181:There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a great competition and rivalry between the two. There is a third power stronger than both, that of the women. ~ Muhammad Ali Jinnah,

182:Writers, in essence, are professional word tamers; if the words walking down the lines were living creatures, they would surely fear and hate the pen’s nib as tamed animals do the raised whip. ~ Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky,

183:I'M The Pen Your Lover Writes With I'm the pen your lover writes with You say I went ahead without you But without you I would've recorded nothing about you And so your lover's words ~ Bernadette Mayer,

184:It has always been my practice to cast a long paragraph in a single mould, to try it by my ear, to deposit it in my memory, but to suspend the action of the pen till I had given the last polish to my work. ~ Edward Gibbon,

185:A poet is a painter in his way, he draws to the life, but in another kind; we draw the nobler part, the soul and the mind; the pictures of the pen shall outlast those of the pencil, and even worlds themselves. ~ Aphra Behn,

186:Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen? ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

187:FriXion by Pilot in blue. It writes so smoothly, and being able to erase it gives me a sense of power and delight. I often use the pen with a “smart” notebook (like the Rocketbook Everlast smart notebook) ~ Timothy Ferriss,

188:MIND TELLING US WHAT THE REALITY IS LIKE ROUND HERE?” The pen wrote: +++ On A Scale Of One To Ten—Query +++ “FINE,” Ridcully shouted. +++ Divide By Cucumber Error. Please Reinstall Universe And Reboot +++ ~ Terry Pratchett,

189:The middle years - the eighteen-seventies, 'eighties, 'nineties - were a time of moral bankruptcy when men stole millions by a stroke of the pen or by the simple expedient of printing tons of worthless paper. ~ Frank Yerby,

190:The pen is an instrument of discovery rather than just a recording implement. If you write a letter of resignation or something with an agenda, you're simply using a pen to record what you have thought out. ~ Billy Collins,

191:We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the love…embodying our stories page after page. In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world. ~ Coco J Ginger,

192:You see, Mr. Phillips, the truth of it is, I am so very American.” She slapped the pen down on the onerous paper and slid them both toward her boss. “And that is precisely why I can’t—no, why I refuse to sign this. ~ Libba Bray,

193:Niggers are killing niggers, and penitentiaries are full of niggers and Mexicans. Why don't y'all give us some money to help us stop this problem? We want to go to college instead of going to the pen. Give us a future. ~ Snoop Dogg,

194:And dazzling memory revive.Refresh the faded tints, Recut the aged prints, And write my old adventures, with the pen Which, on the first day, drew Upon the tablets blue The dancing Pleiads, and the eternal men. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

195:If you work just for money, you'll never make it, but if you love what you're doing and you always put the customer first, success will be yours." "When writing the story of your life, don't let anyone else hold the pen. ~ Anonymous,

196:The hatchet must fall on the block; the oak must be cleft to the centre. The weight of the world is on my shoulders. Here is the pen and the paper; on the letters in the wire basket I sign my name, I, I, and again I. ~ Virginia Woolf,

197:If I had the pen of Moliere, I could make him comic. That is the role of art, is it not? To make monsters comic, so we can bear them, and our own cheap griefs into grand tragedy, so that others will weep with us. ~ Judith Merkle Riley,

198:No struggle can ever succeed without women participating side by side with men. There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a third power stronger than both, that of women. ~ Malala Yousafzai,

199:For it would seem - her case proved it - that we write, not with the fingers, but with the whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver. ~ Virginia Woolf,

200:I stared at my calendar, the pen stilled in my hand. This little patch of paper suddenly bore a whole heap of responsibility. I had a hundred and seventeen days in which to convince Will Traynor that he had a reason to live. ~ Jojo Moyes,

201:Translate a book a dozen times from one language to another, and what becomes of its style? Most books would be worn out and disappear in this ordeal. The pen which wrote it is soon destroyed, but the poem survives. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

202:Write with your eyes like painters, with your ears like musicians, with your feet like dancers. You are the truthsayer with quill and torch. Write with your tongues of fire. Don't let the pen banish you from yourself. ~ Gloria E Anzaldua,

203:Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. ~ Jane Austen,

204:It is said that if you want to change the world, take pen and write. I want to add that if you want to maintain that change, then be the ruler to rule the pen's lines. True rulers are true leaders; they maintain a change! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

205:She turned her eyes away quickly so that she would not learn it, would not be guilty of something clearly forbidden to her. But it made her smile, to see it, to see how the pen formed the shapes and the shapes told a story of a name. ~ Lois Lowry,

206:The hand that holds the pen (or chalk, or the stethoscope, or the gun, or lover's skin) is so different from the hand that lit the match, and so incapable of such an act that it is not even a matter of forgiveness, or healing. ~ John Joseph Adams,

207:(on the portrayal of women in literature) Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ Jane Austen,

208:Jinnah said, ‘No struggle can ever succeed without women participating side by side with men. There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a third power stronger than both, that of women. ~ Malala Yousafzai,

209:Beckett moved quickly. In one motion he snagged the pen out of Kim’s scrub pocket, stepped back, and stabbed his forearm. The ballpoint produced an instant stream of blood. “Here, take mine,” he begged. “I’ve got plenty of blood. ~ Debra Anastasia,

210:Every job from the heart is, ultimately, of equal value. The nurse injects the syringe; the writer slides the pen; the farmer plows the dirt; the comedian draws the laughter. Monetary income is the perfect deceiver of a man's true worth. ~ Criss Jami,

211:The pen moved slowly upon paper And tears fell. He had written a name, yours, in printed letters: One word on which bemusedly to pore - No protest, no desire, your naked name, Nothing more. - The Foreboding ~ Robert Graves,

212:I had a rule that I would never force the muse in my younger days. I would follow the feeling. I would just put the pen down and walk away, and wait for it to come back. But these days, I have a kid, I tour a lot, and I'm always short on time. ~ Dan Mangan,

213:Our tongues can’t compete with the rapid thinking of our brains, our words come out slow and slurred. The pen is our haven. There is a lot of fear buried into that little pen. It holds all of our agony, our torment, our blood and our heaven. ~ Coco J Ginger,

214:I take up my own pen again - the pen of all my old unforgettable efforts and sacred struggles. To myself - today - I need say no more. Large and full and high the future still opens. It is now indeed that I may do the work of my life. And I will. ~ Henry James,

215:It is time to put down the pen; time to clear the throat. Speaking is a different thing altogether from writing. The spoken word has different properties, and different powers. If I have learned anything from writing down my own tale, it is this. ~ Dexter Palmer,

216:Yes, yes, if you please. No reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ Jane Austen,

217:Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ Jane Austen,

218:You take the pen, and the lines dance. You take the flute and the notes shimmer. You take the brush, and the colors sing. So all things have meaning and beauty in that space beyond time where you are. How, then, can I hold back anything from you? ~ Dag Hammarskjold,

219:A catless writer is almost inconceivable. It's a perverse taste, really, since it would be easier to write with a herd of buffalo in the room than even one cat; they make nests in the notes and bite the end of the pen and walk on the typewriter keys. ~ Barbara Holland,

220:A catless writer is almost inconceivable. It's a perverse taste, really, since it would be easier to write with a herd of buffalo in the room than even one cat; they make nests in the notes and bite the end of the pen and walk on the typewriter keys. ~ Barbara Holland,

221:The peahens waddled round, following the peacock wherever he went. He couldn't see in the night, so he wandered around aimlessly in the pen. Go the other way, she wanted to scream at the gimpy peahen. Stop worrying about where he's going and just rest. ~ Jennifer Close,

222:It happened in New York, April 10th, nineteen years ago. Even my hand balks at the date. I had to push to write it down, just to keep the pen moving on the paper. It used to be a perfectly ordinary day, but now it sticks up on the calendar like a rusty nail. ~ Donna Tartt,

223:For hundreds of years the monks have held the pen, and what they have written is what we take to be our history, but I do not believe it really is. I believe they have suppressed the history they don't like, and written one that is favourable to Rome.’ Henry ~ Hilary Mantel,

224:The other dragons craned over the pen walls, watching him cautiously. There was another distant gastric roar. Errol shifted painfully. The dragons exchanged glances. Then, one by one, they lay down carefully on the floor and put their paws over their eyes. ~ Terry Pratchett,

225:When we put the pen to paper, we articulate things in our life that we may have felt vague about. Before you write about something, somebody says, 'How do you feel?' and you say, 'Oh, I feel okay.' Then you write about it, and you discover you don't feel okay. ~ Julia Cameron,

226:To assume that the ruler cannot ever err or that he cannot be ignorant of something would be to portray him as blessed with divine inspiration and as elevated above the rest of humanity. Hence freedom of the pen . . . is the sole protector of the people's rights. ~ Immanuel Kant,

227:She brought the box back into the dining room and showed it to Emery. “Which ones go here?” Amusement touched his eyes—that seemed to be their preferred emotion—and he took the pen and paper from her, finishing the last three symbols himself as he chewed. ~ Charlie N Holmberg,

228:Hesperus, you are The most fetching star. What Dawn flings afield You bring back together - Sheep to the fold, goats to the pen, And the child to his mother again. Nightingale, All you sing Is desire; You are the crier Of coming spring ~ Sappho,

229:You will write … if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterwards in a recasting. ~ Amit Goswami,

230:Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ Jane Austen,

231:Harper, did you just... did you just throw a pen at Liz?" "Oh my gosh, no, Mrs. Ford! I was just... um... writing really fast because there was so much information to take in, and I had, like, some lotion? On my hands? Anyway the pen flew out of my hand and hit Liz ~ Rachel Hawkins,

232:No, I like it ... a lot ... but that's a helluva tattoo for a virgin." He popped the pen back in, freeing up his hand to move the mouse. I smirked. "If I'm going to lose it, I want to be broken in right." The pen fell from Trenton's mount to the floor. ~ Jamie McGuire,

233:17 Though the fig tree does not bud and there is no fruit on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, 18 yet I will triumph in •Yahweh; I will rejoice in the God of my salvation!  ~ Anonymous,

234:I felt that writing for bread would soon have stifled my genius and destroyed my talents, which were more those of the heart than of the pen, and arose solely from a proud and elevated manner of thinking, which alone could support them. ~ Rousseau, Confessions (Wordsworth: 1996), p. 391.,

235:We all know the old expression, "I'll work my thoughts out on paper." There's something about the pen that focuses the brain in a way that nothing else does. That is why we must have more writing in the schools, more writing in all subjects, not just in English classes. ~ David McCullough,

236:If someone writes a great story, people praise the author, not the pen. People don't say, 'Oh what an incredible pen...where can I get a pen like this so I can write great stories?' Well, I am just a pen in the hands of the Lord. He is the author. All praise should go to him. ~ Keith Green,

237:When I read a novel I’m not here. I’m transported to far-off places, my eyes unseeing of the words on the page, busy with a scene being played out in my mind’s eye, with my ears engaged, hearing the voices carry from the pen to the present. What a lovely place to be—not here. ~ Nancy Moser,

238:Without the pen of Paine, the sword of Washington would have been wielded in vain. ~ John Adams,

239:When I read a novel I am not here. I am transported to far-off places, my eyes unseeing of the words on the page, busy with a scene being played out in my mind's eye, with my ears engaged, hearing the voices carry from the pen to the present. What a lovely place to be—not here. ~ Nancy Moser,

240:The Bible is God's declaratory revelation to man containing the great truths about God, about man, about history, about salvation, and about prophecy that God wanted us to know. The Bible could be trusted just as much as if God had taken the pen and written the words Himself. ~ John F Walvoord,

241:She was witchy, yes, and in charge of a cauldron roiling with ideas and stories, but she always gave the impression that the stories, the ones she wrote and wrote so very well and so wisely, had simply happened, and that all she had done was to hold the pen. (On Diana Wynne Jones) ~ Neil Gaiman,

242:Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior. —HABAKKUK 3:17–18 ~ Sarah Young,

243:Habakkuk: Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior. 3:17–18 ~ Susie Larson,

244:Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior. HABAKKUK 3 : 17 – 18 ~ Sarah Young,

245:Between one dip of the pen, Petrarch writes, ‘between one dip of the pen and the next, the time passes: and I hurry, I drive myself, and I speed towards death. We are always dying – I while I write, you while you read, and others while they listen or block their ears; they are all dying. ~ Anonymous,

246:The BBC even made a recording of it using another girl’s voice, and I began to see that the pen and the words that come from it can be much more powerful than machine guns, tanks or helicopters. We were learning how to struggle. And we were learning how powerful we are when we speak. ~ Malala Yousafzai,

247:There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, And left the tale half told. Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power, And the lost clew regain? The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain! ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

248:The pen will never be able to move fast enough to write down every word discovered in the space of memory. Some things have been lost forever, other things will perhaps be remembered again, and still other things have been lost and found and lost again. There is no way to be sure of any this. ~ Paul Auster,

249:Watching the developments from afar was both an exercise of academic speculation and resignation to the finitude of one's capabilities; an opportunity to tend to one's neuroses in the privacy of one's secret garden; an acquiescence to impotence and an acknowledgement of the limits of the pen. ~ Farish A Noor,

250:with email you did not have the heft of the pages, the life of the ink woven tight into the paper, rushing across it, a thing that had come directly from the other person’s own hand. Or from the pen in their hand, which was almost the same; which was almost like touching them for yourself. In ~ Belinda McKeon,

251:K. M. Shea is a fantasy-romance author who never quite grew out of adventure books or fairy tales, and still searches closets in hopes of stumbling into Narnia. She is addicted to sweet romances, witty characters, and happy endings. She also writes LitRPG and GameLit under the pen name, A. M. Sohma. ~ K M Shea,

252:I think as he gets older, Quentin [Tarantino] is growing more and more into his directorial side, but the writer in him won't stop the pen. I don't think he deserved a directing nod. Like I said, it's beautifully shot - it's cinematography, obviously, deserves a nomination - but he's not the camera man. ~ Bun B,

253:You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink. ~ G K Chesterton,

254:You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink. ~ G K Chesterton,

255:And down the dunes a thousand guns lie crouched,Unseen, beside the flood -Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouchedThat wait and watch for blood.Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,Walk grave and thoughtful men,Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's bladeAs lightly as the pen. ~ Henry Timrod,

256:Bailey handed Molly the pen and she had Molly Parmelia written when he halted her with a gentle touch to her back. “Don’t forget your new name.” “Oh, you’re right.” She bit her tongue and scripted out Garner with a flourish. “How’s that?” “Beautiful.” But he wasn’t looking at her penmanship. “So ~ Regina Jennings,

257:In fact, most of the changes found in early Christian manuscripts have nothing to do with theology or ideology. Far and away the most changes are the result of mistakes pure and simple slips of the pen, accidental omissions, inadvertent additions, misspelled words, blunders of one sort or another. ~ Bart D Ehrman,

258:inspirational adult romance author under the pen name of Liz Isaacson, her work includes the young adult dystopian romance series Possession, published by Simon Pulse (Simon & Schuster), Elevated, the Elemental series, the Redwood Bay romance series, and the Amazon bestselling Three Rivers Ranch ~ Elana Johnson,

259:It is all very well, when the pen flows, but then there are the dark days when imagination deserts one, and it is an effort to put anything down on paper. That little you have achieved stares at you at the end of the day, and you know the next morning you will have to scrape it down and start again. ~ Elizabeth Aston,

260:You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

261:I have suffered, like other writers, from indolence, irresolution, distaste to my work, absence of 'inspiration,' and all that: but I have also found that sitting down, however reluctantly, with the pen in my hand, I have never worked for one quarter of an hour without finding myself in full train. ~ Harriet Martineau,

262:For the last 15 years that I have been performing, all I ever wanted to do was transcend poetry to the world. See, it wasn't enough for me to write a book. It wasn't enough for me to join a slam competition, and while those things hold weight, it wasn't the driving force that pushes the pen to the pad. ~ Lemon Andersen,

263:Quimby was eventually killed by a disgruntled poet during an experiment conducted in the palace grounds to prove the disputed accuracy of the proverb “The pen is mightier than the sword,” and in his memory it was amended to include the phrase “only if the sword is very small and the pen is very sharp. ~ Terry Pratchett,

264:Considering the multitude of mortals that handle the pen in these days, and can mostly spell, and write without glaring violations of grammar, the question naturally arises: How is it, then, that no work proceeds from them, bearing any stamp of authenticity and permanence; of worth for more than one day? ~ Thomas Carlyle,

265:It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years' imaginative task; or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. ~ Charles Dickens,

266:You may be keeping accounts, and presently you shall walk out of the door that for so long has seemed to you the barrier of your ideals, and shall find yourself before an audience—the pen still behind your ear, the ink stains on your fingers and then and there shall pour out the torrent of your inspiration. ~ James Allen,

267:Your problem, it is not here' - he pointed the pen at Max-Ernest's throat - 'it is here' - he pointed the pen at Max-Ernest's chest. 'My heart is heavy, too. But you must be strong. This situation, it is very serious. It is not only Cass's life that is at stake. If she dies, the Secret, it will die too. ~ Pseudonymous Bosch,

268:It was a fatal day when the public discovered that the pen is mightier than the paving-stone, and can be made as offensive as the brickbat. They at once sought for the journalist, found him, developed him, and made him their industrious and well-paid servant. It is greatly to be regretted, for both their sakes. ~ Oscar Wilde,

269:The mind travels faster than the pen; consequently, writing becomes a question of learning to make occasional wing shots, bringing down the bird of thought as it flashes by. A writer is a gunner, sometimes waiting in the blind for something to come in, sometimes roaming the countryside hoping to scare something up. ~ E B White,

270:its chief draftsman, Morris shrank the original twenty-three articles to seven and wrote the great preamble with its ringing opening, “We the People of the United States.” Paying tribute to Morris’s craftsmanship, Madison wrote, “The finish given to the style and arrangement fairly belongs to the pen of Mr. Morris. ~ Ron Chernow,

271:When I read a novel I am not here. I am transported to far-off places, my eyes unseeing of the words on the page, busy with a scene being played out in my mind's eye, with my ears engaged, hearing the voices carry from the pen to the present. What a lovely place to be-not here - Just Jane (Chapter Four Page 35) ~ Nancy Moser,

272:What counts is not the pen used for writing but the poetry that is written. The reason we take interest in an automobile engine is not because it makes wheels turn; it is because it takes us places that we could not reach by foot. The turning wheels are just the mechanism of an instrument that allows us to journey. ~ Carlo Rovelli,

273:When I'm writing [songs], some days the pen just goes. I'm not in charge and I'm almost listening outside of it. That's when I realize that we all have to start looking at life as a gift. It's like listening to a color and believing that these colors have soul mates and once you get them all together the painting is complete. ~ Prince,

274:When it was [Larry] Bird's turn [to sign souvenir Team USA basketballs], he said to [Brian] McIntyre ' What's the quickest it's taken anyone to do this?' McIntyre said between fifteen and twenty minutes. Bird said, 'Time me,' finished in about six minutes, tossed the pen to McIntyre and said, 'Won another one, didn't I? ~ Jack McCallum,

275:I took off the cap, and the pen grew longer and heavier in my hand. In half a second, I held a shimmering bronze sword with a double-edge blade, a leather-wrapped grip, and a flat hilt riveted with gold studs. ......... "Its name is Anaklusmos." "Riptide,'" I translated, surprised the Ancient Greek came so easily. ~ Rick Riordan,

276:You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterwards in a recasting... It will come if it is there and if you will let it come. ~ Gertrude Stein,

277:I have little talent with the pen, I assure you.” He gazed at his son, then back to where the man at the entrance had stood. “But I admire those who do.” He smiled again. “And I can’t help but be enraptured by story. And desirous to stick my untalented pen in places where it doesn’t belong to make a tale dance to my bidding. ~ Anne Mallory,

278:All the knowledge that has led our species from wearing animal skins to people flying, complete with proofs, would fill a handful of reference books, but a bookcase the size of the earth would not suffice to hold all the rest, quite apart from the vast discussions that are conducted not with the pen but with the sword and chains. ~ Robert Musil,

279:The PEN/Barbara Goldsmith Freedom to Write Award is a way of spotlighting individual cases. If you look at the history of the award, the freedom rate is very high: a very high percentage of people who receive those awards are freed in the next six months to a year. The only weapon there is attention, but interestingly it works. ~ Salman Rushdie,

280:True, This! — Beneath the rule of men entirely great The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold The arch-enchanters wand! — itself is nothing! — But taking sorcery from the master-hand To paralyse the Cæsars, and to strike The loud earth breathless! — Take away the sword — States can be saved without it! ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,

281:And the first time a real challenge came along I had behaved like all the other sheep in the pen. I had bleated and dithered, unable to believe that any real threat could actually be aimed at me, and I was still simply sitting here, waiting for it to swoop down and get me, and doing no more to stop it than hoping it would go away. Was ~ Jeff Lindsay,

282:[E]very plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its dénouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we can plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points tend to the development of the intention. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

283:Only once did he remark when the starter,which he was trying to open,literally fell to pieces in his hands,:'If you would write for those filthy boulevard papers,monsieur,you could soon buy a Chevrolet'(which was quite unture:In France the prostitutes of the pen were just as badly rewarded as their colleagues on the street corners). ~ Arthur Koestler,

284:You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterwards in a recasting... It will come if it is there and if you will let it come. ~ Gertrude Stein,

285:Annabeth frowned. 'Percy's sword is a she?' Jack laughed. 'Well, duh.' ... 'I don't know,' Percy said. 'Are you sure -?' 'Percy,' said Alex. 'Respect the gender.' 'Okay, fine,' he said. 'It's just kinda strange that I never knew.' 'On the other hand,' Annabeth said, 'you didn't know the pen could write until last year. ~ Rick Riordan,

286:But I am I now; and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter; how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I. ~ Sylvia Plath,

287:So Henry Adams, well aware that he could not succeed as a scholar, and finding his social position beyond improvement or need of effort, betook himself to the single ambition which otherwise would scarcely have seemed a true outcome of the college, though it was the last remnant of the old Unitarian supremacy. He took to the pen. He wrote. ~ Henry Adams,

288:The artivist (artist +activist) uses her artistic talents to fight and struggle against injustice and oppression – by any medium necessary. The artivist merges commitment to freedom and justice with the pen, the lens, the brush, the voice, the body, and the imagination. The artivist knows that to make an observation is to have an obligation. ~ M K Asante,

289:What do we do with those that can be accessed and dismissed by a channel changer, that we love no less than a nineteenth-century poet or an admired stranger or a character from the pen of Emily Brontë? What do we do when one of them commingles with our own sense of self, only to be transferred into a finite space within an on-demand portal? ~ Patti Smith,

290:About the Author   Allie Mackay is the pen name for USA Today bestselling author Sue-Ellen Welfonder who writes Scottish medieval romance under her real name.  A former flight attendant, she has three grand passions: Scotland, the paranormal, and animals.  All can be found in her medieval romances and the paranormals she writes as Allie Mackay. ~ Tarah Scott,

291:... It took him one minute to write. Bill stood over him, watching. "I don't know how you do that," he said. "Like the words are already inside the pen." "It's just what's in your brain," Charley said. "The way the words come to you naturally is the best way to put them down." Bill said, "The things in my head don't come in words. ~ Pete Dexter,

292:True marriage begins well before the wedding day,” And the efforts of marriage continue well beyond the ceremony’s end. A brief moment in time and the stroke of the pen are all that is needed to create the legal bond of marriage, but it takes a lifetime of love, commitment, forgiveness, and compromise to make marriage durable and everlasting. ~ Jamie McGuire,

293:Reparations,” said Jem very suddenly, setting down the pen he was holding. Will looked at him in puzzlement. “Is this a game? We just blurt out whatever word comes next to mind? In that case mine is ‘genuphobia’. It means an unreasonable fear of knees.” “What’s the word for a perfectly reasonable fear of annoying idiots?” inquired Jessamine. ~ Cassandra Clare,

294:Reparations,” said Jem very suddenly, setting down the pen he was holding. Will looked at him in puzzlement. “Is this a game? We just blurt out whatever word comes next to mind? In that case mine is ‘genuphobia’. It means an unreasonable fear of knees.” “What’s the word for a perfectly reasonable fear of annoying idiots?” inquired Jessamine. ~ Cassandra Clare,

295:The hand with the pen began to tremble, and before long he was even drooling. The only time his head ever cleared was after a sleep induced by eight-tenths of a gram of Veronal, and even then it never lasted more than thirty minutes or an hour. He barely made it through each day in the gloom, leaning as it were upon a chipped and narrow sword. ~ Ry nosuke Akutagawa,

296:The optimist in me wants to believe sexuality will eventually become like handwriting: there’s no right way and wrong way to do it. We’re all just wired differently. It's also worth noting that when you meet someone, you never bother to ask if he’s right or left-handed. After all: does it really matter to anyone other than the person holding the pen? ~ Jodi Picoult,

297:As the pen rises from the page between words, so the walker's feet rise and fall between paces, and as the deer continues to run as it bounds from the earth and the dolphin continues to swim even as it leaps again and again from the sea, so writing and wayfaring are continuous activities, a running stitch, a persistence of the same seam or stream. ~ Robert Macfarlane,

298:The pen didn’t look like much, just a regular cheap ballpoint, but when Percy uncapped it, it grew into a glowing bronze sword. The blade balanced perfectly. The leather grip fit his hand like it had been custom designed for him. Etched along the guard was an Ancient Greek word Percy somehow understood: Anaklusmos—Riptide. He’d woken up with this sword ~ Rick Riordan,

299:Expecting someone?" I tease, as if Connor's not here just about every night she isn't at his grad dorm. "Not if I don't finish my homework," she says, picking the pen back up and tapping the course packet with it. "Even when he's not my teacher, Connor's a pain in my ass." "They make lube for that, you know." "Francesca?" "Yes?" "Get out. ~ Dahlia Adler,

300:Hamilton, using the pen name “Civis” in a newspaper piece of February 23, 1791, penned the following telling sarcasm to Madison and Jefferson: “As to the negroes, you must be tender upon that subject. . . . Who talk most about liberty and equality . . . ? Is it not those who hold the bill of rights in one hand and a whip for affrighted slaves in the other? ~ Ron Chernow,

301:The thing I really like about Twitter is the speed with which information reaches me. You find out things from Twitter long before they're on the news. That I think is valuable. In terms of actually tweeting myself, I have just lost enthusiasm for it. Maybe I'll do some of it this week to tell people about the PEN Festival and encourage them to show up. ~ Salman Rushdie,

302:As President, I was able to save with the stroke of the pen a hundred million acres of wilderness area in Alaska. This is the kind of thing that is is gratifying to a President, but to be on a solitary stream with good friends, with a fly rod in your hand, and to have a successfull or even an unsuccessful day-they're all successful-is an even greater delight. ~ Jimmy Carter,

303:Clary widened her eyes, which was good for keeping herself from crying. "Isabelle, can I ask you something?" "Sure," said Isabelle, wielding the eyeliner expertly. "Is Alec gay?" Isabelle's wrist jerked. The eyeliner skidded, inking a long line of black from the corner of Clary's eye to her hairline. "Oh hell," Isabelle said, putting the pen down. ~ Cassandra Clare,

304:I don't even own a computer. I write by hand then I type it up on an old manual typewriter. But I cross out a lot - I'm not writing in stone tablets, it's just ink on paper. I don't feel comfortable without a pen or a pencil in my hand. I can't think with my fingers on the keyboard. Words are generated for me by gripping the pen, and pressing the point on the paper. ~ Paul Auster,

305:True marriage begins well before the wedding day,” the officiant began. “And the efforts of marriage continue well beyond the ceremony’s end. A brief moment in time and the stroke of the pen are all that is needed to create the legal bond of marriage, but it takes a lifetime of love, commitment, forgiveness, and compromise to make marriage durable and everlasting. ~ Jamie McGuire,

306:We ought not to confine ourselves either to writing or to reading; the one, continuous writing, will cast a gloom over our strength, and exhaust it; the other will make our strength flabby and watery. It is better to have recourse to them alternately, and to blend one with the other, so that the fruits of one's reading may be reduced to concrete form by the pen. ~ Seneca the Younger,

307:It is easy to compress the passions by violence. Philosophy suppresses them with a stroke of the pen. Locks and the sword come to the aid of sweet morality, but nature appeals these judgments; she regains her rights in secret. Passion stifled at one point reappears at another like water held back by a dike; it is driven inward like the fluid of an ulcer closed to soon. ~ Charles Fourier,

308:Steve Forman strafes the south Florida scene with Boca Knights, an outrageously funny mystery novel with a raft of offbeat characters and prose that moves trippingly off the pen. His main man, Eddie Perlmutter, ex-Boston cop attempting semi-retirement in Boca Raton like a fish trying to retire out of the water, is a character for the ages. Carl Hiaasen, watch your back. ~ Douglas Preston,

309:No nation can ever be worthy of its existence that cannot take its women along with the men. No struggle can ever succeed without women participating side by side with men. There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a great competition and rivalry between the two. There is a third power stronger than both, that of the women. ~ Muhammad Ali Jinnah,

310:I had got this far, and was thinking of what to say next, and as my habit is, I was pricking the paper idly with my pen. And I thought how, between one dip of the pen and the next, time goes on, and I hurry, drive myself, and speed toward death. We are always dying. I while I write, you while you read, and others while they listen or stop their ears, they are all dying. ~ Francesco Petrarca,

311:I take it that a monograph of this sort belongs to the ephemera literature of science. The studied care which is warranted in the treatment of the more slowly moving branches of science would be out of place here. Rather with the pen of a journalist we must attempt to record a momentary phase of current thought, which may at any instant change with kaleidoscopic abruptness. ~ Gilbert N Lewis,

312:Nothing is impossible, Alex. It was there all the time. I just wasn't reaching out far enough, that's all. Nothing is impossible. Not a bad statement to come from the pen (or rather keyboard!) of a cynic. Thank you for your faith in me, Alex. I would love to return that hug and kisses to you now! but then again, perhaps some things just might be beyond our reach after all. ~ Cecelia Ahern,

313:17Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, 18yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior. 19The Sovereign LORD is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to tread on the heights. ~ Anonymous,

314:I am a Jew, but I am enthralled by the luminous figure of the Nazarene. Jesus is too colossal for the pen of phrasemongers, however artful." He further added: "No man can read the gospels without feeling the actual presence of Jesus. His personality pulsates in every word. No myth is filled with such life...Theseus and other heroes of his type lack the authentic vitality of Jesus. ~ Albert Einstein,

315:If I were a tree among trees, a cat among animals, this life would have a meaning or rather this problem would not arise, for I should belong to this world. I should be this world to which I am opposed by my whole consciousness and my whole insistence upon familiarity. This ridiculous reason is what sets me in opposition to all creation. I cannot cross it out with a stroke of the pen ~ Albert Camus,

316:Though the fig tree does not bud and there is no fruit on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, 18 yet I will triumph in •Yahweh; I will rejoice in the God of my salvation!  19 Yahweh my Lord is my strength; He makes my feet like those of a deer  and enables me to walk on mountain heights!  ~ Anonymous,

317:Words are power. And a few have the ability to end lives. They say the pen is mightier than the sword. This is true, but not in the way in which they think. You, dear reader, if you are skilled enough, can create havoc with your words. You can end relationships. You can create doubt. You can make mortal enemies of friends, and friends of mortal enemies. All you need is the will to do so. ~ Ron Ripley,

318:Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior. The Sovereign LORD is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights. —HABAKKUK 3:17 ~ Sarah Young,

319:Many creative people see their work as primarily an individual endeavor. They consider the most valuable thing that others can do for them is to leave them alone. At times, of course, most of us do feel that way. After all, only one person can hold the pen or sit at the keyboard, and in the creative realm the best work often reflects a strong individual vision rather than a collective one. ~ Jocelyn K Glei,

320:Put down the pen someone else gave you. No one ever drafted a life worth living on borrowed ink. Get to San Francisco. Get to San Francisco in defiance of your geography, your ancestry and the lonely change rattling sad excuses in your pocket. Fuel up on pie and diner coffee and mystic visions and the freedom of not knowing what’s coming next except that you’re burning the road to outrun it. ~ Jack Kerouac,

321:How careful we must be not to think that God is less holy because others seem to get away with irreverence! We are sometimes tempted to measure our respect for God by the lack of respect surrounding us. The godless, however, are not our standard. God is. Through the pen of King David, God told us to “praise him according to his excellent greatness,” not according to public opinion (Ps. 150:2 KJV). ~ Beth Moore,

322:Messengers wait outside the door, to carry urgent orders for release. It is difficult, when the pen skips over a name, to associate it with the corpse it might belong to, tomorrow or the day after that. There is no sense of evil in the room, just tiredness and the aftertaste of petty squabbling. Camille drinks quite a lot of Fabre’s brandy. Towards daybreak, a kind of dismal camaraderie sets in. ~ Hilary Mantel,

323:One great difference between good writing, that readers overlook, and bad writing, that they fail to notice, has to do with the number of rewrites and revisions usually required by the former. It isn’t at all easy to write clear, declarative prose—transparency evolves from ruthless cutting and trimming and is hard work—while lumpy, tangle-footed writing flows from the pen as if inspired by the Muse. ~ Ira Levin,

324:Well. I don’t see passion as . . . as petrol. Something that runs out. I see it as more like, I don’t know, something you lose. Like keys.” He picks up the pen he’s using to do the crossword and waves it around. “Or this biro.” “Keys get found. Biros don’t. So it’s important for me to know which it is.” Tom doesn’t say anything. “Keys? Or a biro?” Tom doesn’t say anything. Louise is getting angry. ~ Nick Hornby,

325:He takes my right hand and places it palm down on his chest. Then he traces around it with the pen, craning his neck to see, giving himself double chins. 'What are you doing?' He shifts my hand away and starts scratching out letters on his skin. 'I worked out a tattoo - if I had one.' I look at what he's done. He's got the outline of my hand over his heart and in it he's written, Her. ~ Kirsty Eagar,

326:If he [the Artist] were to take up the pen it would be...to better express his individuality and explain it to others; or else to put his internal affairs in order...to deepen and sharpen his relationship with his fellow men because other souls exert an immense and creative influence on our soul; or to try to fight for a world as he would like it to be, for a world that is indispensable to his life. ~ Witold Gombrowicz,

327:The real challenge is getting into the damned thing, and I believe that's why so many would-be writers with great ideas never actually pick-up the pen or start tapping away at the keys. All too often, it's like trying to start a car on a cold day. At first the motor doesn't even crank, it only groans. But if you keep at it (and the battery doesn't die), the engine starts...runs rough...and then smooths out. ~ Stephen King,

328:Asher taps his fingers on his lips and I catch Amy licking her own as she eyes his mouth. "What exactly are Rocky Mountain Oysters?" he asks her. I restrain a laugh as Amy's face twists in confusion. "Well...I think they're kind of meat. I'm not sure what kind, but I like them." She presses the end of the pen against her chin. I shake my head at Asher. "You don't want those. Trust me. ~ Jessica Sorensen,

329:Wild child,” Jade said. I’d figured as much. The 13 tattooed on her calf was a declaration of sovereignty or a cry for attention. It required twelve jurors and one judge to send an original G to the pen. Everybody knows that, though; real criminals and aspiring delinquents alike. She’d forgotten the ½, which meant “half a chance.” It didn’t mean anything except I should keep one eye open and my hand on my wallet. ~ Laird Barron,

330:I’m sorry.” The words were hurried and a little garbled but unmistakable. She raised an eyebrow and noticed that he had trouble meeting her eyes. “For which item on your long list of indiscretions?” she asked as she toyed with the pen. “All of them?” “Please. I don’t do blanket forgiveness.” She waved her hand dismissively and was delighted to see a grin flirt along the corners of his mouth. ~ Natasha Anders,

331:There are moments when I have felt: Why-Why-Why did I ever invent this detestable, bombastic, tiresome little creature? ...Eternally straightening things, eternally boasting, eternally twirling his moustaches and tilting his egg-shaped head... I point out that by a few strokes of the pen... I could destroy him utterly. He replies, grandiloquently: "Impossible to get rid of Poirot like that! He is much too clever. ~ Agatha Christie,

332:One of the advantages of a life much longer than average was that you saw how fragile the future was. Men said things like "peace in our time" or "an empire that will last a thousand years," and less than half a lifetime later no one even remembered who they were, let alone what they had said or where the mob had buried their ashes. What changed history were smaller things. Often a few strokes of the pen would do the trick. ~ Terry Pratchett,

333:Before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson etched across the pages of history the majestic words of the Declaration of Independence, we were here. If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands. ~ Martin Luther King Jr,

334:From Rosie Ro Alex Subject Job Promotion Nothing is impossible, Alex. It was there all the time. I just wasn't reaching out far enough, that's all. Nothing is impossible. Not a bad statement to come from the pen (or rather keyboard!) of a cynic. Thank you for your faith in me, Alex. I would love to return that hug and kisses to you now! but then again, perhaps some things just might be beyond our reach after all. ~ Cecelia Ahern,

335:Hamlet promised himself he’d throw down afterward, but I think perhaps when he said, “From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!” the limits of blank verse weakened his resolve somehow. If he’d been free to follow the dictates of his conscience rather than the pen of Shakespeare, perhaps he would have abandoned verse altogether, like me, and contented himself with this instead: “Bring it, muthafuckas. Bring it. ~ Kevin Hearne,

336:Perhaps it is just as well to be rash and foolish for a while. If writers were too wise, perhaps no books would get written at all. It might be better to ask yourself 'Why?' afterward than before. Anyway, the force of somewhere in space which commands you to write in the first place, gives you no choice. You take up the pen when you are told, and write what is commanded. There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

337:The Shrike stepped closer. Silenus’s hand twitched, lifted the pen again, and wrote across the empty lower margin of his last page: IT IS TIME, MARTIN. He stared at what he had written, stifling the urge to giggle insanely. To his knowledge, the Shrike had never spoken … never communicated … to anyone. Other than through the paired media of pain and death. “No!” he screamed again. “I have work to do. Take someone else, goddamn you!” The ~ Dan Simmons,

338:As soon as you start to think of that thing that you want to convey or say, you can always just say it much better than you can actually rhyme it or stuff it into a song. It's very, very difficult to just kind of get your point across without going the back way. And you have to be good at that, to not think about things so hard. Let the pen take over, so that it's somebody else's job to dissect the lyrics and tell you what you're all about. ~ Ariel Pink,

339:The pen touches the paper again at the bottom of the page and I freeze as he draws a slow, thick line through “Fall in love with an Italian.” I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?” He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss. “Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome. ~ Kristin Rae,

340:LAILA WOULD REMEMBER the muted ceremony in bits and fragments. The cream-colored stripes of Rasheed’s suit. The sharp smell of his hair spray. The small shaving nick just above his Adam’s apple. The rough pads of his tobacco-stained fingers when he slid the ring on her. The pen. Its not working. The search for a new pen. The contract. The signing, his sure-handed, hers quavering. The prayers. Noticing, in the mirror, that Rasheed had trimmed his eyebrows. ~ Khaled Hosseini,

341:Oh! why was I born with a different face? why was I not born like the rest of my race? when I look,each one starts! when I speak, I offend; then Im silent & passive & lose every friend. Then my verse I dishonour, my pictures despise, my person degrade & my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; all my talents I bury, and dead is my fame. Im either too low or too highly prized; when elate I m envy'd, when meek Im despis'd ~ William Blake,

342:You cannot fully read a book without being alone. But through this very solitude you become intimately involved with people whom you might never have met otherwise, either because they have been dead for centuries or because they spoke languages you cannot understand. And nonetheless, they have become your closest friends, your wisest advisors, the wizards that hypnotize you, the lovers you have always dreamed of. Antonio Muñoz Molinas, “The Power of the Pen ~ Cornelia Funke,

343:Who cares what a man's style is, so it is intelligible,--as intelligible as his thought. Literally and really, the style is no more than the stylus, the pen he writes with; and it is not worth scraping and polishing, and gilding, unless it will write his thoughts the better for it. It is something for use, and not to look at. The question for us is, not whether Pope had a fine style, wrote with a peacock's feather, but whether he uttered useful thoughts. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

344:you can not fully read a book without being alone. But through this very solitude you become intimately involved with people whom you might never have met otherwise, either because they have been dead for centuries or because they spoke languages you cannot understand. And, nonetheless, they have become your closest friends, your wisest advisors, the wizards that hypnotize you, the lovers you have always dreamed of. -Antonio munoz molinas, "the power of the pen ~ Cornelia Funke,

345:A wasting memory is not only a destroyer; it can deny one's very existence. A day unremembered is like a soul unborn, worse than if it had never been. What indeed was that summer if it is not recalled? That journey? That act of love? To whom did it happen if it has left you with nothing? Certainly not to you. So any bits of warm life preserved by the pen are trophies snatched from the dark, are branches of leaves fished out of the flood, are tiny arrests of mortality. ~ Laurie Lee,

346:[long Neglect Has Worn Away] Long neglect has worn away Half the sweet enchanting smile; Time has turned the bloom to gray; Mold and damp the face defile. But that lock of silky hair, Still beneath the picture twined, Tells what once those features were, Paints their image on the mind. Fair the hand that traced that line, “Dearest, ever deem me true”; Swiftly flew the fingers fine When the pen that motto drew. ~ Emily Jane Brontë,

347:you can not fully read a book without being alone. But through this very solitude you become intimately involved with people whom you might never have met otherwise, either because they have been dead for centuries or because they spoke languages you cannot understand. And, nonetheless, they have become your closest friends, your wisest advisors, the wizards that hypnotize you, the lovers you have always dreamed of. -Antonio munoz molinas, "the power of the pen ~ Cornelia Funke,

348:Oh! why was I born with a different face? why was I not born like the rest of my race? when I look,each one starts! when I speak, I offend; then Im silent & passive & lose every friend. Then my verse I dishonour, my pictures despise, my person degrade & my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; all my talents I bury, and dead is my fame. Im either too low or too highly prized; when elate I m envy'd, when meek Im despis'd ~ William Blake,

349:During the heat of the space race in the 1960s, the US National Aeronautics and Space Administration decided it needed a ballpoint pen to write in the zero gravity confines of its space capsules. After considerable research and development, the Astronaut Pen was developed at a cost of approximately $1 million US. The pen worked and also enjoyed some modest success as a novelty item back here on earth. The Soviet Union, faced with the same problem, used a pencil. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

350:Dawkins, as I have said, tells us that there is “absolutely no reason” to think that the Unmoved Mover, First Cause, etc. is omnipotent, omniscient, good, and so forth. Perhaps what he meant to say was “absolutely no reason, apart from the many thousands of pages of detailed philosophical argumentation for this conclusion that have been produced over the centuries by thinkers of genius, and which I am not going to bother trying to answer.” So, a slip of the pen, perhaps. ~ Edward Feser,

351:Every form seems to be derived from another, all figures being derived from Alif which is originally derived from a dot and represents zero, nothingness (In Arabic the zero is written as a dot.) It is that nothingness which creates the first form Alif. It is natural for everyone when writing to make a dot as soon as the pen touches the paper, and the letters forming the words hide the origin. In like manner the origin of the One Being is hidden in His manifestation. ~ Hazrat Inayat Khan,

352:The pen moves; the ideas form, as if by spirit hand. Something shines out, a truth so self-evident that the words dictate themselves. We’re cashing in a billion years of planetary savings bonds and blowing it on assorted bling. And what Douglas Pavlicek wants to know is why this is so easy to see when you’re by yourself in a cabin on a hillside, and almost impossible to believe once you step out of the house and join several billion folks doubling down on the status quo. ~ Richard Powers,

353:I stopped in the middle of that building and I saw — the sky. I saw the things that I love in this world. The work and the food and time time to sit and smoke. And I looked at the pen and said to myself, what the hell am I grabbing this for? Why am I trying to become what I don't want to be? What am I doing in an office, making a contemptuous, begging fool of myself, when all I want is out there, waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am! Why can't I say that, Willy? ~ Arthur Miller,

354:WIDE, the margin between carte blanche and the white page. Nevertheless it is not in the margin that you can find me, but in the yet whiter one that separates the word-strewn sheet from the transparent, the written page from the one to be written in the infinite space where the eye turns back to the eye, and the hand to the pen, where all we write is erased, even as you write it. For the book imperceptibly takes shape within the book we will never finish. There is my desert. ~ Edmond Jabes,

355:I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men." "Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ Jane Austen,

356:Then you're not coming? You'd rather go to the pen? Okay! . . . You don't care if I turn you in? ... You don't care if I love you or not? . . . You don't care about my future? You don't care about anything, do you? . . .” "No," he says. "In a way you're right . . . But it's not just you ... I don't care about anyone else either . . . Christ, don't take it as an insult! ... I know you're a sweet kid . . . But I don't want to be loved anymore ... It disgusts me! . . . ~ Louis Ferdinand C line,

357:I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men." "Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ Jane Austen,

358:[EM] Forster was the only living writer whom he would have described as his master. In other people’s books he found examples of style which he wanted to imitate and learn from. In Forster he found a key to the whole art of writing. The Zen masters of archery—of whom, in those days, Christopher had never heard—start by teaching you the mental attitude with which you must pick up the bow. A Forster novel taught Christopher the mental attitude with which he must pick up the pen. ~ Christopher Isherwood,

359:Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp Murry (1888–1923) was a prominent modernist writer of short fiction who was born and brought up in colonial New Zealand and wrote under the pen name of Katherine Mansfield. When she was 19, Mansfield left New Zealand and settled in the United Kingdom, where she became a friend of modernist writers such as D.H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf. During the First World War, she contracted extrapulmonary tuberculosis, which led to her death at the age of 34. ~ Katherine Mansfield,

360:The pig squealed as if it were being murdered. Eva had the pig by its hind legs. She dragged it backward as it screeched with every breath. Westley yanked open the gate so she could drag it inside. She let it go and it ran to the back of the pen, still squealing. Eva was breathing hard as she brushed her hands together, a triumphant glint in her eye. Her cheeks were pink and her red hair was in disarray, more strands hanging loose than in her braid. He lost his breath for a moment. ~ Melanie Dickerson,

361:I've never heard a writer feel that way about a device with a screen. Oh sure, they're functional, practical. We would be lost without them. But just as we need to feel our feet on the earth, smell and taste the world around us, the pen scratching against the page, sensory and slow, is the difference between looking at a high-definition picture of a flower and holding that very same flower in your palm, feeling the brush of its petals, the color of its stamen rubbing off on your fingers. ~ Dani Shapiro,

362:hypocrisy, fraud, idleness—their worn-out relics, their threadbare worship, and their lack of invention. When did anything good last come from a monastery? They do not invent, they only repeat, and what they repeat is corrupt. For hundreds of years the monks have held the pen, and what they have written is what we take to be our history, but I do not believe it really is. I believe they have suppressed the history they don’t like, and written one that is favorable to Rome.” Henry appears ~ Hilary Mantel,

363:These “thoughts” (the full title is precisely Zibaldone of Thoughts: see Z 4295) are at one and the same time the pulsations that the interior life transmits to the movement of the pen and the traces that are left behind on the paper. Gradually, as the ink dries, these are transformed into archaeological residues or fossils of a provisional state of the soul (self) that the future self will grasp as other than the self, at times not even recognizing the self in them (Z 1766–67, 2488). ~ Giacomo Leopardi,

364:In the Alco Ward a dispute had broken out over plagiarism. Incidentally, when I arrived there for the first time I did not have the slightest notion that I was crossing the threshold of a creative writing program, that I was entering a community of people of the pen, of writers who were incessantly creating their alcoholic autobiographies, recording their innermost feeling in cheap sixty-page notebooks that were called emotional journals, laboriously assembling their drunkard's confessions. ~ Jerzy Pilch,

365:Americans have become conditioned to believe the world is a gray place without absolutes; this is because we’re simultaneously cowardly and arrogant. We don’t know the answers, so we assume they must not exist. But they do exist. They are unclear and/or unfathomable, but they’re out there. And—perhaps surprisingly—the only way to find those answers is to study NBA playoff games that happened twenty years ago. For all practical purposes, the voice of Brent Musburger was the pen of Ayn Rand. ~ Chuck Klosterman,

366:It is (to describe it figuratively) as if an author were to make a slip of the pen, and as if this clerical error became conscious of being such. Perhaps this was no error but in a far higher sense was an essential part of the whole exposition. It is, then, as if this clerical error were to revolt against the author, out of hatred for him, were to forbid him to correct it, and were to say, "No, I will not be erased, I will stand as a witness against thee, that thou art a very poor writer. ~ S ren Kierkegaard,

367:Anger Lay By Me Anger lay by me all night long, His breath was hot upon my brow, He told me of my burning wrong, All night he talked and would not go. He stood by me all through the day, Struck from my hand the book, the pen; He said: ‘Hear first what I’ve to say, And sing, if you’ve the heart to, then.’ And can I cast him from my couch? And can I lock him from my room? Ah no, his honest words are such That he’s my true-lord, and my doom. ~ Elizabeth Daryush,

368:It is (to describe it figuratively) as if an author were to make a slip of the pen, and as if this clerical error became conscious of being such. Perhaps this was no error but in a far higher sense was an essential part of the whole exposition. It is, then, as if this clerical error were to revolt against the author, out of hatred for him, were to forbid him to correct it, and were to say, "No, I will not be erased, I will stand as a witness against thee, that thou art a very poor writer." ~ Soren Kierkegaard,

369:Writing hasn’t changed a thing; when the writer puts down the pen, no matter how lucid or brutally honest his insights may have been, it is back to business as usual, which means, in this case, shooting up. This is depressing, but its honesty heartens me. It disallows the delusion that the act of writing necessarily connects us to humanity, that it will help us quit noxious substances, that it will restore us to love lost, or at least serve as a consolation. Literature is not, after all, self-help. ~ Maggie Nelson,

370:Annabeth frowned. "Percy's sword is a she?" Jack laughed. "Well, duh." Percy studied Riptide, though I could've told him from experience it was almost impossible to tell a sword's gender by looking at it. "I don't know," he said. "Are you sure -?" "Percy," said Alex. "Respect the gender." "Okay, fine," he said. "It's just kinda strange that I never knew." "On the other hand," Annabeth said, "you didn't know the pen could write until last year." "That's low, Wise Girl. ~ Rick Riordan,

371:First, consider the pen you write with. It should be a fast-writing pen because your thoughts are always much faster than your hand. You don't want to slow up your hand even more with a slow pen. A ballpoint, a pencil, a felt tip, for sure, are slow. Go to a stationery store and see what feels good to you. Try out different kinds. Don't get too fancy and expensive. I mostly use a cheap Sheaffer fountain pen, about $1.95.... You want to be able to feel the connection and texture of the pen on paper. ~ Natalie Goldberg,

372:The pen moved across my skin, but I couldn’t see what he was writing, his messy hair blocking my view. “Excuse me, sir, but what are you doing? Are you branding me?” “Stop calling me sir. I’m trying to focus here and you’re making me hard.” “You’ve been hard for the past eight hours. What’s new?” “You’d think you would have tried to help me with this difficult situation. Honestly, Georgia, I’m disappointed. You really need to work a little harder at this whole girlfriend thing. ~ Max Monroe,

373:I was a writer first, and knew I'd be a storyteller at age seven. But since my parents are very practical, they urged me to go into a profession that would be far more secure so I went to medical school. But after practicing medicine for a few years, while raising two sons (with a husband who was also a doctor) I realized that combining medicine with motherhood was more of a challenge than I could handle. So I left medicine and stayed home. And that's when I once again picked up the pen and began to write. ~ Tess Gerritsen,

374:The men came to mind as mostly idle between nights of running wild or time in the pen, cooking moon and gathering around the spout, with ears chewed, fingers chopped, arms shot away, and no apologies grunted ever. The women came to mind bigger, closer, with their lonely eyes and homely yellow teeth, mouths clamped against smiles, working in the hot fields from can to can't, hands tattered rough as dry cobs, lips cracked all winter, a white dress for marrying, a black dress for burying, and Ree nodded yup. Yup. ~ Daniel Woodrell,

375:The gate is perfectly simple," Temeraire said. "There is only a bar across the fence, which one can lift very easily, and then it swings open; Nitidus could do it best, for his forehands are the smallest. Though it is difficult to keep the animals inside the pen, and the first time I learned how to open it, they all ran away," he added. "Maximus and I had to chase after them for hours and hours--it was not funny at all," he said, ruffled, sitting back on his haunches and contemplating Laurence with great indignation. ~ Naomi Novik,

376:In the security community, this letter is known by all as a “get-out-of-jail-free card.” Pen testers tend to be very conscientious about making sure they always have a copy of the letter with them when they’re on or anywhere near the premises of the client company, in case they get stopped by a security guard who decides to flex some muscle and impress the higher-ups with his gumshoe instincts, or challenged by a conscientious employee who spots something suspicious and has enough gumption to confront the pen tester. ~ Kevin D Mitnick,

377:The life of each and every one of us has been written. The crucifix is my autobiography. The blood is the ink. The nails the pen. The skin the parchment. On every line of that body I can trace my life. In the crown of thorns I can read my pride. In the hands that are dug with nails, I can read avarice and greed. In the flesh hanging from him like purple rags, I can read my lust. In feet that are fettered, I can find the times that I ran away and would not let him follow. Any sin that you can think of is written there. ~ Fulton J Sheen,

378:May I interrupt you for a few moments?” “Of course.” She gestured to a chair near her writing desk, and set the pen in its holder. Noticing the deliberately bland expression on his face, she asked, “What scheme are you hatching?” He blinked in surprise. “How do you know there’s a scheme?” “Whenever you try to look innocent, it’s obvious you’re up to something.” West grinned. “The girls wouldn’t dare approach you about it, but I told them I would, since it’s been established that I can outrun you when necessary. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

379:This phenomenon is called the endowment effect. Once something is given to you, it’s yours. Once it becomes part of your endowment, even after a very few minutes, giving it up will entail a loss. And, as prospect theory tells us, because losses are more bad than gains are good, the mug or pen with which you have been “endowed” is worth more to you than it is to a potential trading partner. And “losing” (giving up) the pen will hurt worse than “gaining” (trading for) the mug will give pleasure. Thus, you won’t make the trade. ~ Barry Schwartz,

380:We’re going to build a big pen out of that chicken wire,” he said. “It’ll have a top on it and a door with a snap latch. We’ll put those coconuts right in the center of the pen and leave the door open. Then we’ll tie the binder twine to the door and run it back through the pen and out into the brush a little way. When those monkeys go into the pen after those coconuts, we’ll pull the binder twine and latch the door. What do you think of that idea?” Before I answered Grandpa, I closed my eyes and drew a picture of the pen in my mind. ~ Wilson Rawls,

381:The other cop is writing things down in his pad. The pad is so small. His pen is really small, too. They seem too small, the pen and pad. Personally, I would want a bigger pad. Then again, with a bigger pad, where would I put it? You’d need a pad-holster, which might look cool but would make it even harder to run, especially if you have the flashlight attachment . . . I guess you need a small pad so it’ll fit on your utility belt— Oh, it would be so great if they called it a utility belt. Maybe I could ask. Not now, of course, but later. ~ Dave Eggers,

382:The good diarist writes either for himself alone or for a posterity so distant that it can safely hear every secret and justly weigh every motive. For such an audience there is need neither of affectation nor of restraint. Sincerity is what they ask, detail, and volume; skill with the pen comes in conveniently, but brilliance is not necessary; genius is a hindrance even; and should you know your business and do it manfully, posterity will let you off mixing with great men, reporting famous affairs, or having lain with the first ladies in the land. ~ Virginia Woolf,

383:The death of American liberalism as a significant moral force can be traced to the point in when President Bill Clinton signed legislation that effectively ended the main federal anti-poverty program and turned the fate of welfare recipients, 70 percent of whom were children, over to the tender mercies of the states. With a stroke of the pen, Clinton eliminated what remained of New Deal-era compassion for the poor and codified into law the "tough love" callousness that his Republican allies in the Congress, led by Newt Gingrich, had long embraced. ~ Robert Scheer,

384:I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men." "Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. ~ Jane Austen,

385:A pen is more personal and that gives me some control over it—a feeling of power as the words flow with the electric thrill that runs down my arm, through my fingers and onto the clean white page. It is a sensuous act, writing by hand. The feel of the paper, as my hand glides over it, its touch, and its texture. The flow of ink, the gliding motion of the pen, the letters themselves as they appear as if by magic in my individual script. No two people have the same handwriting. Your character, your personality is revealed the minute you put pen to paper. I'm ~ Ruskin Bond,

386:People like me start organizing conferences and editing journals, even become tenured professors talking about Empire of the Senseless with a bunch of wide-eyed kids from the farmland. If only one of those kids goes back home and lets her hogs out of the pen to go plum wild rolling around in their own slop while the neighboring farmers scratch their chins, then, isn't that worth it? Insert the same scenario with stockbrokers, stock-car drivers, and stock characters in the post-baccalaureate working man's sideshow, and well, that's viral reproduction. ~ Davis Schneiderman,

387:I remember my mother telling me that, when she was a little girl in Catholic school, the nuns used to hit her left hand every time she wrote with it. Nowadays, if a teacher did that, she'd probably be arrested for child abuse. The optimist in me wants to believe sexuality will eventually be like handwriting: there's no right or wrong way to do it. We're all just wired differently. It's also worth noting that, when you meet someone, you never bother to ask if he's right or left handed. After all, does it really matter to anyone other than the person holding the pen? ~ Jodi Picoult,

388:Penning an advice column for the literary website The Rumpus, [Strayed] worked anonymously, using the pen name Sugar, replying to letters from readings suffering everything from loveless marriages to abusive, drug-addicted brothers to disfiguring illnesses. The result: intimate, in-depth essays that not only took the letter writer's life into account but also Strayed's. Collected in a book, they make for riveting, emotionally charged reading (translation: be prepared to bawl) that leaves you significantly wiser for the experience. . . . Moving. . . . compassionate. ~ Leigh Newman,

389:He looked down at the desk, at his notebook resting there with the pen on top. He had never thought of engineering as a way to escape the world; after all, engineers didn't build stories or other worlds. Or, well, perhaps they did; perhaps, late at night, huddled around the boiler with the driver and the conductor, they told their own stories. Famous robberies in the west, derailments, perhaps even ghost trains or passengers long dead who still prowled the carriages. Either way, Jack had turned his profession into his escape, which Ellis could respect. ~ Sam Starbuck,

390:I regret all of my books. It is one of the tragedies of life that one cannot have all the wisdom one is ever to possess in the beginning. Perhaps, it is just as well to be rash and foolish for a while. If writers were too wise, perhaps no books would get written at all. It might be better to ask yourself “Why?” afterwards than before. Anyway, the force from somewhere in Space which commands you to write in the first place, gives you no choice. You take up the pen when you are told, and write what is commanded. There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

391:I love you,” I whispered into his suit. My words had life, and weight, and a pulse. I said them again. “I love you, Dad. I love you. I love you. I love you.” He lifted me up like I was a little girl, spinning me in place and burying his nose in my hair. Tears rolled down our faces. The pen bled the last of its ink, marking this page in our lives forever in my father’s office. I knew, with certainty that made my heart swell, that he was not going to replace that carpet. He was going to look at it every day, remember the day it had happened, and cherish it. “I love you, too, baby girl. ~ L J Shen,

392:The Blank Sheet In truth, a blank sheet Declares by the void That there is nothing as beautiful As that which does not exist. On the magic mirror of its white space, The soul sees before her the place of the miracles That we would bring to life with signs and lines. This presence of absence over-excites And at the same time paralyses the definitive act of the pen. There is in all beauty a forbiddance to touch, From which emanates I don’t know what of sacred That stops the movement and puts the man On the point of acting in fear of himself. ~ Paul Val ry,

393:Zen & The Art Of Poetry Letting the mind go, letting the pen, the breath, the movement of images in & out of the mouth go calm, go rhythmic as the rise & fall of waves, as one sits in the lotus position over the world, holding the pen so lightly that it scarcely stains the page, holding the breath in the glowing cage of the ribs, until the heart is only a living lantern fueled by breath, & the pen writes what the heart wills & the whole world goes out, goes black, but for the hard, clear stars below. ~ Erica Jong,

394:For those who do not write and who never have been stirred by the creative urge, talk of muses seems a figure of speech, a quaint conceit, but for those of us who live by the Word, our muses are as real and necessary as the soft clay of language which they help to sculpt. When one is writing—really writing—it is as if one is given a fatline to the gods. No true poet has been able to explain the exhilaration one feels when the mind becomes an instrument as surely as does the pen or thought processor, ordering and expressing the revelations flowing in from somewhere else. My muse had fled. ~ Dan Simmons,

395:I don’t grudge them some bodily comforts. It cannot always be Lent. What I cannot stomach is hypocrisy, fraud, idleness—their worn-out relics, their threadbare worship, and their lack of invention. When did anything good last come from a monastery? They do not invent, they only repeat, and what they repeat is corrupt. For hundreds of years the monks have held the pen, and what they have written is what we take to be our history, but I do not believe it really is. I believe they have suppressed the history they don’t like, and written one that is favorable to Rome.” Henry appears to look straight through him, ~ Hilary Mantel,

396:And then one day he realised that of course he was always staring at his hand when he wrote, was always watching the pen as it moved along, gripped by his fingers, his fingers floating there in front of his eyes just above the words, above that single white sheet, just above these words i’m writing now, his fingers between him and all that, like another person, a third person, when all along you thot it was just the two of you talking and he suddenly realized it was the three of them, handling it on from one to the other, his hand translating itself, his words slipping thru his fingers into the written world. You. ~ bpNichol,

397:I want more abuse …” Kirillov muttered, though he did take the pen and sign. “I want more abuse …” “Sign: Vive la république, and enough.” “Bravo!” Kirillov almost bellowed with rapture. “Vive la république démocratique, sociale et universelle ou la mort!… No, no, not that! Liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort!* There, that’s better, that’s better,” he wrote it delightedly under his signature. “Enough, enough,” Pyotr Stepanovich kept repeating. “Wait, a little bit more … You know, I’ll sign it again in French: ‘de Kirilloff, gentilhomme russe et citoyen du monde.’† Ha, ha, ha!”3 he dissolved in laughter. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

398:Wait a second,” Andy said, snapping his fingers. “You're Vietnamese.” “Don't say it,” Sun warned. But Andy, a grin stretched across his face, couldn't resist. “You're a Vietnam vet.” Sun’s face became even harder, something Andy hadn't thought possible. “Never heard that one before. Open the pen there.” Andy lifted the latch on the gate and Sun led the sheep out of the pen and over to the entrance door. “I've visited Viet Nam twice,” Andy said. “Beautiful place. All of those war movies make it look like hell, but it's actually very tranquil, don't you think?” “I wouldn't know. I've never been there. I’m an American. ~ Lee Goldberg,

399:I wonder what Thoreau would have done...[H}is greatest story, I thought, was his life. He knew that anything is possible when you wield the pen and claim your life as your own. But the truth is so few have the privilege to write their own stories. People are born into poverty without a hope of redemption. Children are abused and damaged. Disease and war and famine and a million other things prevent them from wielding the pen. But for those of us who can, should it not be our great privilege to live the lives we've imagined? To be who we want to be? To go on our own great journeys and share our experiences with others? ~ Ken Ilgunas,

400:The sign of being in love’s an aching heart; there is no suffering like the suffering heart. 110 The lover’s suffering’s like no other suffering: love is the astrolabe of God’s own mysteries. No matter whether love is of this world or of the next, it steals us to that world. Whatever words I say to explain this love, when I arrive at love, I am ashamed. Though language gives a clear account of love, yet love beyond all language is the clearer. The pen had gone at breakneck speed in writing, but when it came to love it split in two. 115 The explaining mind sleeps like an ass in mud, for love alone explains love and the lover. ~ Rumi,

401:Next Ashlynn walked up the stairs. Apple expected the princess to exhibit the same eagerness, but her steps were slow. The large mirrors hanging from posts around the pedestal broadcast images of Ashlynn’s face to the audience. But the mirrors didn’t show the book, so Apple couldn’t see Ashlynn’s “flash-forward” story, just Ashlynn’s face as she watched it. Her expression was nervous, hopeful, and then… then sad. How could she be sad? Her story ended joyously! It was almost as if Ashlynn had been hoping to see something or someone in her story who didn’t show. Ashlynn took the pen and closed her eyes as she quickly signed. ~ Shannon Hale,

402:Then he picked up the pen and said softly, but clearly, "The first sentence of our first card will read: Mother! The Führer has murdered my son."....At that instant she grasped that this very first sentence was Otto's absolute and irrevocable declaration of war, and also what that meant: war between, on the one side, the two of them, poor, small, insignificant workers who could be extinguished for just a word or two, and on the other, the Führer, the Party, the whole apparatus in all its power and glory, with three-fourths or even four-fifths of the German people behind it. And the two of them in this little room in Jablonski Strasse. ~ Hans Fallada,

403:I start paying attention to all my movements. How one arm complements the other. And I start thinking about everything I do with two hands. Driving. Golfing. Keyboarding. Even writing really takes two hands. The pen's held in one; the paper's anchored with the other. My mind wanders all over everyday things. Opening a water bottle. Getting dressed. Making a sandwich. Washing dishes. I imagine life with only one hand and realize that it would be hard. In a different way, but still hard...I rub my hands together, spreading out the soap. And as I massage both sides of my head, I'm thankful for my hands. Thankful to have both of them. ~ Wendelin Van Draanen,

404:Under Zia’s regime life for women in Pakistan became much more restricted. Jinnah said, “No struggle can ever succeed without women participating side by side with men. There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a third power stronger than both, that of women.” But General Zia brought in Islamic laws which reduced a woman’s evidence in court to count for only half that of a man’s. Soon our prisons were full of cases like that of a thirteen-year-old girl who was raped and became pregnant and was then sent to prison for adultery because she couldn’t produce four male witnesses to prove it was a crime. ~ Malala Yousafzai,

405:We have undoubtedly achieved Pakistan, and that too without bloody war, practically peacefully, by moral and intellectual force, and with the power of the pen, which is no less mighty than that of the sword and so our righteous cause has triumphed. Are we now going to besmear and tarnish this greatest achievement for which there is no parallel in the history of the world? Pakistan is now a fait accompli and it can never be undone, besides, it was the only just, honourable, and practical solution of the most complex constitutional problem of this great subcontinent. Let us now plan to build and reconstruct and regenerate our great nation... ~ Muhammad Ali Jinnah,

406:Early American history has been told—and often exaggerated—by the pen and the paintbrush. Daniel Boone’s fame as a bear hunter is depicted by Severino Baraldi (above), while this portrait of the lone woodsman was painted by Robert Lindneux. Boone blazing the trail west in George Caleb Bingham’s 1851–52 oil painting, Daniel Boone Escorting Settlers through the Cumberland Gap Boone was not a man who relished a fight, but he never backed away from one, either. In 1774, he led the defense of three forts along Virginia’s Clinch River from Shawnee attacks and, as a result, earned a promotion to captain in the militia—as well as the respect of his men. While ~ Bill O Reilly,

407:Let's say I will rip your life apart. Me and my banker friends. How can he explain to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from his border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from castle walls, but from counting houses, not by the call of the bugle, but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the page of the promissory note that pays for the gun and the gunsmith and the powder and shot. ~ Hilary Mantel,

408:Don't be afraid to make corrections! Whether the voice came from her memory or was a last whisper from the blinding new star far above, Nita never knew. But she knew what to do. While Kit was still on the first part of the name she pulled out her pen, her best pen that Fred had saved and changed. She clicked it open. The metal still tingled against her skin, the ink at the point still glittered oddly- the same glitter as the ink with which the bright Book was written. Nita bent quickly over the Book and with the pen, in lines of light, drew from the final circle an arrow pointing up-ward, the way out, the symbol that said change could happen- if, only if- ~ Diane Duane,

409:Half an hour from now, when I shall again and for ever reindue that hated personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with the most strained and fear-struck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find the courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here, then, as I lay down the pen, and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,

410:Everybody is a writer. Everybody has a hand. Everybody has a story. Everybody writes stories of life from dawn to dusk. Everybody has a pen. Everybody has inks. These are the inks for writing the stories of life: words, thoughts, actions and deeds! The pen is important, but the ink in the pen determines the color of the writing! The pen is important, but the hand that holds the pen determines the style of the writing! Whether we choose our words well or not; whether we choose to think well or not; whether we choose our actions well or not; whether we choose to do good or not, we write a story of life, and we remain accountable to God in the end! ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,

411:Let's say I will rip your life apart. Me and my banker friends." How can he explain that to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from the castle walls, but from counting houses, not be the call of the bugle, but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the page of the promissory note that pays for the gun and the gunsmith and the powder and shot. ~ Hilary Mantel,

412:Sean Platt is the bestselling co-author of over 60 books, including breakout post-apocalyptic horror serial Yesterday’s Gone, literary mind-bender Axis of Aaron, and the blockbuster sci-fi series, Invasion. Never one for staying inside a single box for long, he also writes smart stories for children under the pen name Guy Incognito, and laugh out loud comedies which are absolutely not for children. He is also the founder of the Sterling & Stone Story Studio and along with partners Johnny B. Truant and David W. Wright hosts the weekly Self-Publishing Podcast, openly sharing his journey as an author-entrepreneur and publisher. Sean is often spotted taking long walks, ~ Sean Platt,

413:started writing Stardust in 1994, but mentally timeslipped about seventy years to do it. The mid-1920s seemed like a time when people enjoyed writing those sorts of things, before there were fantasy shelves in the bookshops, before trilogies and books ‘in the great tradition of The Lord of the Rings’. This, on the other hand, would be in the tradition of Lud-in-the-Mist and The King of Elfland’s Daughter. All I was certain of was that nobody had written books on computers back in the 1920s, so I bought a large book of unlined pages, and the first fountain pen I had owned since my schooldays and a copy of Katharine Briggs’s Dictionary of Fairies. I filled the pen and began. ~ Neil Gaiman,

414:It says something about the type of writing I had been doing that my muse could flee without my noticing. For those who do not write and who never have been stirred by the creative urge, talk of muses seems a figure of speech, a quaint conceit, but for those of us who live by the Word, our muses are as real and necessary as the soft clay of language which they help to sculpt. When one is writing—really writing—it is as if one is given a fatline to the gods. No true poet has been able to explain the exhilaration one feels when the mind becomes an instrument as surely as does the pen or thought processor, ordering and expressing the revelations flowing in from somewhere else. ~ Dan Simmons,

415:When you read a manuscript that has been damaged by water, fire, light or just the passing of the years, your eye needs to study not just the shape of the letters but other marks of production. The speed of the pen. The pressure of the hand on the page. Breaks and releases in the flow. You must relax. Think of nothing. Until you wake into a dream where you are at once a pen flying of vellum and the vellum itself with the touch of ink tickling your surface. Then you can read it. The intention of the writer, his thoughts, his hesitations, his longings and his meaning. You can read as clearly as if you were the very candlelight illuminating the page as the pen speeds over it. ~ Diane Setterfield,

416:One evening I was walking along Hollywood Boulevard, nothing much to do. I stopped and looked in the window of a stationary shop. A mechanized pen was suspended in space in such a way that, as a mechanized roll of paper passed by it, the pen went through the motions of the same penmanship exercises I had learned as a child in the third grade. Centrally placed in the window was an advertisement explaining the mechanical reasons for the perfection of the operation of the suspended mechanical pen. I was fascinated, for everything was going wrong. Then pen was tearing the paper to shreds and splattering in all over the window and on the advertisement, which, nevertheless, remained legible. ~ John Cage,

417:Speech is the pen and the sword of humankind and it is the foundation of their kingdom. Wherever the flag of speech waves, the most powerful armies are. defeated and scattered. In the arenas in which speech shouts out, the sounds of cannon balls become like the buzzing of bees. from behind the battlements on which the banner of speech has been raised, the sound of its drums are heard. In the precincts where its march reverberates, kings shake in their boots. The Master of Speech smashed to pieces many insurmountable walls, in the face of which Alexander the Great, Napoleon, and many others despaired or retread; and the pen of Speech, imparting and compliance, was saluted and praised. ~ M Fethullah G len,

418:Love is the astrolabe of God’s mysteries. A lover may be drawn to this love or that love, but finally he is drawn to the Sovereign of Love. However much we describe and explain love, when we fall in love we are ashamed of our words. Explanation by the tongue makes most things clear, but love unexplained is clearer. When the pen came to the subject of love, it broke. When the discourse reached the topic of love, the pen split and the paper tore. If intellect tries to explain it, it falls helpless as a donkey on a muddy trail; only Love itself can explain love and lovers! The proof of the sun is the sun itself. If you wish to see it, don’t turn away from it. ~ Rumi,

419:Well, it’s not so much a trembling,’ was the answer—‘though they do quiver—as a complete derangement of the nervous system. They can’t sign their names to the book; sometimes can’t even hold the pen; look about ’em without appearing to know why, or where they are; and sometimes get up and sit down again, twenty times in a minute. This is when they’re in the office, where they are taken with the hood on, as they were brought in. When they get outside the gate, they stop, and look first one way and then the other; not knowing which to take. Sometimes they stagger as if they were drunk, and sometimes are forced to lean against the fence, they’re so bad:—but they clear off in course of time. ~ Charles Dickens,

420:He reaches for his pen. He yawns and puts it down and picks it up again. I shall be found dead at my desk, he thinks, like the poet Petrarch. The poet wrote many unsent letters: he wrote to Cicero, who died twelve hundred years before he was born. He wrote to Homer, who possibly never even existed; but I, I have enough to do with Lord Lisle, and the fish traps, and the Emperor's galleons tossing on the Middle Sea. Between one dip of the pen, Petrarch writes, 'between one dip of the pen and the next, the time passes: and I hurry, I drive myself, and I speed towards death. We are always dying - I while I write, you while you read, and others while they listen or block their ears; they are all dying. ~ Hilary Mantel,

421:A Song Of The Pen Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, Not for the people's praise; Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, Claiming us all our days, Claiming our best endeavour -- body and heart and brain Given with no reserve -Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain: Still, we are proud to serve. Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, Gathering grain or chaff; One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, One, that a child may laugh. Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, Freely she doth accord Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, Work is its own reward! ~ Banjo Paterson,

422:Mr. Morris's poem is ushered into the world with a very florid birthday speech from the pen of the author of the too famous Poems and Ballads,—a circumstance, we apprehend, in no small degree prejudicial to its success. But we hasten to assure all persons whom the knowledge of Mr. Swinburne's enthusiasm may have led to mistrust the character of the work, that it has to our perception nothing in common with this gentleman's own productions, and that his article proves very little more than that his sympathies are wiser than his performance. If Mr. Morris's poem may be said to remind us of the manner of any other writer, it is simply of that of Chaucer; and to resemble Chaucer is a great safeguard against resembling Swinburne. ~ Henry James,

423:The pen touches the paper again at the bottom of the page and I freeze as he draws a slow, thick line through “Fall in love with an Italian.” I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?” He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss. “Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome.” I gasp and part my lips to respond, but he covers my mouth with his and slips his hands around my bare back. As I glide my hands into his thick hair, he pulls me up until I’m straddling his lap. He leans forward, holding me tight against him, and we crash into the pool, our lips never pulling apart. ~ Kristin Rae,

424:There is solid evidence for the fact that when women speak more than 30 percent of the time, men perceive them as dominating the conversation; well, similarly, if, say, two women in a row get one of the big annual literary awards, masculine voices start talking about feminist cabals, political correctness, and the decline of fairness in judging. The 30 percent rule is really powerful. If more than one woman out of four or five won the Pulitzer, the PEN/Faulkner, the Booker—if more than one woman in ten were to win the Nobel literature prize—the ensuing masculine furore would devalue and might destroy the prize. Apparently, literary guys can only compete with each other. Put on a genuinely equal competitive footing with women, they get hysterical. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,

425:The fall of France,’ wrote the American journalist Rosie Waldeck from Bucharest in 1940, ‘formed a climax to twenty years of failure of the promises of democracy to handle unemployment, inflation, deflations, labour unrest, party egoism and whatnot. Europe, tired of herself and doubtful of the principles she had been living by, felt almost relieved to have everything settled – not satisfactorily, but in such a way that it absolved her of all responsibility.’ Countess Rosie Waldeck was the American equivalent of Bella Fromm. The pen name of Rosie Goldschmidt-Graefenberg-Ullstein, she was a Jewish banker’s daughter who, after a number of divorces, ended up writing society columns and moving effortlessly in the most select circles, and who beneath all her charm ~ Geert Mak,

426:He pointed at the pen. “What do you see?” She followed his finger. “I see a miserable cow.” “What I see is God’s amazing handiwork. Man has figured out how to build trains and send messages through wires, but there ain’t no man on earth figured out how to turn grass into milk.” “I never thought about it that way,” she said. Ruckus’s faith in an almighty God never failed to amaze her. Growing up, she’d never attended church. Her mama seldom mentioned God except in a drunken stupor and that was to curse, not worship him. So Kate had a hard time believing in the loving and caring God Ruckus so often talked about. She wanted to, oh, how she wanted to. She just didn’t know how to make herself believe that God could be as good or trustworthy as Ruckus insisted. ~ Margaret Brownley,

427:Some sheep were bleating away beside the track, pressed tight into a pen much too small. Foraged, no doubt, meaning stolen, some unlucky shepherd’s livelihood vanished down the gullets and out the arses of Black Dow’s army. Behind a screen of hides, not two strides from the flock, a woman was slaughtering ’em and three more doing the skinning and gutting and hanging the carcasses, all soaked to the armpits in blood and not caring much about it either. Two lads, probably just reached fighting age, were watching. Laughing at how stupid the sheep were, not to guess what was happening behind those hides. They didn’t see that they were in the pen, and behind a screen of songs and stories and young men’s dreams, war was waiting, soaked to the armpits and not caring. ~ Joe Abercrombie,

428:History, lie of our lives, mire of our loins. Our sins, our souls. Hiss-tih-ree: the tip of the pen taking a trip of three steps (with one glide) down the chronicle to trap a slick, sibilant character. Hiss. (Ss.) Tih. Ree. He was a pig, a plain pig, in the morning, standing five feet ten on one hoof. He was a pig in slacks. He was a pig in school. He was a pig on the dotted line. But in my eyes it’s always the ones signing dotted lines that become pigs. Did this pig have a precursor? He did, indeed he did. In point of fact, dating all the way back to the Biblical Age. Oh where? About everywhere you look there's pigs giving that fancy ol’ snake a chase. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can always count on a fuckin’ pretentious sarcastican for a fancy prose style. ~ Brian Celio,

429:You wanna be friends?" Click click. Was that so impossible? Was he so mad, suddenly disliked her so much again, that he didn't want to be in the same building? "Yes." "Friends like before or after we had sex on the floor?" Her thumb stopped. "Before." "Not interested." "Why?" "Because I don't want to be your friend." "Oh." She swallowed her disappointment. It might be for the best, but she suddenly didn't want what was for the best. She didn't want to hate Sam and have Sam hate her. What choice did she have? "Okay." "I want to be your lover. I can't pretend I don't want more. I want to be with you, Autumn. I want to get you naked and throw your legs over my shoulders" She dropped the pen. "I want to leave a mark on the inside of your thigh. ~ Rachel Gibson,

430:I have this clutter of questions all churned together in my mind and they won't stop churning. I've found out too much and not enough. there are too many pieces that could go together too many ways and I can't stop shifting them around. There has to be some way it all makes sense and it doesn't yet." "You're asking a lot of life if you want it to make sense." Most of the time, Joliffe was of the same opinion, but he shook his head against it now like against a fly's buzz and said nothing, frowning at the pen he was still twirling. Basset watched him a moment, then said, "Well, if you can't let it go, go at it as if you were trying to make a story of all these pieces you have. Shift them around and fill the gaps until they make the sense you want. ~ Margaret Frazer,

431:In the beautiful words of Staton Kirkham Davis, 'You may be keeping accounts, and presently you shall walk out of the door that for so long has seemed to you the barrier of your ideals, and shall find yourself before an audience — the pen still behind your ear, the ink-stains on you fingers — and then and there shall pour out the torrent of your inspiration. You may be driving sheep, and you shall wander to the city — bucolic and open-mouthed; shall wander under the intrepid guidance of a spirit into the studio of the master, and after a time he shall say, 'I have nothing more to teach you.' And now you have become the master, who did so recently dream of great things while driving sheep. You shall lay down the saw and the plane to take upon yourself the regeneration of the world. ~ James Allen,

432:Mark Twain MARK TWAIN is dead! No, no, that cannot be, Say rather Clemens knows life's mystery, Say rather Clemens has been called above, But Twain still lives for all the world to love. Mark Twain is dead! 'T is false, I'll not believe, For Clemens only will I pause to grieve, But Twain still lives, 't is Clemens passes by, Mark Twain, Mark Twain was never born to die. The hand that held the pen is nerveless now, The chill of death rests coldly on his brow, The voice that made us laugh will speak no more, But Twain still lives to cheer us as before. 'T is Clemens who has torn the veil aside, Who knows what is beyond the great divide, 'T is Clemens who is gone, who leaves behind Mark Twain to cheer and comfort humankind. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

433:WONDER WITHOUT WILLPOWER Love’s way becomes a pen sometimes writing g-sounds like gold or r-sounds like tomorrow in different calligraphy styles sliding by, darkening the paper Now it’s held upside down, now beside the head, now down and on to something else, figuring. One sentence saves an illustrious man from disaster, but fame does not matter to the split tongue of a pen. Hippocrates knows how the cure must go. His pen does not. This one I am calling pen, or sometimes flag, has no mind. You, the pen, are most sanely insane. You cannot be spoken of rationally. Opposites are drawn into your presence but not to be resolved. You are not whole or ever complete. You are the wonder without willpower going where you want. ~ Rumi,

434:What I've learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head. First there's the vinegar-lipped Reader Lady, who says primly, "Well, that's not very interesting, is it?" And there's the emaciated German male who writes these Orwellian memos detailing your thought crimes. And there are your parents, agonizing over your lack of loyalty and discretion; and there's William Burroughs, dozing off or shooting up because he finds you as bold and articulate as a houseplant; and so on. And there are also the dogs: let's not forget the dogs, the dogs in their pen who will surely hurtle and snarl their way out if you ever stop writing, because writing is, for some of us, the latch that keeps the door of the pen closed, keeps those crazy ravenous dogs contained. ~ Anne Lamott,

435:Only the pen of Lord Leighton the writer could do justice to the brush of Lord Leighton the painter, for just so did Lord Leighton (the writer) bring the most agitated emotions to an airless to a hushed to an unhurried while each word took on because there was all the time in the world for each word to take on the bloom which only a great Master can give to a word using his time to allow all unseemly energy to become aware of its nakedness and snatch gratefully at the fig leaf provided until all passion in the airlessness in the hush in the absence of hurry sank decently down in the slow death of motion to perpetual stasis: a character could not look, or step, or speak, without a gorgeous train of sentences swathing his poor stupid thoughts and unfolding in beautiful languor on the still and breathless air. ~ Helen DeWitt,

436:Do you make a study of pigs, Monsieur?” she asked, with a muffled note of amusement. “Of course. I’ve observed them frequently on my breakfast plate.” They had neared the first of the pens, where a stockman was lovingly bathing the ears of an enormously fat spotted sow. Five piglets squealed and gurgled about her panting bulk. “Note the marvelous coil of the tail.” He gestured with his cane. “Absolute perfection!” “And those ears,” Callie said, nodding sagely. “She appears to have two!” “Four legs,” Trev added, cataloging all her points. “Are you certain she has legs?” Callie asked dubiously. “I don’t see any.” “They are hidden under her porcine vastness,” he informed her. He tilted his head speculatively as they reached the pen. “Unless she has wheels. Perhaps she rolls from place to place? ~ Laura Kinsale,

437:Swinging the door open, I took a sip. All of the coffee in the world wouldn't help if more visitors showed up at my door this early in the morning but the caffeine fortification was a bonus. The delivery guy pushed his clipboard at me. I held up my cup and raided my eyebrows. We had an entire conversation in the next seven seconds with our eyes and eyebrows. I told him that I wasn't giving up my coffee for his delivery. He told me that if I'd just sign on the damned dotted line he would get the hell out of here. I replied in turn that if he'd hold the clipboard instead of shoving it at me (I threw in a nod here for good measure), I'd sign the damned line. He finally sighed, turned the clipboard around and held the pen out. I braced the door with my hip, grabbed the pen and scrawled Wilma Flinstone on the paper. ~ Nicole Hamlett,

438:Further expanding the already large class of Foucauldian apparatuses, I shall cal an apparatus literally anything that has in some way the capacity to capture, determine, intercept, model, control , or secure the gestures, behaviors, opinions, or discourses of living beings. Not only, therefore, prisons, madhouses, the panopticon, schools, confession, factories, disciplines, juridical measures, and so forth (whose connection with power is in a certain sense evident), but also the pen, writing, literature, philosophy, agriculture, cigarettes, navigation, computers, cellular telephones and - why not - language itself, which is perhaps the most ancient of apparatuses - one in which thousands and thousands of years ago a primitive inadvertently let himself be captured, probably without realizing the consequences that he was about to face. ~ Giorgio Agamben,

439:It took the sun a long while to come over the mountains and until it did my vision was bound to the few gray yards around the trailer. It was day but not day, dim but not night, a fugue of half-thoughts and disconnected images, pulsing with power beyond easy meaning—a crow flapping, glowing black against the gray—a shadow like a man crouched with a knife—parking lots aching with pink blur—so overwhelmed by thought I’d have to sit back, set down the pen, set down my coffee, and it goes on—glass towers gleaming out of gray cityscapes, blinding silver—an old man with a red guitar—the booming flame of rockets trailing smoke—a girl’s face, her freckled cheek downy with fine hairs, fleshy lips spread in a smile over crooked teeth. I sink in reverie—and what, what does it mean?—then scrape a few more lines with my pen. Nothing even approximate. Another failure. ~ Roy Scranton,

440:He reaches forward slowly, to lift the pen from my lax grip. Wearily I regard the faltering trail of ink it has tracked down my page. I have seen that shape before, I think, but it was not ink then. A trickle of drying blood on the deck of a Red-Ship, and mine the hand that spilled it? Or was it a tendril of smoke rising black against a blue sky as I rode too late to warn a village of a Red-Ship raid? Or poison swirling and unfurling yellowly in a simple glass of water, poison I had handed someone, smiling all the while? The artless curl of a strand of woman's hair left upon my pillow? Or the trail of a man's heels left in the sand as we dragged the bodies from the smoldering tower at Sealbay? The track of a tear down a mother's cheek as she clutched her Forged infant to her despite his angry cries? Like Red-Ships, the memories come without warning, without mercy. ~ Robin Hobb,

441:My name," I tell Wilbur in the most dignified voice I can find, "Was inspired by Harriet Quimby, the first female American pilot and the first woman ever to cross the Channel in an aeroplane. My mother chose it to represent freedom and bravery and independence, and she gave it to me just before she died." There's a short pause while Wilbur looks appropriately moved. Then Dad says, "Who told you that?" "Annabel did." "Well, it's not true at all. You were named after Harriet the tortoise, the second longest living tortoise in the world." There's a silence while I stare at Dad and Annabel puts her head in her hands so abruptly that the pen starts to leak into her collar. "Richard," she moans quietly. "A tortoise?" I repeat in dismay. "I'm named after a tortoise? What the hell is a tortoise supposed to represent?" "Longevity? ~ Holly Smale,

442:The ordinary reality, as I perceive it, is but a huge and intricate virtual screen which operates on multiple levels. Its origins and developments extend far beyond the understanding and scope of the established functioning of the mind. Trapped in the pen of the binary system and the identification with their physical bodies, human beings eat up a fodder made up of sin, guilt and fear, as they watch the soap opera of life being repeated over and over. Yet such a mirage is so insane and unreal that attentive eyes cannot help discovering gaps all over the place. Although the operators at the projector do their best to botch it up, the absurd illusion of this misperception may reveal itself at any moment. It is like a boasting block of ice showing off its solidity as long as the temperature is below zero and yet inevitably starting to thaw and melt away in warmer weather. ~ Franco Santoro,

443:Look at that," he said. "How the ink bleeds." He loved the way it looked, to write on a thick pillow of the pad, the way the thicker width of paper underneath was softer and allowed for a more cushiony interface between pen and surface, which meant more time the two would be in contact for any given point, allowing the fiber of the paper to pull, through capillary action, more ink from the pen, more ink, which meant more evenness of ink, a thicker, more even line, a line with character, with solidity. The pad, all those ninety-nine sheets underneath him, the hundred, the even number, ten to the second power, the exponent, the clean block of planes, the space-time, really, represented by that pad, all of the possible drawings, graphs, curves, relationships, all of the answers, questions, mysteries, all of the problems solvable in that space, in those sheets, in those squares. ~ Charles Yu,

444:It is not cynical to admit the past has been turned into a fiction. It is a story, not a fact. The real has been erased. Whole eras have been added or removed. Wars have been aggrandized, and human struggle relegated to the margins. Villains are redressed as heroes. Generous, striving, imperfect men and women have been stripped of their flaws or plucked of their virtues and turned into figurines of morality or depravity. Whole societies have been fixed with motive and visions and equanimity where there was none. Suffering has been recast as noble sacrifice! Do you know why the history of the Tower is in such turmoil? Because too many powerful men are fighting for the pen, fighting to write their story over our dead bodies. They know what is at stake: immortality, the character of civilization, and influence beyond the ages. They are fighting to see who gets to mislead our grandchildren. ~ Josiah Bancroft,

445:Her most unusual assignation was a quick visit with Fred Darsey, a young man recently escaped from Milledgeville State Hospital, where he was committed by his parents during a troubled adolescence. Darsey first caught her interest with a blind letter, in March, from the mental institution, revealing his passion for bird-watching. She was startled when her reply was returned and the envelope marked “eloped.” She sympathized, when Darsey wrote her again from New York City, “When you have a friend there you feel as if you are there yourself, so you see I feel as if I have escaped too.” Carver helped arrange the date, which Flannery kept secret from Regina, in Bryant Park, at the rear of the New York Public Library, with the pen pal she had never met. “I just love to sit and look at the people in New York, or anywhere,” she told him, “even in Milledgeville.” Flannery wound up her trip north spending the ~ Brad Gooch,

446:Death turned to leave the room, but stopped when Hex began to write furiously. He went back and looked at the emerging paper. +++ Dear Hogfather, For Hogswatch I Want OH, NO. YOU CAN'T WRITE LETT... Death paused, and then said, YOU CAN, CAN'T YOU. +++ Yes. I Am Entitled +++ Death waited until the pen had stopped, and picked up the paper. BUT YOU ARE A MACHINE. THINGS HAVE NO DESIRES. A DOORKNOB WANTS NOTHING, EVEN THOUGH IT IS A COMPLEX MACHINE. +++ All Things Strive +++ YOU HAVE A POINT, said Death. He thought of tiny red petals in the black depths, and read to the end of the list. I DON'T KNOW WHAT MOST OF THESE THINGS ARE. I DON'T THINK THE SACK WILL, EITHER. +++ I Regret This +++ BUT WE WILL DO THE BEST WE CAN, said Death. FRANKLY, I SHALL BE CLAD WHEN TONIGHT'S OVER. IT'S MUCH HARDER TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE. He rummaged in his sack. LET ME SEE... HOW OLD ARE YOU? ~ Terry Pratchett,

447:What Is Fancy? SISTER. I am to write three lines, and you Three others that will rhyme. There-now I've done my task. BROTHER. Three stupid lines as e'er I knew. When you've the pen next time, Some question of me ask. SISTER. Then tell me, brother, and pray mind, Brother, you tell me true: What sort of thing is fancy? BROTHER. By all that I can ever find, 'Tis something that is very new, And what no dunces can see. SISTER. That is not half the way to tell What fancy is about; So pray now tell me more. BROTHER. Sister, I think 'twere quite as well That you should find it out; So think the matter o'er. SISTER. It's what comes in our heads when we Play at 'Let's-make-believe,' And when we play at 'Guessing.' 211 BROTHER. And I have heard it said to be A talent often makes us grieve, And sometimes proves a blessing. ~ Charles Lamb,

448:And speaking of this wonderful machine: [840] I’m puzzled by the difference between Two methods of composing: A, the kind Which goes on solely in the poet’s mind, A testing of performing words, while he Is soaping a third time one leg, and B, The other kind, much more decorous, when He’s in his study writing with a pen. In method B the hand supports the thought, The abstract battle is concretely fought. The pen stops in mid-air, then swoops to bar [850] A canceled sunset or restore a star, And thus it physically guides the phrase Toward faint daylight through the inky maze. But method A is agony! The brain Is soon enclosed in a steel cap of pain. A muse in overalls directs the drill Which grinds and which no effort of the will Can interrupt, while the automaton Is taking off what he has just put on Or walking briskly to the corner store [860] To buy the paper he has read before. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

449:Presents are made for the pleasure of the one who gives them, not for the merits of those who receive them,' said my father. 'Besides, it can't be returned. Open it.' I undid the carefully wrapped package in the dim light of dawn. It contained a shiny carved wooden box, edged with gold rivets. Even before opening it, I was smiling. The sound of the clasp when it unlocked was exquisite, like the ticking of a watch. Inside, the case was lined with dark blue velvet. Victor Hugo's fabulous Montblanc Meisterstuck rested in the centre. It was a dazzling sight. I took it and gazed at it by the light of the balcony. The gold clip of the pen top had an inscription. Daniel Sempere, 1950 I stared at my father, dumbfounded. I don't think I had ever seen him look as happy as he seemed to me at that moment. Without saying anything, he got up from his armchair and held me tight. I felt a lump in my throat and, lost for words, fell utterly silent. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,

450:Do you remember the mangoes?" she asked. She thought she was whispering but the scratching of the pen nib stopped. "You must remember them." She could hear him push the chair away from his desk, slowly stand and then lean against the wall. The floorboards creaked. "The mangoes?" she asked again. She could hear him breathing. He cleared his throat and then, quietly, said, "They were sweet, were they not?" "It was a sweetness more intense than anything I have ever known." And then the room fell quiet. The two sat listening to the familiar sound of each other's breath. Without words, there was comfort: a sonata, tone poem of silence and knowing. After a time, Escoffier said, "The Hindus believe that mangoes are a true sign that perfection is attainable." She thought of the mangoes with their smooth marbled skin, the carmine and field grass green of them, and then the flesh itself, that vivid orange, and then, each bite, the juice sliding down her arm. ~ N M Kelby,

451:The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote: ~ Anonymous,

452:The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote: April 4th, 1984. ~ Anonymous,

453:There are many artists who’ve not yet gotten a good foothold or who are old war-horses at developing their creative lives, and yet and still, every time they reach for the pen, the brush, the ribbons, the script, they hear, “You’re nothing but trouble, your work is marginal or completely unacceptable—because you yourself are marginal and unacceptable.” So what is the solution? Do as the duckling does. Go ahead, struggle through it. Pick up the pen already and put it to the page and stop whining. Write. Pick up the brush and be mean to yourself for a change, paint. Dancers, put on the loose chemise, tie the ribbons in your hair, at your waist, or on your ankles and tell the body to take it from there. Dance. Actress, playwright, poet, musician, or any other. Generally, just stop talking. Don’t say one more word unless you’re a singer. Shut yourself in a room with a ceiling or in a clearing under the sky. Do your art. Generally, a thing cannot freeze if it is moving. So move. Keep moving. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Est s,

454:Sugar leans her chin against the knuckles of the hand that holds the pen. Glistening on the page between her silk-shrouded elbows lies an unfinished sentence. The heroine of her novel has just slashed the throat of a man. The problem is how, precisely, the blood will flow. Flow is too gentle a word; spill implies carelessness; spurt is out of the question because she has used the word already, in another context, a few lines earlier. Pour out implies that the man has some control over the matter, which he most emphatically doesn’t; leak is too feeble for the savagery of the injury she has inflicted upon him. Sugar closes her eyes and watches, in the lurid theatre of her mind, the blood issue from the slit neck. When Mrs Castaway’s warning bell sounds, she jerks in surprise. Hastily, she scrutinises her bedroom. Everything is neat and tidy. All her papers are hidden away, except for this single sheet on her writing-desk. Spew, she writes, having finally been given, by tardy Providence, the needful word. ~ Michel Faber,

455:My despair liked a sunny day, windless, a day warmer than it should be, a day that would bring delight to most other people. It would hang in this air and then creep inside me so I felt a bit off, as if infected by a virus, but was not quite sure what was wrong until it had settled in for good and it was too late to fight it back. Soon, my vision would be warped, my head and thighs heavy, my gait lumbering. It kept both fatigue and rest at bay, so I’d wander through day and night as if sleepwalking through water. And I would wander. Around and around the house I’d go, trying to find something to hold my attention, something that felt important and necessary to do. I’d pick up the broom, the rake, the checkbook, the telephone, the pen, but the vapor had penetrated everything, rendering each object weightless and irrelevant. The lamp, the tea kettle, the books on the shelf, the notes I’d written to myself and stuck on the wall: all had been compressed from 3-D to 2-D, like flimsy cartoon versions of themselves. ~ Frances Lefkowitz,

456:This leads me to the Higher Editing. Take of well-ground Indian Ink as much as suffices and a camel-hair brush proportionate to the inter-spaces of your lines. In an auspicious hour, read your final draft and consider faithfully every paragraph, sentence and word, blacking out where requisite. Let it lie by to drain as long as possible. At the end of that time, re-read and you should find that it will bear a second shortening. Finally, read it aloud alone and at leisure. Maybe a shade more brushwork will then indicate or impose itself. If not, praise Allah and let it go, and ‘when thou hast done, repent not.’ The shorter the tale, the longer the brushwork and, normally, the shorter the lie-by, and vice versa. The longer the tale, the less brush but the longer lie-by. I have had tales by me for three or five years which shortened themselves almost yearly. The magic lies in the Brush and the Ink. For the Pen, when it is writing, can only scratch; and bottled ink is not to compare with the ground Chinese stick. Experto crede. ~ Rudyard Kipling,

457:He gazed intently at a sheet of paper, breath suspended, a word on the quivering point of his pen poised and waiting to fall. Monoliths of books and manuscripts rose around him. All were crammed with words; words packed as solidly as bricks in a wall. Armies of them; marching on from one page to the next without pause. He forced the pen in his tight grip a hairs’-breadth closer to the paper, so that the word stubbornly clinging to it might yield finally; flow onto the vast emptiness. Point and paper met, kissed, froze. He sat back, breath spilling abruptly out of him, the pen laden with unformed words dangling now over the floor in his lax fingers. How, he wondered incredulously, did all those books and papers come into existence? In what faceted jewel of amber secreted in what invisible compartment of what hidden casket did others find that one word to begin the sentence, that layered itself into a paragraph, that built itself into a page, that went on to the next page, and on, and on? ~ Patricia A McKillipThe Bards of Bone Plain ~ Patricia A McKillip,

458:I understood her hrythm. That feeling of everything inside twisting to the point that if you didn't find a release you'd explode. I craved to grant her peace. I placed my hand over hers. My own heart rested when i rubbed my thumb over her smooth skin. She dropped the pen and grasped hes sleeve in her palm, her constant defense mechanism. No. If she grasped anything, it would me. My thumb worked its way between her fingers and her sleeve and released her death grip on the material. I wrapped my fingers around her fragile hand. Touching Echo felt like home. Her ring figer slid against mime, causing electricity to move through my bloodstream. She moved it again. Only this time the movement was slow, deliberate and the most seductive touch in the world. Everything inside of me ached to touch her more. Beth had been both wrong and right. Echo couldn’t hurt anyone, especially when she seemed so breakable herself. But the need I felt to be the one to keep the world from shattering her only confirmed Beth’s theory. I was falling for her and I was fucked. ~ Katie McGarry,

459:This farmer has a rooster that is growing old, and the farmer decides it’s time to get a new rooster. So he goes down the road to his neighbor Gilroy, and he buys a young rooster. When he gets home,” Skippy was already laughing at his own joke, “he puts the young rooster in the pen. The young rooster struts up to the old rooster and says ‘Hey old-timer, you need to hit the road. This is my place now’. The old rooster says ‘You’re right, it is my time, but I’ll tell you what. Someday you’ll be old, and a young rooster will come along to kick you out. I don’t want the ladies to see me just walk away. Could you chase me around some, we’ll fight for a minute for me to keep my dignity, and then I’ll leave?’ And the young rooster feels sorry for the old one, and says ‘Sure, old-timer, let’s go.’ So the young rooster chases the old rooster around the henhouse, and the farmer comes out to see what the commotion is. He says ‘What the hell?’ He grabs his shotgun and blows the young rooster away. As the old rooster is chuckling, the farmer says ‘Damn Gilroy done sold me a gay rooster’! ~ Craig Alanson,

460:The history of the human race demonstrates very convincingly that free speech is the exception to the human condition, not the rule. For millennia, those who spoke out were imprisoned or killed. Hell, you could say something that wasn't even subversive, just inept and stupid, and be destroyed for committing the crime of lese majeste. Make no mistake. What we have today is a level of freedom and self-determination on a scale unparalleled in the history of our species. We live in what is, in many ways, a golden age. So much so that we give tremendous credit to the adage, "The pen is mightier than the sword." But everyone always forgets the first half of that quote: "Under the rule of men entirely great, the pen is mightier than the sword." I'm not sure I know of anyplace that's ruled by anyone "entirely great." That adage wasn't a statement of philosophy, as it was originally used: it was a statement of irony. Don't believe me? Look around. Notice that everywhere you go in the world, whoever happens to be ruling seems to have a great many swords. ~ Jim Butcher,

461:When I was little, I didn’t understand that you could change a few sounds in a name or a phrase and have it mean something entirely different. When I told teachers my name was Benna and they said, “Donna who?” I would say, “Donna Gilbert.” I thought close was good enough, that sloppiness was generally built into the language. I thought Bing Crosby and Bill Crosby were the same person. That Buddy Holly and Billie Holiday were the same person. That Leon Trotsky and Leo Tolstoy were the same person. It was a shock for me quite late in life to discover that Jean Cocteau and Jacques Cousteau were not even related. Meaning, if it existed at all, was unstable and could not survive the slightest reshuffling of letters. One gust of wind and Santa became Satan. A slip of the pen and pears turned into pearls. A little interior decorating and the world became her twold, an ungrammatical and unkind assessment of an aging aunt in a singles bar. Add a d to poor, you got droop. It was that way in biology, too. Add a chromosome, get a criminal. Subtract one, get an idiot or a chipmunk. That was the way with things. ~ Lorrie Moore,

462:The Man Next Door Fragments of song around me lie, Fair ballads of delight, Sweet things an editor would buy And treasure at first sight; All broken now, they're but a heap Of paper on the floor. (Some night, armed with an axe, I'll leap Upon the fiend next door!) Whene'er a verse I try to write, Or spin a story gay, There comes a howling in the night That chases thought away; Then, throwing down the pen, I call Down curses on his roar. (Some night, with daggers three, I'll fall On him who shrieks next door!) If I am feeling fit and well, And forth the inkpot bring, He gives a wild and dismal yell And starts his bellowing. I glare upon him from above As round his room he prowls, While all the songs I most do love He mangles into howls. The golden guineas fade away, The bailiff waits without; I curse each agonising bray, I curse each empty shout; My pen is still, my brain is numb, My senses sick and sore. (I've asked for something swift to come And slay the Noise next door!) ~ Ernest O'Ferrall,

463:My Lord, It was very kind of you to send the lovely gift which is very useful now that the weather has turned. I am pleased to relate that the cashmere absorbed an application of black dye quite evenly so that it is now appropriate for mourning. Thank you for your thoughtfulness. Lady Trenear “You dyed it?” Devon asked aloud, setting the note on his desk with mixture of amusement and irritation. Reaching for a silver penholder, he inserted a fresh nib and pulled a sheet of writing paper from a nearby stack. That morning he had already written a half-dozen missives to lawyers, his banker, and contractors, and had hired an outside agent to analyze the estate’s finances. He grimaced at the sight of his ink-stained fingers. The lemon-and-salt paste his valet had given him wouldn’t entirely remove the smudges. He was tired of writing, and even more so of numbers, and Kathleen’s letter was a welcome distraction. The challenge could not go unanswered. Staring down at the letter with a faint smile, Deon pondered the best way to annoy her. Dipping the pen nib into the inkwell, he wrote, ,

464:That’s the journal on your chair, right?” he holds out a hand, demanding to see it. “Show me this list.” I grab it and turn directly to the page with the list. He takes it from me and holds out his hand again. “Pen?” I eye him curiously but he doesn’t say anything, so I hand the pen over too. He makes a humming sound in his throat as he studies my handwriting, then says, “Ciao.” When I don’t respond, he says it again and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Sono Darren.” My eyes widen when I realize what he’s doing. “Ciao. Sono Pippa.” He squeezes my hand. “Che bel nome, Pippa.” I blush because I can’t help myself. He thinks my name is pretty. And I forgot how hot it is when he speaks Italian. “Grazie.” “Arrivederci.” I wave as if we really are going to part ways. “Arrivederci.” Darren clicks the pen into action and strikes though “Have a conversation with someone in only Italian.” It wasn’t exactly my original plan, and it’s elementary at best, but it had a beginning, middle, and end. And summer’s not over yet, so I’m counting it. ~ Kristin Rae,

465:then things got even stranger. Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheeled his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand. "What ho, Percy!" he shouted, and tossed the pen through the air. Mrs. Dodds lunged at me. With a yelp, I dodged and felt talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatched the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hit my hand, it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a sword-Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always used on tourement day. Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes. My knees were jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped the sword. She snarled, "Die, honey!" And she flew straight at me. Absolute terror ran through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally:I swung the sword. The metal blade hit her shoulder and passed through her body as if she were made made of water. Hisss! Mrs. Dodds was a sand castle in a power fan. She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me. ~ Rick Riordan,

466:What was I thinking?" Chiron cried. " I can't let you get away without this." He pulled a pen from his coat pocket. It was an ordinary disposable ballpoint, black ink, removable cap. Probably thirty cents. Gee," I said. "Thanks." Percy, that's a gift from your father. I've kept it for years, not knowing you were who I was waiting for. But the profecy is clear to me now. You are the one. I remembered the feild trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, when I'd vaporized Mrs. Dodds. Chiron had thrown me a pen that turned into a sword. Could this be...? I took off the cap, and the pen grew longer and heavier in my hand. In half a second, I held a shimmering bronze sword with a double-edged blade, a leather=wrapped grip, and a flat hilt riveted with gold studs. It was the first weapon that actually felt balanced in my hands. The sword has a long and tragic history that we need not go into," Chiron told me. "It's name is Anaklusmos." Riptide," I translated, surprised the Ancient Greek came so easily. Use it only for emergencies" Chiron said, "and only against monsters No hero should harm mortals unless absolutely, of course, but this sword wouldn't harm them in any case. ~ Rick Riordan,

467:She raised her hands from the side of the pen in a gesture hieratic and profound. A visionary light settled in her eyes. She saw the streak as a vast swinging bridge extending upward from the earth through a field of living fire. Upon it a vast horde of souls were rumbling toward heaven. There were whole companies of white-trash, clean for the first time in their lives, and bands of black niggers in white robes, and battalions of freaks and lunatics shouting and clapping and leaping like frogs. And bringing up the end of the procession was a tribe of people whom she recognized at once as those who, like herself and Claud, had always had a little of everything and the God-given wit to use it right. She leaned forward to observe them closer. They were marching behind the others with great dignity, accountable as they had always been for good order and common sense and respectable behavior. They alone were on key. Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces that even their virtues were being burned away. She lowered her hands and gripped the rail of the hog pen, her eyes small but fixed unblinkingly on what lay ahead. In a moment the vision faded but she remained where she was, immobile. ~ Flannery O Connor,

468:Do not settle for living a version of your life designed by another. You are not meant to be gatekeeper or the holder of secrets and shame. You are here to live free and clear and into your own wide open truth. If you are spending too much time around people who expect otherwise you will begin to notice a feeling of constriction. Sometimes the life we create can be come a cage of our own making. Sometimes we stifle our truths to make others comfortable. Do not sacrifice your own comfort and freedom for that of another. The price you pay for this is too high. Define your own space. Remember your own divinity. You have a responsibility to this existence to live in fullness of your truth and art and purpose. Do not be diminished by circumstance or opinion or judgement. Your story is your own; nobody can write it but you. You hold the paper, you choose the pen, and you write your life story the way only you can. So, if someone tries to build you a box, rip that fucker apart and use the wood to build yourself a stage, then ditch your indoor voice and sing it loud. People are not meant to live quietly in small containers no matter how beautiful. A gilded cage is still confinement. You are a wild child – only the open air of freedom will do. ~ Jeanette LeBlanc,

469:Well, our economic system "works," it just works in the interests of the masters, and I'd like to see one that works in the interests of the general population. And that will only happen when they are the "principal architects" of policy, to borrow Adam Smith's phrase. I mean, as long as power is narrowly concentrated, whether in the economic or the political system, you know who's going to benefit from the policies―you don't have to be a genius to figure that out. That's why democracy would be a good thing for the general public. But of course, achieving real democracy will require that the whole system of corporate capitalism be completely dismantled―because it's radically anti-democratic. And that can't be done by a stroke of the pen, you know: you have to build up alternative popular institutions, which could allow control over society's investment decisions to be moved into the hands of working people and communities. That's a long job, it requires building up an entire cultural and institutional basis for the changes, it's not something that's just going to happen on its own. There are people who have written about what such a system might look like―kind of a "participatory economy," it's sometimes called. But sure, that's the way to go, I think. ~ Noam Chomsky,

470:To -- -Not long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained "the power of words"- denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words- two foreign soft dissyllablesItalian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,") Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken. The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I cannot write- I cannot speak or thinkAlas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams. Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, And thrilling as I see, upon the right, Upon the left, and all the way along, Amid empurpled vapors, far away To where the prospect terminates- thee only. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,

471:There was a time when wen we did not form all our words as we do now, in writing on a page. There was a time when the word "&" was written with several distinct & separate letters. It seems madness now. But there it is, & there is nothing we can do about it. Humanity learned to ride the rails, & that motion made us what we are, a ferromaritime people. The lines of the railsea go everywhere but from one place straight to another. It is always switchback, junction, coils around & over our own train-trails. What word better could there be to symbolize the railsea that connects & separates all lands, than “&” itself? Where else does the railsea take us, but to one place & that one & that one & that one, & so on? & what better embodies, in the sweep of the pen, the recurved motion of trains, than “&”? An efficient route from where we start to where we end would make the word the tiniest line. But it takes a veering route, up & backwards, overshooting & correcting, back down again south & west, crossing its own earlier path, changing direction, another overlap, to stop, finally, a few hairs’ width from where we began. & tacks & yaws, switches on its way to where it’s going, as we all must do. ~ China Mi ville,

472:And you, too, youthful reader, will realize the Vision (not the idle wish) of your heart, be it base or beautiful, or a mixture of both, for you will always gravitate toward that which you, secretly, most love. Into your hands will be placed the exact results of your own thoughts; you will receive that which you earn; no more, no less. Whatever your present environment may be, you will fall, remain, or rise with your thoughts, your Vision, your Ideal. You will become as small as your controlling desire; as great as your dominant aspiration: in the beautiful words of Stanton Kirkham Davis, "You may be keeping accounts, and presently you shall walk out of the door that for so long has seemed to you the barrier of your ideals, and shall find yourself before an audience—the pen still behind your ear, the ink stains on your fingers and then and there shall pour out the torrent of your inspiration. You may be driving sheep, and you shall wander to the city-bucolic and open-mouthed; shall wander under the intrepid guidance of the spirit into the studio of the master, and after a time he shall say, 'I have nothing more to teach you.' And now you have become the master, who did so recently dream of great things while driving sheep. You shall lay down the saw and the plane to take upon yourself the regeneration of the world. ~ James Allen,

473:And you, too, youthful reader, will realize the Vision (not the idle wish) of your heart, be it base or beautiful, or a mixture of both, for you will always gravitate toward that which you, secretly, most love. Into your hands will be placed the exact results of your own thoughts; you will receive that which you earn; no more, no less. Whatever your present environment may be, you will fall, remain, or rise with your thoughts, your Vision, your Ideal. You will become as small as your controlling desire; as great as your dominant aspiration: in the beautiful words of Stanton Kirkham Davis, "You may be keeping accounts, and presently you shall walk out of the door that for so long has seemed to you the barrier of your ideals, and shall find yourself before an audience--the pen still behind your ear, the ink stains on your fingers and then and there shall pour out the torrent of your inspiration. You may be driving sheep, and you shall wander to the city-bucolic and open-mouthed; shall wander under the intrepid guidance of the spirit into the studio of the master, and after a time he shall say, 'I have nothing more to teach you.' And now you have become the master, who did so recently dream of great things while driving sheep. You shall lay down the saw and the plane to take upon yourself the regeneration of the world. ~ James Allen,

474:A Father's Wish What do I want my boy to be? Oft is the question asked of me, And oft I ask it of myselfWhat corner, niche or post or shelf In the great hall of life would I Select for him to occupy? Statesman or writer, poet, sage Or toiler for a weekly wage, Artist or artisan? Oh, what Is to become his future lot? For him I do not dare to plan; I only hope he'll be a man. I leave it free for him to choose The tools of life which he shall use, Brush, pen or chisel, lathe or wrench, The desk of commerce or the bench, And pray that when he makes his choice In each day's task he shall rejoice. I know somewhere there is a need For him to labor and succeed; Somewhere, if he be clean and true, Loyal and honest through and through, He shall be fit for any clan, And so I hope he'll be a man. I would not build my hope or ask That he shall do some certain task, Or bend his will to suit my own; He shall select his post alone. Life needs a thousand kinds of men, Toilers and masters of the pen, Doctors, mechanics, sturdy hands To do the work which it commands, And wheresoe'er he's pleased to go, Honor and triumph he may know. Therefore I must do all I can To teach my boy to be a man. 31 ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

475:Valentine Day In Cactus Center Things is quiet, here in Cactus, and our bullyvards now lack The brisk, upliftin' infloo'nce of the forty-five's loud crack; There's three doctors and some nusses, all the way from San Antone, And they're patchin' up the leavin's of a Valentine cyclone. It was all because Bear Hawkins, who's some clever with the pen, Drew a bunch o' comic picters of our foremost fightin' men; He cartooned Windy Porter as a sheep in cowboy's clothes And he handed worse to others 'fore he hails the stage and blows. It was n't many minutes 'fore the post-office was filled With a seethin' bunch a-thirstin' fer to see an artist killed; They did n't think o' Hawkins, fer he'd covered up his play, So they fell to argumentin', in a gin'ral sort o' way. The wrecked the gov'ment boxes, and they bloodied up the floor-It was freshly laid with sawdust, and the P. M. ripped and swore-And they used the doors and shutters and then tore the big sign down Fer to bear away the wounded when the smoke had left the town. So we ain't too strong in Catcus on this comic picter bix, And we're waitin' fer Bear Hawkins jest to tip off where he is, But he keeps hisself in hidin', though he sent us this one line-'I still love you, Cactus Center--won't you be my valentine?' ~ Arthur Chapman,

476:He puts down the pen, folds the sheet of paper, and slips it inside an envelope. He stands up, takes from his trunk a mahogany box, lifts the lid, lets the letter fall inside, open and unaddressed. In the box are hundreds of identical envelopes, open and unaddressed. He thinks that somewhere in the world he will meet a woman who has always been his woman. Every now and again he regrets that destiny has been so stubbornly determined to make him wait with such indelicate tenacity, but with time he has learned to consider the matter with great serenity. Almost every day, for years now, he has taken pen in hand to write to her. He has no names or addresses to put on the envelopes: but he has a life to recount. And to whom, if not to her? He thinks that when they meet it will be wonderful to place the mahogany box full of letters on her lap and say to her, 'I was waiting for you.' "She will open the box and slowly, when she so desires, read the letters one by one. As she works her way back up the interminable thread of blue ink she will gather up the years-- the days, the moments-- that that man, before he ever met her, had already given to her. Or perhaps more simply, she will overturn the box and astonished at that comical snowstorm of letters, she will smile, saying to that man, 'You are mad.' And she will love him forever. ~ Alessandro Baricco,

477:The Pen Made for the White House Presidents come and go, but one thing remains constant in the West Wing BY DAN LEWIS FROM NOW I KNOW PHOTOGRAPH BY ADAM VOORHES The pens read “Skilcraft U.S. Government.” And if you have worked for an American government institution, chances are you’ve used one. About $5 million worth of these pens are sold every year (with 60 percent going to the military), and they have quite the story behind them. To start, they’re assembled by the blind. In 1938, in the midst of the Great Depression, the government stepped in to help blind workers, who were already at a competitive disadvantage. Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed into law the Wagner-O’Day Act, which required that the federal government purchase specific goods manufactured by blind Americans. The law soon included pens. The Skilcraft brand came to be a decade or so later, in 1952. Today, the company employs over 5,500 blind workers in 37 states, producing an arsenal of office supplies, with the pens made in factories in Wisconsin and North Carolina. The pens must be built to the specifications outlined in a 16-page document that was first promulgated more than 50 years ago. Among the requirements? The pens must be able to write continuously for no less than 5,000 feet and in temperatures up to 160 degrees and down to 40 degrees below zero. You know, just in case. Copyright © 2011 by Dan Lewis. ~ Anonymous,

478:I’ll write you a note a day,” Peter says suddenly, with gusto. “That’ll drive her ass crazy.” I write down, Peter will write Lara Jean one note every day. Peter leans in. “Write down that you have to go to some parties with me. And write down no rom coms.” “Who said anything about rom coms? Not every girl wants to watch rom coms.” “I can just tell that you’re the kind of girl who does.” I’m annoyed that he has this perception of me, and even more annoyed that he’s right. I write, NO DUMB ACTION MOVIES. “Then what does that leave us with?” Peter demands. “Superhero movies, horror movies, period films, documentaries, foreign films--” Peter makes a face, grabs the pen and paper from me, and writes down, NO FOREIGN FILMS. He also writes, Lara Jean will make Peter’s picture her phone wallpaper. “And vice versa!” I say. I point my phone at him. “Smile.” Peter smiles, and ugh, it’s annoying how handsome he is. Then he reaches for his phone and I stop him. “Not right now. My hair looks sweaty and gross.” “Good point,” he says, and I want to punch him. “Can you also write down that under no circumstances can either of us tell anyone the truth?” I ask him. “The first rule of Fight Club,” Peter says knowingly. “I’ve never seen that movie.” “Of course you haven’t,” he says, and I make a face at him. Also: mental note, watch Fight Club. ~ Jenny Han,

479:A Career In Letters When Liberverm resigned the chair Of This or That in college, where For two decades he'd gorged his brain With more than it could well contain, In order to relieve the stress He took to writing for the press. Then Pondronummus said, 'I'll help This mine of talent to devel'p;' And straightway bought with coin and credit The _Thundergust_ for him to edit. The great man seized the pen and ink And wrote so hard he couldn't think; Ideas grew beneath his fist And flew like falcons from his wrist. His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways Till all the rivers were ablaze, And where the coruscations fell Men uttered words I dare not spell. Eftsoons with corrugated brow, Wet towels bound about his pow, Locked legs and failing appetite, He thought so hard he couldn't write. His soaring fancies, chickenwise, Came home to roost and wouldn't rise. With dimmer light and milder heat His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet, Then dragged, then stopped; the finish cameHe couldn't even write his name. The _Thundergust_ in three short weeks Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks. Said Pondronummus, 'How unjust! The storm I raised has laid my dust!' When, Moneybagger, you have aught Invested in a vein of thought, Be sure you've purchased not, instead, That salted claim, a bookworm's head. 26 ~ Ambrose Bierce,

480:But I suppose if you're friends of Magnus's ..." He went completely still. His runes faded. Then he leaped out of my hand and flew towards Annabeth, his blade twitching as if he was stiffing the air. "Where is she? Where are you hiding the babe?" Annabeth backed towards the rail. "Whoa, there, sword. Personal space?" "Jack, behave," Alex said. "What are you doing?" "She's around here somewhere," Jack insisted. He flew to Percy. "Aha! What's in your pocket, sea boy?" "Excuse me?" Percy looked a bit nervous about the magical sword hovering at his waistline. Alex lowered his Ray-Bans. "Okay, now I'm curious. What do you have in your pocket, Percy? Enquiring swords want to know." Percy pulled a plain-looking ballpoint pen from his jeans. "You mean this?" "BAM!" Jack said. "Who is this vision of loveliness?" "Jack," I said. "It's a pen." "No, it's not! Show me! Show me!" "Uh ... sure." Percy uncapped the pen. Immediately it transformed into a three-foot-long sword with a leaf-shaped blade of glowing bronze.. Compared to Jack, the weapon looked delicate, almost petite, but from the way Percy wielded it I had no doubt he'd be able to hold his own on the battlefields of Valhalla with that thing. Jack turned his point towards me, his runes flashing burgundy. "See Magnus? I told you it wasn't stupid to carry a sword disguised as a pen!" "Jack, I never said that!" I protested. "You did. ~ Rick Riordan,

481:Vetiver” Ages passed slowly, like a load of hay, As the flowers recited their lines And pike stirred at the bottom of the pond. The pen was cool to the touch. The staircase swept upward Through fragmented garlands, keeping the melancholy Already distilled in letters of the alphabet. It would be time for winter now, its spun-sugar Palaces and also lines of care At the mouth, pink smudges on the forehead and cheeks, The color once known as "ashes of roses.-" How many snakes and lizards shed their skins For time to be passing on like this, Sinking deeper in the sand as it wound toward The conclusion. It had all been working so well and now, Well, it just kind of came apart in the hand As a change is voiced, sharp As a fishhook in the throat, and decorative tears flowed Past us into a basin called infinity. There was no charge for anything, the gates Had been left open intentionally. Don't follow, you can have whatever it is. And in some room someone examines his youth, Finds it dry and hollow, porous to the touch... O keep me with you, unless the outdoors Embraces both of us, unites us, unless The birdcatchers put away their twigs, The fishermen haul in their sleek empty nets And others become part of the immense crowd Around this bonfire, a situation That has come to mean us to us, and the crying In the leaves is saved, the last silver drops. ~ John Ashbery,

482:But the period I studied -- the rollicking eighteenth century engraved by Hogarth -- was the one that saw the birth of America, of women's rights, and of the novel. The novel started as a low-class form, fit only to be read by serving maids, and it is the only literary form where women have distinguished themselves so early and with such excellence that even the rampant misogyny of literary history cannot erase them. Ever wonder about women and the novel? Women, like any underclass, depend for their survival on self-definition. The novel permitted this -- and pages could still be hidden under the embroidery hoop. From the writer's mind to the reader's there was only the intervention of printing presses. You could stay at home, yet send your book abroad to London -- the perfect situation for women. In a world where women are still the second sex, many still dream of becoming writers so they can work at home, make their own hours, nurse the baby. Writing still seems to fit into the interstices of a woman's life. Through the medium of words, we have hopes of changing our class. Perhaps the pen will not always be equated with the penis. In a world of computers, our swift fingers may yet win us the world. One of these days we'll have class. And so we write as feverishly as only the dispossessed can. We write to come into our own, to build our houses and plant our gardens, to give ourselves names and histories, inventing ourselves as we go along. ~ Erica Jong,

483:Joanne Sanders, a broad woman in her forties, posed with friends, family, and Snowball in photographs displayed on the mantel of the fake fireplace. She had shoulder-length brown hair and bangs teased high above her brow. I could picture her behind ten inches of bulletproof glass sneering at me with gloss-encased lips for filling out my deposit slip incorrectly. I fed Snowball half a cup of kibble and a spoonful of wet food as my envelope of information directed. She ate it quickly while making funny little squeaking noises. Once she had licked her bowl to a bright sheen, we headed out for my first walk as a dog-walker. I steered us off of East End Avenue and onto the esplanade that runs along the river. The water reflected the sun in bright silver glints. I smelled oil and brine. We reached Carl Schurz Park and turned into the dog run for small dogs. The gate leading into the run reached only to my knees, as did the rest of the fence designed to keep small dogs in and big ones out. A sign on the gate read, "Dogs over 25 pounds not permitted." Ten dogs under 25 pounds, and one who was probably a little over, played together in the pen. Their owners, in groups of three or four, sat on worn wooden benches and talked about dogs. Snowball ran to join a poodle growling at a puppy. They intimidated it behind its owner's calves. Then the poodle, a miniature gray curly thing with long ears, mounted Snowball. I turned to the river and watched a giant barge inch by. ~ Emily Kimelman,

484:Cotton-Wool Shun the brush and shun the pen, Shun the ways of clever men, When they prove that black is white, Whey they swear that wrong is right, When they roast the singing stars Like chestnuts, in between the bars, _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._ When you see a clever man Run as quickly as you can. You must never, never, never Think that Socrates was clever. The cleverest thing I ever knew Now cracks walnuts at the Zoo. _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._ Homer could not scintillate. Milton, too, was merely great. That's a very different matter From talking like a frantic hatter. Keats and Shelley had no tricks. Wordsworth never climbed up sticks. _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._ Lincoln would create a gloom In many a London drawing-room; He'd be silent at their wit, He would never laugh at it. When they kissed Salome's toes, I think he'd snort and blow his nose. _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._ They'd curse him for a silly clown, They'd drum him out of London town. Professor Flunkey, the historian, 28 Would say he was a dull Victorian. Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John, Bless the bed I rest upon. _Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool._ Amen. ~ Alfred Noyes,

485:Prologue From Preparatory Meditations Before My Approach To The Lord's Supper Lord, can a crumb of dust the earth outweigh, Outmatch all mountains, nay the crystal sky? Imbosom in't designs that shall display And trace into the boundless deity? Yea, hand a pen whose moisture doth gild o'er Eternal glory with a glorious glore. If it is pen had of an angel's quill, And sharpened on a precious stone ground tight, And dipped in liquid gold, and moved by skill In crystal leaves should golden letters write, It would but blot and blur, yea, jag and jar, Unless Thou mak'st the pen and scribener. I am this crumb of dust which is designed To make my pen unto Thy praise alone, And my dull fancy I would gladly grind Unto an edge on Zion's precious stone; And write in liquid gold upon Thy name My letters till Thy glory forth doth flame. Let not th' attempts break down my dust I pray, Nor laugh Thou them to scorn, but pardon give. Inspire this crumb of dust till it display Thy glory through't: and then Thy dust shall live. Its failings then Thou'lt overlook, I trust, They being slips slipped from Thy crumb of dust. Thy crumb of dust breathes two words from its breast, That Thou wilt guide its pen to write aright To prove Thou art and that Thou art the best And shew Thy prosperties to shine most bright. And then Thy works will shine as flowers on stems Or as in jewelary shops do gems. ~ Edward Taylor,

486:The Monument Have they destroyed your memorial minaret? Don't you fear, comrade, We are still here A family of ten million, alert and wide awake. The base that no emperor Could ever crush At whose feet The diamond crown, the blue proclamation, The naked sabre and the tempestuous cavalry Have crumbled into dust. We are that simple hero, that unique crowd, We who work in fields, Row on rivers, Labour in factories! Have they destroyed your brick minaret? Well, let them. Don't you fear, comrade, We a family of ten million Are alert and wide awake. What kind of a death is this? Has anyone seen such a death Where no one weeps at the head Of the departed? Where all sorrow and pain from the Himalayas to the sea Only come together and blossom Into the colour of a single flag? What kind of a death is this? Has anyone seen such a death Where no one laments aloud Where only the sitar turns into the Gorgeous stream of a mighty waterfall, Where the season of many words Leads the pen on to an era of Poetry? Have they destroyed your brick minaret? Well, let them. We forty million masons Have built a minaret with a violin's tune And the bright colours of our purple heart. The lives of the martyrs float like islands In the dark deep eyes of Rainbows and palash flowers We have etched for you their names Through the ages In the foamy stones of love. That is why, comrad, On the granite peak of ou thousand fistsıShines lik the sun The sun of a mighty pledge. [Translated by Kabir Chowdhury] ~ Alauddin Al Azad,

487:Why we write. Because art blows life into the lifeless, death into the deathless. Because art's lie is preferable, in truth, to life's beautiful terror. Because as time does not pass (nothing, as Beckett tells us, passes) it passes the time. Because Death, our mirthless master, is somehow amused by epitaphs. Because epitaphs well struck give Death, our vorcious master, heartburn. Because fiction imitates life's beauty, thereby inventing the beauty life lacks. Because fiction is the best position, at once exotic and familiar, for fucking the world. Because fiction, mediating paradox, celebrates it. Because fiction, mothered by love, loves love as a mother might her unloving child. Because fiction speaks, hopelessly, beautifully, as the world speaks. Because God, created in the storyteller's image, can be destroyed only by its maker. Because in its perversity, art harmonizes the disharmonious, and because in its profanity, fiction sanctifies life. Because, in its terrible isolation, writing is a path to brotherhood. Because in the beginning was the gesture and in the end the come, as well in between what we have are words. Because of all arts, only fiction can unmake the myths that unman men. Because of its endearing futility, its outrageous pretentions. Because the pen, though short, casts a long shadow upon (it must be said) no surface. Because the world is reinvented every day and this is how it is done. Because there is nothing new under the sun except its expression. Because truth, that illusive joker, hides himself in fictions and must therefore be sought there. Because writing, in all spaces unimaginable vastness, is still the greatest adventure of all. And because, alas, what else? ~ Robert Coover,

488:My lord?” Nick turned at the tentative, feminine voice, to find two young women standing nearby, watching him eagerly. Nick spoke, wary. “Yes? ” “We—” one of them began to speak, then stopped, uncertain. The other nudged her toward him. “Yes?” “We are fans.” Nick blinked. “Of?” “Of yours.” “Of mine.” “Indeed!” The second girl smiled broadly and stepped closer, holding out what looked suspiciously like— Nick swore under his breath. “Would you be willing to autograph our magazine? ” Nick held up a hand. “I would, girls, but you’ve got the wrong brother.” He pointed to Gabriel. “That is Lord Nicholas.” Rock snorted as the two shifted their attention to the Marquess of Ralston, a dazzlingly handsome copy of their prey, and tittered their excitement. Gabriel instantly eased into his role, turning a brilliant smile on the girls. “I would be happy to autograph your magazine.” He took the journal and the pen they proffered and said, “You know, I must confess, this is the first time I’ve ever drawn the attention of ladies when in the company of my brother. Ralston has always been considered the more handsome of us.” “No!” the girls protested. Nick rolled his eyes. “Indeed. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you it’s the marquess who is the best specimen. Surely you’ve heard that.” He looked up at them with a winning smile. "You can admit it, girls. My feelings shan’t be hurt." Gabriel held up the magazine, displaying the cover, which boasted: Inside! London’s Lords to Land! “Yes … there’s no question that this is going to do wonders for my reputation. I’m so happy to see that it’s getting around that I’m on the hunt for a wife!” The girls nearly expired from delight. ~ Sarah MacLean,

489:I wonder, for example, if the twins’ piano training had given them the Tomaini brand of dexterity with hand jobs? Could a non-musician learn it? Could I? Children stumble through these most critical acts with no real help from the elders who are so anxious to teach them everything else. We were given rules and taboos for the toilet, the sneeze, the eating of an artichoke. Papa taught us all a particular brush stroke for cleaning our teeth, a special angle for the pen in our hand, the exact words for greeting elders, with fine-tuned distinctions for male, female, show folk, customers, or tradesmen. The twins and Arty were taught to design an act, whether it lasted three minutes or thirty, to tease, coax, and startle a crowd, to build to crescendo and then disappear in the instant of climax. From what I have come to understand of life, this show skill, this talk-’em, sock-’em, knock-’em-flat information, is as close as we got to that ultimate mystery. I throw death aside. Death is not mysterious. We all understand death far too well and spend chunks of life resisting, ignoring, or explaining away that knowledge. But this real mystery I have never touched, never scratched. I’ve seen the tigers with their jaws wide, their fangs buried in each other’s throats, and their shadowed hides sizzling, tip to tip. I’ve seen the young norms tangled and gasping in the shadows between booths. I suspect that, even if I had begun as a norm, the saw-toothed yearning that whirls in me would bend me and spin me colorless, shrink me, scorch every hair from my body, and all invisibly so only my red eyes would blink out glimpses of the furnace thing inside. In fact, I smell the stench of longing so clearly in the streets that I’m surprised there are not hundreds exactly like me on every corner. ~ Katherine Dunn,

490:Out Of Khaki I slung me khaki suit to-day. Civilian now front heel to chin I 'op round on a single shin; At home in peace I'm bound to stay. 'N' so they've took me duds away. It 'urt like strippin' off me skin! I put it on three years ago, The ole brown rig. There wasn't then A prouder chicken in the pen. Jist twenty turned, me nibs you'd know For how I give me chest a throw, A man among the best of men. Me little no the touch I give, Me chin's ez solid ez a rock, 'N' level with the Town 'All clock, A five-inch grin across me chiv. “Lor' love us, this is how to live,” Sez I, 'n' felt I owned the Block. Glad eyes was ever on the lurk, 'N' little 'earts was thumpin' warm For nippers trainin' with the swarm To swat ole Kaiser Bill, or work A toe-hold on the heathen Turk. Fair dink, I loved the uniform! I soused mine in the brine that day When Tophet spilt, 'n' in the roar Of shells that split the sea 'n' tore Our boats to chips, we broke any Up through the pelt of leaden spray, 'N' got our first real taste of war. They shot me tunic all to rags; Then in the perpendic'lar spree Me trousers wore off to the knee. The right-abouts of many bags 83 Was ground off in the dust 'n' crags A-sittin' in Gallipoli. I wore the khaki on the SommeMost time 'twas jist a coat of mud; I once come through the battle scud Stripped mother-naked by a bomb; 'N' once it' took its color from Me own 'n' one good cobber's blood. They cheered the khaki through the street When we come home with pipers gay, But now I'm jist a bloke in grey. Harf-lost, lob-sided, incomplete, It's nothin' but me spook you'll meet, Ghost-walkin' in the light o' day. ~ Edward George Dyson,

491:the planned destruction of Iraq’s agriculture is not widely known. Modern Iraq is part of the ‘fertile crescent’ of Mesopotamia where man first domesticated wheat between 8,000 and 13,000 years ago, and home to several thousand varieties of local wheat. As soon as the US took over Iraq, it became clear its interests were not limited to oil. In 2004, Paul Bremer, the then military head of the Provisional Authority imposed as many as a hundred laws which made short work of Iraq’s sovereignty. The most crippling for the people and the economy of Iraq was Order 81 which deals, among other things, with plant varieties and patents. The goal was brutally clear-cut and sweeping — to wipe out Iraq’s traditional, sustainable agriculture and replace it with oil-chemical-genetically-modified-seed-based industrial agriculture. There was no public or parliamentary debate for the conquered people who never sought war. The conquerors made unilateral changes in Iraq’s 1970 patent law: henceforth, plant forms could be patented — which was never allowed before — while genetically-modified organisms were to be introduced. Farmers were strictly banned from saving their own seeds: this, in a country where, according to the Food and Agriculture Organisation, 97 per cent of Iraqi farmers planted only their own saved seeds. With a single stroke of the pen, Iraq’s agriculture was axed, while Order 81 facilitated the introduction and domination of imported, high-priced corporate seeds, mainly from the US — which neither reproduce, nor give yields without their prescribed chemical fertiliser and pesticide inputs. It meant that the majority of farmers who had never spent money on seed and inputs that came free from nature, would henceforth have to heavily invest in corporate inputs and equipment — or go into debt to obtain them, or accept lowered profits, or give up farming altogether. ~ Anonymous,

492:Inmates would overwhelmingly welcome segregation. As Lexy Good, a white prisoner in San Quentin State Prison explained, “I’d rather hang out with white people, and blacks would rather hang out with people of their own race.” He said it was the same outside of prison: “Look at suburbia. . . . People in society self-segregate.” Another white man, using the pen name John Doe, wrote that jail time in Texas had turned him against blacks: '[B]ecause of my prison experiences, I cannot stand being in the presence of blacks. I can’t even listen to my old, favorite Motown music anymore. The barbarous and/or retarded blacks in prison have ruined it for me. The black prison guards who comprise half the staff and who flaunt the dominance of African-American culture in prison and give favored treatment to their “brothers” have ruined it for me.' He went on: '[I]n the aftermath of the Byrd murder [the 1998 dragging death in Jasper, Texas] I read one commentator’s opinion in which he expressed disappointment that ex-cons could come out of prison with unresolved racial problems “despite the racial integration of the prisons.” Despite? Buddy, do I have news for you! How about because of racial integration?' (emphasis in the original) A man who served four years in a California prison wrote an article for the Los Angeles Times called “Why Prisons Can’t Integrate.” “California prisons separate blacks, whites, Latinos and ‘others’ because the truth is that mixing races and ethnic groups in cells would be extremely dangerous for inmates,” he wrote. He added that segregation “is looked on by no one—of any race—as oppressive or as a way of promoting racism.” He offered “Rule No. 1” for survival: “The various races and ethnic groups stick together.” There were no other rules. He added that racial taboos are so complex that only a person of the same race can be an effective guide. ~ Jared Taylor,

493:A Dilemma Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men, For years I criticised their prose and verges: Pointed out all their blunders of the pen, Their shallowness of thought and feeling; then Damned them up hill and down with hearty curses! They said: 'That's all that he can do-just sneer, And pull to pieces and be analytic. Why doesn't he himself, eschewing fear, Publish a book or two, and so appear As one who has the right to be a critic? 'Let him who knows it all forbear to tell How little others know, but show his learning.' The public added: 'Who has written well May censure freely'-quoting Pope. I fell Into the trap and books began out-turning, Books by the score-fine prose and poems fair, And not a book of them but was a terror, They were so great and perfect; though I swear I tried right hard to work in, here and there, (My nature still forbade) a fault or error. 'Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt, Professed to find-but that's a trifling matter. Now, when the flood of noble books was out I raised o'er all that land a joyous shout, Till I was thought as mad as any hatter! (Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say. 'T were wrong in their affliction to revile 'em, But truly, you'll confess 'tis very sad We wear the ugly things they make. Begad, They'd be less mischievous in an asylum!) 'Consistency, thou art a'-well, you're _paste_! When next I felt my demon in possession, And made the field of authorship a waste, 43 All said of me: 'What execrable taste, To rail at others of his own profession!' Good Lord! where do the critic's rights begin Who has of literature some clear-cut notion, And hears a voice from Heaven say: 'Pitch in'? He finds himself-alas, poor son of sin Between the devil and the deep blue ocean! ~ Ambrose Bierce,

494:Where Are The Temperance People? In Reply To A Query Where are the temperance people? Well, scattered here and there: Some gathering in their produce To show at the autumn fair; Some threshing wheat for market, And others threshing rye, That will go to the fat distiller For whiskey by-and-by. And some are selling their hop crops At a first-rate price, this year, And the seller pockets the money, While the drunkard swallows the beer. And some 'staunch temperance workers'(?) Who'd do anything for the cause, Save to give it a dime or a moment, Or work for temperance laws, May be seen from now to election, Near any tavern stand Where liquor flows in plenty, With a voter on either hand. And these temperance office-seekers That we hear of far and near Are the ones who furnish the money That buys the lager-beer. But these are only the black sheep Who want the temperance name Without living up to the precepts, And so bring themselves to shame. And the true, brave temperance people, Who have the cause at heart, Are doing the work that's nearest, 908 Each his allotted part: Some lifting the fallen drunkard, Some preaching unto men, Some aiding the cause with money, And others with the pen. Each has a different mission, Each works in a different way, But their works shall melt together In one grand result, some day. And one, our chief (God bless him), Is working day and night: With his sword of burning eloquence, He is fighting the noble fight. Whether in lodge or convention, Whether at home or abroad, He is reaping a golden harvest To lay at the feet of God. Where are the temperance people? All scattered here and there, Sowing the seeds of righteous deeds, That the harvest may be fair. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

495:I trudge toward the porch, entertaining the idea of running the other way. But technically, I shouldn't be in any trouble. It wasn't my car. I'm not the one who got a ticket. Samantha Forza did. And the picture on Samantha Forza's driver's license looks a lot like Rayna. She told Officer Downing that she swerved to keep from hitting a camel, which Officer Downing graciously interpreted as a deer after she described it as "a hairy animal with four legs and a horn." Since no one formed a search party to look for either a camel or a unicorn, I figured we were in the clear. But from Mom's expression, I'm miles from clear. "Hi," I say as I reach the steps. "We'll see about that," she says, grabbing my face and shining a pen light in my eyes. I slap it away. "Really? You're checking my pupils? Really?" "Hal said you looked hazy," she says, clipping the pen back on the neckline of her scrubs. "Hal? Who's Hal?" "Hal is the paramedic who took your signature when you declined medical treatment. He radioed in to the hospital after he left you." "Oh. Well, then Hal would have noticed I was just in an accident, so I might have been a little out of it. Doesn't mean I was high." So it wasn't small-town gossip, it was small-county gossip. Good ole Hal's probably transported hundreds of patients to my mom in the ER two towns over. She scowls. "Why didn't you call me? Who is Samantha?" I sigh and push past her. There's no reason to have this conversation on the porch. She follows me into the house. "She's Galen's sister. I didn't call because I didn't have a signal on my cell. We were on a dead road." "Where was Galen? Why were you driving his car?" "He was home. We were just taking it for a drive. He didn't want to come." Technically, all these statements are true, so they sound believable when I say them. Mom snorts and secures the dead bolt on the front door. "Probably because he knows his sister is life threatening behind the wheel." "Probably. ~ Anna Banks,

496:My feeling then was of forlornness, of the desperate inadequacies of this human linguistic apparatus that we employ to forestall, a little longer, aloneness, and of how futile these fumblings so often are. In the next lurch of solitude I began trying to add to the list of things not to say to someone in your marriage: Don’t ever use a pen while lying on the bed; don’t ever forget to put the cap back on a pen after using the pen; don’t ever use a pen if it’s new; put items in the refrigerator at ninety-degree angles; do not throw things in the bathroom trash if there are already a lot of things in the trash; don’t ever lie on the bed, made or unmade, in your clothes; don’t get into the bed without having showered; don’t put your bag on the bed, don’t put your bag on the chair, don’t put your bag on the counter, don’t put your bag on the table; don’t ever do the laundry; don’t bite your nails; don’t put the toilet paper facing out; don’t put the toilet paper facing in; don’t accelerate quickly; don’t wear those colors together, don’t wear those colors together, don’t wear a stripe and a plaid, don’t wear that shirt, that looks bad on you, that looks bad on you, and that looks bad on you, and that looks bad on you, and that looks bad on you too, are you sure you want to wear that, that looks bad on you; please stay out of the house one night a week, please stay out of the house a couple of nights a week so I can have some privacy; don’t put that there; don’t put that there; that plastic cup was given to me by my grandmother; don’t use my towel; don’t use my bathroom; you don’t understand your own family; you don’t understand your own role in your own family; you don’t understand what people think of you; you don’t understand other people; you don’t understand me, you don’t understand yourself; I need money for clothes, I need money for credit cards, I need money for school; don’t cut your meat on the plate, that sound is awful, cut your meat on the cutting board before putting it on your plate; don’t touch me. And when I was done ~ Rick Moody,

497:My Heart And I I. ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I. II. You see we're tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colours could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend ; At last we're tired, my heart and I. III. How tired we feel, my heart and I ! We seem of no use in the world ; Our fancies hang grey and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently ; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet : What do we here, my heart and I ? IV. So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. `Dear love, you're looking tired,' he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head : 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. V. So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 75 Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. VI. Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I. VII. Yet who complains ? My heart and I ? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out : Disdain them, break them, throw them by And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used, -- well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

498:Over The Alley Here in my office I sit and write Hour on hour, and day on day, With no one to speak to from morn till night, Though I have a neighbour just over the way. Across the alley that yawns between A maiden sits sewing the whole day long; A face more lovely is seldom seen In hall or castle or country throng. Her curling tresses are golden brown; Her eyes, I think, are violet blue, Though her long, thick lashes are always down, Jealously hiding the orbs from view; Her neck is slender, and round, and white, And this way and that way her soft hair blows, As there in the window from morn till night, She sits in her beauty, and sings and sews. And I in my office chair, lounge and dream, In an idle way, of a sweet 'might be, ' While the maid at her window sews her seam, With never a glance or a thought for me. Perhaps she is angry because I look So long and so often across the way, Over the top of my ledger-book; But those stolen glances brighten the day. And I am blameless of any wrong; She is the transgressor, by sitting there And making my eyes turn oft and long To a face so delicate, pure and fair. Work is forgotten; the page lies clean, Untouched by the pen, while hours go by. Oh, maid of the pensive air and mien! Give me one glance of your violet eye. Drop your thimble or spool of thread Down in the alley, I pray, my sweet, Or the comb or ribbon from that fair head, 452 That I may follow with nimble feet; For how can I tell you my heart has gone Across the alley, and lingers there, Till I know your name, my beautiful one? How could I venture, and how could I dare? Just one day longer I'll wait and dream, And then, if you grant me no other way, I shall write you a letter: 'Maid of the seam, You have stolen my property; now give pay, Beautiful robber and charming thief! Give me one glance for the deed you've done.' Thus shall I tell you my loss and grief, Over the alley, my beautiful one. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

499:If a man is to be saved it will be through faith, or not at all. But because he is spiritually lifeless (Eph. 2:1-2), he must first be made alive by the power of God's grace before he is able to repent and believe. Perhaps the best way to drive home this point is with an illustration. It comes from the pen of that great British evangelist of the eighteenth century, George Whitefield: "Come, ye dead, Christless, unconverted sinners, come and see the place where they laid the body of the deceased Lazarus; behold him laid out, bound hand and foot with grave-cloaths, locked up and stinking in a dark cave, with a great stone placed on the top of it. View him again and again; go nearer to him; be not afraid; smell him. Ah! How he stinketh. Stop there now, pause a while; and whilst thou art gazing upon the corpse of Lazarus, give me leave to tell thee with great plainness, but greater love, that this dead, bound entombed, stinking carcase, is butd a faith representation of thy poor soul in its natural state: for, whether thou believest or n ot, thy spirit which thou bearest about with thee, sepulchred in flesh and blood, is as literally dead to God, and as truly dead in trespasses and sins, as the body of Lazarus was in the cave. Was he bound hand and foot with grave-cloaths? So art thou bound hand and foot with thy corruptions: and as a stone was laid on the sepulchre, so is there a stone of unbelief upon thy stupid heart. Perhaps thou hast lain in this state, not only four days, but many years, stinking in God's nostrils. And, what is still more effecting thou art as unable to raise thyself out of this loathsome, dead state, to a life of righteousness and true holiness, as ever Lazarus was to raise himself from the cave in which he lay so long. Thou mayest try the power of thy own boasted free-will, and the force and energy of moral persuasion and rational arguments (which, without all doubt, have their proper place in religion); but all thy efforts, exerted with never so much vigour, will prove quite fruitless and abortive, till that same Jesus, who said 'Take away the stone'; and cried, 'Lazarus, come forth' also quicken you ~ Anonymous,

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

501:BRING me wine, but wine which never grew In the belly of the grape, Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through Under the Andes to the Cape, Suffer'd no savour of the earth to 'scape. Let its grapes the morn salute From a nocturnal root, Which feels the acrid juice Of Styx and Erebus; And turns the woe of Night, By its own craft, to a more rich delight. We buy ashes for bread; We buy diluted wine; Give me of the true, Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl'd Among the silver hills of heaven Draw everlasting dew; Wine of wine, Blood of the world, Form of forms, and mould of statures, That I intoxicated, And by the draught assimilated, May float at pleasure through all natures; The bird-language rightly spell, And that which roses say so well: Wine that is shed Like the torrents of the sun Up the horizon walls, Or like the Atlantic streams, which run When the South Sea calls. Water and bread, Food which needs no transmuting, Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting, Wine which is already man, Food which teach and reason can. Wine which Music is, Music and wine are one, That I, drinking this, Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; Kings unborn shall walk with me; And the poor grass shall plot and plan What it will do when it is man. Quicken'd so, will I unlock Every crypt of every rock. I thank the joyful juice For all I know; Winds of remembering Of the ancient being blow, And seeming-solid walls of use Open and flow. Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine; Retrieve the loss of me and mine! Vine for vine be antidote, And the grape requite the lote! Haste to cure the old despair; Reason in Nature's lotus drench'd The memory of ages quench'd Give them again to shine; Let wine repair what this undid; And where the infection slid, A dazzling memory revive; Refresh the faded tints, Recut the aged prints, And write my old adventures with the pen Which on the first day drew, Upon the tablets blue, The dancing Pleiads and eternal men. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Bacchus ,

502:What's the trouble?" I said, knowing well what that trouble was. "I've a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that was ever written. Do let me write it out here. It's such a notion!" There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly thanked me, but plunged into the work at once. For half an hour the pen scratched without stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his hair. The scratching grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased. The finest story in the world would not come forth. "It looks such awful rot now," he said, mournfully. "And yet it seemed so good when I was thinking about it. What's wrong?" I could not dishearten him by saying the truth. So I answered: "Perhaps you don't feel in the mood for writing." "Yes I do--except when I look at this stuff. Ugh!" "Read me what you've done," I said. "He read, and it was wondrous bad, and he paused at all the specially turgid sentences, expecting a little approval; for he was proud of those sentences, as I knew he would be. "It needs compression," I suggested, cautiously. "I hate cutting my things down. I don't think you could alter a word here without spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was writing it." "Charlie, you're suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a numerous class. Put the thing by, and tackle it again in a week." "I want to do it at once. What do you think of it?" "How can I judge from a half-written tale? Tell me the story as it lies in your head." Charlie told, and in the telling there was everything that his ignorance had so carefully prevented from escaping into the written word. I looked at him, and wondering whether it were possible that he did not know the originality, the power of the notion that had come in his way? It was distinctly a Notion among notions. Men had been puffed up with pride by notions not a tithe as excellent and practicable. But Charlie babbled on serenely, interrupting the current of pure fancy with samples of horrible sentences that he purposed to use. I heard him out to the end. It would be folly to allow his idea to remain in his own inept hands, when I could do so much with it. Not all that could be done indeed; but, oh so much! ~ Rudyard Kipling,

503:Once a renowned skirt-chaser, now an exceptionally devoted husband, St. Vincent knew as much about these matters as any man alive. When Cam had asked glumly if a decrease in physical urges was something that naturally occurred as a man approached his thirties, St. Vincent had choked on his drink. “Good God, no,” the viscount had said, coughing slightly as a swallow of brandy seared his throat. They had been in the manager’s office of the club, going over account books in the early hours of the morning. St. Vincent was a handsome man with wheat-colored hair and pale blue eyes. Some claimed he had the most perfect form and features of any man alive. The looks of a saint, the soul of a scoundrel. “If I may ask, what kind of women have you been taking to bed?” “What do you mean, what kind?” Cam had asked warily. “Beautiful or plain?” “Beautiful, I suppose.” “Well, there’s your problem,” St. Vincent said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Plain women are far more enjoyable. There’s no better aphrodisiac than gratitude.” “Yet you married a beautiful woman.” A slow smile had curved St. Vincent’s lips. “Wives are a different case altogether. They require a great deal of effort, but the rewards are substantial. I highly recommend wives. Especially one’s own.” Cam had stared at his employer with annoyance, reflecting that serious conversation with St. Vincent was often hampered by the viscount’s fondness for turning it into an exercise of wit. “If I understand you, my lord,” he said curtly, “your recommendation for a lack of desire is to start seducing unattractive women?” Picking up a silver pen holder, St. Vincent deftly fitted a nib into the end and made a project of dipping it precisely into an ink bottle. “Rohan, I’m doing my best to understand your problem. However, a lack of desire is something I’ve never experienced. I’d have to be on my deathbed before I stopped wanting—no, never mind, I was on my deathbed in the not-too-distant past, and even then I had the devil’s own itch for my wife.” “Congratulations,” Cam muttered, abandoning any hope of prying an earnest answer out of the man. “Let’s attend to the account books. There are more important matters to discuss than sexual habits.” St. Vincent scratched out a figure and set the pen back on its stand. “No, I insist on discussing sexual habits. It’s so much more entertaining than work. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

504:If anything's to be praised, it's most likely how the west wind becomes the east wind, when a frozen bough sways leftward, voicing its creaking protests, and your cough flies across the Great Plains to Dakota's forests. At noon, shouldering a shotgun, fire at what may well be a rabbit in snowfields, so that a shell widens the breach between the pen that puts up these limping awkward lines and the creature leaving real tracks in the white. On occasion the head combines its existence with that of a hand, not to fetch more lines but to cup an ear under the pouring slur of their common voice. Like a new centaur. There is always a possibility left to let yourself out to the street whose brown length will soothe the eye with doorways, the slender forking of willows, the patchwork puddles, with simply walking. The hair on my gourd is stirred by a breeze and the street, in distance, tapering to a V, is like a face to a chin; and a barking puppy flies out of a gateway like crumpled paper. A street. Some houses, let's say, are better than others. To take one item, some have richer windows. What's more, if you go insane, it won't happen, at least, inside them. ... and when 'the future' is uttered, swarms of mice rush out of the Russian language and gnaw a piece of ripened memory which is twice as hole-ridden as real cheese. After all these years it hardly matters who or what stands in the corner, hidden by heavy drapes, and your mind resounds not with a seraphic 'do', only their rustle. Life, that no one dares to appraise, like that gift horse's mouth, bares its teeth in a grin at each encounter. What gets left of a man amounts to a part. To his spoken part. To a part of speech. Not that I am losing my grip; I am just tired of summer. You reach for a shirt in a drawer and the day is wasted. If only winter were here for snow to smother all these streets, these humans; but first, the blasted green. I would sleep in my clothes or just pluck a borrowed book, while what's left of the year's slack rhythm, like a dog abandoning its blind owner, crosses the road at the usual zebra. Freedom is when you forget the spelling of the tyrant's name and your mouth's saliva is sweeter than Persian pie, and though your brain is wrung tight as the horn of a ram nothing drops from your pale-blue eye. ~ Joseph Brodsky,

505:Anne Sexton, who died forty-two years ago today, did her best to respond to the legions of fans who wrote to her. The letter below, from August 1965, finds her dispensing unvarnished advice to an aspiring poet from Amherst. Read more of her correspondence in Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters. Your letter was very interesting, hard to define, making it hard on me somehow to set limits for you, advise or help in any real way. First of all let me tell you that I find your poems fascinating, terribly uneven … precious perhaps, flashes of brilliance … but the terrible lack of control, a bad use of rhyme and faults that I feel sure you will learn not to make in time. I am not a prophet but I think you will make it if you learn to revise, if you take your time, if you work your guts out on one poem for four months instead of just letting the miracle (as you must feel it) flow from the pen and then just leave it with the excuse that you are undisciplined. Hell! I’m undisciplined too, in everything but my work … Everyone in the world seems to be writing poems … but only a few climb into the sky. What you sent shows you COULD climb there if you pounded it into your head that you must work and rework these uncut diamonds of yours. If this is impossible for you my guess is that you will never really make it … As for madness … hell! Most poets are mad. It doesn’t qualify us for anything. Madness is a waste of time. It creates nothing. Even though I’m often crazy, and I am and I know it, still I fight it because I know how sterile, how futile, how bleak … nothing grows from it and you, meanwhile, only grow into it like a snail. Advice … Stop writing letters to the top poets in America. It is a terrible presumption on your part. I never in my life would have the gall (sp?) to write Randall Jarrell out of the blue that way and all my life I have wanted to do so. It’s out of line … it isn’t done. I mean they get dozens of fan letters a day that they have no time to respond to and I’m sure dozens of poems. Meanwhile, these poets (fans of whatever) should be contacting other young poets on their way—not those who have made it, who sit on a star and then have plenty of problems, usually no money, usually the fear their own writing is going down the sink hole … make contact with others such as you. They are just as lonely, just as ready, and will help you far more than the distant Big Name Poet … I’m not being rejecting, Jon, I’m being realistic. ~ Anne Sexton,

506:Remembering what the Princess had told me about histories, I had to grin as I replaced the dusty book for what would probably be another hundred years. So now where? Of course I knew where. I turned toward the corner, staring at the tapestries to the little alcove where the memoirs for the heirs were stored. Bunching my skirts in either hand so they wouldn’t rustle, I moved stealthily to the tapestry and stood listening. No voices, certainly, and no sounds beyond the drumming of the rain against the near windows. So I lifted the tapestry--and looked across the room into a pair of familiar gray eyes. Dressed splendidly in black and gold, as if for Court, Shevraeth knelt at the desk, writing. For the third time that day, my face went hot. Resolutely reminding myself of my promise not to initiate any quarrels, I said, “Harantha Chamadis. Thirav Astiar. The Treaty of Seven Rivers. Is there a record?” Shevraeth didn’t say a word. He lifted his pen, pointed at a particular shelf, then bent his head and went right back to his task. For a moment I watched his pen traversing swiftly over the paper in close lines. Then my gaze traveled to the smooth yellow hair, neatly tied back, and from there to the lines of his profile. For the very first time I saw him simply as a person and not as an adversary, but I did not give myself the space to gauge my reactions. The curl of danger, of being caught at my observations and once again humiliated, caused me to drag my gaze away, and I trod to the shelf to which I’d been directed. A few swift glances through the books, and I found the memoirs of the queen of that time. A quick glance through showed the names I wanted repeated on a number of pages. Gripping the book in one hand and brushing back a strand of my wet hair with the other, I said, “Do you need my reason--” He cut in, lightly enough: “Just put it back when you’re done.” He kept his gaze on his writing, and his pen scarcely paused. Scrawl, dip, scrawl, dip. Two or three more words--then the pen stopped, and he glanced up again. “Was there something else?” he asked. Still polite, but very remote. I realized I’d been staring for a protracted time, my reactions frozen as if behind a layer of ice. I said in a rush, “The party, for Bran and Nee. Do you--should I send you--” He smiled just a little. “It would cause a deal of talk if you were to avoid inviting any of my family.” “Oh.” I gulped. “Yes. Indeed.” He dipped his pen, bent his head, and went back to his task. I slipped out the door and fled. ~ Sherwood Smith,

507:I've a Friend, over the sea; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I write; They find such favour in his sight That he slaughters you with savage looks Because you don't admire my books. He does himself though,-and if some vein Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain, To-morrow month, if I lived to try, Round should I just turn quietly, Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand Till I found him, come from his foreign land To be my nurse in this poor place, And make my broth and wash my face And light my fire and, all the while, Bear with his old good-humoured smile That I told him ``Better have kept away ``Than come and kill me, night and day, ``With, worse than fever throbs and shoots, ``The creaking of his clumsy boots.'' I am as sure that this he would do As that Saint Paul's is striking two. And I think I rather woe is me! -Yes, rather would see him than not see, If lifting a hand could seat him there Before me in the empty chair To-night, when my head aches indeed, And I can neither think nor read Nor make these purple fingers hold The pen; this garret's freezing cold! And I've a Lady-there he wakes, The laughing fiend and prince of snakes Within me, at her name, to pray Fate send some creature in the way Of my love for her, to be down-torn, Upthrust and outward-borne, So I might prove myself that sea Of passion which I needs must be! Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint And my style infirm and its figures faint, All the critics say, and more blame yet, And not one angry word you get. But, please you, wonder I would put My cheek beneath that lady's foot Rather than trample under mine The laurels of the Florentine, And you shall see how the devil spends A fire God gave for other ends! I tell you, I stride up and down This garret, crowned with love's best crown, And feasted with love's perfect feast, To think I kill for her, at least, Body and soul and peace and fame, Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, -So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, Filled full, eaten out and in With the face of her, the eyes of her, The lips, the little chin, the stir Of shadow round her month; and she -I'll tell you,-calmly would decree That I should roast at a slow fire, If that would compass her desire And make her one whom they invite To the famous ball to-morrow night. There may be heaven; there must be hell; Meantime, there is our earth here-well! ~ Robert Browning, Times Revenges ,

508:Levering himself upward, Swift reached for her hair, which had begun to fall from its pins. His fingers were gentle as he pulled feathers from the glinting black strands. For a silent minute or two they worked on each other. Daisy was so intent on the task that the impropriety of her position didn’t occur to her at first. For the first time she was close enough to notice the variegated blue of his eyes, ringed with cobalt at the outer edge of the irises. And the texture of his skin, satiny and sun-hued, with the shadow of close-shaven stubble on his jaw. She realized that Swift was deliberately avoiding her gaze, concentrating on finding every tiny piece of down in her hair. Suddenly she became aware of a simmering communication between their bodies, the solid strength of him beneath her, the incendiary drift of his breath against her cheek. His clothes were damp, the heat of his skin burning through wherever it pressed against hers. They both went still at the same moment, caught together in a half-embrace while every cell of Daisy’s skin seemed to fill with liquid fire. Fascinated, disoriented, she let herself relax into it, feeling the throb of her pulse in every extremity. There were no more feathers, but Daisy found herself gently lacing her fingers through the dark waves of his hair. It would be so easy for him to roll her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the damp earth. The hardness of their knees pressed together through layers of fabric, triggering a primitive instinct for her to open to him, to let him move her limbs as he would. She heard Swift’s breath catch. He clamped his hands around her upper arms and unceremoniously removed her from his lap. Landing on the grass beside him with a decisive thump, Daisy tried to gather her wits. Silently she found the pen-knife on the ground and handed it back to him. After slipping the knife back into his pocket, he made a project of brushing feathers and dirt from his calves. Wondering why he was sitting in such an oddly cramped posture, Daisy struggled to her feet. “Well,” she said uncertainly, “I suppose I’ll have to sneak back into the manor through the servants’ entrance. If Mother sees me, she’ll have conniptions.” “I’m going back to the river,” Swift said, his voice hoarse. “To find out how Westcliff is faring with the reel. And maybe I’ll fish some more.” Daisy frowned as she realized he was deliberately avoiding her. “I should think you’d had enough of standing up to your waist in cold water today,” she said. “Apparently not,” Swift muttered, keeping his back to her as he reached for his vest and coat. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

509:A smaller screen near us pans to Sam. He’s pacing back and forth down the sideline, and he’s not even looking in our direction. But then one of his teammates smacks him on the shoulder and he looks toward me. He stops. He unstraps his helmet, pulls it from his head and stares up at me. Star motions for everyone in our section to be quiet, and they all lower their signs. Emily swipes a tear from her cheek and says, “Go for it.” Logan wraps an arm around her and Kit and holds them tight. Logan is grinning like a fool, though. The camera guy is right in front of me. “Forty-five seconds,” he reminds me. I see my image on the big screen and one of the guys on the field points to it, so Sam looks in that direction. I hold up my signs. I have them grouped in order, one after the other. I show the first one. I love you, 51! I flip to the next. I don’t want to be just a Zero anymore. Flip. I want to be a Zero-plus-one. Flip. Or a Zero-plus-two. Flip. Maybe even a Zero-plus-three. Flip. I want to make little cupcakes with you. Flip. Only you. Flip. Forever. Flip. Check yes or no. I take this last card and walk out of my section. I have hands of people I don’t even know reaching out to steady me, and they’re all saying encouraging things. The camera guy runs along behind me, cursing as he chases me down the stairs. I run with my last card all the way down to the bottom bleacher and I lean over the side, holding it down against the concrete block wall. I pull a marker from my pocket and hold it out, too. Then I wait. It’s the longest forty-five seconds of my life. Sam stands completely still. He scratches his head. His teammates say things to him and he still stands there. The clock is ticking. Maybe he doesn’t want what I want after all. Then he starts to run toward me. He jogs in my direction, and my heart is in my throat. I have tears running down my face, and I don’t care. When he gets to the wall, he stares up at me. There’s no way he can come up this high, so I drop the board with the check boxes and the pen on the ground in front of him. He grins up at me and lays the board on the grass. He takes the pen and starts to check a box. Then he stops and looks up. Then he moves like he’s finally going to do it. Then he stops and looks up. I’m going to kick his ass if he keeps messing with me. Then he checks the yes box and holds the board up for the whole stadium to see. The buzzer goes off and he has to run with his teammates back onto the field to play the last two minutes of the half. When that’s over, just before he goes into the tunnel, he turns back and flashes me the I love you sign, along with a big smile. My heart settles. I ~ Tammy Falkner,

510:My gaze fell on a plain door-tapestry at the other end of the room. A service access? I turned and saw a narrow, discreet outline of a door tucked in the corner between two bookshelves; that was the service door, then. Might I find some kind of archive beyond that tapestry? I crossed the room, heard no noise beyond, so I lifted the tapestry. The room was small, filled with light. It was a corner room, with two entrances, floor-to-ceiling windows in two walls, and bookshelves everywhere else. In the slanting rays of the morning sun I saw a writing table angled between the windows--and kneeling at the table, dressed in riding clothes, was the Marquis of Shevraeth. He put down his pen and looked up inquiringly. Feeling that to run back out would be cowardly, I said, “Your mother invited me to use the library. I thought this might be an archive.” “It is,” he said. “Memoirs from kings and queens addressed specifically to heirs. Most are about laws. A few are diaries of Court life. Look around.” He picked up the pen again and waved it toward the shelves. “Over there you’ll find the book of laws by Turic the Third, he of the twelve thousand proclamations. Next to it is his daughter’s, rescinding most of them.” He pushed a pile of papers in my direction. “Or if you’d like to peruse something more recent, here are Galdran’s expenditure lists and so forth. They give a fairly comprehensive overview of his policies.” I stepped into the room and bent down to lift up two or three of the papers. Some were proposals for increases in taxes for certain nobles; the fourth was a list of people “to be watched.” I looked at him in surprise. “You found these just lying around?” “Yes,” he said, sitting back on his cushion. The morning light highlighted the smudges of tiredness under his eyes. “He did not expect to be defeated. Your brother and I rode back here in haste, as soon as we could, in order to prevent looting; but such was Galdran’s hold on the place that, even though the news had preceded us by two days, I found his rooms completely undisturbed. I don’t think anyone believed he was really dead--they expected one of his ugly little ploys to catch out ‘traitors.’” I whistled, turning over another paper. “Wish I could have been there,” I said. “You could have been.” This brought me back to reality with a jolt. Of course I could have been there--but I had left without warning, without saying good-bye even to my own brother, in my haste to retreat to home and sanity. And memory. I glanced at him just in time to see him wince slightly and shake his head. Was that regret? For his words--or for my actions that day? ~ Sherwood Smith,

511:Would the pair of you like to turn your backs so you exclude us more effectively?” Jode asks. “We’re just adding to the list.” I hold up my journal. “Daryn.” Gideon shakes his head, pretending to be disappointed. “It’s our list.” “A list?” Jode leans back, resting his head against his bag. “What’s this list about?” Rather than explain it, I just lean over and give it to him. Gideon puts his hand over his heart and winces. “I hate sharing, Martin.” I lean up, whispering in his ear. “Some things are only for you.” He gives me a long unblinking look that makes my face burn and my body feel light and hot. “This is an outrage,” Jode says dryly. “I’m in here once and Gideon is here … two, three, four times?” “Three,” I say. “The last one doesn’t really count.” “Oh, it counts,” Gideon says. “How many times am I in it?” Marcus asks. “Are you guys making this a competition?” “Of course.” “Yeah.” “Definitely. And I’m dominating.” “For real,” Marcus says. “How many times am I on there?” “Once, like me. For your winning smile.” Jode closes the notebook and tosses it to Marcus. “But don’t let it go to your head. Gideon’s arse has a spot on the list as well.” Gideon looks at me and winks. “Like I said, dominating.” “Dare, you got a pen?” Marcus asks. This catches me by surprise for a moment. “Yes.” I toss it to him, smiling. This is perfect. Whatever he adds, it’s already perfect. As Marcus writes, Jode leans back and gazes up at the trees. “You’re thinking it’ll be five for you after this. Aren’t you, Gideon?” “You know me well, Ellis.” Marcus finishes writing. He sets the pen in the fold and hands the journal to Gideon. I lean in and read. Marcus’s handwriting is elegant cursive—almost astonishingly elegant. And what he wrote is, as expected, perfection. Even better is that Gideon reads it aloud. “‘Twenty-eight. The family you make.’” He looks at Marcus. “Damn right, bro. This is the best one here.” He looks at me. “Tied with fourteen.” “Ah, yes,” Jode says. “Gideon’s Super Lips.” Marcus shakes his head at me. “Why?” “It was a mistake. I wrote it before the list went public. What’s your addition, Jode? It can be anything. Anything that has significance to you.” “Full English breakfast,” he says, without missing a beat. “Bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, grilled tomato, mushrooms, toast, marmalade. With tea, of course. One of life’s undeniable pleasures.” My mouth instantly waters. “Well, it’s no trail mix, but all right.” I add “English Breakfast” to the list. ~ Veronica Rossi,

512:both hands against the door. “Feet wider apart. That’s right. Like in the American movies.” Satisfied, Qazi patted the man down. “What, no gun? A GRU man without a gun …” Qazi carefully felt the man’s crotch and the arms above the wrists. “First humor and now this! The GRU will become a laughingstock. But of course there is a microphone.” Qazi lifted all the pens from the Russian’s shirt pocket and examined them, one by one. “It had better be here, Chekhov, or you will have to part with your buttons and your shoes.” It was in the third pen. “Now turn around and sit against the door.” The Russian’s face was covered with perspiration, his fleshy lips twisted in a sneer. “The shoes.” Qazi examined them carefully and tossed them back. “Now the coat.” This he scrutinized minutely. From the uppermost of the large three buttons on the front of the coat a very fine wire was just visible buried amid the thread that held the button on. Qazi sawed the button free with a small pocketknife, then dropped the pen and button down a commode. He tossed the coat back to Chekhov. “And the belt.” After a quick glance, Qazi handed it back. “Hurry, we have much to say to each other.” He unscrewed the silencer and replaced the pistol in his ankle holster. He opened the door as the Russian scrambled awkwardly to his feet. An hour later the two men were seated in the Sistine Chapel against the back wall, facing the altar and Michelangelo’s masterpiece The Last Judgment behind it. On the right the high windows admitted a subdued light. Qazi kept his eyes on the tourists examining the paintings on the ceiling and walls. “Is it in Rome, as General Simonov promised?” “Yes. But you must tell us why you want it.” “Is it genuine, or is it a masterpiece from an Aquarium print shop?” The Aquarium was the nickname for GRU headquarters in Moscow. The Russian’s lips curled, revealing yellow, impacted teeth. This was his smile. “We obtained it from Warrant Officer Walker.” “Ah, those Americans! One wonders just how long they knew about Walker’s activities.” The Russian raised his shoulders and lowered them. “Why do you want the document?” “El Hakim has not authorized me to reveal his reasons. Not that we don’t trust you. We value the goodwill of the Soviet Union most highly. And we intend to continue to cultivate that goodwill. But to reveal what you do not need to know is to take the risk that the Americans will learn of our plans through their activities against you.” “If you are implying they have penetrated—” “Chekhov, I am not implying anything. I am merely weighing risks. And I am being very forthright with you. No subterfuge. No evasion. Just the plain truth. Surely a professional like you can appreciate that?” “This document is very valuable. ~ Stephen Coonts,

513:Mr. Kenton told me about the kiss you shared with Everett. The poor man was completely baffled about how to handle the situation, although he did mention something about a bat being involved, and not the type of bat that flies through the air at night.” Millie’s lips curved into a grin as she looked to Mr. Kenton, who smiled back and sent her a wink. Looking around the backyard, she was about to thank everyone for coming such a long way when Everett and the children reappeared, the children grinning from ear to ear and Everett looking rather . . . determined. He strode across the lawn and came to stop directly in front of her, silence descending as he took hold of her hand. Giving that hand a little squeeze, he smiled. “I was not comfortable saying anything until getting the approval of the children, but now that that has been fulfilled . . .” He dropped to his knees, but then, surprisingly enough, frowned. “Good heavens. This isn’t right. I don’t have a—” “I have one right here, darling.” Dorothy hurried up, pressed a small box into Everett’s hand, muttered something about it being a family heirloom, and then sent Millie a rather misty smile before she hurried back to Fletcher’s side. “You may continue.” “Thank you, Mother.” Everett looked up and smiled at Millie. “Where was I?” “You were getting ready to ask Miss Millie to marry you,” Thaddeus called. “Yes, quite right, thank you, Thaddeus.” Swallowing a laugh, Millie bit her lip as Everett grinned, but then he sobered a second later. “Miss Millie Longfellow, I know we’ve had our differences, and I know I’ve been a complete idiot with you, but as the esteemed Mr. Darcy said, or said something like this—through the pen of Jane Austen, of course—you are my reason for living, and I’d be beyond honored if you’d agree to become my wife.” “That’s not what Jane Austen wrote in her book,” Lucetta called. “Not even close.” “And you forgot to tell her you love her,” Elizabeth added. Everett turned and arched a brow at Lucetta. “I understand you have this gift for memorization, but honestly . . .” He directed his attention to Elizabeth next. “And as for your comment, I thought the whole ‘you are my reason for living’ covered that.” Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not the same.” Sending Elizabeth a wink, Everett looked back up at Millie and smiled. “Well, there you have it. So I suppose all that’s left for me to say is . . . I love you.” With knees that were distinctly wobbly and a heart that felt ready to burst, Millie smiled back at him. “I love you too.” “And you’ll marry me?” “Of course.” Slipping the ring Dorothy had provided over Millie’s finger, Everett rose to his feet. Pulling Millie close to him, he smiled at the crowd watching them so intently, and then . . . he kissed her. As ~ Jen Turano,

514:A Poem For The Birth-Day Of The Right Honble The Lady Catharine Tufton 'Tis fit SERENA shou'd be sung. High-born SERENA, Fair and Young, Shou'd be of ev'ry Muse and Voice The pleasing, and applauded Choice. But as the Meanest of the Show Do First in all Processions go: So, let my Steps pursue that Swain The humblest of th' inspired Train; Whose well-meant Verse did just appear, To lead on the preceding Year: So let my Pen, the next in Fame, Now wait on fair SERENA's Name; The second Tribute gladly pay, And hail this blest returning Day. But let it not attempt to raise Or rightly speak SERENA's Praise: Since with more ease we might declare How Great her Predecessors were; How Great that more distinguish'd Peer, To whom she owes her Being here; In whom our Britain lets us see What once they were, and still shou'd be; As, when the earliest Race was drown'd, Some Patterns, from amongst them found, Were kept to shew succeeding Times Their Excellence without their Crimes: More easily we might express What Vertues do her Mother dress; What does her Form and Mind adorn, Of whom th' engaging Nymph was born; What Piety, what generous Love, Does the enlarged Bosom move Of Her, whose Fav'rite she appears, Who more than as a Niece endears. Such full Perfections obvious lie, And strike, at first, a Poet's Eye. Deep Lines of Honour all can hit, 25 Or mark out a superior Wit; Consummate Goodness all can show, And where such Graces shine below: But the more tender Strokes to trace, T' express the Promise of a Face, When but the Dawnings of the Mind We from the Air unripen'd find; Which alt'ring, as new Moments rise, The Pen or Pencil's Art defies; When Flesh and Blood in Youth appears, Polish'd like what our Marble wears; Fresh as that Shade of op'ning Green, Which first upon our Groves is seen; Enliven'd by a harmless Fire, And brighten'd by each gay Desire; These nicer Touches wou'd demand A Cowley's or a Waller's Hand, T'explain, with undisputed Art, What 'tis affects th'enlighten'd Heart, When ev'ry darker Thought gives way, Whilst blooming Beauty we survey; To shew how All, that's soft and sweet, Does in the fair SERENA meet; To tell us, with a sure Presage, The Charms of her maturer Age. When Hothfeild shall (as heretofore {4} From its far-sought and virtuous Store It Families of great Renown Did with illustrious Hymens crown) When Hothfeild shall such Treasure know, As fair SERENA to bestow: Then shou'd some Muse of loftier Wing The Triumphs of that Season sing; Describe the Pains, the Hopes, the Fears Of noble Youths, th'ambitious Cares Of Fathers, the long-fram'd Design, To add such Splendour to their Line, Whilst all shall strive for such a Bride So Educated, and Ally'd. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

515:The Introduction Did I, my lines intend for publick view, How many censures, wou'd their faults persue, Some wou'd, because such words they do affect, Cry they're insipid, empty, uncorrect. And many, have attain'd, dull and untaught The name of Witt, only by finding fault. True judges, might condemn their want of witt, And all might say, they're by a Woman writt. Alas! a woman that attempts the pen, Such an intruder on the rights of men, Such a presumptuous Creature, is esteem'd, The fault, can by no vertue be redeem'd. They tell us, we mistake our sex and way; Good breeding, fassion, dancing, dressing, play Are the accomplishments we shou'd desire; To write, or read, or think, or to enquire Wou'd cloud our beauty, and exaust our time; And interrupt the Conquests of our prime; Whilst the dull mannage, of a servile house Is held by some, our outmost art, and use. Sure 'twas not ever thus, nor are we told Fables, of Women that excell'd of old; To whom, by the diffusive hand of Heaven Some share of witt, and poetry was given. On that glad day, on which the Ark return'd, {1} The holy pledge, for which the Land had mourn'd, The joyfull Tribes, attend itt on the way, The Levites do the sacred Charge convey, Whilst various Instruments, before itt play; Here, holy Virgins in the Concert joyn, The louder notes, to soften, and refine, And with alternate verse, compleat the Hymn Devine. Loe! the yong Poet, after Gods own heart, {2} By Him inspired, and taught the Muses Art, Return'd from Conquest, a bright Chorus meets, That sing his slayn ten thousand in the streets. In such loud numbers they his acts declare, Proclaim the wonders, of his early war, That Saul upon the vast applause does frown, 148 And feels, itts mighty thunder shake the Crown. What, can the threat'n'd Judgment now prolong? Half of the Kingdom is already gone; The fairest half, whose influence guides the rest, Have David's Empire, o're their hearts confess't. A Woman here, leads fainting Israel on, {3} She fights, she wins, she tryumphs with a song, Devout, Majestick, for the subject fitt, And far above her arms, exalts her witt, Then, to the peacefull, shady Palm withdraws, And rules the rescu'd Nation with her Laws. How are we fal'n, fal'n by mistaken rules? And Education's, more than Nature's fools, Debarr'd from all improve-ments of the mind, And to be dull, expected and dessigned; And if some one, would Soar above the rest, With warmer fancy, and ambition press't, So strong, th' opposing faction still appears, The hopes to thrive, can ne're outweigh the fears, Be caution'd then my Muse, and still retir'd; Nor be dispis'd, aiming to be admir'd; Conscious of wants, still with contracted wing, To some few freinds, and to thy sorrows sing; For groves of Lawrell, thou wert never meant; {4} Be dark enough thy shades, and be thou there content. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

516:Why hadn’t he told me? Because I’d called him a liar and untrustworthy, and had made it plain I wasn’t going to change my opinion, no matter what. Then why hadn’t he told my brother, who did trust him? That I couldn’t answer. And in a sense it didn’t matter. What did matter was that I had been wrong about Shevraeth. I had been so wrong I had nearly gotten a lot of people killed for no reason. Just thinking it made me grit my teeth, and in a way it felt almost as bad as cleaning the fester from my wounded foot. Which was right, because I had to clean out from my mind the fester caused by anger and hatred. I remembered suddenly that horrible day in Galdran’s dungeon when the Marquis had come to me himself and offered me a choice between death and surrender. “It might buy you time,” he’d said. At that moment I’d seen surrender as dishonor, and it had taken courage to refuse. He’d seen that and had acknowledged it in many different ways, including his words two days before about my being a heroine. Generous words, meant to brace me up. What I saw now was the grim courage it had taken to act his part in Galdran’s Court, all the time planning to change things with the least amount of damage to innocent people. And when Branaric and I had come crashing into his plans, he’d included us as much as he could in his net of safety. My subsequent brushes with death were, I saw miserably now, my own fault. I had to respect what he’d done. He’d come to respect us for our ideals, that much was clear. What he might think of me personally… Suddenly I felt an overwhelming desire to be home. I wanted badly to clean out our castle, and replant Mama’s garden, and walk in the sunny glades, and think, and read, and learn. I no longer wanted to face the world in ignorance, wearing castoff clothing and old horse blankets. But first there was something I had to do. I slipped out the door; paused, listening. From Branaric’s room came the sound of slow, deep breathing. I stepped inside the room Shevraeth had been using, saw a half-folded map on the table, a neat pile of papers, a pen and inkwell, and a folded pair of gloves. Pulling out the wallet from my clothes, I opened it and extracted Debegri’s letter. This I laid on the table beside the papers. Then I knelt down and picked up the pen. Finding a blank sheet of paper, I wrote in slow, careful letters: You’ll probably need this to convince Galdran’s old allies. Then I retreated to my room, pulled the borrowed tunic over my head, bound up my ratty braid, settled the overlarge hat onto my head, and slipped out the door. At the end of the little hall was another door, which opened onto a clearing. Under a dilapidated roof waited a string of fine horses, and a few Renselaeus stable hands sat about. When they saw me, they sprang to their feet. “My lady?” One bowed. “I should like a ride,” I said, my heart thumping. But they didn’t argue, or refuse, or send someone to warn someone else. Working together, in a trice they had a fine, fresh mare saddled and ready. And in another trice I was on her back and riding out, on my way home. ~ Sherwood Smith,

517:Bob,” she said, “offerings burned in the mortal world appear on this altar, right?” Bob frowned uncomfortably, like he wasn’t ready for a pop quiz. “Yes?” “So what happens if I burn something on the altar here?” “Uh…” “That’s all right,” Annabeth said. “You don’t know. Nobody knows, because it’s never been done.” There was a chance, she thought, just the slimmest chance that an offering burned on this altar might appear at Camp Half-Blood. Doubtful, but if it did work… “Annabeth?” Percy said again. “You’re planning something. You’ve got that I’m-planning-something look.” “I don’t have an I’m-planning-something look.” “Yeah, you totally do. Your eyebrows knit and your lips press together and—” “Do you have a pen?” she asked him. “You’re kidding, right?” He brought out Riptide. “Yes, but can you actually write with it?” “I—I don’t know,” he admitted. “Never tried.” He uncapped the pen. As usual, it sprang into a full-sized sword. Annabeth had watched him do this hundreds of times. Normally when he fought, Percy simply discarded the cap. It always appeared in his pocket later, as needed. When he touched the cap to the point of the sword, it would turn back into a ballpoint pen. “What if you touch the cap to the other end of the sword?” Annabeth said. “Like where you’d put the cap if you were actually going to write with the pen.” “Uh…” Percy looked doubtful, but he touched the cap to the hilt of the sword. Riptide shrank back into a ballpoint pen, but now the writing point was exposed. “May I?” Annabeth plucked it from his hand. She flattened the napkin against the altar and began to write. Riptide’s ink glowed Celestial bronze. “What are you doing?” Percy asked. “Sending a message,” Annabeth said. “I just hope Rachel gets it.” “Rachel?” Percy asked. “You mean our Rachel? Oracle of Delphi Rachel?” “That’s the one.” Annabeth suppressed a smile. Whenever she brought up Rachel’s name, Percy got nervous. At one point, Rachel had been interested in dating Percy. That was ancient history. Rachel and Annabeth were good friends now. But Annabeth didn’t mind making Percy a little uneasy. You had to keep your boyfriend on his toes. Annabeth finished her note and folded the napkin. On the outside, she wrote: Connor, Give this to Rachel. Not a prank. Don’t be a moron. Love, Annabeth She took a deep breath. She was asking Rachel Dare to do something ridiculously dangerous, but it was the only way she could think of to communicate with the Romans—the only way that might avoid bloodshed. “Now I just need to burn it,” she said. “Anybody got a match?” The point of Bob’s spear shot from his broom handle. It sparked against the altar and erupted in silvery fire. “Uh, thanks.” Annabeth lit the napkin and set it on the altar. She watched it crumble to ash and wondered if she was crazy. Could the smoke really make it out of Tartarus? “We should go now,” Bob advised. “Really, really go. Before we are killed.” Annabeth stared at the wall of blackness in front of them. Somewhere in there was a lady who dispensed a Death Mist that might hide them from monsters—a plan recommended by a Titan, one of their bitterest enemies. Another dose of weirdness to explode her brain. “Right,” she said. “I’m ready.” ANNABETH LITERALLY STUMBLED over the second Titan. ~ Rick Riordan,

518:A famous British writer is revealed to be the author of an obscure mystery novel. An immigrant is granted asylum when authorities verify he wrote anonymous articles critical of his home country. And a man is convicted of murder when he’s connected to messages painted at the crime scene. The common element in these seemingly disparate cases is “forensic linguistics”—an investigative technique that helps experts determine authorship by identifying quirks in a writer’s style. Advances in computer technology can now parse text with ever-finer accuracy. Consider the recent outing of Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling as the writer of The Cuckoo’s Calling , a crime novel she published under the pen name Robert Galbraith. England’s Sunday Times , responding to an anonymous tip that Rowling was the book’s real author, hired Duquesne University’s Patrick Juola to analyze the text of Cuckoo , using software that he had spent over a decade refining. One of Juola’s tests examined sequences of adjacent words, while another zoomed in on sequences of characters; a third test tallied the most common words, while a fourth examined the author’s preference for long or short words. Juola wound up with a linguistic fingerprint—hard data on the author’s stylistic quirks. He then ran the same tests on four other books: The Casual Vacancy , Rowling’s first post-Harry Potter novel, plus three stylistically similar crime novels by other female writers. Juola concluded that Rowling was the most likely author of The Cuckoo’s Calling , since she was the only one whose writing style showed up as the closest or second-closest match in each of the tests. After consulting an Oxford linguist and receiving a concurring opinion, the newspaper confronted Rowling, who confessed. Juola completed his analysis in about half an hour. By contrast, in the early 1960s, it had taken a team of two statisticians—using what was then a state-of-the-art, high-speed computer at MIT—three years to complete a project to reveal who wrote 12 unsigned Federalist Papers. Robert Leonard, who heads the forensic linguistics program at Hofstra University, has also made a career out of determining authorship. Certified to serve as an expert witness in 13 states, he has presented evidence in cases such as that of Christopher Coleman, who was arrested in 2009 for murdering his family in Waterloo, Illinois. Leonard testified that Coleman’s writing style matched threats spray-painted at his family’s home (photo, left). Coleman was convicted and is serving a life sentence. Since forensic linguists deal in probabilities, not certainties, it is all the more essential to further refine this field of study, experts say. “There have been cases where it was my impression that the evidence on which people were freed or convicted was iffy in one way or another,” says Edward Finegan, president of the International Association of Forensic Linguists. Vanderbilt law professor Edward Cheng, an expert on the reliability of forensic evidence, says that linguistic analysis is best used when only a handful of people could have written a given text. As forensic linguistics continues to make headlines, criminals may realize the importance of choosing their words carefully. And some worry that software also can be used to obscure distinctive written styles. “Anything that you can identify to analyze,” says Juola, “I can identify and try to hide. ~ Anonymous,

519:Do you have vows?” Freeman asked. Zane nodded, but he didn’t move to take out a piece of paper or any notes. He licked his lips instead and took a deep breath. “Ty,” he said, and the sound was almost lost in the night. “Some roads to love aren’t easy, and I’ve never been more thankful for being forced to fight for something. I started this journey with a partner I hated, and a man in the mirror I hated even more. The road took me from the streets of New York to the mountaintops of West Virginia, from the place I born to the place I found a home. It forced me to let go of my past and face my future. And I had to be made blind before I could see.” Zane swallowed hard and looked down, obviously fighting to finish without choking on the words or tearing up. Ty realized his own eyes were burning, and it wasn’t because of the cold wind. Zane squeezed Ty’s fingers with one hand, and he met Ty’s eyes as he reached into his lapel with his other. “I promise to love you until I die,” he said, his voice strong again. He held up a Sharpie he’d had in his suit, and pulled Ty’s hand closer to draw on his ring finger. With several sweeping motions, he created an infinity sign that looped all the way around the finger. When he was satisfied with the ring he’d drawn, he kissed Ty’s knuckles and let him go, handing him the Sharpie. Ty grasped the pen, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Zane. He ran his thumb over Zane’s palm. He had a set of vows he’d jotted down on a note card, folded up in his pocket, but he left them where they were and gazed into Zane’s eyes, their past flashing in front of him, their future opening up in his mind. He took a deep breath. “I promise to never leave you alone in the dark,” he whispered. He pulled Zane’s hand closer and pressed the tip of the Sharpie against Zane’s skin, curving the symbol for forever around it. When he was satisfied, he kissed the tip of Zane’s finger and slid the pen back into his lapel pocket. Freeman coughed and turned a page in his book. “Do you, Zane Zachary Garrett, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?” Zane’s lips curved into a warm smile. “I do.” Freeman turned toward Ty. “Do you, Beaumont Tyler Grady, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?” “I do,” Ty said, almost before the question was finished. “Then by the power vested in me by the state of Maryland, I pronounce you legally wed.” Freeman slapped his little book closed. “You may now share the first kiss of the rest of your lives.” Ty had fully expected to have the urge to grab Zane and plant one on him out of sheer impatience and joy, but as he stood staring at his brand-new husband, it was as if they were moving underwater. He touched the tips of his fingers to Zane’s cheek, then stepped closer and used both hands to cup his face with the utmost care. Zane was still smiling when they kissed, and it was slow and gentle, Zane’s hands at Ty’s ribs pulling them flush. “Okay, now,” Livi whispered somewhere to their side, and a moment later they were both pelted with handfuls of heart-shaped confetti. Zane laughed and finally wrapped his arms around Ty, squeezing him tight. The others continued to toss the confetti at them, even handing out bits to people passing by so they’d be sure to get covered from all sides. They laughed into the kiss, not caring. They were still locked in their happy embrace when Deuce turned the box over above them and rained little, bitty hearts down on their heads. ~ Abigail Roux,

520:To Mr. F. Now Earl Of W No sooner, FLAVIO, was you gone, But, your Injunction thought upon, ARDELIA took the Pen; Designing to perform the Task, Her FLAVIO did so kindly ask, Ere he returned agen. Unto Parnassus strait she sent, And bid the Messenger, that went Unto the Muses Court, Assure them, she their Aid did need, And begg'd they'd use their utmost Speed, Because the Time was short. The hasty Summons was allow'd; And being well-bred, they rose and bow'd, And said, they'd poste away; That well they did ARDELIA know, And that no Female's Voice below They sooner wou'd obey: That many of that rhiming Train, On like Occasions, sought in vain Their Industry t'excite; But for ARDELIA all they'd leave: Thus flatt'ring can the Muse deceive, And wheedle us to write. Yet, since there was such haste requir'd; To know the Subject 'twas desir'd, On which they must infuse; That they might temper Words and Rules, And with their Counsel carry Tools, As Country-Doctors use. Wherefore to cut off all Delays, 'Twas soon reply'd, a Husband's Praise (Tho' in these looser Times) ARDELIA gladly wou'd rehearse 198 A Husband's, who indulg'd her Verse, And now requir'd her Rimes. A Husband! eccho'd all around: And to Parnassus sure that Sound Had never yet been sent; Amazement in each Face was read, In haste th'affrighted Sisters fled, And unto Council went. Erato cry'd, since Grizel's Days, Since Troy-Town pleas'd, and Chivey-chace, No such Design was known; And 'twas their Bus'ness to take care, It reach'd not to the publick Ear, Or got about the Town: Nor came where Evening Beaux were met O'er Billet-doux and Chocolate, Lest it destroy'd the House; For in that Place, who cou'd dispence (That wore his Cloaths with common Sense) With mention of a Spouse? 'Twas put unto the Vote at last, And in the Negative it past, None to her Aid shou'd move; Yet since ARDELIA was a Friend, Excuses 'twas agreed to send, Which plausible might prove: That Pegasus of late had been So often rid thro' thick and thin, With neither Fear nor Wit; In Panegyrick been so spurr'd He cou'd not from the Stall be stirr'd, Nor wou'd endure the Bit. Melpomene had given a Bond, By the new House alone to stand, And write of War and Strife; Thalia, she had taken Fees, 199 And Stipends from the Patentees, And durst not for her Life. Urania only lik'd the Choice; Yet not to thwart the publick Voice, She whisp'ring did impart: They need no Foreign Aid invoke, No help to draw a moving Stroke, Who dictate from the Heart. Enough! the pleas'd ARDELIA cry'd; And slighting ev'ry Muse beside, Consulting now her Breast, Perceiv'd that ev'ry tender Thought, Which from abroad she'd vainly sought, Did there in Silence rest: And shou'd unmov'd that Post maintain, Till in his quick Return again, Met in some neighb'ring Grove, (Where Vice nor Vanity appear) Her FLAVIO them alone might hear, In all the Sounds of Love. For since the World do's so despise Hymen's Endearments and its Ties, They shou'd mysterious be; Till We that Pleasure too possess (Which makes their fancy'd Happiness) Of stollen Secrecy. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

521:Part Iii: Credat Judaeus Apella Dear Bell,—I enclose what you ask in a letter, A short rhyme at random, no more and no less, And you may insert it, for want of a better Or leave it, it doesn't much matter, I guess ; And as for a tip, why, there isn't much in it, I may hit the right nail, but first, I declare, I haven't a notion what's going to win it (The Champion, I mean), and what's more, I don't care. Imprimis, there's Cowra—few nags can go quicker Than she can—and Smith takes his oath she can fly ; While Brown, Jones, and Robinson swear she's a sticker, But 'credat Judaeus Apella,' say I. There's old Volunteer, I'd be sorry to sneer At his chance ; he'll be there, if he goes at the rate He went at last year, when a customer queer, Johnny Higgerson, fancied him lock'd in the straight. I've heard that the old horse has never been fitter, I've heard all performances past he'll outvie ; He may gallop a docker, and finish a splitter, But 'credat Judaeus Apella,' say I. I know what they say, sir, 'The Hook' he can stay, sir, And stick to his work like a sleuth-hound or beagle ; He stays 'with a hook,' and he sticks in the clay, sir, I'd rather, for choice, pop my money on Seagull ; I'm told that the Sydney division will rue, sir, Their rashness in front of the stand when they spy, With a clear lead, the white jacket spotted with blue, sir, But 'credat Judaeus Apella,' say I. There's The Barb—you may talk of your flyers and stayers, All bosh—when he strips you can see his eye range Round his rivals, with much the same look as Tom Sayers Once wore when he faced the big novice, Bill Bainge. Like Stow, at our hustings, confronting the hisses Of roughs, with his queer Mephistopheles' smile ; Like Baker, or Baker's more wonderful Mrs., The terror of blacks at the source of the Nile ; 214 Like Triton 'mid minnows ; like hawk among chickens ; Like—anything better than everything else ; He stands at the post. Now they're off ! the plot thickens ! Quoth Stanley to Davis, 'How is your pulse ?' He skims o'er the smooth turf, he scuds through the mire, He waits with them, passes them, bids them good-bye ! Two miles and three-quarters, cries Filgate, 'He'll tire.' But 'credat Judaeus Apella,' say I. Lest my tale should come true, let me give you fair warning, You may 'shout' some cheroots, if you like, no champagne For this child—'Oh ! think of my head in the morning,' Old chap, you don't get me on that lay again. The last time those games I look'd likely to try on, Says Bradshawe, 'You'll feel very sheepish and shy When you are haul'd up and caution'd by D—g—y and L—n,' But 'credat Judaeus Apella,' say I. This writing bad verses is very fatiguing, The brain and the liver against it combine, And nerves with digestion in concert are leaguing, To punish excess in the pen and ink line ; Already I feel just as if I'd been rowing Hard all—on a supper of onions and tripe (A thing I abhor), but my steam I've done blowing, I am, my dear Bell, yours truly, 'The Pipe'. P.S.—Tell J. P., if he fancies a good ‘un, That old chestnut pony of mine is for sale. N.B.—His fore legs are uncommonly wooden, I fancy the near one's beginning to fail, And why shouldn't I do as W—n does oft, And swear that a cripple is sound—on the Bible— Hold hard ! though the man I allude to is soft, He's game to go in for an action of libel. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

522:A Song Of Trafalgar LIKE an angry sun, like a splendid star, War gleams down the long years' track; They strain at the leash, the dogs of war, And who shall hold them back? 'Let loose the pack: we are English bred, We will meet them full and fair With the flag of England over our head, And his hand to keep it there!' So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled, Blew brave to the north and south; An iron answer we gave the world, For we spoke by the cannon's mouth. But he who taught us the word to say Grew dumb as his Victory sang, And England mourned on her triumph day, And wept while her joy-bells rang. Long hour by hour, and long day by day, The swift years crept apace, The patient, the coral-insect way, To cover the dear dead face. O foolish rabble of envious years, Who wist not the dead must rise, His name is music still in our ears, His face a light to our eyes! Bring hither your laurels, the fading sign Of a deathless love and pride; These cling more close than the laurels twine, They are strong as the world is wide: At the feet of Virtue in Valour clad Shall glory and love be laid, While Glory sings to an English lad, Or Love to an English maid. 32 Wherever the gleams of an English fire On an English roof-tree shine, Wherever the fire of a youth's desire Is laid upon Honour's shrine, Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told, In the tale of the deeds of yore Like jewels of price in a chain of gold Are the name and the fame he bore. Wherever the track of our English ships Lies white on the ocean foam, His name is sweet to our English lips As the names of the flowers at home; Wherever the heart of an English boy Grows big with a deed of worth, Such names as his name have begot the same, Such hearts will bring it to birth. They say that his England, grown tired and old, Lies drunk by her heavy hoard; They say her hands have the grasp of the gold But not the grip of the sword, That her robe of glory is rent and shred, And that winds of shame blow through: Speak for your England, O mighty Dead, In the deeds you would have her do! Small skill have we to fight with the pen Who fought with the sword of old, For the sword that is wielded of Englishmen Is as much as one hand can hold. Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use, And the coward and the wise choose these; But fools and brave were our English crews When Nelson swept the seas. 'Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret, 33 To ponder and pause and plan, But the way of Nelson was better yet, For that was the way of a man; They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough, They have bidden us palter and pray, But the way of Nelson was good enough, For that was the fighting way. If Nelson's England must stoop to bear What never honour should brook, In vain does the tomb of her hero wear The laurel his brow forsook; In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns, If now must her lips refrain; In vain has she made us, her living sons, Her dead have made her in vain. So here with your bays be the dear head crowned, Lay flowers where the dear dust lies, And wreathe his column with laurel round To point his fame to the skies; But the greenest laurel that ever grew Is the laurel that's yet to win; Crowned with his laurels he waits for You To bring Your laurels in! ~ Edith Nesbit,

523:The history of the land is a history of blood. In this history, someone wins and someone loses. There are patriots and enemies. Folk heroes who save the day. Vanquished foes who had it coming. It’s all in the telling. The conquered have no voice. Ask the thirty-eight Santee Sioux singing the death song with the nooses around their necks, the treaty signed fair and square, then nullified with a snap of the rope. Ask the slave women forced to bear their masters’ children, to raise and love them and see them sold. Ask the miners slaughtered by the militia in Ludlow. Names are erased. The conqueror tells the story. The colonizer writes the history, winning twice: A theft of land. A theft of witness. Oh, but let’s not speak of such things! Look: Here is an eagle whipping above the vast grasslands where the buffalo once thundered bold as gods. (The buffalo are here among the dead. So many buffalo.) There is the Declaration in sepia. (Signed by slave owners. Shhh, hush up about that, now!) See how the sun shines down upon the homesteaders’ wagons racing toward a precious claim in the nation’s future, the pursuit of happiness pursued without rest, destiny made manifest? (Never mind about those same homesteaders eating the flesh of neighbors. Winters are harsh in this country. Pack a snack.) The history is a hungry history. Its mouth opens wide to consume. It must be fed. Bring me what you would forget, it cries, and I will swallow it whole and pull out the bones bleached of truth upon which you will hang the myths of yourselves. Feed me your pain and I will give you dreams and denial, a balm in Gilead. The land remembers everything, though. It knows the steps of this nation’s ballet of violence and forgetting. The land receives our dead, and the dead sing softly the song of us: blood. Blood on the plains. In the rivers. On the trees where the ropes swing. Blood on the leaves. Blood under the flowers of Gettysburg, of Antioch. Blood on the auction blocks. Blood of the Lenape, the Cherokee, the Cheyenne. Blood of the Alamo. Blood of the Chinese railroad workers. Blood of the midwives hung for witchcraft, for the crime of being women who bleed. Blood of the immigrants fleeing the hopeless, running toward the open arms of the nation’s seductive hope, its greatest export. Blood of the first removed to make way for the cities, the factories, the people and their unbridled dreams: The chugging of the railways. The tapping of the telegram. The humming of industry. Sound burbling along telephone wires. Printing presses whirring with the day’s news. And the next day’s. And the day after that’s. Endless cycles of information. Cities brimming with ambitions used and discarded. The dead hold what the people throw away. The stories sink the tendrils of their hope and sorrow down into the graves and coil around the dead buried there, deep in its womb. All passes away, the dead whisper. Except for us. We, the eternal. Always here. Always listening. Always seeing. One nation, under the earth. E Pluribus unum mortuis. Oh, how we wish we could reach you! You dreamers and schemers! Oh, you children of optimism! You pioneers! You stars and stripes, forever! Sometimes, the dreamers wake as if they have heard. They take to the streets. They pick up the plow, the pen, the banner, the promise. They reach out to neighbors. They reach out to strangers. Backs stooped from a hard day’s labor, two men, one black, one white, share water from a well. They are thirsty and, in this one moment, thirst and work make them brothers. They drink of shared trust, that all men are created equal. They wipe their brows and smile up at a faithful sun. ~ Libba Bray,

524:You might have tried to stop her,” she exclaimed. As she glanced up at Christopher, a scowl flitted across her face. “Oh. It’s you.” “Miss Hathaway--” he began. “Hold this.” Something warm and wriggling was thrust into his grasp, and Beatrix dashed off to pursue the goat. Dumbfounded, Christopher glanced at the creature in his hands. A baby goat, cream colored, with a brown head. He fumbled to keep from dropping the creature as he glanced at Beatrix’s retreating form and realized she was wearing breeches and boots. Christopher had seen women in every imaginable state of dress or undress. But he had never seen one wearing the clothes of a stablehand. “I must be having a dream,” he told the squirming kid absently. “A very odd dream about Beatrix Hathaway and goats…” “I have her!” the masculine voice called out. “Beatrix, I told you the pen needed to be made taller.” “She didn’t leap over it,” came Beatrix’s protest, “she ate through it.” “Who let her into the house?” “No one. She butted one of the side doors open.” An inaudible conversation followed. As Christopher waited, a dark-haired boy of approximately four or five years of age made a breathless entrance through the front door. He was carrying a wooden sword and had tied a handkerchief around his head, which gave him the appearance of a miniature pirate. “Did they catch the goat?” he asked Christopher without preamble. “I believe so.” “Oh, thunderbolts. I missed all the fun.” The boy sighed. He looked up at Christopher. “Who are you?” “Captain Phelan. The child’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Where’s your uniform?” “I don’t wear it now that the war is over.” “Did you come to see my father?” “No, I…came to call on Miss Hathaway.” “Are you one of her suitors?” Christopher gave a decisive shake of his head. “You might be one,” the boy said wisely, “and just not know it yet.” Christopher felt a smile--his first genuine smile in a long time--pulling at his lips. “Does Miss Hathaway have many suitors?” “Oh, yes. But none of them want to marry her.” “Why is that, do you imagine?” “They don’t want to get shot,” the child said, shrugging. “Pardon?” Christopher’s brows lifted. “Before you marry, you have to get shot by an arrow and fall in love,” the boy explained. He paused thoughtfully. “But I don’t think the rest of it hurts as much as the beginning.” Christopher couldn’t prevent a grin. At that moment, Beatrix returned to the hallway, dragging the nanny goat on a rope lead. Beatrix looked at Christopher with an arrested expression. His smile faded, and he found himself staring into her blue-on-blue eyes. They were astonishingly direct and lucid…the eyes of a vagabond angel. One had the sense that no matter what she beheld of the sinful world, she would never be jaded. She reminded him that the things he had seen and done could not be polished away like tarnish from silver. Gradually her gaze lowered from his. “Rye,” she said, handing the lead to the boy. “Take Pandora to the barn, will you? And the baby goat as well.” Reaching out, she took the kid from Christopher’s arms. The touch of her hands against his shirtfront elicited an unnerving response, a pleasurable heaviness in his groin. “Yes, Auntie.” The boy left through the front door, somehow managing to retain possession of the goats and the wooden sword. Christopher stood facing Beatrix, trying not to gape. And failing utterly. She might as well have been standing there in her undergarments. In fact, that would have been preferable, because at least it wouldn’t have seemed so singularly erotic. He could see the feminine outline of her hips and thighs clad in the masculine garments. And she didn’t seem at all self-conscious. Confound her, what kind of woman was she? ~ Lisa Kleypas,

525:At His Grave LEAVE me a little while alone, Here at his grave that still is strown With crumbling flower and wreath; The laughing rivulet leaps and falls, The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls, And he lies hush’d beneath. With myrtle cross and crown of rose, And every lowlier flower that blows, His new-made couch is dress’d; Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild, Gather’d by monarch, peasant, child, A nation’s grief attest. I stood not with the mournful crowd That hither came when round his shroud Pious farewells were said. In the fam’d city that he sav’d, By minaret crown’d, by billow lav’d, I heard that he was dead. Now o’er his tomb at last I bend, No greeting get, no greeting tend, Who never came before Unto his presence, but I took, From word or gesture, tone or look, Some wisdom from his door. And must I now unanswer’d wait, And, though a suppliant at the gate, No sound my ears rejoice? Listen! Yes, even as I stand, I feel the pressure of his hand, The comfort of his voice. How poor were Fame, did grief confess That death can make a great life less, Or end the help it gave! Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may wane, 160 But his well-ripen’d deeds remain, Untouch’d, above his grave. Let this, too, soothe our widow’d minds; Silenced are the opprobrious winds Whene’er the sun goes down; And free henceforth from noonday noise, He at a tranquil height enjoys The starlight of renown. Thus hence we something more may take Than sterile grief, than formless ache, Or vainly utter’d vow; Death hath bestow’d what life withheld And he round whom detraction swell’d Hath peace with honor now. The open jeer, the covert taunt, The falsehood coin’d in factious haunt, These loving gifts reprove. They never were but thwarted sound Of ebbing waves that bluster round A rock that will not move. And now the idle roar rolls off, Hush’d is the gibe and sham’d the scoff, Repress’d the envious gird; Since death, the looking-glass of life, Clear’d of the misty breath of strife, Reflects his face unblurr’d. From callow youth to mellow age, Men turn the leaf and scan the page, And note, with smart of loss, How wit to wisdom did mature, How duty burn’d ambition pure, And purged away the dross. Youth is self-love; our manhood lends Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends, So that when age steals nigh, How few find any worthier aim 161 Than to protract a flickering flame, Whose oil hath long run dry! But he, unwitting youth once flown, With England’s greatness link’d his own, And, steadfast to that part, Held praise and blame but fitful sound, And in the love of country found Full solace for his heart. Now in an English grave he lies: With flowers that tell of English skies And mind of English air, A grateful sovereign decks his bed, And hither long with pilgrim tread Will English feet repair. Yet not beside his grave alone We seek the glance, the touch, the tone; His home is nigh,—but there, See from the hearth his figure fled, The pen unrais’d, the page unread, Untenanted the chair! Vainly the beechen boughs have made A fresh green canopy of shade, Vainly the peacocks stray; While Carlo, with despondent gait, Wonders how long affairs of State Will keep his lord away. Here most we miss the guide, the friend; Back to the churchyard let me wend, And, by the posied mound, Lingering where late stood worthier feet, Wish that some voice, more strong, more sweet, A loftier dirge would sound. At least I bring not tardy flowers: Votive to him life’s budding powers, Such as they were, I gave— He not rejecting, so I may 162 Perhaps these poor faint spices lay, Unchidden, on his grave! ~ Alfred Austin,

526:Greeting Poem There was a sound in the wind to-day, Like a joyous cymbal ringing! And the leaves of the trees talked with the breeze, And they altogether were singing, For they knew that an army, both bold and strong, A brave, brave army, was coming, Not with the fife and sounds of strife, With marshal music and drumming, Not with stern faces and gleaming swords, That would make blood to flow like water, While brother and brother should slay each other On wholesale fields of slaughter; But rather like rills from a thousand hills, That ripple through valley and heather, On, on to the sea, with a song of glee, Till they meet and mingle together. They come from the South, and the East, and the West, The bravest and best in the nation. They come at no idle and aimless quest, But to work for a world's salvation. From the Scot's fair land and from England's strand, O'er mountain and heather and ocean, They come; and the foe by their coming shall know The strength of a Templar's devotion. On the earnest brows, in the thoughtful eyes, We read the unchanging storyThey fight in their might for the truth and the right, And not for vain name or glory. O grandest of armies! O bravest of bands! We give you a cordial greeting, And the blood of our warm hearts beats in the hands That are offered to you in meeting. The heart of a Templar is never cold, Nor stands it aloof from a brother, And his hand is steady, and always ready To clasp the hand of another. In God's great Book, where but angels look, 276 On pages of spotless beauty Are written in letters of living light A Templar's vow and his duty. 'For ever and ever,' the promise reads, For ever and ever 'twas given. And who keeps or breaks the pledge that he takes Must meet the record in heaven. Our order is noble and grand and strong, And is gathering strength each hour, And the good of the earth proclaim its worth, While the foe turns pale at its power. And we of the State that men call great, The nation's brave 'Badger' daughter, Step by step as we go, are defeating the foe, While we add to the hosts of cold water. With a chief at our head whom the foe may well dread, The Sherman or Grant of our battles, By day and by night we fight the good fight, Though never a cannon rattles. For the tongue and the pen are the swords of our men, And prayer keeps them whetted and polished; They will let God's light in on the foe's licensed sin, Till the traffic of death is abolished. With cunning hands we fashioned the strands Of a stout restraining tether, To fasten the beast, for a season at least, And our statesmen tied it together. The beast strains the rope with the idle hope Of making it weaker or longer, But the Templars to-day are working away To make it shorter and stronger. We give you greeting-we need your aid! There is work for many a morrow, There are beautiful souls going down in the bowls, 277 There are homes that are burdened with sorrow, There are mourning captives all over the earth, Hugging the fetters that bind them. We must show them the light, we must set them aright, We must work for them all as we find them. With a soaring 'Faith,' that is stronger than death, We must work while the day hangs o'er us. We are brave and strong, and our battle-song Has 'Hope' for the ringing chorus. With 'Charity' broad as the mercy of God, We must lift up the fallen neighbor, And the Lord's dear band, in the angel land, Will smile on our blesséd labor. Welcome, brave warriors in God's holy cause! The hearts in our bosoms are beating As one heart to-night, filled with pride and delightWelcome, thrice welcome, our greeting. And though soon between will lie long miles of green, Though oceans divide us for ever, The ties which now bind heart with heart, mind with mind, The hand of Death only can sever. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

527:A Description Of One Of The Pieces Of Tapistry At Long-Leat THUS Tapistry of old, the Walls adorn'd, Ere noblest Dames the artful Shuttle scorn'd: Arachne, then, with Pallas did contest, And scarce th' Immortal Work was judg'd the Best. Nor valorous Actions, then, in Books were fought; But all the Fame, that from the Field was brought, Employ'd the Loom, where the kind Consort wrought: Whilst sharing in the Toil, she shar'd the Fame, And with the Heroes mixt her interwoven Name. No longer, Females to such Praise aspire, And seldom now We rightly do admire. So much, All Arts are by the Men engross'd, And Our few Talents unimprov'd or cross'd; Even I, who on this Subject wou'd compose, Which the fam'd Urbin for his Pencil chose, (And here, in tinctur'd Wool we now behold Correctly follow'd in each Shade, and Fold) Shou'd prudently from the Attempt withdraw, But Inclination proves the stronger Law: And tho' the Censures of the World pursue These hardy Flights, whilst his Designs I view; My burden'd Thoughts, which labour for a Vent, Urge me t'explain in Verse, what by each Face is meant. Of SERGIUS first, upon his lofty Seat, With due Regard our Observations treat; Who, whilst he thence on ELYMAS looks down, Contracts his pensive Brow into a Frown, With Looks inquistive he seeks the Cause Why Nature acts not still by Natures Laws. 'Twas but a Moment, since the Sorcerer's Sight Receiv'd the Day, and blaz'd infernal Light: Untouch'd, the Optiques in a Moment fail'd, Their fierce Illumination quench'd, or veil'd; Throughout th' Extention of his ample Sway, 11 No Fact, like this, the Roman cou'd survey, Who, with spread Hands, invites Mankind to gaze, And sympathize in the profound Amaze. To share his Wonder every one combines, By diff'rent Aspects shewn, and diff'rent Signs. A comely Figure, near the Consul plac'd, With serious Mildness and Instruction grac'd, To Others seems imparting what he saw, And shews the Wretch with reverential Awe: Whilst a more eager Person next we find, Viewing the Wizard with a Skeptic's Mind; Who his fixt Eyes so near him do's apply, We think, enliv'ning Beams might from them fly, To re-inkindle, by so just an Aim, The radial Sparks, but lately check'd and tame, As Tapers new put-out will catch approaching Flame. But dire Surprize th' Enquiry do's succeed, Whilst full Conviction in his Face we read, And He, who question'd, now deplores the Deed. To sacred PAUL a younger Figure guides, With seeming Warmth, which still in Youth presides; And pointing forward, Elder Men directs, In Him, to note the Cause of these Effects; Upon whose Brow do's evidently shine Deputed Pow'r, t' inflict the Wrath Divine; Whilst sad and solemn, suited to their Years, Each venerable Countenance appears, Where, yet we see Astonishment reveal'd, Tho' by the Aged often 'tis conceal'd; Who the Emotions of their Souls disguize, Lest by admiring they shou'd seem less Wise. But to thy Portrait, ELYMAS, we come Whose Blindness almost strikes the Poet dumb; And whilst She vainly to Describe thee seeks, The Pen but traces, where the Pencil speaks. Of Darkness to be felt, our Scriptures write, Thou Darken'd seem'st, as thou would'st feel the Light; And with projected Limbs, betray'st a Dread, 12 Of unseen Mischiefs, levell'd at thy Head. Thro' all thy Frame such Stupefaction reigns, As Night it self were sunk into thy Veins: Nor by the Eyes alone thy Loss we find, Each Lineament helps to proclaim thee Blind. An artful Dimness far diffus'd we grant, And failing seem all Parts through One important Want. Oh! Mighty RAPHAEL, justly sure renown'd! Since in thy Works such Excellence is found; No Wonder, if with Nature Thou'rt at strife, Who thus can paint the Negatives of Life; And Deprivation more expressive make, Than the most perfect Draughts, which Others take. Whilst to this Chiefest Figure of the Piece, All that surround it, Heightnings do encrease: In some, Amazement by Extreams is shewn, Who viewing his clos'd Lids, extend their Own. Nor can, by that, enough their Thoughts express, Which op'ning Months seem ready to confess. Thus stand the LICTORS gazing on a Deed, Which do's all humane Chastisements exceed; Enfeebl'd seem their Instruments of smart, When keener Words can swifter Ills impart. Thou, BARNABAS, though Last, not least our Care, Seem'st equally employ'd in Praise, and Prayer, Acknowledging th' Omnipotent Decree, Yet soft Compassion in thy Face we see; Whilst lifted Hands implore a kind Relief, Tho' no Impatience animates thy Grief; But mild Suspence and Charity benign, Do all th' excesses of thy Looks confine. Thus far, our slow Imagination goes: Wou'd the more skill'd THEANOR his disclose; Expand the Scene, and open to our Sight What to his nicer Judgement gives Delight; 13 Whose soaring Mind do's to Perfections climb, Nor owns a Relish, but for Things sublime: Then, wou'd the Piece fresh Beauties still present, Nor Length of Time wou'd leave the Eye content: As moments, Hours; as Hours the Days wou'd seem, Observing here, taught to observe by HIM. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

528:Any Soldier To His Son What did I do, sonny, in the Great World War? Well, I learned to peel potatoes and to scrub the barrack floor. I learned to push a barrow and I learned to swing a pick, I learned to turn my toes out, and to make my eyeballs click. I learned the road to Folkestone, and I watched the English shore, Go down behind the skyline, as I thought, for evermore. And the Blighty boats went by us and the harbour hove in sight, And they landed us and sorted us and marched us "by the right". "Quick march!" across the cobbles, by the kids who rang along Singing "Appoo?" "Spearmant" "Shokolah?" through dingy old Boulogne; By the widows and the nurses and the niggers and Chinese, And the gangs of smiling Fritzes, as saucy as you please. I learned to ride as soldiers ride from Etaps to the Line, For days and nights in cattle trucks, packed in like droves of swine. I learned to curl and kip it on a foot of muddy floor, And to envy cows and horses that have beds of beaucoup straw. I learned to wash in shell holes and to shave myself in tea, While the fragments of a mirror did a balance on my knee. I learned to dodge the whizz-bangs and the flying lumps of lead, And to keep a foot of earth between the sniper and my head. I learned to keep my haversack well filled with buckshee food, To take the Army issue and to pinch what else I could. I learned to cook Maconochie with candle-ends and string, With "four-by-two" and sardine-oil and any God-dam thing. I learned to use my bayonet according as you please For a breadknife or a chopper or a prong for toasting cheese. I learned "a first field dressing" to serve my mate and me As a dish-rag and a face-rag and a strainer for our tea. I learned to gather souvenirs that home I hoped to send, And hump them round for months and months and dump them in the end. I learned to hunt for vermin in the lining of my shirt, To crack them with my finger-nail and feel the beggars spirt; I learned to catch and crack them by the dozen and the score And to hunt my shirt tomorrow and to find as many more. I learned to sleep by snatches on the firestep of a trench, And to eat my breakfast mixed with mud and Fritz's heavy stench. I learned to pray for Blighty ones and lie and squirm with fear, When Jerry started strafing and the Blighty ones were near. I learned to write home cheerful with my heart a lump of lead With the thought of you and mother, when she heard that I was dead. And the only thing like pleasure over there I ever knew, Was to hear my pal come shouting, "There's a parcel, mate, for you." So much for what I did do - now for what I have not done: Well, I never kissed a French girl and I never killed a Hun, I never missed an issue of tobacco, pay, or rum, I never made a friend and yet I never lacked a chum. I never borrowed money, and I never lent - but once (I can learn some sorts of lessons though I may be borne a dunce). I never used to grumble after breakfast in the Line That the eggs were cooked too lightly or the bacon cut too fine. I never told a sergeant just exactly what I thought, I never did a pack-drill, for I never quite got caught. I never punched a Red-Cap's nose (be prudent like your Dad), But I'd like as many sovereigns as the times I've wished I had. I never stopped a whizz-bang, though I've stopped a lot of mud, But the one that Fritz sent over with my name on was a dud. I never played the hero or walked about on top, I kept inside my funk hole when the shells began to drop. Well, Tommy Jones's father must be made of different stuff: I never asked for trouble - the issue was enough. So I learned to live and lump it in the lovely land of war, Where the face of nature seems a monstrous septic sore, Where the bowels of earth of earth hang open, like the guts of something slain, And the rot and wreck of everything are churned and churned again; Where all is done in darkness and where all is still in day, Where living men are buried and the dead unburied lay; Where men inhabit holes like rats, and only rats live there; Where cottage stood and castle once in days before La Guerre; Where endless files of soldiers thread the everlasting way, By endless miles of duckboards, through endless walls of clay; Where life is one hard labour, and a soldiers gets his rest When they leave him in the daisies with a puncture in his chest; Where still the lark in summer pours her warble from the skies, And underneath, unheeding, lie the blank upstaring eyes. And I read the Blighty papers, where the warriors of the pen Tell of "Christmas in the trenches" and "The Spirit of our men"; And I saved the choicest morsels and I read them to my chum, And he muttered, as he cracked a louse and wiped it off his thumb: "May a thousand chats from Belgium crawl under their fingers as they write; May they dream they're not exempted till they faint with mortal fright; May the fattest rats in Dickebusch race over them in bed; May the lies they've written choke them like a gas cloud till they're dead; May the horror and the torture and the things they never tell (For they only write to order) be reserved for them in Hell!" You'd like to be a soldier and go to France some day? By all the dead in Delville Wood, by all the nights I lay Between our lines and Fritz's before they brought me in; By this old wood-and-leather stump, that once was flesh and skin; By all the lads who crossed with me but never crossed again, By all the prayers their mothers and their sweethearts prayed in vain, Before the things that were that day should ever more befall May God in common pity destroy us one and all! ~ Anonymous English,

529:To Mrs. P********, With Some Drawings Of Birds And Insects. The kindred arts to please thee shall conspire, One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. (Pope) Amanda bids;-at her command again I seize the pencil, or resume the pen; No other call my willing hand requires, And Friendship, better than a Muse inspires. Painting and Poetry are near allied; The kindred arts two sister Muses guide: This charms the eye, that steals upon the ear; There sounds are tuned, and colours blended here: This with a silent touch enchants our eyes, And bids a gayer, brighter world arise: That, less allied to sense, with deeper art Can pierce the close recesses of the heart; By well-set syllables, and potent sound, Can rouse, can chill the breast, can soothe, can wound; To life adds motion, and to beauty soul, 174 And breathes a spirit through the finished whole: Each perfects each, in friendly union joined;This gives Amanda's form, and that her mind. But humbler themes my artless hand requires, No higher than the feathered tribe aspires. Yet who the various nations can declare That plough with busy wing the peopled air? These cleave the crumbling bark for insect food; Those dip their crooked beak in kindred blood: Some haunt the rushy moor, the lonely woods; Some bathe their silver plumage in the floods; Some fly to man, his household gods implore, And gather round his hospitable door, Wait the known call, and find protection there From all the lesser tyrants of the air. The tawny Eagle seats his callow brood High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood. On Snowdon's rocks, or Orkney's wide domain, Whose beetling cliffs o'erhang the Western main, The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms; 175 Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight, And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight; With cruel eye premeditates the war, And marks his destined victim from afar: Descending in a whirlwind to the ground, His pinions like the rush of waters sound; The fairest of the fold he bears away, And to his nest compels the struggling prey; He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore, And dips his talons in no vulgar gore. With lovelier pomp along the grassy plain The Silver Pheasant draws his shining train. On Asia's myrtle shores, by Phasis' stream, He spreads his plumage to the sunny gleam; But when the wiry net his flight confines, He lowers his purple crest, and inly pines: The beauteous captive hangs his ruffled wing, Opprest by bondage and our chilly spring. To claim the verse unnumbered tribes appear, 176 That swell the music of the vernal year: Seized with the spirit of the kindly May, They sleek the glossy wing, and tune the lay; With emulative strife the notes prolong, And pour out all their little souls in song. When winter bites upon the naked plain, Nor food nor shelter in the groves remain, By instinct led, a firm united band, As marshaled by some skillful general's hand, The congregated nations wing their way In dusky columns o'er the trackless sea; In clouds unnumbered annual hover o'er The craggy Bass, or Kilda's utmost shore; Thence spread their sails to meet the southern wind, And leave the gathering tempest far behind; Pursue the circling sun's indulgent ray, Course the swift seasons, and o'ertake the day. Not so the insect race, ordained to keep The lazy sabbath of a half-year's sleep: Entombed beneath the filmy web they lie, 177 And wait the influence of a kinder sky. When vernal sunbeams pierce their dark retreat, The heaving tomb distends with vital heat; The half-formed brood, impatient of their cell, Start from their trance, and burst their silken shell;Trembling awhile they stand, and scarcely dare To launch at once upon the untried air: At length assured, they catch the favouring gale, And leave their sordid spoils, and high in ether sail. So when brave Tancred struck the conscious rind, He found a nymph in every trunk confined; The forest labours with convulsive throes, The bursting trees the lovely births disclose, And a gay troop of damsels round him stood, Where late was rugged bark and lifeless wood. Lo! the bright train their radiant wings unfold! With silver fringed, and freckled o'er with gold: On the gay bosom of some fragrant flower They idly fluttering live their little hour; Their life all pleasure, and their task all play, 178 All spring their age, and sunshine all their day. Not so the child of sorrow, wretched Man, His course with toil concludes, with pain began; That his high destiny he might discern, And in misfortune's school this lesson learn…. Pleasure's the portion of the inferior kind; But glory, virtue, Heaven for Man designed. What atom-forms of insect life appear! And who can follow Nature's pencil here? Their wings with azure, green and purple glossed, Studded with coloured eyes, with gems embossed, Inlaid with pearl, and marked with various stains Of lively crimson through their dusky veins. Some shoot like living stars athwart the night, And scatter from their wings a vivid light, To guide the Indian to his tawny loves, As through the woods with cautious step he moves. See the proud giant of the beetle race; What shining arms his polished limbs enchase! Like some stern warrior formidably bright, His steely sides reflect a gleaming light: 179 On his large forehead spreading horns he wears, And high in air the branching antlers bears: O'er many an inch extends his wide domain, And his rich treasury swells with hoarded grain. Thy friend thus strives to cheat the lonely hour, With song or paint, an insect or a flower:Yet if Amanda praise the flowing line, And bend delighted o'er the gay design, I envy not nor emulate the fame Or of the painter's or the poet's name: Could I to both with equal claim pretend, Yet far, far dearer were the name of Friend. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,

530:Beer In those old days which poets say were golden -(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves: And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves, Who talk to me 'in language quaint and olden' Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves, Pan with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards, And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:) 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette (Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born. They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet, No fashions varying as the hues of morn. Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate, Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn) And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked, And were no doubt extremely incorrect. 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 Yet do I think their theory was pleasant: And oft, I own, my 'wayward fancy roams' Back to those times, so different from the present; When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes, Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant, Nor 'did' her hair by means of long-tailed combs, Nor migrated to Brighton once a year, Nor -- most astonishing of all -- drank Beer. 25 No, they did not drink Beer, 'which brings me to' 26 (As Gilpin said) 'the middle of my song.' 27 Not that 'the middle' is precisely true, 28 Or else I should not tax your patience long: 29 If I had said 'beginning,' it might do; 30 But I have a dislike to quoting wrong: 31 I was unlucky -- sinned against, not sinning -32 When Cowper wrote down 'middle' for 'beginning.' 33 34 35 So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt Has always struck me as extremely curious. The Greek mind must have had some vital fault, 36 37 38 39 40 That they should stick to liquors so injurious -(Wine, water, tempered p'raps with Attic salt) -And not at once invent that mild, luxurious, And artful beverage, Beer. How the digestion Got on without it, is a startling question. 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 Had they digestions? and an actual body Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on? Were they abstract ideas -- (like Tom Noddy And Mr. Briggs) -- or men, like Jones and Jackson? Then nectar -- was that beer, or whisky-toddy? Some say the Gaelic mixture, I the Saxon: I think a strict adherence to the latter Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter. 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shows That the real beverage for feasting gods on Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose And also to the palate, known as 'Hidgson.' I know a man -- a tailor's son -- who rose To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on, (Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,) That that man owed his rise to copious Beer. 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsopp, Bass! Names that should be on every infant's tongue! Shall days and months and years and centuries pass, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung? Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass, And wished that lyre could yet again be strung Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her Misguided sons that the best drink was water. 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 How would he now recant that wild opinion, And sing -- as would that I could sing -- of you! I was not born (alas!) the 'Muses' minion,' I'm not poetical, not even blue: And he, we know, but strives with waxen pinion, Whoe'er he is that entertains the view Of emulating Pindar, and will be Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea. 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned With all the lustre of the dying day, And on Cithæron's brow the reaper turned, (Humming, of course, in his delightful way, How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay; And how rock told to rock the dreadful story That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:) 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 What would that lone and labouring soul have given, At that soft moment for a pewter pot! How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven, And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot! If his own grandmother had died unshriven, In two short seconds he'd have recked it not; Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath cankered Hath one unfailing remedy -- the Tankard. 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa; Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen: When 'Dulce est desipere in loco' Was written, real Falernian winged the pen. When a rapt audience has encored 'Fra Poco' Or 'Casta Diva,' I have heard that then The Prima Donna, smiling herself out, Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout. 97 But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, 98 Born to keep used-up Londoners awake? 99 What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry, 100 But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache? 101 Nay stout itself -- (though good with oysters, very) -102 Is not a thing your reading man should take. 103 He that would shine, and petrify his tutor, 104 Should drink draught Allsopp in its 'native pewter.' 105 106 107 108 109 110 But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear -A soft and silvery sound -- I know it well. Its tinkling tells me that a time is near Precious to me -- it is the Dinner Bell. O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer, Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell: 111 112 Seared is, of course, my heart -- but unsubdued Is, and shall be, my appetite for food. 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen: But on one statement I may safely venture: That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of their trencher. I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a 'modest quencher'; That home-returning, I may 'soothly say,' 'Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.' ~ Charles Stuart Calverley,

531:The Four Brothers MAKE war songs out of these; Make chants that repeat and weave. Make rhythms up to the ragtime chatter of the machine guns; Make slow-booming psalms up to the boom of the big guns. Make a marching song of swinging arms and swinging legs, Going along, Going along, On the roads from San Antonio to Athens, from Seattle to BagdadThe boys and men in winding lines of khaki, the circling squares of bayonet points. Cowpunchers, cornhuskers, shopmen, ready in khaki; Ballplayers, lumberjacks, ironworkers, ready in khaki; A million, ten million, singing, 'I am ready.' This the sun looks on between two seaboards, In the land of Lincoln, in the land of Grant and Lee. I heard one say, 'I am ready to be killed.' I heard another say, 'I am ready to be killed.' O sunburned clear-eyed boys! I stand on sidewalks and you go by with drums and guns and bugles, You-and the flag! And my heart tightens, a fist of something feels my throat When you go by, You on the kaiser hunt, you and your faces saying, 'I am ready to be killed.' They are hunting death, Death for the one-armed mastoid kaiser. They are after a Hohenzollern head: There is no man-hunt of men remembered like this. The four big brothers are out to kill. France, Russia, Britain, AmericaThe four republics are sworn brothers to kill the kaiser. Yes, this is the great man-hunt; And the sun has never seen till now Such a line of toothed and tusked man-killers, In the blue of the upper sky, 415 In the green of the undersea, In the red of winter dawns. Eating to kill, Sleeping to kill, Asked by their mothers to kill, Wished by four-fifths of the world to killTo cut the kaiser's throat, To hack the kaiser's head, To hang the kaiser on a high-horizon gibbet. And is it nothing else than this? Three times ten million men thirsting the blood Of a half-cracked one-armed child of the German kings? Three times ten million men asking the blood Of a child born with his head wrong-shaped, The blood of rotted kings in his veins? If this were all, O God, I would go to the far timbers And look on the gray wolves Tearing the throats of moose: I would ask a wilder drunk of blood. Look! It is four brothers in joined hands together. The people of bleeding France, The people of bleeding Russia, The people of Britain, the people of AmericaThese are the four brothers, these are the four republics. At first I said it in anger as one who clenches his fist in wrath to fling his knuckles into the face of some one taunting; Now I say it calmly as one who has thought it over and over again at night, among the mountains, by the seacombers in storm. I say now, by God, only fighters to-day will save the world, nothing but fighters will keep alive the names of those who left red prints of bleeding feet at Valley Forge in Christmas snow. On the cross of Jesus, the sword of Napoleon, the skull of Shakespeare, the pen of Tom Jefferson, the ashes of Abraham Lincoln, or any sign of the red and running life poured out by the mothers of the world, By the God of morning glories climbing blue the doors of quiet homes, by the God of tall hollyhocks laughing glad to children in peaceful valleys, by the God of new mothers wishing peace to sit at windows nursing babies, I swear only reckless men, ready to throw away their lives by hunger, 416 deprivation, desperate clinging to a single purpose imperturbable and undaunted, men with the primitive guts of rebellion, Only fighters gaunt with the red brand of labor's sorrow on their brows and labor's terrible pride in their blood, men with souls asking danger-only these will save and keep the four big brothers. Good-night is the word, good-night to the kings, to the czars, Good-night to the kaiser. The breakdown and the fade-away begins. The shadow of a great broom, ready to sweep out the trash, is here. One finger is raised that counts the czar, The ghost who beckoned men who come no moreThe czar gone to the winds on God's great dustpan, The czar a pinch of nothing, The last of the gibbering Romanoffs. Out and good-nightThe ghosts of the summer palaces And the ghosts of the winter palaces! Out and out, good-night to the kings, the czars, the kaisers. Another finger will speak, And the kaiser, the ghost who gestures a hundred million sleeping-waking ghosts, The kaiser will go onto God's great dustpanThe last of the gibbering Hohenzollerns. Look! God pities this trash, God waits with a broom and a dustpan, God knows a finger will speak and count them out. It is written in the stars; It is spoken on the walls; It clicks in the fire-white zigzag of the Atlantic wireless; It mutters in the bastions of thousand-mile continents; It sings in a whistle on the midnight winds from Walla Walla to Mesopotamia: Out and good-night. The millions slow in khaki, The millions learning Turkey in the Straw and John Brown's Body, The millions remembering windrows of dead at Gettysburg, Chickamauga, and Spottsylvania Court House, The millions dreaming of the morning star of Appomattox, 417 The millions easy and calm with guns and steel, planes and prows: There is a hammering, drumming hell to come. The killing gangs are on the way. God takes one year for a job. God takes ten years or a million. God knows when a doom is written. God knows this job will be done and the words spoken: Out and good-night. The red tubes will run, And the great price be paid, And the homes empty, And the wives wishing, And the mothers wishing. There is only one way now, only the way of the red tubes and the great price. Well... Maybe the morning sun is a five-cent yellow balloon, And the evening stars the joke of a God gone crazy. Maybe the mothers of the world, And the life that pours from their torsal foldsMaybe it's all a lie sworn by liars, And a God with a cackling laughter says: 'I, the Almighty God, I have made all this, I have made it for kaisers, czars, and kings.' Three times ten million men say: No. Three times ten million men say: God is a God of the People. And the God who made the world And fixed the morning sun, And flung the evening stars, And shaped the baby hands of life, This is the God of the Four Brothers; This is the God of bleeding France and bleeding Russia; This is the God of the people of Britain and America. The graves from the Irish Sea to the Caucasus peaks are ten times a million. The stubs and stumps of arms and legs, the eyesockets empty, the cripples, ten times a million. 418 The crimson thumb-print of this anathema is on the door panels of a hundred million homes. Cows gone, mothers on sick-beds, children cry a hunger and no milk comes in the noon-time or at night. The death-yells of it all, the torn throats of men in ditches calling for water, the shadows and the hacking lungs in dugouts, the steel paws that clutch and squeeze a scarlet drain day by day-the storm of it is hell. But look! child! the storm is blowing for a clean air. Look! the four brothers march And hurl their big shoulders And swear the job shall be done. Out of the wild finger-writing north and south, east and west, over the bloodcrossed, blood-dusty ball of earth, Out of it all a God who knows is sweeping clean, Out of it all a God who sees and pierces through, is breaking and cleaning out an old thousand years, is making ready for a new thousand years. The four brothers shall be five and more. Under the chimneys of the winter time the children of the world shall sing new songs. Among the rocking restless cradles the mothers of the world shall sing new sleepy-time songs. ~ Carl Sandburg,

532:A Soul In Prison (The Doubter lays aside his book.) "Answered a score of times." Oh, looked for teacher, is this all you will teach me? I in the dark reaching my hand for you to help me forth to the happy sunshine where you stand, "Oh shame, to be in the dark there, prisoned!" answer you; "there are ledges somewhere there by which strong feet might scale to daylight: I would lift you out with just a touch, but that your need's so slight; for there are ledges." And I grope and strain, think I've found footing, and slip baffled back, slip, maybe, deeper downwards. "Oh, my guide, I find no ledges: help me: say at least where they are placed, that I may know to seek." But you in anger, "Nay, wild wilful soul, thou will rot in the dark, God's sunshine here at thy prison's very lip: blame not the guide; have I not told thee there is footing for thee?" and so you leave me, and with even tread guide men along the highway ... where, I think, they need you less. Say 'twas my wanton haste, or my drowsed languor, my too earthward eyes watching for hedge flowers, or my too rapt gaze it the mock sunshine of a sky-born cloud, that led me, blindling, here: say the black walls grew round me while I slept, or that I built with ignorant hands a temple for my soul to pray in to herself, and that, for want of a window heavenwards, a loathsome night of mildew and decay festered upon it, till the rotted pillars fell and tombed me in: let it so be my fault, whichever way, must I be left to die? A murderer is helped by holy hands to the byway road that comes at God through shame; a thief is helped; A harlot; a sleek cozener that prays, 36 swindles his customers, and gives God thanks, and so to bed with prayers. Let them repent, lay let them not repent, you'll say "These souls may yet be saved, and make a joy in heaven:" you are thankful you have found them, you whose charge is healing sin. But I, hundreds as I, whose sorrow 'tis only to long to know, and know too plainly that we know not yet, we are beyond your mercies. You pass by and note the moral of our fate: 'twill point a Sunday's sermon ... for we have our use, boggarts to placid Christians in their pews-"Question not, prove not, lest you grow like these:" and then you tell them how we daze ourselves on problems now so many times resolved that you'll not re-resolve them, how we crave new proofs, as once an evil race desired new signs and could not see, for stubbornness, signs given already. Proofs enough, you say, quote precedent, "Hear Moses and the prophets." I know the answer given across the gulf, but I know too what Christ did: there were proofs, enough for John and Peter, yet He taught new proofs and meanings to those doubting two who sorrowing walked forth to Emmaus and came back joyful. "They," you'd answer me, if you owned my instance, "sorrowed in their doubt, and did not wholly doubt, and loved." Oh, men who read the age's heart in library books writ by our fathers, this is how you know it! Do we say "The old faith is obsolete, the world wags all the better, let us laugh," we of to-day? Why will you not divine the fathomless sorrow of doubt? why not divine the yearning to be lost from it in love? And who doubts wholly? That were not to doubt. 37 Doubt's to be ignorant, not to deny: doubt's to be wistful after perfect faith. You will not think that: you come not to us to ask of us, who know doubt, what doubt is, but one by one you pass the echoes on, each of his own pulpit, each of all the pulpits, and in the swelling sound can never catch the tremulous voice of doubt that wails in the cold: you make sham thunder for it, to outpeal with your own better thunders. You wise man and worthy, utter honest in your will, I love you and I trust you: so I thought "Here's one whose love keeps measure to belief with onward vigorous feet, one quick of sight to catch the clue in scholars' puzzle-knots, deft to unweave the coil to one straight thread, one strong to grapple vague Protean faith and keep her to his heart in one fixed shape and living; he comes forward in his strength, as to a battlefield to answer challenge, as in a storm to buffet with the waves for shipwrecked men clutching the frothy crests and sinking; he is stalwart on my side-mine, who, untrained and weaponless, have warred at the powers of unbelief, and am borne down-mine, who am struggling in the sea for breath." I looked to you as the sick man in his pain looks to the doctor whose sharp medicines have the taste of health behind them, looked to you for--well, for a boon different from this. My doctor tells me "Why, quite long ago they knew your fever (or one very like); and they knew remedies, you'll find them named in many ancient writers, let those serve:" and "Thick on the commons, by the daily roads, the herbs are growing that give instant strength to palsied limbs like yours, clear such filmed sight: you need but eyes to spy them, hands to uproot, that's all." 38 All, truly. Strong accustomed eyes, strong tutored hands, see for me, reach for me! But there's a cry like mine rings through the world, and no help comes. And with slow severing rasp at our very heart-roots the toothed question grates, "Do these, who know most, not know anything?" Oh, teachers, will you teach us? Growing, growing, like the great river made of little brooks, our once unrest swells to a smooth despair: stop us those little brooks; you say you can. Oh, teachers, teach us, you who have been taught; learn for us, you who have learned how to learn: we, jostling, jostled, through the market world where our work lies, lack breathing space, lack calm, lack skill, lack tools, lack heart, lack everything, for your work of the studies. Such roughed minds we bring to it as when the ploughman tries his hard unpliant fingers at the pen; so toil and smudge, then put the blurred scrawl by, unfinished, till next holiday comes round. Thus maybe I shall die and the blurred scrawl be still unfinished, where I try to write some clear belief, enough to get by heart. Die still in the dark! Die having lived in the dark! there's a sort of creeping horror thinking that. 'Tis hard too, for I yearned for light, grew dazed, not by my sight's unuse and choice of gloom, but by too bold a gaze at the sun, thinking to apprehend his perfect light not darkly through a glass. Too bold, too bold. Would I had been appeased with the earth's wont of helpful daily sunbeams bringing down only so much heaven's light as may be borne-heaven's light enough for many a better man to see his God by. Well, but it is done: never in any day shall I now be 39 as if I had not gazed and seen strange lights swim amid darknesses against the sky. Never: and, when I dream as if I saw, 'tis dreaming of the sun, and, when I yearn in agony to see, still do I yearn, not for the sight I had in happier days, but for the eagle's strong gaze at the sun. Ah, well! that's after death, if all be true. Nay, but for me, never, if all be true: I love not God, because I know Him not, I do but long to love Him--long and long with an ineffable great pain of void; I cannot say I love Him: that not said, they of the creeds all tell me I am barred from the very hope of knowing. Maybe so; for daily I know less. 'Tis the old tale of men lost in the mouldy vaults of mines or dank crypt cemeteries--lamp puffed out, guides, comrades, out of hearing, on and on groping and pushing he makes farther way from his goal of open daylight. Best to wait till some one come to seek him. But the strain of such a patience!--and "If no one comes!" He cannot wait. If one could hear a voice, "Not yet, not yet: myself have still to find what way to guide you forth, but I seek well, I have the lamp you lack, I have a chart: not yet; but hope." So might one strongly bear through the long night, attend with hearkening breath for the next word, stir not but as it bade. Who will so cry to us? Or is it true you could come to us, guide us, but you will not? You say it, and not we, teachers of faith; must we believe you? Shall we not more think our doubt is consciousness of ignorance, 40 your faith unconsciousness of ignorance; so you know less than we? My author here, honest at heart, but has your mind a warp-the zealot's warp, who takes believed for proved; the disciple's warp, who takes all heard for proved; the teacher's warp, who takes all taught for proved, and cannot think "I know not"? Do you move one stumbling-block that bars out souls from Heaven? your back to it, you say, "I see no stone; 'tis a fool's dream, an enemy's false tale to hinder passengers." And I who lean broken against the stone? Well, learned man, I thank you for your book. 'Tis eloquent, 'tis subtle, resolute; I like the roar of the big battling phrases, like those frets of hissing irony--a book to read. It helps one too--a sort of evidence-to see so strong a mind so strongly clasped to creeds whose truth one hopes. What would I more? 'tis a dark world, and no man lights another: 'tis a dark world, and no man sees so plain as he believes he sees ... excepting those who are mere blind and know it. Here's a man thinks his eyes' stretch can plainly scan out God, and cannot plainly scan his neighbour's face-he'll make you a hobgoblin, hoofs and horns, of a poor cripple shivering at his door begging a bit of food. We get no food; stones, stones: but then he but half sees, he trows 'tis honest bread he gives us. A blind world. Light! light! oh God, whose other name is Light, if-- 41 Ay, ay, always if: thought's cursed with ifs. Well, where's my book?--No "ifs" in that, I think; a readable shrewd book; 'twill win the critics. ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

533:Aspirants Three DRAMATIS PERSONAE. _QUICK_: DE YOUNG _a Brother to Mushrooms_ _DEAD_: SWIFT _an Heirloom_ ESTEE _a Relic_ _IMMORTALS_: THE SPIRIT OF BROKEN HOPES. THE AUTHOR. _MISCELLANEOUS_: A TROUPE OF COFFINS. THE MOON. VARIOUS COLORED FIRES. _Scene_-The Political Graveyard at Bone Mountain. DE YOUNG: This is the spot agreed upon. Here rest The sainted statesman who upon the field Of honor have at various times laid down Their own, and ended, ignominious, Their lives political. About me, lo! Their silent headstones, gilded by the moon, Half-full and near her setting-midnight. Hark! Through the white mists of this portentous night (Which throng in moving shapes about my way, As they were ghosts of candidates I've slain, To fray their murderer) my open ear, Spacious to maw the noises of the world, Engulfs a footstep. (_Enter Estee from his tomb._) Ah, 'tis he, my foe, True to appointment; and so here we fight Though truly 'twas my firm belief that he Would send regrets, or I had not been here. 179 ESTEE: O moon that hast so oft surprised the deeds Whereby I rose to greatness!-tricksy orb, The type and symbol of my politics, Now draw my ebbing fortunes to their flood, As, by the magic of a poultice, boils That burn ambitions with defeated fires Are lifted into eminence. (_Sees De Young._) What? you! Faith, if I had suspected you would come From the fair world of politics wherein So lately you were whelped, and which, alas, I vainly to revisit strive, though still Rapped on the rotting head and bidden sleep Till Resurrection's morn,-if I had thought You would accept the challenge that I flung I would have seen you damned ere I came forth In the night air, shroud-clad and shivering, To fight so mean a thing! But since you're here, Draw and defend yourself. By gad, we'll _see_ Who'll be Postmaster-General! DE YOUNG: We willI'll fight (for I am lame) with any blue And redolent remain that dares aspire To wreck the Grand Old Grandson's cabinet. Here's at you, nosegay! (_They draw tongues and are about to fight, when from an adjacent whited sepulcher, enter Swift._) SWIFT: Hold! put up your tongues! Within the confines of this sacred spot Broods such a holy calm as none may break By clash of weapons, without sacrilege. 180 (_Beats down their tongues with a bone._) Madmen! what profits it? For though you fought With such heroic skill that both survived, Yet neither should achieve the prize, for I Would wrest it from him. Let us not contend, But friendliwise by stipulation fix A slate for mutual advantage. Why, Having the pick and choice of seats, should we Forego them all but one? Nay, we'll take three, And part them so among us that to each Shall fall the fittest to his powers. In brief, Let us establish a Portfolio Trust. ESTEE: Agreed. DE YOUNG: Aye, truly, 'tis a greed-and one The offices imperfectly will sate, But I'll stand in. SWIFT: Well, so 'tis understood, As you're the junior member of the Trust, Politically younger and undead, Speak, Michael: what portfolio do you choose? DE YOUNG: I've thought the Postal service best would serve My interest; but since I have my pick, I'll take the War Department. It is known Throughout the world, from Market street to Pine, (For a Chicago journal told the tale) How in this hand I lately took my life And marched against great Buckley, thundering My mandate that he count the ballots fair! Earth heard and shrank to half her size! Yon moon, Which rivaled then a liver's whiteness, paused 181 That night at Butchertown and daubed her face With sheep's blood! Then my serried rank I drew Back to my stronghold without loss. To mark My care in saving human life and limb, The Peace Society bestowed on me Its leather medal and the title, too, Of Colonel. Yes, my genius is for war. Good land! I naturally dote on a brass band! (_Sings._) O, give me a life on the tented field, Where the cannon roar and ring, Where the flag floats free and the foemen yield And bleed as the bullets sing. But be it not mine to wage the fray Where matters are ordered the other way, For that is a different thing. O, give me a life in the fierce campaignLet it be the life of my foe: I'd rather fall upon him than the plain; That service I'd fain forego. O, a warrior's life is fine and free, But a warrior's death-ah me! ah me! That's a different thing, you know. ESTEE: Some claim I might myself advance to that Portfolio. When Rebellion raised its head, And you, my friends, stayed meekly in your shirts, I marched with banners to the party stump, Spat on my hands, made faces fierce as death, Shook my two fists at once and introduced Brave resolutions terrible to read! Nay, only recently, as you do know, I conquered Treason by the word of mouth, And slew, with Samson's weapon, the whole South! SWIFT: 182 You once fought Stanford, too. ESTEE: Enough of thatGive me the Interior and I'll devote My mind to agriculture and improve The breed of cabbages, especially The _Brassica Celeritatis_, named For _you_ because in days of long ago You sold it at your market stall,-and, faith, 'Tis said you were an honest huckster then. I'll be Attorney-General if you Prefer; for know I am a lawyer too! SWIFT: I never have heard that!-did you, De Young? DE YOUNG: Never, so help me! And I swear I've heard A score of Judges say that he is not. SWIFT (_to Estee_): You take the Interior. I might aspire To military station too, for once I led my party into Pixley's camp, And he paroled me. I defended, too, The State of Oregon against the sharp And bloody tooth of the Australian sheep. But I've an aptitude exceeding neat For bloodless battles of diplomacy. My cobweb treaty of Exclusion once, Through which a hundred thousand coolies sailed, Was much admired, but most by Colonel Bee. Though born a tinker I'm a diplomat From old Missouri, and I-ha! what's that? (_Exit Moon. Enter Blue Lights on all the tombs, and a circle of Red Fire on the grass; in the center the Spirit of Broken Hopes, and round about, a Troupe of 183 Coffins, dancing and singing._) CHORUS OF COFFINS: Two bodies dead and one aliveYo, ho, merrily all! Now for boodle strain and striveBuzzards all a-warble, O! Prophets three, agape for bread; Raven with a stone insteadProvidential raven! Judges two and Colonel oneRun, run, rustics, run! But it's O, the pig is shaven, And oily, oily all! (_Exeunt Coffins, dancing. The Spirit of Broken Hopes advances, solemnly pointing at each of the Three Worthies in turn._) SPIRIT OF BROKEN HOPES: Governor, Governor, editor man, Rusty, musty, spick-and-span, Harlequin, harridan, dicky-dout, Demagogue, charlatan-o, u, t, OUT! (_De Young falls and sleeps._) Antimonopoler, diplomat, Railroad lackey, political rat, One, two, three-SCAT! (_Swift falls and sleeps._) Boycotting chin-worker, working to woo Fortune, the fickle, to smile upon _you_, Jo-coated acrobat, shuttle-cock-SHOO! (_Estee falls and sleeps._) Now they lie in slumber sweet, Now the charm is all complete, Hasten I with flying feet Where beyond the further sea A babe upon its mother's knee 184 Is gazing into skies afar And crying for a golden star. I'll drag a cloud across the blue And break that infant's heart in two! (_Exeunt the Spirit of Broken Hopes and the Red and Blue Fires. Re-enter Moon._) ESTEE (_waking_): Why, this is strange! I dreamed I know not what, It seemed that certain apparitions were, Which sang uncanny words, significant And yet ambiguous-half-understood Portending evil; and an awful spook, Even as I stood with my accomplices, Counted me out, as children do in play. Is that you, Mike? DE YOUNG _(waking):_ It was. SWIFT _(waking):_ Am I all that? Then I'll reform my ways. _(Reforms his ways.)_ Ah! had I known How sweet it is to be an honest man I never would have stooped to turn my coat For public favor, as chameleons take The hue (as near as they can judge) of that Supporting them. Henceforth I'll buy With money all the offices I need, And know the pleasure of an honest life, Or stay forever in this dismal place. Now that I'm good, it will no longer do To make a third with such, a wicked two. _(Returns to his tomb.)_ DE YOUNG: 185 Prophetic dream! by some good angel sent To make me with a quiet life content. The question shall no more my bosom irk, To go to Washington or go to work. From Fame's debasing struggle I'll withdraw, And taking up the pen lay down the law. I'll leave this rogue, lest my example make An honest man of him-his heart would break. _(Exit De Young.)_ ESTEE: Out of my company these converts flee, But that advantage is denied to me: My curst identity's confining skin Nor lets me out nor tolerates me in. Well, since my hopes eternally have fled, And, dead before, I'm more than ever dead, To find a grander tomb be now my task, And pack my pork into a stolen cask. _(Exit, searching. Loud calls for the Author, who appears, bowing and smiling_.) AUTHOR _(singing):_ Jack Satan's the greatest of gods, And Hell is the best of abodes. 'Tis reached, through the Valley of Clods, By seventy different roads. Hurrah for the Seventy Roads! Hurrah for the clods that resound With a hollow, thundering sound! Hurrah for the Best of Abodes! We'll serve him as long as we've breath Jack Satan the greatest of gods. To all of his enemies, death! A home in the Valley of Clods. Hurrah for the thunder of clods That smother the soul of his foe! Hurrah for the spirits that go To dwell with the Greatest of Gods; 186 _(Curtain falls to faint odor of mortality. Exit the Gas_.) ~ Ambrose Bierce,

534:The Apology ADDRESSED TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS. Tristitiam et Metus.--HORACE. Laughs not the heart when giants, big with pride, Assume the pompous port, the martial stride; O'er arm Herculean heave the enormous shield, Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield; With the loud voice of thundering Jove defy, And dare to single combat--what?--A fly! And laugh we less when giant names, which shine Establish'd, as it were, by right divine; Critics, whom every captive art adores, To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores; Who high in letter'd reputation sit, And hold, Astraea-like, the scales of wit, With partial rage rush forth--oh! shame to tell!-To crush a bard just bursting from the shell? Great are his perils in this stormy time Who rashly ventures on a sea of rhyme: Around vast surges roll, winds envious blow, And jealous rocks and quicksands lurk below: Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends. Look through the world--in every other trade The same employment's cause of kindness made, At least appearance of good will creates, And every fool puffs off the fool he hates: Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night, And in the common cause e'en players unite; Authors alone, with more than savage rage, Unnatural war with brother authors wage. The pride of Nature would as soon admit Competitors in empire as in wit; Onward they rush, at Fame's imperious call, And, less than greatest, would not be at all. Smit with the love of honour,--or the pence,-O'errun with wit, and destitute of sense, Should any novice in the rhyming trade 87 With lawless pen the realms of verse invade, Forth from the court, where sceptred sages sit, Abused with praise, and flatter'd into wit, Where in lethargic majesty they reign, And what they won by dulness, still maintain, Legions of factious authors throng at once, Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce. To 'Hamilton's the ready lies repair-Ne'er was lie made which was not welcome there-Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought, The polish'd falsehood's into public brought. Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; And reputation bleeds in every word. A critic was of old a glorious name, Whose sanction handed merit up to fame; Beauties as well as faults he brought to view; His judgment great, and great his candour too; No servile rules drew sickly taste aside; Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide. But now--oh! strange reverse!--our critics bawl In praise of candour with a heart of gall; Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light, They lurk enshrouded in the vale of night; Safe from detection, seize the unwary prey, And stab, like bravoes, all who come that way. When first my Muse, perhaps more bold than wise, Bade the rude trifle into light arise, Little she thought such tempests would ensue; Less, that those tempests would be raised by you. The thunder's fury rends the towering oak, Rosciads, like shrubs, might 'scape the fatal stroke. Vain thought! a critic's fury knows no bound; Drawcansir-like, he deals destruction round; Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare, Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire. Unhappy Genius! placed by partial Fate With a free spirit in a slavish state; Where the reluctant Muse, oppress'd by kings, Or droops in silence, or in fetters sings! In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borne The bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn. Why didst thou safe from home-bred dangers steer, 88 Reserved to perish more ignobly here? Thus, when, the Julian tyrant's pride to swell, Rome with her Pompey at Pharsalia fell, The vanquish'd chief escaped from Caesar's hand, To die by ruffians in a foreign land. How could these self-elected monarchs raise So large an empire on so small a base? In what retreat, inglorious and unknown, Did Genius sleep when Dulness seized the throne? Whence, absolute now grown, and free from awe, She to the subject world dispenses law. Without her licence not a letter stirs, And all the captive criss-cross-row is hers. The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew, Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too. Our great Dictators take a shorter way-Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say? Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason, In such a state as theirs, is downright treason. True judgment now with them alone can dwell; Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible. Dull superstitious readers they deceive, Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve, And knowing nothing, everything believe! But why repine we that these puny elves Shoot into giants?--we may thank ourselves: Fools that we are, like Israel's fools of yore, The calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore. But let true Reason once resume her reign, This god shall dwindle to a calf again. Founded on arts which shun the face of day, By the same arts they still maintain their sway. Wrapp'd in mysterious secrecy they rise, And, as they are unknown, are safe and wise. At whomsoever aim'd, howe'er severe, The envenom'd slander flies, no names appear: Prudence forbids that step;--then all might know, And on more equal terms engage the foe. But now, what Quixote of the age would care To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air? By interest join'd, the expert confederates stand, And play the game into each other's hand: 89 The vile abuse, in turn by all denied, Is bandied up and down, from side to side: It flies--hey!--presto!--like a juggler's ball, Till it belongs to nobody at all. All men and things they know, themselves unknown, And publish every name--except their own. Nor think this strange,--secure from vulgar eyes, The nameless author passes in disguise; But veteran critics are not so deceived, If veteran critics are to be believed. Once seen, they know an author evermore, Nay, swear to hands they never saw before. Thus in 'The Rosciad,' beyond chance or doubt, They by the writing found the writers out: That's Lloyd's--his manner there you plainly trace, And all the Actor stares you in the face. By Colman that was written--on my life, The strongest symptoms of the 'Jealous Wife.' That little disingenuous piece of spite, Churchill--a wretch unknown!--perhaps might write. How doth it make judicious readers smile, When authors are detected by their style; Though every one who knows this author, knows He shifts his style much oftener than his clothes! Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen, The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean? What had I done, that angry Heaven should send The bitterest foe where most I wish'd a friend? Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name, And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame. For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground, So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound; From Livy's temples tear the historic crown, Which with more justice blooms upon thine own. Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb, But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb. Who ever read 'The Regicide,' but swore The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before? Others for plots and under-plots may call, Here's the right method--have no plot at all. Who can so often in his cause engage The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage, 90 Whilst horrors rise, and tears spontaneous flow At tragic Ha! and no less tragic Oh! To praise his nervous weakness all agree; And then for sweetness, who so sweet as he! Too big for utterance when sorrows swell, The too big sorrows flowing tears must tell; But when those flowing tears shall cease to flow, Why--then the voice must speak again, you know. Rude and unskilful in the poet's trade, I kept no Naiads by me ready made; Ne'er did I colours high in air advance, Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France; No flimsy linsey-woolsey scenes I wrote, With patches here and there, like Joseph's coat. Me humbler themes befit: secure, for me, Let play-wrights smuggle nonsense duty free; Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins! bound, And frisk and frolic o'er the fairy ground. Secure, for me, thou pretty little fawn! Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flowery lawn; Uncensured let the gentle breezes rove Through the green umbrage of the enchanted grove: Secure, for me, let foppish Nature smile, And play the coxcomb in the 'Desert Isle.' The stage I chose--a subject fair and free-'Tis yours--'tis mine--'tis public property. All common exhibitions open lie, For praise or censure, to the common eye. Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed; Hence Monthly Critics earn their daily bread. This is a general tax which all must pay, From those who scribble, down to those who play. Actors, a venal crew, receive support From public bounty for the public sport. To clap or hiss all have an equal claim, The cobbler's and his lordship's right's the same. All join for their subsistence; all expect Free leave to praise their worth, their faults correct. When active Pickle Smithfield stage ascends, The three days' wonder of his laughing friends, Each, or as judgment or as fancy guides, The lively witling praises or derides. 91 And where's the mighty difference, tell me where, Betwixt a Merry Andrew and a player? The strolling tribe--a despicable race!-Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place. Vagrants by law, to justice open laid, They tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid, And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life To Madam Mayoress, or his Worship's wife. The mighty monarch, in theatric sack, Carries his whole regalia at his back; His royal consort heads the female band, And leads the heir apparent in her hand; The pannier'd ass creeps on with conscious pride, Bearing a future prince on either side. No choice musicians in this troop are found, To varnish nonsense with the charms of sound; No swords, no daggers, not one poison'd bowl; No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll; No guards to swell the monarch's train are shown; The monarch here must be a host alone: No solemn pomp, no slow processions here; No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier. By need compell'd to prostitute his art, The varied actor flies from part to part; And--strange disgrace to all theatric pride!-His character is shifted with his side. Question and answer he by turns must be, Like that small wit in modern tragedy, Who, to patch up his fame--or fill his purse-Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse; Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own. In shabby state they strut, and tatter'd robe, The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe: No high conceits their moderate wishes raise, Content with humble profit, humble praise. Let dowdies simper, and let bumpkins stare, The strolling pageant hero treads in air: Pleased, for his hour he to mankind gives law, And snores the next out on a truss of straw. But if kind Fortune, who sometimes, we know, Can take a hero from a puppet-show, 92 In mood propitious should her favourite call, On royal stage in royal pomp to bawl, Forgetful of himself, he rears the head, And scorns the dunghill where he first was bred; Conversing now with well dress'd kings and queens, With gods and goddesses behind the scenes, He sweats beneath the terror-nodding plume, Taught by mock honours real pride to assume. On this great stage, the world, no monarch e'er Was half so haughty as a monarch player. Doth it more move our anger or our mirth To see these things, the lowest sons of earth, Presume, with self-sufficient knowledge graced, To rule in letters, and preside in taste? The town's decisions they no more admit, Themselves alone the arbiters of wit; And scorn the jurisdiction of that court To which they owe their being and support. Actors, like monks of old, now sacred grown, Must be attack'd by no fools but their own. Let the vain tyrant sit amidst his guards, His puny green-room wits and venal bards, Who meanly tremble at the puppet's frown, And for a playhouse-freedom lose their own; In spite of new-made laws, and new-made kings, The free-born Muse with liberal spirit sings. Bow down, ye slaves! before these idols fall; Let Genius stoop to them who've none at all: Ne'er will I flatter, cringe, or bend the knee To those who, slaves to all, are slaves to me. Actors, as actors, are a lawful game, The poet's right, and who shall bar his claim? And if, o'erweening of their little skill, When they have left the stage, they're actors still; If to the subject world they still give laws, With paper crowns, and sceptres made of straws; If they in cellar or in garret roar, And, kings one night, are kings for evermore; Shall not bold Truth, e'en there, pursue her theme, And wake the coxcomb from his golden dream? Or if, well worthy of a better fate, They rise superior to their present state; 93 If, with each social virtue graced, they blend The gay companion and the faithful friend; If they, like Pritchard, join in private life The tender parent and the virtuous wife; Shall not our verse their praise with pleasure speak, Though Mimics bark, and Envy split her cheek? No honest worth's beneath the Muse's praise; No greatness can above her censure raise; Station and wealth to her are trifling things; She stoops to actors, and she soars to kings. Is there a man, in vice and folly bred, To sense of honour as to virtue dead, Whom ties, nor human, nor divine can bind, Alien from God, and foe to all mankind; Who spares no character; whose every word, Bitter as gall, and sharper than the sword, Cuts to the quick; whose thoughts with rancour swell; Whose tongue, on earth, performs the work of hell? If there be such a monster, the Reviews Shall find him holding forth against abuse: Attack profession!--'tis a deadly breach! The Christian laws another lesson teach:-Unto the end shall Charity endure, And Candour hide those faults it cannot cure. Thus Candour's maxims flow from Rancour's throat, As devils, to serve their purpose, Scripture quote. The Muse's office was by Heaven design'd To please, improve, instruct, reform mankind; To make dejected Virtue nobly rise Above the towering pitch of splendid Vice; To make pale Vice, abash'd, her head hang down, And, trembling, crouch at Virtue's awful frown. Now arm'd with wrath, she bids eternal shame, With strictest justice, brand the villain's name; Now in the milder garb of ridicule She sports, and pleases while she wounds the fool. Her shape is often varied; but her aim, To prop the cause of Virtue, still the same. In praise of Mercy let the guilty bawl; When Vice and Folly for correction call, Silence the mark of weakness justly bears, And is partaker of the crimes it spares. 94 But if the Muse, too cruel in her mirth, With harsh reflections wounds the man of worth; If wantonly she deviates from her plan, And quits the actor to expose the man; Ashamed, she marks that passage with a blot, And hates the line where candour was forgot. But what is candour, what is humour's vein, Though judgment join to consecrate the strain, If curious numbers will not aid afford, Nor choicest music play in every word? Verses must run, to charm a modern ear, From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear. Soft let them breathe, as Zephyr's balmy breeze, Smooth let their current flow, as summer seas; Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense A happy tuneful vacancy of sense. Italian fathers thus, with barbarous rage, Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage; Deaf to the calls of pity, Nature wound, And mangle vigour for the sake of sound. Henceforth farewell, then, feverish thirst of fame; Farewell the longings for a poet's name; Perish my Muse--a wish 'bove all severe To him who ever held the Muses dear-If e'er her labours weaken to refine The generous roughness of a nervous line. Others affect the stiff and swelling phrase; Their Muse must walk in stilts, and strut in stays; The sense they murder, and the words transpose, Lest poetry approach too near to prose. See tortured Reason how they pare and trim, And, like Procrustes, stretch, or lop the limb. Waller! whose praise succeeding bards rehearse, Parent of harmony in English verse, Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows, In couplets first taught straggling sense to close. In polish'd numbers and majestic sound, Where shall thy rival, Pope! be ever found? But whilst each line with equal beauty flows. E'en excellence, unvaried, tedious grows. Nature, through all her works, in great degree, Borrows a blessing from variety. 95 Music itself her needful aid requires To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires. Still in one key, the nightingale would tease; Still in one key, not Brent would always please. Here let me bend, great Dryden! at thy shrine, Thou dearest name to all the Tuneful Nine! What if some dull lines in cold order creep, And with his theme the poet seems to sleep? Still, when his subject rises proud to view, With equal strength the poet rises too: With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught, Thought still springs up and rises out of thought; Numbers ennobling numbers in their course, In varied sweetness flow, in varied force; The powers of genius and of judgment join, And the whole Art of Poetry is thine. But what are numbers, what are bards to me, Forbid to tread the paths of poesy? A sacred Muse should consecrate her pen-Priests must not hear nor see like other men-Far higher themes should her ambition claim: Behold where Sternhold points the way to fame! Whilst with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn, Let Reason for a moment take her turn. When coffee-sages hold discourse with kings, And blindly walk in paper leading-strings, What if a man delight to pass his time In spinning reason into harmless rhyme, Or sometimes boldly venture to the play? Say, where's the crime, great man of prudence, say? No two on earth in all things can agree; All have some darling singularity: Women and men, as well as girls and boys, In gew-gaws take delight, and sigh for toys. Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things, Are but a better kind of toys for kings. In things indifferent Reason bids us choose, Whether the whim's a monkey or a Muse. What the grave triflers on this busy scene, When they make use of this word Reason, mean, I know not; but according to my plan, 'Tis Lord Chief-Justice in the court of man; 96 Equally form'd to rule in age or youth, The friend of virtue and the guide to truth; To her I bow, whose sacred power I feel; To her decision make my last appeal; Condemn'd by her, applauding worlds in vain Should tempt me to take up the pen again; By her absolved, my course I'll still pursue: If Reason's for me, God is for me too. ~ Charles Churchill,

535:Amours De Voyage, Canto Ii Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages, Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide? Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not, Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide? Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single, Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine, E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin, E'en in the people itself? is it illusion or not? Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine, Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare? Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger, Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate? I. Claude to Eustace. What do the people say, and what does the government do?--you Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes; and I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it. I, who nor meddle nor make in politics,--I who sincerely Put not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot, Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld a New Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heaven Right on the Place de la Concorde,--I, nevertheless, let me say it, Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates shed One true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic; What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the Bourbon, Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion? France, it is foully done! and you, poor foolish England,-You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, you Could not, of course, interfere,--you, now, when a nation has chosen---Pardon this folly! The Times will, of course, have announced the occasion, Told you the news of to-day; and although it was slightly in error When it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee, You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia. 16 II. Claude to Eustace. Dulce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country to fall,--to Offer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yet Still, individual culture is also something, and no man Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on, Or would be justified even, in taking away from the world that Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here; Else why send him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely; On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it is certain Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in general Care for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation; Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this are decisive; Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall. So we cling to our rocks like limpets; Ocean may bluster, Over and under and round us; we open our shells to imbibe our Nourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purpose Nature intended,--a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not. Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die; but, On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I sha'n't. III. Claude to Eustace. Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly, Hardly think so; and yet----He is come, they say, to Palo, He is passed from Monterone, at Santa Severa He hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma, She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,--The Daughter of Tiber, She hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee! Will they fight? I believe it. Alas! 'tis ephemeral folly, Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures, Statues, and antique gems!--Indeed: and yet indeed too, Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream,--tell it not in St. James's, Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!--yet did I, waking, Dream of a cadence that sings, Si tombent nos jeunes héros, la Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts à se battre; Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental, Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me. 17 IV. Claude to Eustace. Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldier Should by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny (Where the family English are all to assemble for safety), Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female? Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little, All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit. Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn't die for good manners, Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention. No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there; Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger, Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy's freedom, Sooner far by the side of the d----d and dirty plebeians. Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady---Somehow, Eustace, alas! I have not felt the vocation. Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection, Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina, And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, and Truly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended. Oh, and of course, you will say, 'When the time comes, you will be ready.' Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so? What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel? Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct? Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception? Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight, For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action? Must we, walking our earth, discerning a little, and hoping Some plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us,-Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present, Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbour, To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim? And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble refining, Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent? V. Claude to Eustace. Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual, Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffè Nuovo; 18 Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather, Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray, And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles; Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter,--and Non c'è latte, This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle. So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else more Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero, Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons, Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, and Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,--withdrawing Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musket Slung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual, Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffe is empty, Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti. Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English, Germans, Americans, French,--the Frenchmen, too, are protected,-So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower; So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's, Smoke, from the cannon, white,--but that is at intervals only,-Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri; And we believe we discern some lines of men descending Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming. Every ten minutes, however,--in this there is no misconception,-Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's dome, and After a space the report of a real big gun,--not the Frenchman's!-That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture. Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter's, Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us; So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.-All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside, It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses. Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent, Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing: So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very. Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly, Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows, English, American, Danish,--and, after offering to help an Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny, After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the trembling 19 Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters, Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter. But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voices Talk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners taken; And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.-This is all that I saw, and all that I know of the battle. VI. Claude to Eustace. Victory! Victory!--Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion, Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together; Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished, and so forth. Victory! Victory! Victory!--Ah, but it is, believe me, Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr Than to indite any paean of any victory. Death may Sometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion. While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over, Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven, Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the altar, Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odour. So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that swelled with Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises, Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day colLapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papers Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, but I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten. VII. Claude to Eustace. So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others! Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain, And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it. But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something. I was returning home from St. Peter's; Murray, as usual, Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; and Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became conscious 20 Of a sensation of movement opposing me,--tendency this way (Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is Coming and not yet come,--a sort of noise and retention); So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner. Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza, Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters, Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now the Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it? Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be voices Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords are Many, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; they are smiting, Hewing, chopping--At what? In the air once more upstretched? And-Is it blood that's on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then? Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation? While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points of Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a Mercantile-seeming bystander, 'What is it?' and he, looking always That way, makes me answer, 'A Priest, who was trying to fly to The Neapolitan army,'--and thus explains the proceeding. You didn't see the dead man? No;--I began to be doubtful; I was in black myself, and didn't know what mightn't happen,-But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub, Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,--and Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm, and Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body. You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter. Whom should I tell it to else?--these girls?--the Heavens forbid it!-Quidnuncs at Monaldini's--Idlers upon the Pincian? If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon when Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers, Thought I could fancy the look of that old 'Ninety-two. On that evening Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; others Say they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated, Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna: History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine! But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength to Put it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful. Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, I 21 Found no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges, So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards Thence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum, Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit. VIII. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----. Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!-**************** George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, on Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him: This is a man, you know, who came from America with him, Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses a lasso in fighting, Which is, I don't quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine; This he throws on the heads of the enemy's men in a battle, Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them: Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian. Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claude being selfish; He was most useful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April. Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence: We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses; All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini P.S. Mary has seen thus far.--I am really so angry, Louisa,-Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending? I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment, Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him. IX. Claude to Eustace. It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (in Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people. Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil; And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalant crowd, that Flows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, entering Shady recesses and bays of church, osteria, and caffè, Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava, 22 Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion. Ah, 'tis an excellent race,--and even in old degradation, Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating, E'en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people. Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!--but clearly That is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals, Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer! Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini! X. Claude to Eustace. I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so. I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so. I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant you It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift, Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking, Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment, Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain Conscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind. No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; 'tis Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded, Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning. I am in love, you say; I do not think so, exactly. XI. Claude to Eustace. There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction: One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy, And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you. I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter. I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing, There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished. I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and action Is a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious, Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process; We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty. 23 XII. Claude to Eustace. Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted! Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present! Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing! Drive me not out yet, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden, Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration! Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ, Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort, Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration? XIII. Claude to Eustace. Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but it is so. She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me. Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways? Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly? 'Tis not her fault; 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them: 'Tis not her fault; 'tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me. Hopeless it seems,--yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it: She goes--therefore I go; she moves,--I move, not to lose her. XIV. Claude to Eustace. Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of wooing; 'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you, Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero; She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,-Knowledge, O ye Gods!--when did they appreciate knowledge? Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it. Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me! (Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?) But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant; Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her; Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence, 24 Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me. Not that I care very much!--any way I escape from the boy's own Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy. Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, and Am prepared, I think, if not by previous habit, Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it; It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures, Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly; We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle, Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general, Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us, Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us. Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it. All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is, Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance. You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her? XV. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----. . . . . . . To-morrow we're starting for Florence, Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors; Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we by vettura Through Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn. Then---- Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking! You will imagine my feelings,--the blending of hope and of sorrow. How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters? Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust me Ever, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina. P.S. by Mary Trevellyn. . . . . . . . 'Do I like Mr. Claude any better?' I am to tell you,--and, 'Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?' This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him. All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me. There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive. So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriage Surely will do in one year for the family you would establish Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second. 25 P.S. by Georgina Trevellyn. Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better; He and Papa are great friends; but he really is too shilly-shally,-So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matte is going on fairly. I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something. Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Is it Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer, E'en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old, Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden, Vainly 'mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget? Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,-He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go! Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee! She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee! ~ Arthur Hugh Clough,

536:He gazed and gazed and gazed and gazed, Amazed, amazed, amazed, amazed. Like (7) 2 Saul I. Said Abner, ``At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, ``Kiss my cheek, wish me well!'' Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek. And he, ``Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent, ``Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent ``Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, ``Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. ``For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, ``Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, ``To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife, ``And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. II. ``Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew ``On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue ``Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild beat ``Were now raging to torture the desert!'' III.                      Then I, as was meet, Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped; I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid But spoke, ``Here is David, thy servant!'' And no voice replied. At the first I saw nought but the blackness but soon I descried A something more black than the blackness-the vast, the upright Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sight Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof, showed Saul. IV. He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side; He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs, Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come With the spring-time,-so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. V. Then I tuned my harp,-took off the lilies we twine round its chords Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon-tide-those sunbeams like swords! And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star Into eve and the blue far above us,-so blue and so far! VI. -Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate Till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight To set the quick jerboa amusing outside his sand house- There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse! God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. VII. Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand And grow one in the sense of this world's life.-And then, the last song When the dead man is praised on his journey-``Bear, bear him along ``With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm-seeds not here ``To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier. ``Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!''-And then, the glad chaunt Of the marriage,-first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.-And then, the great march Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch Nought can break; who shall harm them, our friends?-Then, the chorus intoned As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned. VIII. And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan dart From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start, All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, As I sang,- IX.      ``Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste, ``Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. ``Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, ``The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock ``Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, ``And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. ``And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, ``And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine, ``And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell ``That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. ``How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ ``All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy! ``Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard ``When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? ``Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung ``The low song of the nearly-departed, and bear her faint tongue ``Joining in while it could to the witness, `Let one more attest, `` `I have lived, seen God's hand thro'a lifetime, and all was for best'? ``Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest. ``And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew ``Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true: ``And the friends of thy boyhood-that boyhood of wonder and hope, ``Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,- ``Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine; ``And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine! ``On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe ``That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the gold go) ``High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,-all ``Brought to blaze on the head of one creature-King Saul!'' X. And lo, with that leap of my spirit,-heart, hand, harp and voice, Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice Saul's fame in the light it was made for-as when, dare I say, The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, And up soareth the cherubim-chariot-``Saul!'' cried I, and stopped, And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone A year's snow bound about for a breastplate,-leaves grasp of the sheet? Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold- Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest-all hail, there they are! -Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest For their food in the ardours of summer. One long shudder thrilled All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. What was gone, what remained? All to traverse, 'twixt hope and despair; Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right hand Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand To their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul as before. I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean-a sun's slow decline Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine Base with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm folded arm O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. XI.                      What spell or what charm, (For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge To sustain him where song had restored him?-Song filled to the verge His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, on what fields, Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? He saith, ``It is good;'' still he drinks not: he lets me praise life, Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. XII.                       Then fancies grew rife Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep Fed in silence-above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky: And I laughed-``Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, ``Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, ``Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show ``Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know! ``Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, ``And the prudence that keeps what men strive for.'' And now these old trains Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus- XIII.                         ``Yea, my King,'' I began-``thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring ``From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute: ``In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. ``Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,-how its stem trembled first ``Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler then safely outburst ``The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn ``Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn, ``E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight, ``When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight ``Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and branch ``Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall staunch ``Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. ``Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! ``By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy ``More indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy. ``Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast done ``Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun ``Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface, ``Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace ``The results of his past summer-prime'-so, each ray of thy will, ``Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill ``Thy whole people, the countless, with ardour, till they too give forth ``A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the North ``With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past! ``But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last: ``As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height ``So with man-so his power and his beauty for ever take flight. ``No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years! ``Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's! ``Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb-bid arise ``A grey mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies, ``Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would ye know? ``Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go ``In great characters cut by the scribe,-Such was Saul, so he did; ``With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,- ``For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend, ``In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend ``(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record ``With the gold of the graver, Saul's story,-the statesman's great word ``Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's a-wave ``With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave: ``So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part ``In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!'' XIV. And behold while I sang but O Thou who didst grant me that day, And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay, Carry on and complete an adventure,-my shield and my sword In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,- Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavour And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever On the new stretch of heaven above me-till, mighty to save, Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance-God's throne from man's grave! Let me tell out my tale to its ending-my voice to my heart Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part, As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! For I wake in the grey dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. XV.                    I say then,-my song While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong Made a proffer of good to console him-he slowly resumed His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right-hand replumed His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes Of his turban, and see-the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore, And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. He is Saul, ye remember in glory,-ere error had bent The broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spent Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose, To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pile Of his armour and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile, And sat out my singing,-one arm round the tent-prop, to raise His bent head, and the other hung slack-till I touched on the praise I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots which please To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know If the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slow Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' my hair The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my bead, with kind power- All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine- And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign? I yearned-``Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, ``I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; ``I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, ``As this moment,-had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!'' XVI. Then the truth came upon me. No harp more-no song more! outbroke- XVII. ``I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and I spoke: ``I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain ``And pronounced on the rest of his hand-work-returned him again ``His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw: ``I report, as a man may of God's work-all's love, yet all's law. ``Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked ``To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. ``Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. ``Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care! ``Do I task any faculty highest, to image success? ``I but open my eyes,-and perfection, no more and no less, ``In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God ``In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. ``And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew ``(With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) ``The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete, ``As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet. ``Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, ``I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. ``There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, ``I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think) ``Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst ``E'en the Giver in one gift.-Behold, I could love if I durst! ``But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake ``God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake. ``-What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, ``Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal? ``In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? ``Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, ``That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift? ``Here, the creature surpass the Creator,-the end, what Began? ``Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, ``And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? ``Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, ``To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower ``Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, ``Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole? ``And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) ``These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? ``Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height ``This perfection,-succeed with life's day-spring, death's minute of night? ``Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake, ``Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now,-and bid him awake ``From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set ``Clear and safe in new light and new life,-a new harmony yet ``To be run, and continued, and ended-who knows?-or endure! ``The man taught enough, by life's dream, of the rest to make sure; ``By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, ``And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. XVIII. ``I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive: ``In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. ``All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer ``As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. ``From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth: ``I will?-the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth ``To look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dare ``Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair? ``This;-'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do! ``See the King-I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through. ``Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, ``To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would-knowing which, ``I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now! ``Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou-so wilt thou! ``So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown- ``And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down ``One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath, ``Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death! ``As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved ``Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved! ``He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak. ``'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seek ``In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be ``A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me, ``Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever: a Hand like this hand ``Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!'' XIX. I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware: I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, As a runner beset by the populace famished for news- Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews; And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but I fainted not, For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth- Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth; In the gathered intensity brought to the grey of the hills; In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills; In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still Though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill That rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe: E'en the serpent that slid away silent,-he felt the new law. The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers: And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, With their obstinate, all but hushed voices-``E'en so, it is so!'' The jumping hare. One of the three cities of Refuge. * A brook in Jerusalem. ~ Robert Browning, Rhyme for a Child Viewing a Naked Venus in a Painting of 'The Judgement of Paris' ,

537:IV - THE STUDY FAUST MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST A knock? Come in! Again my quiet broken? MEPHISTOPHELES 'Tis I! FAUST Come in! MEPHISTOPHELES Thrice must the words be spoken. FAUST Come in, then! MEPHISTOPHELES Thus thou pleasest me. I hope we'll suit each other well; For now, thy vapors to dispel, I come, a squire of high degree, In scarlet coat, with golden trimming, A cloak in silken lustre swimming, A tall cock's-feather in my hat, A long, sharp sword for show or quarrel, And I advise thee, brief and flat, To don the self-same gay apparel, That, from this den released, and free, Life be at last revealed to thee! FAUST This life of earth, whatever my attire, Would pain me in its wonted fashion. Too old am I to play with passion; Too young, to be without desire. What from the world have I to gain? Thou shalt abstainrenouncerefrain! Such is the everlasting song That in the ears of all men rings, That unrelieved, our whole life long, Each hour, in passing, hoarsely sings. In very terror I at morn awake, Upon the verge of bitter weeping, To see the day of disappointment break, To no one hope of minenot oneits promise keeping: That even each joy's presentiment With wilful cavil would diminish, With grinning masks of life prevent My mind its fairest work to finish! Then, too, when night descends, how anxiously Upon my couch of sleep I lay me: There, also, comes no rest to me, But some wild dream is sent to fray me. The God that in my breast is owned Can deeply stir the inner sources; The God, above my powers enthroned, He cannot change external forces. So, by the burden of my days oppressed, Death is desired, and Life a thing unblest! MEPHISTOPHELES And yet is never Death a wholly welcome guest. FAUST O fortunate, for whom, when victory glances, The bloody laurels on the brow he bindeth! Whom, after rapid, maddening dances, In clasping maiden-arms he findeth! O would that I, before that spirit-power, Ravished and rapt from life, had sunken! MEPHISTOPHELES And yet, by some one, in that nightly hour, A certain liquid was not drunken. FAUST Eavesdropping, ha! thy pleasure seems to be. MEPHISTOPHELES Omniscient am I not; yet much is known to me. FAUST Though some familiar tone, retrieving My thoughts from torment, led me on, And sweet, clear echoes came, deceiving A faith bequea thed from Childhood's dawn, Yet now I curse whate'er entices And snares the soul with visions vain; With dazzling cheats and dear devices Confines it in this cave of pain! Cursed be, at once, the high ambition Wherewith the mind itself deludes! Cursed be the glare of apparition That on the finer sense intrudes! Cursed be the lying dream's impression Of name, and fame, and laurelled brow! Cursed, all that flatters as possession, As wife and child, as knave and plow! Cursed Mammon be, when he with treasures To restless action spurs our fate! Cursed when, for soft, indulgent leisures, He lays for us the pillows straight! Cursed be the vine's transcendent nectar, The highest favor Love lets fall! Cursed, also, Hope!cursed Faith, the spectre! And cursed be Patience most of all! CHORUS OF SPIRITS (invisible) Woe! woe! Thou hast it destroyed, The beautiful world, With powerful fist: In ruin 'tis hurled, By the blow of a demigod shattered! The scattered Fragments into the Void we carry, Deploring The beauty perished beyond restoring. Mightier For the children of men, Brightlier Build it again, In thine own bosom build it anew! Bid the new career Commence, With clearer sense, And the new songs of cheer Be sung thereto! MEPHISTOPHELES These are the small dependants Who give me attendance. Hear them, to deeds and passion Counsel in shrewd old-fashion! Into the world of strife, Out of this lonely life That of senses and sap has betrayed thee, They would persuade thee. This nursing of the pain forego thee, That, like a vulture, feeds upon thy breast! The worst society thou find'st will show thee Thou art a man among the rest. But 'tis not meant to thrust Thee into the mob thou hatest! I am not one of the greatest, Yet, wilt thou to me entrust Thy steps through life, I'll guide thee, Will willingly walk beside thee, Will serve thee at once and forever With best endeavor, And, if thou art satisfied, Will as servant, slave, with thee abide. FAUST And what shall be my counter-service therefor? MEPHISTOPHELES The time is long: thou need'st not now insist. FAUST Nono! The Devil is an egotist, And is not apt, without a why or wherefore, "For God's sake," others to assist. Speak thy conditions plain and clear! With such a servant danger comes, I fear. MEPHISTOPHELES Here, an unwearied slave, I'll wear thy tether, And to thine every nod obedient be: When There again we come together, Then shalt thou do the same for me. FAUST The There my scruples naught increases. When thou hast dashed this world to pieces, The other, then, its place may fill. Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources; Yon sun beholds my sorrows in his courses; And when from these my life itself divorces, Let happen all that can or will! I'll hear no more: 'tis vain to ponder If there we cherish love or hate, Or, in the spheres we dream of yonder, A High and Low our souls await. MEPHISTOPHELES In this sense, even, canst thou venture. Come, bind thyself by prompt indenture, And thou mine arts with joy shalt see: What no man ever saw, I'll give to thee. FAUST Canst thou, poor Devil, give me whatsoever? When was a human soul, in its supreme endeavor, E'er understood by such as thou? Yet, hast thou food which never satiates, now, The restless, ruddy gold hast thou, That runs, quicksilver-like, one's fingers through, A game whose winnings no man ever knew, A maid that, even from my breast, Beckons my neighbor with her wanton glances, And Honor's godlike zest, The meteor that a moment dances, Show me the fruits that, ere they're gathered, rot, And trees that daily with new leafage clo the them! MEPHISTOPHELES Such a demand alarms me not: Such treasures have I, and can show them. But still the time may reach us, good my friend. When peace we crave and more luxurious diet. FAUST When on an idler's bed I stretch myself in quiet. There let, at once, my record end! Canst thou with lying flattery rule me, Until, self-pleased, myself I see, Canst thou with rich enjoyment fool me, Let that day be the last for me! The bet I offer. MEPHISTOPHELES Done! FAUST And heartily! When thus I hail the Moment flying: "Ah, still delaythou art so fair!" Then bind me in thy bonds undying, My final ruin then declare! Then let the death-bell chime the token. Then art thou from thy service free! The clock may stop, the hand be broken, Then Time be finished unto me! MEPHISTOPHELES Consider well: my memory good is rated. FAUST Thou hast a perfect right thereto. My powers I have not rashly estimated: A slave am I, whate'er I do If thine, or whose? 'tis needless to debate it. MEPHISTOPHELES Then at the Doctors'-banquet I, to-day, Will as a servant wait behind thee. But one thing more! Beyond all risk to bind thee, Give me a line or two, I pray. FAUST Demand'st thou, Pedant, too, a document? Hast never known a man, nor proved his word's intent? Is't not enough, that what I speak to-day Shall stand, with all my future days agreeing? In all its tides sweeps not the world away, And shall a promise bind my being? Yet this delusion in our hearts we bear: Who would himself therefrom deliver? Blest he, whose bosom Truth makes pure and fair! No sacrifice shall he repent of ever. Nathless a parchment, writ and stamped with care, A spectre is, which all to shun endeavor. The word, alas! dies even in the pen, And wax and leather keep the lordship then. What wilt from me, Base Spirit, say? Brass, marble, parchment, paper, clay? The terms with graver, quill, or chisel, stated? I freely leave the choice to thee. MEPHISTOPHELES Why heat thyself, thus instantly, With eloquence exaggerated? Each leaf for such a pact is good; And to subscribe thy name thou'lt take a drop of blood. FAUST If thou therewith art fully satisfied, So let us by the farce abide. MEPHISTOPHELES Blood is a juice of rarest quality. FAUST Fear not that I this pact shall seek to sever? The promise that I make to thee Is just the sum of my endeavor. I have myself inflated all too high; My proper place is thy estate: The Mighty Spirit deigns me no reply, And Nature shuts on me her gate. The thread of Thought at last is broken, And knowledge brings disgust unspoken. Let us the sensual deeps explore, To quench the fervors of glowing passion! Let every marvel take form and fashion Through the impervious veil it wore! Plunge we in Time's tumultuous dance, In the rush and roll of Circumstance! Then may delight and distress, And worry and success, Alternately follow, as best they can: Restless activity proves the man! MEPHISTOPHELES For you no bound, no term is set. Whether you everywhere be trying, Or snatch a rapid bliss in flying, May it agree with you, what you get! Only fall to, and show no timid balking. FAUST But thou hast heard, 'tis not of joy we're talking. I take the wildering whirl, enjoyment's keenest pain, Enamored hate, exhilarant disdain. My bosom, of its thirst for knowledge sated, Shall not, henceforth, from any pang be wrested, And all of life for all mankind created Shall be within mine inmost being tested: The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow, Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow, And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded, I too, at last, shall with them all be stranded! MEPHISTOPHELES Believe me, who for many a thousand year The same tough meat have chewed and tested, That from the cradle to the bier No man the ancient leaven has digested! Trust one of us, this Whole supernal Is made but for a God's delight! He dwells in splendor single and eternal, But us he thrusts in darkness, out of sight, And you he dowers with Day and Night. FAUST Nay, but I will! MEPHISTOPHELES A good reply! One only fear still needs repeating: The art is long, the time is fleeting. Then let thyself be taught, say I! Go, league thyself with a poet, Give the rein to his imagination, Then wear the crown, and show it, Of the qualities of his creation, The courage of the lion's breed, The wild stag's speed, The Italian's fiery blood, The North's firm fortitude! Let him find for thee the secret tether That binds the Noble and Mean together. And teach thy pulses of youth and pleasure To love by rule, and hate by measure! I'd like, myself, such a one to see: Sir Microcosm his name should be. FAUST What am I, then, if 'tis denied my part The crown of all humanity to win me, Whereto yearns every sense within me? MEPHISTOPHELES Why, on the whole, thou'rtwhat thou art. Set wigs of million curls upon thy head, to raise thee, Wear shoes an ell in height,the truth betrays thee, And thou remainestwhat thou art. FAUST I feel, indeed, that I have made the treasure Of human thought and knowledge mine, in vain; And if I now sit down in restful leisure, No fount of newer strength is in my brain: I am no hair's-breadth more in height, Nor nearer, to the Infinite, MEPHISTOPHELES Good Sir, you see the facts precisely As they are seen by each and all. We must arrange them now, more wisely, Before the joys of life shall pall. Why, Zounds! Both hands and feet are, truly And head and virile forcesthine: Yet all that I indulge in newly, Is't thence less wholly mine? If I've six stallions in my stall, Are not their forces also lent me? I speed along, completest man of all, As though my legs were four-and-twenty. Take hold, then! let reflection rest, And plunge into the world with zest! I say to thee, a speculative wight Is like a beast on moorlands lean, That round and round some fiend misleads to evil plight, While all about lie pastures fresh and green. FAUST Then how shall we begin? MEPHISTOPHELES We'll try a wider sphere. What place of martyrdom is here! Is't life, I ask, is't even prudence, To bore thyself and bore the students? Let Neighbor Paunch to that attend! Why plague thyself with threshing straw forever? The best thou learnest, in the end Thou dar'st not tell the youngstersnever! I hear one's footsteps, hither steering. FAUST To see him now I have no heart. MEPHISTOPHELES So long the poor boy waits a hearing, He must not unconsoled depart. Thy cap and mantle straightway lend me! I'll play the comedy with art. (He disguises himself.) My wits, be certain, will befriend me. But fifteen minutes' time is all I need; For our fine trip, meanwhile, prepare thyself with speed! [Exit FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES (In FAUST'S long mantle.) Reason and Knowledge only thou despise, The highest strength in man that lies! Let but the Lying Spirit bind thee With magic works and shows that blind thee, And I shall have thee fast and sure! Fate such a bold, untrammelled spirit gave him, As forwards, onwards, ever must endure; Whose over-hasty impulse drave him Past earthly joys he might secure. Dragged through the wildest life, will I enslave him, Through flat and stale indifference; With struggling, chilling, checking, so deprave him That, to his hot, insatiate sense, The dream of drink shall mock, but never lave him: Refreshment shall his lips in vain implore Had he not made himself the Devil's, naught could save him, Still were he lost forevermore! (A STUDENT enters.) STUDENT A short time, only, am I here, And come, devoted and sincere, To greet and know the man of fame, Whom men to me with reverence name. MEPHISTOPHELES Your courtesy doth flatter me: You see a man, as others be. Have you, perchance, elsewhere begun? STUDENT Receive me now, I pray, as one Who comes to you with courage good, Somewhat of cash, and healthy blood: My mother was hardly willing to let me; But knowledge worth having I fain would get me. MEPHISTOPHELES Then you have reached the right place now. STUDENT I'd like to leave it, I must avow; I find these walls, these vaulted spaces Are anything but pleasant places. Tis all so cramped and close and mean; One sees no tree, no glimpse of green, And when the lecture-halls receive me, Seeing, hearing, and thinking leave me. MEPHISTOPHELES All that depends on habitude. So from its mother's breasts a child At first, reluctant, takes its food, But soon to seek them is beguiled. Thus, at the breasts of Wisdom clinging, Thou'lt find each day a greater rapture bringing. STUDENT I'll hang thereon with joy, and freely drain them; But tell me, pray, the proper means to gain them. MEPHISTOPHELES Explain, before you further speak, The special faculty you seek. STUDENT I crave the highest erudition; And fain would make my acquisition All that there is in Earth and Heaven, In Nature and in Science too. MEPHISTOPHELES Here is the genuine path for you; Yet strict attention must be given. STUDENT Body and soul thereon I'll wreak; Yet, truly, I've some inclination On summer holidays to seek A little freedom and recreation. MEPHISTOPHELES Use well your time! It flies so swiftly from us; But time through order may be won, I promise. So, Friend (my views to briefly sum), First, the collegium logicum. There will your mind be drilled and braced, As if in Spanish boots 'twere laced, And thus, to graver paces brought, 'Twill plod along the path of thought, Instead of shooting here and there, A will-o'-the-wisp in murky air. Days will be spent to bid you know, What once you did at a single blow, Like eating and drinking, free and strong, That one, two, three! thereto belong. Truly the fabric of mental fleece Resembles a weaver's masterpiece, Where a thousand threads one treadle throws, Where fly the shuttles hither and thither. Unseen the threads are knit together. And an infinite combination grows. Then, the philosopher steps in And shows, no otherwise it could have been: The first was so, the second so, Therefore the third and fourth are so; Were not the first and second, then The third and fourth had never been. The scholars are everywhere believers, But never succeed in being weavers. He who would study organic existence, First drives out the soul with rigid persistence; Then the parts in his hand he may hold and class, But the spiritual link is lost, alas! Encheiresin natures, this Chemistry names, Nor knows how herself she banters and blames! STUDENT I cannot understand you quite. MEPHISTOPHELES Your mind will shortly be set aright, When you have learned, all things reducing, To classify them for your using. STUDENT I feel as stupid, from all you've said, As if a mill-wheel whirled in my head! MEPHISTOPHELES And afterfirst and foremost dutyOf Metaphysics learn the use and beauty! See that you most profoundly gain What does not suit the human brain! A splendid word to serve, you'll find For what goes inor won't go inyour mind. But first, at least this half a year, To order rigidly adhere; Five hours a day, you understand, And when the clock strikes, be on hand! Prepare beforeh and for your part With paragraphs all got by heart, So you can better watch, and look That naught is said but what is in the book: Yet in thy writing as unwearied be, As did the Holy Ghost dictate to thee! STUDENT No need to tell me twice to do it! I think, how useful 'tis to write; For what one has, in black and white, One carries home and then goes through it. MEPHISTOPHELES Yet choose thyself a faculty! STUDENT I cannot reconcile myself to Jurisprudence. MEPHISTOPHELES Nor can I therefore greatly blame you students: I know what science this has come to be. All rights and laws are still transmitted Like an eternal sickness of the race, From generation unto generation fitted, And shifted round from place to place. Reason becomes a sham, Beneficence a worry: Thou art a grandchild, therefore woe to thee! The right born with us, ours in verity, This to consider, there's, alas! no hurry. STUDENT My own disgust is streng thened by your speech: O lucky he, whom you shall teach! I've almost for Theology decided. MEPHISTOPHELES I should not wish to see you here misguided: For, as regards this science, let me hint 'Tis very hard to shun the false direction; There's so much secret poison lurking in 't, So like the medicine, it baffles your detection. Hear, therefore, one alone, for that is best, in sooth, And simply take your master's words for truth. On words let your attention centre! Then through the safest gate you'll enter The temple-halls of Certainty. STUDENT Yet in the word must some idea be. MEPHISTOPHELES Of course! But only shun too over-sharp a tension, For just where fails the comprehension, A word steps promptly in as deputy. With words 'tis excellent disputing; Systems to words 'tis easy suiting; On words 'tis excellent believing; No word can ever lose a jot from thieving. STUDENT Pardon! With many questions I detain you. Yet must I trouble you again. Of Medicine I still would fain Hear one strong word that might explain you. Three years is but a little space. And, God! who can the field embrace? If one some index could be shown, 'Twere easier groping forward, truly. MEPHISTOPHELES (aside) I'm tired enough of this dry tone, Must play the Devil again, and fully. (Aloud) To grasp the spirit of Medicine is easy: Learn of the great and little world your fill, To let it go at last, so please ye, Just as God will! In vain that through the realms of science you may drift; Each one learns onlyjust what learn he can: Yet he who grasps the Moment's gift, He is the proper man. Well-made you are, 'tis not to be denied, The rest a bold address will win you; If you but in yourself confide, At once confide all others in you. To lead the women, learn the special feeling! Their everlasting aches and groans, In thousand tones, Have all one source, one mode of healing; And if your acts are half discreet, You'll always have them at your feet. A title first must draw and interest them, And show that yours all other arts exceeds; Then, as a greeting, you are free to touch and test them, While, thus to do, for years another pleads. You press and count the pulse's dances, And then, with burning sidelong glances, You clasp the swelling hips, to see If tightly laced her corsets be. STUDENT That's better, now! The How and Where, one sees. MEPHISTOPHELES My worthy friend, gray are all theories, And green alone Life's golden tree. STUDENT I swear to you, 'tis like a dream to me. Might I again presume, with trust unbounded, To hear your wisdom thoroughly expounded? MEPHISTOPHELES Most willingly, to what extent I may. STUDENT I cannot really go away: Allow me that my album first I reach you, Grant me this favor, I beseech you! MEPHISTOPHELES Assuredly. (He writes, and returns the book.) STUDENT (reads) Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum. (Closes the book with reverence, and withdraws) MEPHISTOPHELES Follow the ancient text, and the snake thou wast ordered to trample! With all thy likeness to God, thou'lt yet be a sorry example! (FAUST enters.) FAUST Now, whither shall we go? MEPHISTOPHELES As best it pleases thee. The little world, and then the great, we'll see. With what delight, what profit winning, Shalt thou sponge through the term beginning! FAUST Yet with the flowing beard I wear, Both ease and grace will fail me there. The attempt, indeed, were a futile strife; I never could learn the ways of life. I feel so small before others, and thence Should always find embarrassments. MEPHISTOPHELES My friend, thou soon shalt lose all such misgiving: Be thou but self-possessed, thou hast the art of living! FAUST How shall we leave the house, and start? Where hast thou servant, coach and horses? MEPHISTOPHELES We'll spread this cloak with proper art, Then through the air direct our courses. But only, on so bold a flight, Be sure to have thy luggage light. A little burning air, which I shall soon prepare us, Above the earth will nimbly bear us, And, if we're light, we'll travel swift and clear: I gratulate thee on thy new career! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, THE STUDY (The Compact) ,

538:Independence Happy the bard (though few such bards we find) Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind; Dares, unabash'd, in every place appear, And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear: Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead To be the slave of Greatness, to strike sail When, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail, Quality in full plumage passes by; He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye, And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state, And is above conversing with the great. Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill, Who have conspired to seize that sacred hill Where the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain, And sunk the mountain level with the plain; Who, with mean, private views, and servile art, No spark of virtue living in their heart, Have basely turn'd apostates; have debased Their dignity of office; have disgraced, Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand, And caused their name to stink through all the land; Have stoop'd to prostitute their venal pen For the support of great, but guilty men; Have made the bard, of their own vile accord, Inferior to that thing we call a lord. What is a lord? Doth that plain simple word Contain some magic spell? As soon as heard, Like an alarum bell on Night's dull ear, Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear Than other words? Whether we will or no, Through Reason's court doth it unquestion'd go E'en on the mention, and of course transmit Notions of something excellent; of wit Pleasing, though keen; of humour free, though chaste; Of sterling genius, with sound judgment graced; Of virtue far above temptation's reach, And honour, which not malice can impeach? Believe it not--'twas Nature's first intent, 71 Before their rank became their punishment, They should have pass'd for men, nor blush'd to prize The blessings she bestow'd; she gave them eyes, And they could see; she gave them ears--they heard; The instruments of stirring, and they stirr'd; Like us, they were design'd to eat, to drink, To talk, and (every now and then) to think; Till they, by Pride corrupted, for the sake Of singularity, disclaim'd that make; Till they, disdaining Nature's vulgar mode, Flew off, and struck into another road, More fitting Quality, and to our view Came forth a species altogether new, Something we had not known, and could not know, Like nothing of God's making here below; Nature exclaim'd with wonder--'Lords are things, Which, never made by me, were made by kings.' A lord (nor let the honest and the brave, The true old noble, with the fool and knave Here mix his fame; cursed be that thought of mine, Which with a B---- and E---- should Grafton join), A lord (nor here let Censure rashly call My just contempt of some, abuse of all, And, as of late, when Sodom was my theme, Slander my purpose, and my Muse blaspheme, Because she stops not, rapid in her song, To make exceptions as she goes along, Though well she hopes to find, another year, A whole minority exceptions here), A mere, mere lord, with nothing but the name, Wealth all his worth, and title all his fame, Lives on another man, himself a blank, Thankless he lives, or must some grandsire thank For smuggled honours, and ill-gotten pelf; A bard owes all to Nature, and himself. Gods! how my soul is burnt up with disdain, When I see men, whom Phoebus in his train Might view with pride, lackey the heels of those Whom Genius ranks among her greatest foes! And what's the cause? Why, these same sons of Scorn, No thanks to them, were to a title born, And could not help it; by chance hither sent, 72 And only deities by accident. Had Fortune on our getting chanced to shine, Their birthright honours had been yours or mine, 'Twas a mere random stroke; and should the Throne Eye thee with favour, proud and lordly grown, Thou, though a bard, might'st be their fellow yet: But Felix never can be made a wit. No, in good faith--that's one of those few things Which Fate hath placed beyond the reach of kings: Bards may be lords, but 'tis not in the cards, Play how we will, to turn lords into bards. A bard!--a lord!--why, let them, hand in hand, Go forth as friends, and travel through the land; Observe which word the people can digest Most readily, which goes to market best, Which gets most credit, whether men will trust A bard, because they think he may be just, Or on a lord will chose to risk their gains, Though privilege in that point still remains. A bard!--a lord!--let Reason take her scales, And fairly weigh those words, see which prevails, Which in the balance lightly kicks the beam, And which, by sinking, we the victor deem. 'Tis done, and Hermes, by command of Jove, Summons a synod in the sacred grove, Gods throng with gods to take their chairs on high, And sit in state, the senate of the sky, Whilst, in a kind of parliament below, Men stare at those above, and want to know What they're transacting: Reason takes her stand Just in the midst, a balance in her hand, Which o'er and o'er she tries, and finds it true: From either side, conducted full in view, A man comes forth, of figure strange and queer; We now and then see something like them here. The first was meagre, flimsy, void of strength, But Nature kindly had made up in length What she in breadth denied; erect and proud, A head and shoulders taller than the crowd, He deem'd them pigmies all; loose hung his skin O'er his bare bones; his face so very thin, So very narrow, and so much beat out, 73 That physiognomists have made a doubt, Proportion lost, expression quite forgot, Whether it could be call'd a face or not; At end of it, howe'er, unbless'd with beard, Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd; With legs, which we might well conceive that Fate Meant only to support a spider's weight, Firmly he strove to tread, and with a stride, Which show'd at once his weakness and his pride, Shaking himself to pieces, seem'd to cry, 'Observe, good people, how I shake the sky.' In his right hand a paper did he hold, On which, at large, in characters of gold, Distinct, and plain for those who run to see, Saint Archibald had wrote L, O, R, D. This, with an air of scorn, he from afar Twirl'd into Reason's scales, and on that bar, Which from his soul he hated, yet admired, Quick turn'd his back, and, as he came, retired. The judge to all around his name declared; Each goddess titter'd, each god laugh'd, Jove stared, And the whole people cried, with one accord, 'Good Heaven bless us all, is that a Lord!' Such was the first--the second was a man Whom Nature built on quite a different plan; A bear, whom, from the moment he was born, His dam despised, and left unlick'd in scorn; A Babel, which, the power of Art outdone, She could not finish when she had begun; An utter Chaos, out of which no might, But that of God, could strike one spark of light. Broad were his shoulders, and from blade to blade A H---- might at full length have laid; Vast were his bones, his muscles twisted strong; His face was short, but broader than 'twas long; His features, though by Nature they were large, Contentment had contrived to overcharge, And bury meaning, save that we might spy Sense lowering on the penthouse of his eye; His arms were two twin oaks; his legs so stout That they might bear a Mansion-house about; Nor were they, look but at his body there, 74 Design'd by Fate a much less weight to bear. O'er a brown cassock, which had once been black, Which hung in tatters on his brawny back, A sight most strange, and awkward to behold, He threw a covering of blue and gold. Just at that time of life, when man, by rule, The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool, He started up a fop, and, fond of show, Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau, A subject met with only now and then, Much fitter for the pencil than the pen; Hogarth would draw him (Envy must allow) E'en to the life, was Hogarth living now. With such accoutrements, with such a form, Much like a porpoise just before a storm, Onward he roll'd; a laugh prevail'd around; E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound (Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youth Himself he studied by the glass of Truth) He joined their mirth; nor shall the gods condemn, If, whilst they laugh at him, he laugh'd at them. Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace, Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face, And, from his hand received, with fair regard Placed in her other scale the name of Bard. Then, (for she did as judges ought to do, She nothing of the case beforehand knew, Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws, Nor, basely to anticipate a cause, Compell'd solicitors, no longer free, To show those briefs she had no right to see) Then she with equal hand her scales held out, Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt; She held her scales out fair to public view, The Lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew, More light than air, deceitful in the weight; The Bard, preponderating, kept his state; Reason approved, and with a voice, whose sound Shook earth, shook heaven, on the clearest ground Pronouncing for the Bards a full decree, Cried--'Those must honour them, who honour me; They from this present day, where'er I reign, 75 In their own right, precedence shall obtain; Merit rules here: be it enough that Birth Intoxicates, and sways the fools of earth.' Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord, I've forged a tale, or alter'd a record; Search when you will, (I am not now in sport) You'll find it register'd in Reason's court. Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre, That I depreciate what I most admire, And look on titles with an eye of scorn, Because I was not to a title born. By Him that made me, I am much more proud, More inly satisfied to have a crowd Point at me as I pass, and cry--'That's he-A poor but honest bard, who dares be free Amidst corruption,' than to have a train Of flickering levee slaves, to make me vain Of things I ought to blush for; to run, fly, And live but in the motion of my eye; When I am less than man, my faults to adore, And make me think that I am something more. Recall past times, bring back the days of old, When the great noble bore his honours bold, And in the face of peril, when he dared Things which his legal bastard, if declared, Might well discredit; faithful to his trust, In the extremest points of justice, just, Well knowing all, and loved by all he knew, True to his king, and to his country true; Honest at court, above the baits of gain, Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain; Moderate in wealth, generous, but not profuse, Well worthy riches, for he knew their use; Possessing much, and yet deserving more, Deserving those high honours which he wore With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame Which all men paid, because he did not claim. When the grim war was placed in dread array, Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey, Or lioness of royal whelps foredone; In peace, as mild as the departing sun, A general blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd, 76 Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd; Ever awake at Pity's tender call, A father of the poor, a friend to all; Recall such times, and from the grave bring back A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack, My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim, And every Muse conspire to swell his fame, Till Envy shall to him that praise allow Which she cannot deny to Temple now. This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget, Delighted with the task, to pay that debt, To pay it like a man, and in his lays, Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise. But let not pride and prejudice misdeem, And think that empty titles are my theme; Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth; I reverence virtue, but I laugh at birth. Give me a lord that's honest, frank, and brave, I am his friend, but cannot be his slave; Though none, indeed, but blockheads would pretend To make a slave, where they may make a friend; I love his virtues, and will make them known, Confess his rank, but can't forget my own. Give me a lord, who, to a title born, Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn. What! shall my pride (and pride is virtue here) Tamely make way if such a wretch appear? Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee To such a shadow of nobility, A shred, a remnant? he might rot unknown For any real merit of his own, And never had come forth to public note Had he not worn, by chance, his father's coat. To think a M---- worth my least regards, Is treason to the majesty of bards. By Nature form'd (when, for her honour's sake, She something more than common strove to make, When, overlooking each minute defect, And all too eager to be quite correct, In her full heat and vigour she impress'd Her stamp most strongly on the favour'd breast) The bard, (nor think too lightly that I mean 77 Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage, The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age, Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measured prose, which they call verse) The real bard, whom native genius fires, Whom every maid of Castaly inspires, Let him consider wherefore he was meant, Let him but answer Nature's great intent, And fairly weigh himself with other men, Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen, Would in full state, like a true monarch, live, Nor bate one inch of his prerogative. Methinks I see old Wingate frowning here, (Wingate may in the season be a peer, Though now, against his will, of figures sick, He's forced to diet on arithmetic, E'en whilst he envies every Jew he meets, Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets) Methinks (his mind with future honours big, His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig) I hear him cry--'What doth this jargon mean? Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen? Majesty!--Bard!--Prerogative!--Disdain Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain: To Bethlem with him--give him whips and straw-I'm very sensible he's mad in law. A saucy groom, who trades in reason, thus To set himself upon a par with us; If this _here's_ suffered, and if that _there_ fool, May, when he pleases, send us all to school, Why, then our only business is outright To take our caps, and bid the world good night. I've kept a bard myself this twenty years, But nothing of this kind in him appears; He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel, licks The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks; He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes, Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse; A creature of the right chameleon hue, He wears my colours, yellow or true blue, Just as I wear them: 'tis all one to him 78 Whether I change through conscience, or through whim. Now this is something like; on such a plan A bard may find a friend in a great man; But this proud coxcomb--zounds, I thought that all Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul.' Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue On which the vile insinuation hung, The heart where 'twas engender'd; cursed be those, Those bards, who not themselves alone expose, But me, but all, and make the very name By which they're call'd a standing mark of shame. Talk not of custom--'tis the coward's plea, Current with fools, but passes not with me; An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried By numbers to o'erpower the better side. Why tell me then that from the birth of Rhyme, No matter when, down to the present time, As by the original decree of Fate, Bards have protection sought amongst the great; Conscious of weakness, have applied to them As vines to elms, and, twining round their stem, Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd support E'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court? As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed, But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need, From which it rose; had bards but truly known That strength, which is most properly their own, Without a lord, unpropp'd they might have stood, And overtopp'd those giants of the wood. But why, when present times my care engage, Must I go back to the Augustan age? Why, anxious for the living, am I led Into the mansions of the ancient dead? Can they find patrons nowhere but at Rome, And must I seek Maecenas in the tomb? Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note Start up, and from report Maecenas quote; Under his colours lords are proud to fight, Forgetting that Maecenas was a knight: They mention him, as if to use his name Was, in some measure, to partake his fame, Though Virgil, was he living, in the street 79 Might rot for them, or perish in the Fleet. See how they redden, and the charge disclaim-Virgil, and in the Fleet!--forbid it, Shame! Hence, ye vain boasters! to the Fleet repair, And ask, with blushes ask, if Lloyd is there! Patrons in days of yore were men of sense, Were men of taste, and had a fair pretence To rule in letters--some of them were heard To read off-hand, and never spell a word; Some of them, too, to such a monstrous height Was learning risen, for themselves could write, And kept their secretaries, as the great Do many other foolish things, for state. Our patrons are of quite a different strain, With neither sense nor taste; against the grain They patronise for Fashion's sake--no more-And keep a bard, just as they keep a whore. Melcombe (on such occasions I am loth To name the dead) was a rare proof of both. Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read, Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed; Others can write, but such a Pagan hand, A Willes should always at our elbow stand: Many, if begg'd, a Chancellor, of right, Would order into keeping at first sight. Those who stand fairest to the public view Take to themselves the praise to others due, They rob the very spital, and make free With those, alas! who've least to spare. We see ---- hath not had a word to say, Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech away. Patrons, in days of yore, like patrons now, Expected that the bard should make his bow At coming in, and every now and then Hint to the world that they were more than men; But, like the patrons of the present day, They never bilk'd the poet of his pay. Virgil loved rural ease, and, far from harm, Maecenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm, Where he might, free from trouble, pass his days In his own way, and pay his rent in praise. Horace loved wine, and, through his friend at court, 80 Could buy it off the quay in every port: Horace loved mirth, Maecenas loved it too; They met, they laugh'd, as Goy and I may do, Nor in those moments paid the least regard To which was minister, and which was bard. Not so our patrons--grave as grave can be, They know themselves, they keep up dignity; Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit That men of fortune rank with men of wit: Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength-'Tis best to keep her weak, and at arm's length. 'Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give, From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live. Such is their language, and their practice such; They promise little, and they give not much. Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain, Praise that proud Scot whom all good men disdain; What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone, He may obtain a patent for the run Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time, With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme; Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace) May at the second table get a place; With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine, And play at crambo o'er his gill of wine. And are there bards, who, on creation's file, Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle The air of freedom, with so little gall, So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fall Before these idols, and without a groan Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone? Better, and much more noble, to abjure The sight of men, and in some cave, secure From all the outrages of Pride, to feast On Nature's salads, and be free at least. Better, (though that, to say the truth, is worse Than almost any other modern curse) Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse, Critics commence, and write in the Reviews; Write without tremor, Griffiths cannot read; No fool can fail, where Langhorne can succeed. But (not to make a brave and honest pride 81 Try those means first, she must disdain when tried) There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts, By which, and fairly, men of real parts May gain a living, gain what Nature craves; Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves. Our real wants in a small compass lie, But lawless appetite, with eager eye, Kept in a constant fever, more requires, And we are burnt up with our own desires. Hence our dependence, hence our slavery springs; Bards, if contented, are as great as kings. Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill; We may be independent, if we will. The man who suits his spirit to his state Stands on an equal footing with the great; Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he Who rules the English nation, not more free. Chains were not forged more durable and strong For bards than others, but they've worn them long, And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgot What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not. Could they, though in their sleep, could they but know The blessings which from Independence flow; Could they but have a short and transient gleam Of Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream, They would no more in bondage bend their knee, But, once made freemen, would be always free. The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains, Can nevermore submit to sing in chains. Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng, The bird repays his keeper with his song; But if some playful child sets wide the door, Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more, With love of liberty begins to burn, And rather starves than to his cage return. Hail, Independence!--by true reason taught, How few have known, and prized thee as they ought! Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys, Resign thee, in their childish moods, for toys; Ambition some, some avarice, misleads, And in both cases Independence bleeds. Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam, 82 Nor know they had thee in their reach at home; Some, though about their paths, their beds about, Have never had the sense to find thee out: Others, who know of what they are possess'd, Like fearful misers, lock thee in a chest, Nor have the resolution to produce, In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use. Hail, Independence!--though thy name's scarce known, Though thou, alas! art out of fashion grown, Though all despise thee, I will not despise, Nor live one moment longer than I prize Thy presence, and enjoy: by angry Fate Bow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam'st, though late, Thou cam'st upon me, like a second birth, And made me know what life was truly worth. Hail, Independence!--never may my cot, Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot: Thither, oh! thither, oftentimes repair; Cotes, whom thou lovest too, shall meet thee there. All thoughts but what arise from joy give o'er, Peace dwells within, and law shall guard the door. O'erweening Bard! Law guard thy door! What law? The law of England. To control and awe Those saucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb, Behold, in state, Administration come! Why, let her come, in all her terrors too; I dare to suffer all she dares to do. I know her malice well, and know her pride, I know her strength, but will not change my side. This melting mass of flesh she may control With iron ribs--she cannot chain my soul. No--to the last resolved her worst to bear, I'm still at large, and independent there. Where is this minister? where is the band Of ready slaves, who at his elbow stand To hear, and to perform his wicked will? Why, for the first time, are they slow to ill? When some grand act 'gainst law is to be done, Doth ---- sleep; doth blood-hound ---- run To L----, and worry those small deer, When he might do more precious mischief here? Doth Webb turn tail? doth he refuse to draw 83 Illegal warrants, and to call them law? Doth ----, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford run, With that cold lump of unbaked dough, his son, And, his more honest rival Ketch to cheat, Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet? Believe it not; ---- is ---- still, And never sleeps, when he should wake to ill: ---- doth lesser mischiefs by the by, The great ones till the term in _petto_ lie: ---- lives, and, to the strictest justice true, Scorns to defraud the hangman of his due. O my poor Country!--weak, and overpower'd By thine own sons--ate to the bone--devour'd By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred, Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed, With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see, And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee. I grieve, but can't despair--for, lo! at hand Freedom presents a choice, but faithful band Of loyal patriots; men who greatly dare In such a noble cause; men fit to bear The weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and Sense, Virtue and Knowledge, leagued with Eloquence, March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile Approves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek, As 'twere by stealth, (her heart too full to speak) One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear, And seems to say, Why is not Granby here?' O ye brave few, in whom we still may find A love of virtue, freedom, and mankind! Go forth--in majesty of woe array'd, See at your feet your Country kneels for aid, And, (many of her children traitors grown) Kneels to those sons she still can call her own; Seeming to breathe her last in every breath, She kneels for freedom, or she begs for death-Fly, then, each duteous son, each English chief, And to your drooping parent bring relief. Go forth--nor let the siren voice of Ease Tempt ye to sleep, whilst tempests swell the seas; Go forth--nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongue 84 With many a fair, false, fatal art is hung, Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way, When your great errand brooks not of delay; Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets, Trembling and pale, 'A lion in the streets,' Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright, Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight: Be as one man--concord success ensures-There's not an English heart but what is yours. Go forth--and Virtue, ever in your sight, Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night-Go forth--the champions of your native land, And may the battle prosper in your hand-It may, it must--ye cannot be withstood-Be your hearts honest, as your cause is good! ~ Charles Churchill,

539:Gotham - Book Ii How much mistaken are the men who think That all who will, without restraint may drink, May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst, Pleading no right but merely that of thirst, At the pure waters of the living well, Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell! Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy, A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy May play untaught, whilst, without art or force, Make it but jingle, music comes of course. Little do such men know the toil, the pains, The daily, nightly racking of the brains, To range the thoughts, the matter to digest, To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest; To know the times when Humour on the cheek Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak, And when be silent; when to use the powers Of ornament, and how to place the flowers, So that they neither give a tawdry glare, 'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;' To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one, One critic in an age, can find when done) To form a plan, to strike a grand outline, To fill it up, and make the picture shine A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time; To make proud Sense against her nature bend, And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend. Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe, Who make it all their business to describe, No matter whether in or out of place; Studious of finery, and fond of lace, Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings, The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings. Let dull Propriety in state preside O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide; Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense, Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime 38 Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time. Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon, With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon; Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore, Let streams meander, and let torrents roar; Let them breed up the melancholy breeze, To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees; Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tinged With various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed, They have their wish; like idle monarch boys, Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys; Give them the crown, the sceptre, and the robe, Who will may take the power, and rule the globe. Others there are, who, in one solemn pace, With as much zeal as Quakers rail at lace, Railing at needful ornament, depend On Sense to bring them to their journey's end: They would not (Heaven forbid!) their course delay, Nor for a moment step out of the way, To make the barren road those graces wear Which Nature would, if pleased, have planted there. Vain men! who, blindly thwarting Nature's plan, Ne'er find a passage to the heart of man; Who, bred 'mongst fogs in academic land, Scorn every thing they do not understand; Who, destitute of humour, wit, and taste, Let all their little knowledge run to waste, And frustrate each good purpose, whilst they wear The robes of Learning with a sloven's air. Though solid reasoning arms each sterling line, Though Truth declares aloud, 'This work is mine,' Vice, whilst from page to page dull morals creep, Throws by the book, and Virtue falls asleep. Sense, mere dull, formal Sense, in this gay town, Must have some vehicle to pass her down; Nor can she for an hour insure her reign, Unless she brings fair Pleasure in her train. Let her from day to day, from year to year, In all her grave solemnities appear, And with the voice of trumpets, through the streets, Deal lectures out to every one she meets; Half who pass by are deaf, and t' other half 39 Can hear indeed, but only hear to laugh. Quit then, ye graver sons of letter'd Pride! Taking for once Experience as a guide, Quit this grand error, this dull college mode; Be your pursuits the same, but change the road; Write, or at least appear to write, with ease, 'And if you mean to profit, learn to please.' In vain for such mistakes they pardon claim, Because they wield the pen in Virtue's name: Thrice sacred is that name, thrice bless'd the man Who thinks, speaks, writes, and lives on such a plan! This, in himself, himself of course must bless, But cannot with the world promote success. He may be strong, but, with effect to speak, Should recollect his readers may be weak; Plain, rigid truths, which saints with comfort bear, Will make the sinner tremble and despair. True Virtue acts from love, and the great end At which she nobly aims is to amend. How then do those mistake who arm her laws With rigour not their own, and hurt the cause They mean to help, whilst with a zealot rage They make that goddess, whom they'd have engage Our dearest love, in hideous terror rise! Such may be honest, but they can't be wise. In her own full and perfect blaze of light, Virtue breaks forth too strong for human sight; The dazzled eye, that nice but weaker sense, Shuts herself up in darkness for defence: But to make strong conviction deeper sink, To make the callous feel, the thoughtless think, Like God, made man, she lays her glory by, And beams mild comfort on the ravish'd eye: In earnest most, when most she seems in jest, She worms into, and winds around, the breast, To conquer Vice, of Vice appears the friend, And seems unlike herself to gain her end. The sons of Sin, to while away the time Which lingers on their hands, of each black crime To hush the painful memory, and keep The tyrant Conscience in delusive sleep, Read on at random, nor suspect the dart 40 Until they find it rooted in their heart. 'Gainst vice they give their vote, nor know at first That, cursing that, themselves too they have cursed; They see not, till they fall into the snares, Deluded into virtue unawares. Thus the shrewd doctor, in the spleen-struck mind, When pregnant horror sits, and broods o'er wind, Discarding drugs, and striving how to please, Lures on insensibly, by slow degrees, The patient to those manly sports which bind The slacken'd sinews, and relieve the mind; The patient feels a change as wrought by stealth, And wonders on demand to find it health. Some few, whom Fate ordain'd to deal in rhymes In other lands, and here, in other times, Whom, waiting at their birth, the midwife Muse Sprinkled all over with Castalian dews, To whom true Genius gave his magic pen, Whom Art by just degrees led up to men; Some few, extremes well shunn'd, have steer'd between These dangerous rocks, and held the golden mean; Sense in their works maintains her proper state, But never sleeps, or labours with her weight; Grace makes the whole look elegant and gay, But never dares from Sense to run astray: So nice the master's touch, so great his care, The colours boldly glow, not idly glare; Mutually giving and receiving aid, They set each other off, like light and shade, And, as by stealth, with so much softness blend, 'Tis hard to say where they begin or end: Both give us charms, and neither gives offence; Sense perfects Grace, and Grace enlivens Sense. Peace to the men who these high honours claim, Health to their souls, and to their memories fame! Be it my task, and no mean task, to teach A reverence for that worth I cannot reach: Let me at distance, with a steady eye, Observe and mark their passage to the sky; From envy free, applaud such rising worth, And praise their heaven, though pinion'd down to earth! Had I the power, I could not have the time, 41 Whilst spirits flow, and life is in her prime, Without a sin 'gainst Pleasure, to design A plan, to methodise each thought, each line Highly to finish, and make every grace, In itself charming, take new charms from place. Nothing of books, and little known of men, When the mad fit comes on, I seize the pen, Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down. Rough as they run, discharge them on the town. Hence rude, unfinish'd brats, before their time, Are born into this idle world of Rhyme, And the poor slattern Muse is brought to bed 'With all her imperfections on her head.' Some, as no life appears, no pulses play Through the dull dubious mass, no breath makes way, Doubt, greatly doubt, till for a glass they call, Whether the child can be baptized at all; Others, on other grounds, objections frame, And, granting that the child may have a name, Doubt, as the sex might well a midwife pose, Whether they should baptize it Verse or Prose. E'en what my masters please; bards, mild, meek men, In love to critics, stumble now and then. Something I do myself, and something too, If they can do it, leave for them to do. In the small compass of my careless page Critics may find employment for an age: Without my blunders, they were all undone; I twenty feed, where Mason can feed one. When Satire stoops, unmindful of her state, To praise the man I love, curse him I hate; When Sense, in tides of passion borne along, Sinking to prose, degrades the name of song, The censor smiles, and, whilst my credit bleeds, With as high relish on the carrion feeds As the proud earl fed at a turtle feast, Who, turn'd by gluttony to worse than beast, Ate till his bowels gush'd upon the floor, Yet still ate on, and dying call'd for more. When loose Digression, like a colt unbroke, Spurning Connexion and her formal yoke, Bounds through the forest, wanders far astray 42 From the known path, and loves to lose her way, 'Tis a full feast to all the mongrel pack To run the rambler down, and bring her back. When gay Description, Fancy's fairy child, Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild, Waking with Nature at the morning hour To the lark's call, walks o'er the opening flower Which largely drank all night of heaven's fresh dew, And, like a mountain nymph of Dian's crew, So lightly walks, she not one mark imprints, Nor brushes off the dews, nor soils the tints; When thus Description sports, even at the time That drums should beat, and cannons roar in rhyme, Critics can live on such a fault as that From one month to the other, and grow fat. Ye mighty Monthly Judges! in a dearth Of letter'd blockheads, conscious of the worth Of my materials, which against your will Oft you've confess'd, and shall confess it still; Materials rich, though rude, inflamed with thought, Though more by Fancy than by Judgment wrought Take, use them as your own, a work begin Which suits your genius well, and weave them in, Framed for the critic loom, with critic art, Till, thread on thread depending, part on part, Colour with colour mingling, light with shade, To your dull taste a formal work is made, And, having wrought them into one grand piece, Swear it surpasses Rome, and rivals Greece. Nor think this much, for at one single word, Soon as the mighty critic fiat's heard, Science attends their call; their power is own'd; Order takes place, and Genius is dethroned: Letters dance into books, defiance hurl'd At means, as atoms danced into a world. Me higher business calls, a greater plan, Worthy man's whole employ, the good of man, The good of man committed to my charge: If idle Fancy rambles forth at large, Careless of such a trust, these harmless lays May Friendship envy, and may Folly praise. The crown of Gotham may some Scot assume, 43 And vagrant Stuarts reign in Churchill's room! O my poor People! O thou wretched Earth! To whose dear love, though not engaged by birth, My heart is fix'd, my service deeply sworn, How, (by thy father can that thought be borne?-For monarchs, would they all but think like me, Are only fathers in the best degree) How must thy glories fade, in every land Thy name be laugh'd to scorn, thy mighty hand Be shorten'd, and thy zeal, by foes confess'd, Bless'd in thyself, to make thy neighbours bless'd, Be robb'd of vigour; how must Freedom's pile, The boast of ages, which adorns the isle And makes it great and glorious, fear'd abroad, Happy at home, secure from force and fraud; How must that pile, by ancient Wisdom raised On a firm rock, by friends admired and praised, Envied by foes, and wonder'd at by all, In one short moment into ruins fall, Should any slip of Stuart's tyrant race, Or bastard or legitimate, disgrace Thy royal seat of empire! But what care, What sorrow must be mine, what deep despair And self-reproaches, should that hated line Admittance gain through any fault of mine! Cursed be the cause whence Gotham's evils spring, Though that cursed cause be found in Gotham's king. Let War, with all his needy ruffian band, In pomp of horror stalk through Gotham's land Knee-deep in blood; let all her stately towers Sink in the dust; that court which now is ours Become a den, where beasts may, if they can, A lodging find, nor fear rebuke from man; Where yellow harvests rise, be brambles found; Where vines now creep, let thistles curse the ground; Dry in her thousand valleys be the rills; Barren the cattle on her thousand hills; Where Power is placed, let tigers prowl for prey; Where Justice lodges, let wild asses bray; Let cormorants in churches make their nest, And on the sails of Commerce bitterns rest; Be all, though princes in the earth before, 44 Her merchants bankrupts, and her marts no more; Much rather would I, might the will of Fate Give me to choose, see Gotham's ruin'd state By ills on ills thus to the earth weigh'd down, Than live to see a Stuart wear a crown. Let Heaven in vengeance arm all Nature's host, Those servants who their Maker know, who boast Obedience as their glory, and fulfil, Unquestion'd, their great Master's sacred will; Let raging winds root up the boiling deep, And, with Destruction big, o'er Gotham sweep; Let rains rush down, till Faith, with doubtful eye, Looks for the sign of mercy in the sky; Let Pestilence in all her horrors rise; Where'er I turn, let Famine blast my eyes; Let the earth yawn, and, ere they've time to think, In the deep gulf let all my subjects sink Before my eyes, whilst on the verge I reel; Feeling, but as a monarch ought to feel, Not for myself, but them, I'll kiss the rod, And, having own'd the justice of my God, Myself with firmness to the ruin give, And die with those for whom I wish to live. This, (but may Heaven's more merciful decrees Ne'er tempt his servant with such ills as these!) This, or my soul deceives me, I could bear; But that the Stuart race my crown should wear, That crown, where, highly cherish'd, Freedom shone Bright as the glories of the midday sun; Born and bred slaves, that they, with proud misrule, Should make brave freeborn men, like boys at school, To the whip crouch and tremble--Oh, that thought! The labouring brain is e'en to madness brought By the dread vision; at the mere surmise The thronging spirits, as in tumult, rise; My heart, as for a passage, loudly beats, And, turn me where I will, distraction meets. O my brave fellows! great in arts and arms, The wonder of the earth, whom glory warms To high achievements; can your spirits bend, Through base control (ye never can descend So low by choice) to wear a tyrant's chain, 45 Or let, in Freedom's seat, a Stuart reign? If Fame, who hath for ages, far and wide, Spread in all realms the cowardice, the pride, The tyranny and falsehood of those lords, Contents you not, search England's fair records; England, where first the breath of life I drew, Where, next to Gotham, my best love is due; There once they ruled, though crush'd by William's hand, They rule no more, to curse that happy land. The first, who, from his native soil removed, Held England's sceptre, a tame tyrant proved: Virtue he lack'd, cursed with those thoughts which spring In souls of vulgar stamp, to be a king; Spirit he had not, though he laugh'd at laws. To play the bold-faced tyrant with applause; On practices most mean he raised his pride, And Craft oft gave what Wisdom oft denied. Ne'er could he feel how truly man is blest In blessing those around him; in his breast, Crowded with follies, Honour found no room; Mark'd for a coward in his mother's womb, He was too proud without affronts to live, Too timorous to punish or forgive. To gain a crown which had, in course of time, By fair descent, been his without a crime, He bore a mother's exile; to secure A greater crown, he basely could endure The spilling of her blood by foreign knife, Nor dared revenge her death who gave him life: Nay, by fond Pear, and fond Ambition led, Struck hands with those by whom her blood was shed. Call'd up to power, scarce warm on England's throne, He fill'd her court with beggars from his own: Turn where you would, the eye with Scots was caught, Or English knaves, who would be Scotsmen thought. To vain expense unbounded loose he gave, The dupe of minions, and of slaves the slave; On false pretences mighty sums he raised, And damn'd those senates rich, whom poor he praised; From empire thrown, and doom'd to beg her bread, On foreign bounty whilst a daughter fed, He lavish'd sums, for her received, on men 46 Whose names would fix dishonour on my pen. Lies were his playthings, parliaments his sport; Book-worms and catamites engross'd the court: Vain of the scholar, like all Scotsmen since, The pedant scholar, he forgot the prince; And having with some trifles stored his brain, Ne'er learn'd, nor wish'd to learn, the art to reign. Enough he knew, to make him vain and proud, Mock'd by the wise, the wonder of the crowd; False friend, false son, false father, and false king, False wit, false statesman, and false everything, When he should act, he idly chose to prate, And pamphlets wrote, when he should save the state. Religious, if religion holds in whim; To talk with all, he let all talk with him; Not on God's honour, but his own intent, Not for religion's sake, but argument; More vain if some sly, artful High-Dutch slave, Or, from the Jesuit school, some precious knave Conviction feign'd, than if, to peace restored By his full soldiership, worlds hail'd him lord. Power was his wish, unbounded as his will, The power, without control, of doing ill; But what he wish'd, what he made bishops preach, And statesmen warrant, hung within his reach He dared not seize; Fear gave, to gall his pride, That freedom to the realm his will denied. Of treaties fond, o'erweening of his parts, In every treaty of his own mean arts He fell the dupe; peace was his coward care, E'en at a time when Justice call'd for war: His pen he'd draw to prove his lack of wit, But rather than unsheath the sword, submit. Truth fairly must record; and, pleased to live In league with Mercy, Justice may forgive Kingdoms betray'd, and worlds resign'd to Spain, But never can forgive a Raleigh slain. At length, (with white let Freedom mark that year) Not fear'd by those whom most he wish'd to fear, Not loved by those whom most he wish'd to love, He went to answer for his faults above; To answer to that God, from whom alone 47 He claim'd to hold, and to abuse the throne; Leaving behind, a curse to all his line, The bloody legacy of Right Divine. With many virtues which a radiance fling Round private men; with few which grace a king, And speak the monarch; at that time of life When Passion holds with Reason doubtful strife, Succeeded Charles, by a mean sire undone, Who envied virtue even in a son. His youth was froward, turbulent, and wild; He took the Man up ere he left the Child; His soul was eager for imperial sway, Ere he had learn'd the lesson to obey. Surrounded by a fawning, flattering throng, Judgment each day grew weak, and humour strong; Wisdom was treated as a noisome weed, And all his follies left to run to seed. What ills from such beginnings needs must spring! What ills to such a land from such a king! What could she hope! what had she not to fear! Base Buckingham possess'd his youthful ear; Strafford and Laud, when mounted on the throne, Engross'd his love, and made him all their own; Strafford and Laud, who boldly dared avow The traitorous doctrine taught by Tories now; Each strove to undo him in his turn and hour, The first with pleasure, and the last with power. Thinking (vain thought, disgraceful to the throne!) That all mankind were made for kings alone; That subjects were but slaves; and what was whim, Or worse, in common men, was law in him; Drunk with Prerogative, which Fate decreed To guard good kings, and tyrants to mislead; Which in a fair proportion to deny Allegiance dares not; which to hold too high, No good can wish, no coward king can dare, And, held too high, no English subject bear; Besieged by men of deep and subtle arts, Men void of principle, and damn'd with parts, Who saw his weakness, made their king their tool, Then most a slave, when most he seem'd to rule; Taking all public steps for private ends, 48 Deceived by favourites, whom he called friends, He had not strength enough of soul to find That monarchs, meant as blessings to mankind, Sink their great state, and stamp their fame undone, When what was meant for all, they give to one. Listening uxorious whilst a woman's prate Modell'd the church, and parcell'd out the state, Whilst (in the state not more than women read) High-churchmen preach'd, and turn'd his pious head; Tutor'd to see with ministerial eyes; Forbid to hear a loyal nation's cries; Made to believe (what can't a favourite do?) He heard a nation, hearing one or two; Taught by state-quacks himself secure to think, And out of danger e'en on danger's brink; Whilst power was daily crumbling from his hand, Whilst murmurs ran through an insulted land, As if to sanction tyrants Heaven was bound, He proudly sought the ruin which he found. Twelve years, twelve tedious and inglorious years, Did England, crush'd by power, and awed by fears, Whilst proud Oppression struck at Freedom's root, Lament her senates lost, her Hampden mute. Illegal taxes and oppressive loans, In spite of all her pride, call'd forth her groans; Patience was heard her griefs aloud to tell, And Loyalty was tempted to rebel. Each day new acts of outrage shook the state, New courts were raised to give new doctrines weight; State inquisitions kept the realm in awe, And cursed Star-Chambers made or ruled the law; Juries were pack'd, and judges were unsound; Through the whole kingdom not one Pratt was found. From the first moments of his giddy youth He hated senates, for they told him truth. At length, against his will compell'd to treat, Those whom he could not fright, he strove to cheat; With base dissembling every grievance heard, And, often giving, often broke his word. Oh, where shall hapless Truth for refuge fly, If kings, who should protect her, dare to lie? Those who, the general good their real aim, 49 Sought in their country's good their monarch's fame; Those who were anxious for his safety; those Who were induced by duty to oppose, Their truth suspected, and their worth unknown, He held as foes and traitors to his throne; Nor found his fatal error till the hour Of saving him was gone and past; till power Had shifted hands, to blast his hapless reign, Making their faith and his repentance vain. Hence (be that curse confined to Gotham's foes!) War, dread to mention, Civil War arose; All acts of outrage, and all acts of shame, Stalk'd forth at large, disguised with Honour's name; Rebellion, raising high her bloody hand, Spread universal havoc through the land; With zeal for party, and with passion drunk, In public rage all private love was sunk; Friend against friend, brother 'gainst brother stood, And the son's weapon drank the father's blood; Nature, aghast, and fearful lest her reign Should last no longer, bled in every vein. Unhappy Stuart! harshly though that name Grates on my ear, I should have died with shame To see my king before his subjects stand, And at their bar hold up his royal hand; At their commands to hear the monarch plead, By their decrees to see that monarch bleed. What though thy faults were many and were great? What though they shook the basis of the state? In royalty secure thy person stood, And sacred was the fountain of thy blood. Vile ministers, who dared abuse their trust, Who dared seduce a king to be unjust, Vengeance, with Justice leagued, with Power made strong, Had nobly crush'd--'The king could do no wrong.' Yet grieve not, Charles! nor thy hard fortunes blame; They took thy life, but they secured thy fame. Their greatest crimes made thine like specks appear, From which the sun in glory is not clear. Hadst thou in peace and years resign'd thy breath At Nature's call; hadst thou laid down in death As in a sleep, thy name, by Justice borne 50 On the four winds, had been in pieces torn. Pity, the virtue of a generous soul, Sometimes the vice, hath made thy memory whole. Misfortunes gave what Virtue could not give, And bade, the tyrant slain, the martyr live. Ye Princes of the earth! ye mighty few! Who, worlds subduing, can't yourselves subdue; Who, goodness scorn'd, wish only to be great; Whose breath is blasting, and whose voice is fate; Who own no law, no reason, but your will, And scorn restraint, though 'tis from doing ill; Who of all passions groan beneath the worst, Then only bless'd when they make others cursed; Think not, for wrongs like these, unscourged to live; Long may ye sin, and long may Heaven forgive; But when ye least expect, in sorrow's day, Vengeance shall fall more heavy for delay; Nor think that vengeance heap'd on you alone Shall (poor amends!) for injured worlds atone; No, like some base distemper, which remains, Transmitted from the tainted father's veins, In the son's blood, such broad and general crimes Shall call down vengeance e'en to latest times, Call vengeance down on all who bear your name, And make their portion bitterness and shame. From land to land for years compell'd to roam, Whilst Usurpation lorded it at home, Of majesty unmindful, forced to fly, Not daring, like a king, to reign or die, Recall'd to repossess his lawful throne, More at his people's seeking than his own, Another Charles succeeded. In the school Of Travel he had learn'd to play the fool; And, like pert pupils with dull tutors sent To shame their country on the Continent, From love of England by long absence wean'd, From every court he every folly glean'd, And was--so close do evil habits cling-Till crown'd, a beggar; and when crown'd, no king. Those grand and general powers, which Heaven design'd, An instance of his mercy to mankind, Were lost, in storms of dissipation hurl'd, 51 Nor would he give one hour to bless a world; Lighter than levity which strides the blast, And, of the present fond, forgets the past, He changed and changed, but, every hope to curse, Changed only from one folly to a worse: State he resign'd to those whom state could please; Careless of majesty, his wish was ease; Pleasure, and pleasure only, was his aim; Kings of less wit might hunt the bubble Fame; Dignity through his reign was made a sport, Nor dared Decorum show her face at court; Morality was held a standing jest, And Faith a necessary fraud at best. Courtiers, their monarch ever in their view, Possess'd great talents, and abused them too; Whate'er was light, impertinent, and vain, Whate'er was loose, indecent, and profane, (So ripe was Folly, Folly to acquit) Stood all absolved in that poor bauble, Wit. In gratitude, alas! but little read, He let his father's servants beg their bread-His father's faithful servants, and his own, To place the foes of both around his throne. Bad counsels he embraced through indolence, Through love of ease, and not through want of sense; He saw them wrong, but rather let them go As right, than take the pains to make them so. Women ruled all, and ministers of state Were for commands at toilets forced to wait: Women, who have, as monarchs, graced the land, But never govern'd well at second-hand. To make all other errors slight appear, In memory fix'd, stand Dunkirk and Tangier; In memory fix'd so deep, that Time in vain Shall strive to wipe those records from the brain, Amboyna stands--Gods! that a king could hold In such high estimate vile paltry gold, And of his duty be so careless found, That when the blood of subjects from the ground For vengeance call'd, he should reject their cry, And, bribed from honour, lay his thunders by, Give Holland peace, whilst English victims groan'd, 52 And butcher'd subjects wander'd unatoned! Oh, dear, deep injury to England's fame, To them, to us, to all! to him deep shame! Of all the passions which from frailty spring, Avarice is that which least becomes a king. To crown the whole, scorning the public good, Which through his reign he little understood, Or little heeded, with too narrow aim He reassumed a bigot brother's claim, And having made time-serving senates bow, Suddenly died--that brother best knew how. No matter how--he slept amongst the dead, And James his brother reigned in his stead: But such a reign--so glaring an offence In every step 'gainst freedom, law, and sense, 'Gainst all the rights of Nature's general plan, 'Gainst all which constitutes an Englishman, That the relation would mere fiction seem, The mock creation of a poet's dream; And the poor bards would, in this sceptic age, Appear as false as _their_ historian's page. Ambitious Folly seized the seat of Wit, Christians were forced by bigots to submit; Pride without sense, without religion Zeal, Made daring inroads on the Commonweal; Stern Persecution raised her iron rod, And call'd the pride of kings, the power of God; Conscience and Fame were sacrificed to Rome, And England wept at Freedom's sacred tomb. Her laws despised, her constitution wrench'd From its due natural frame, her rights retrench'd Beyond a coward's sufferance, conscience forced, And healing Justice from the Crown divorced, Each moment pregnant with vile acts of power, Her patriot Bishops sentenced to the Tower, Her Oxford (who yet loves the Stuart name) Branded with arbitrary marks of shame, She wept--but wept not long: to arms she flew, At Honour's call the avenging sword she drew, Turn'd all her terrors on the tyrant's head, And sent him in despair to beg his bread; Whilst she, (may every State in such distress 53 Dare with such zeal, and meet with such success!) Whilst she, (may Gotham, should my abject mind Choose to enslave rather than free mankind, Pursue her steps, tear the proud tyrant down, Nor let me wear if I abuse the crown!) Whilst she, (through every age, in every land, Written in gold, let Revolution stand!) Whilst she, secured in liberty and law, Found what she sought, a saviour in Nassau. ~ Charles Churchill,

540:Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 2 LET PETER rejoice with the MOON FISH who keeps up the life in the waters by night. Let Andrew rejoice with the Whale, who is array'd in beauteous blue and is a combination of bulk and activity. Let James rejoice with the Skuttle-Fish, who foils his foe by the effusion of his ink. Let John rejoice with Nautilus who spreads his sail and plies his oar, and the Lord is his pilot. Let Philip rejoice with Boca, which is a fish that can speak. Let Bartholomew rejoice with the Eel, who is pure in proportion to where he is found and how he is used. Let Thomas rejoice with the Sword-Fish, whose aim is perpetual and strength insuperable. Let Matthew rejoice with Uranoscopus, whose eyes are lifted up to God. Let James the less, rejoice with the Haddock, who brought the piece of money for the Lord and Peter. Let Jude bless with the Bream, who is of melancholy from his depth and serenity. Let Simon rejoice with the Sprat, who is pure and innumerable. Let Matthias rejoice with the Flying-Fish, who has a part with the birds, and is sublimity in his conceit. Let Stephen rejoice with Remora -- The Lord remove all obstacles to his glory. Let Paul rejoice with the Scale, who is pleasant and faithful!, like God's good ENGLISHMAN. Let Agrippa, which is Agricola, rejoice with Elops, who is a choice fish. 56 Let Joseph rejoice with the Turbut, whose capture makes the poor fisher-man sing. Let Mary rejoice with the Maid -- blessed be the name of the immaculate CONCEPTION. Let John, the Baptist, rejoice with the Salmon -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for infant Baptism. Let Mark rejoice with the Mullet, who is John Dore, God be gracious to him and his family. Let Barnabus rejoice with the Herring -- God be gracious to the Lord's fishery. Let Cleopas rejoice with the Mackerel, who cometh in a shoal after a leader. Let Abiud of the Lord's line rejoice with Murex, who is good and of a precious tincture. Let Eliakim rejoice with the Shad, who is contemned in his abundance. Let Azor rejoice with the Flounder, who is both of the sea and of the river, Let Sadoc rejoice with the Bleak, who playeth upon the surface in the Sun. Let Achim rejoice with the Miller's Thumb, who is a delicious morsel for the water fowl. Let Eliud rejoice with Cinaedus, who is a fish yellow all over. Let Eleazar rejoice with the Grampus, who is a pompous spouter. Let Matthan rejoice with the Shark, who is supported by multitudes of small value. Let Jacob rejoice with the Gold Fish, who is an eye-trap. Let Jairus rejoice with the Silver Fish, who is bright and lively. Let Lazarus rejoice with Torpedo, who chills the life of the assailant through his staff. 57 Let Mary Magdalen rejoice with the Place, whose goodness and purity are of the Lord's making. Let Simon the leper rejoice with the Eel-pout, who is a rarity on account of his subtlety. Let Alpheus rejoice with the Whiting, whom God hath bless'd in multitudes, and his days are as the days of PURIM. Let Onesimus rejoice with the Cod -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for a miraculous draught of men. Let Joses rejoice with the Sturgeon, who saw his maker in the body and obtained grace. Let Theophilus rejoice with the Folio, who hath teeth, like the teeth of a saw. Let Bartimeus rejoice with the Quaviver -- God be gracious to the eyes of him, who prayeth for the blind. Let CHRISTOPHER, who is Simon of Cyrene, rejoice with the Rough -- God be gracious to the CAM and to DAVID CAM and his seed for ever. Let Timeus rejoice with the Ling -- God keep the English Sailors clear of French bribery. Let Salome rejoice with the Mermaid, who hath the countenance and a portion of human reason. Let Zacharias rejoice with the Gudgeon, who improves in his growth till he is mistaken. Let Campanus rejoice with the Lobster -- God be gracious to all the CAMPBELLs especially John. Let Martha rejoice with the Skallop -- the Lord revive the exercise and excellence of the Needle. Let Mary rejoice with the Carp -- the ponds of Fairlawn and the garden bless for the master. 58 Let Zebedee rejoice with the Tench -- God accept the good son for his parents also. Let Joseph of Arimathea rejoice with the Barbel -- a good coffin and a tombstone without grudging! Let Elizabeth rejoice with the Crab -- it is good, at times, to go back. Let Simeon rejoice with the Oyster, who hath the life without locomotion. Let Jona rejoice with the Wilk -- Wilks, Wilkie, and Wilkinson bless the name of the Lord Jesus. Let Nicodemus rejoice with the Muscle, for so he hath provided for the poor. Let Gamaliel rejoice with the Cockle -- I will rejoice in the remembrance of mercy. Let Agabus rejoice with the Smelt -- The Lord make me serviceable to the HOWARDS. Let Rhoda rejoice with the Sea-Cat, who is pleasantry and purity. Let Elmodam rejoice with the Chubb, who is wary of the bait and thrives in his circumspection. Let Jorim rejoice with the Roach -- God bless my throat and keep me from things stranggled. Let Addi rejoice with the Dace -- It is good to angle with meditation. Let Luke rejoice with the Trout -- Blessed be Jesus in Aa, in Dee and in Isis. Let Cosam rejoice with the Perch, who is a little tyrant, because he is not liable to that, which he inflicts. Let Levi rejoice with the Pike -- God be merciful to all dumb creatures in respect of pain. Let Melchi rejoice with the Char, who cheweth the cud. Let Joanna rejoice with the Anchovy -- I beheld and lo! 'a great multitude! 59 Let Neri rejoice with the Keeling Fish, who is also called the Stock Fish. Let Janna rejoice with the Pilchard -- the Lord restore the seed of Abishai. Let Esli rejoice with the Soal, who is flat and spackles for the increase of motion. Let Nagge rejoice with the Perriwinkle -- 'for the rain it raineth every day.' Let Anna rejoice with the Porpus, who is a joyous fish and of good omen. Let Phanuel rejoice with the Shrimp, which is the childrens fishery. Let Chuza rejoice with the Sea-Bear, who is full of sagacity and prank. Let Susanna rejoice with the Lamprey, who is an eel with a title. Let Candace rejoice with the Craw-fish -- How hath the Christian minister renowned the Queen. Let The Eunuch rejoice with the Thorn-Back -- It is good to be discovered reading the BIBLE. Let Simon the Pharisee rejoice with the Grigg -- the Lord bring up Issachar and Dan. Let Simon the converted Sorcerer rejoice with the Dab quoth Daniel. Let Joanna, of the Lord's line, rejoice with the Minnow, who is multiplied against the oppressor. Let Jonas rejoice with the Sea-Devil, who hath a good name from his Maker. Let Alexander rejoice with the Tunny -- the worse the time the better the eternity. Let Rufus rejoice with the Needle-fish, who is very good in his element. Let Matthat rejoice with the Trumpet-fish -- God revive the blowing of the TRUMPETS. Let Mary, the mother of James, rejoice with the Sea-Mouse -- it is good to be at 60 peace. Let Prochorus rejoice with Epodes, who is a kind of fish with Ovid who is at peace in the Lord. Let Timotheus rejoice with the Dolphin, who is of benevolence. Let Nicanor rejoice with the Skeat -- Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus in fish and in the Shewbread, which ought to be continually on the altar, now more than ever, and the want of it is the Abomination of Desolation spoken of by Daniel. Let Timon rejoice with Crusion -- The Shew-Bread in the first place is gratitude to God to shew who is bread, whence it is, and that there is enough and to spare. Let Parmenas rejoice with the Mixon -- Secondly it is to prevent the last extremity, for it is lawful that rejected hunger may take it. Let Dorcas rejoice with Dracunculus -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus in the Grotto. Let Tychicus rejoice with Scolopendra, who quits himself of the hook by voiding his intrails. Let Trophimus rejoice with the Sea-Horse, who shoud have been to Tychicus the father of Yorkshiremen. Let Tryphena rejoice with Fluta -- Saturday is the Sabbath for the mouth of God hath spoken it. Let Tryphosa rejoice with Acarne -- With such preparation the Lord's Jubile is better kept. Let Simon the Tanner rejoice with Alausa -- Five days are sufficient for the purposes of husbandry. Let Simeon Niger rejoice with the Loach -- The blacks are the seed of Cain. Let Lucius rejoice with Corias -- Some of Cain's seed was preserved in the loins of Ham at the flood. Let Manaen rejoice with Donax. My DEGREE is good even here, in the Lord I have 61 a better. Let Sergius Paulus rejoice with Dentex -- Blessed be the name Jesus for my teeth. Let Silas rejoice with the Cabot -- the philosophy of the times ev'n now is vain deceit. Let Barsabas rejoice with Cammarus -- Newton is ignorant for if a man consult not the WORD how should he understand the WORK? -Let Lydia rejoice with Attilus -- Blessed be the name of him which eat the fish and honey comb. Let Jason rejoice with Alopecias, who is subtlety without offence. Let Dionysius rejoice with Alabes who is peculiar to the Nile. Let Damaris rejoice with Anthias -- The fountain of the Nile is known to the Eastern people who drink it. Let Apollos rejoice with Astacus, but St Paul is the Agent for England. Let Justus rejoice with Crispus in a Salmon-Trout -- the Lord look on the soul of Richard Atwood. Let Crispus rejoice with Leviathan -- God be gracious to the soul of HOBBES, who was no atheist, but a servant of Christ, and died in the Lord -- I wronged him God forgive me. Let Aquila rejoice with Beemoth who is Enoch no fish but a stupendous creeping Thing. Let Priscilla rejoice with Cythera. As earth increases by Beemoth so the sea likewise enlarges. Let Tyrannus rejoice with Cephalus who hath a great head. Let Gaius rejoice with the Water-Tortoise -- Paul and Tychicus were in England with Agricola my father. Let Aristarchus rejoice with Cynoglossus -- The Lord was at Glastonbury in the 62 body and blessed the thorn. Let Alexander rejoice with the Sea-Urchin -- The Lord was at Bristol and blessed the waters there. Let Sopater rejoice with Elacate -- The waters of Bath were blessed by St Matthias. Let Secundus rejoice with Echeneis who is the sea-lamprey. Let Eutychus rejoice with Cnide -- Fish and honeycomb are blessed to eat after a recovery. -Let Mnason rejoice with Vulvula a sort of fish -- Good words are of God, the cant from the Devil. Let Claudius Lysias rejoice with Coracinus who is black and peculiar to Nile. Let Bernice rejoice with Corophium which is a kind of crab. Let Phebe rejoice with Echinometra who is a beautiful shellfish red and green. Let Epenetus rejoice with Erythrinus who is red with a white belly. Let Andronicus rejoice with Esox, the Lax, a great fish of the Rhine. Let Junia rejoice with the Faber-Fish -- Broil'd fish and honeycomb may be taken for the sacrament. Let Amplias rejoice with Garus, who is a kind of Lobster. Let Urbane rejoice with Glanis, who is a crafty fish who bites away the bait and saves himself. Let Stachys rejoice with Glauciscus, who is good for Women's milk. Let Apelles rejoice with Glaucus -- behold the seed of the brave and ingenious how they are saved! Let Aristobulus rejoice with Glycymerides who is pure and sweet. Let Herodion rejoice with Holothuria which are prickly fishes. 63 Let Narcissus rejoice with Hordeia -- I will magnify the Lord who multiplied the fish. Let Persis rejoice with Liparis -- I will magnify the Lord who multiplied the barley loaves. Let Rufus rejoice with Icthyocolla of whose skin a water-glue is made. Let Asyncritus rejoice with Labrus who is a voracious fish. Let Phlegon rejoice with the Sea-Lizard -- Bless Jesus THOMAS BOWLBY and all the seed of Reuben. Let Hermas rejoice with Lamyrus who is of things creeping in the sea. Let Patrobas rejoice with Lepas, all shells are precious. Let Hermes rejoice with Lepus, who is a venomous fish. Let Philologus rejoice with Ligarius -- shells are all parries to the adversary. Let Julia rejoice with the Sleeve-Fish -- Blessed be Jesus for all the TAYLERS. Let Nereus rejoice with the Calamary -- God give success to our fleets. Let Olympas rejoice with the Sea-Lantern, which glows upon the waters. Let Sosipater rejoice with Cornuta. There are fish for the Sea-Night-Birds that glow at bottom. Let Lucius rejoice with the Cackrel Fish. God be gracious to JMs FLETCHER who has my tackling. Let Tertius rejoice with Maia which is a kind of crab. Let Erastus rejoice with Melandry which is the largest Tunny. Let Quartus rejoice with Mena. God be gracious to the immortal soul of poor Carte, who was barbarously and cowardly murder'd -- the Lord prevent the dealers in clandestine death. 64 Let Sosthenes rejoice with the Winkle -- all shells like the parts of the body are good kept for those parts. Let Chloe rejoice with the Limpin -- There is a way to the terrestrial Paradise upon the knees. Let Carpus rejoice with the Frog-Fish -- A man cannot die upon his knees. Let Stephanas rejoice with Mormyra who is a fish of divers colours. Let Fortunatus rejoice with the Burret -- it is good to be born when things are crossed. Let Lois rejoice with the Angel-Fish -- There is a fish that swims in the fluid Empyrean. Let Achaicus rejoice with the Fat-Back -- The Lord invites his fishers to the WEST INDIES. Let Sylvanus rejoice with the Black-Fish -- Oliver Cromwell himself was the murderer in the Mask. Let Titus rejoice with Mys -- O Tite siquid ego adjuero curamve levasso! Let Euodias rejoice with Myrcus -- There is a perfumed fish I will offer him for a sweet savour to the Lord. Let Syntyche rejoice with Myax -- There are shells in the earth which were left by the FLOOD. Let Clement rejoice with Ophidion -- There are shells again in earth at sympathy with those in sea. Let Epaphroditus rejoice with Opthalmias -- The Lord increase the Cambridge collection of fossils. Let Epaphras rejoice with Orphus -- God be gracious to the immortal soul of Dr Woodward. Let Justus rejoice with Pagrus -- God be gracious to the immortal soul of Dr Middleton. 65 Let Nymphas rejoice with Fagurus -- God bless Charles Mason and all Trinity College. Let Archippus rejoice with Nerita whose shell swimmeth. Let Eunice rejoice with Oculata who is of the Lizard kind. Let Onesephorus rejoice with Orca, who is a great fish. Let Eubulus rejoice with Ostrum the scarlet -- God be gracious to Gordon and Groat. Let Pudens rejoice with Polypus -- The Lord restore my virgin! Let Linus rejoice with Ozsena who is a kind of Polype -- God be gracious to Lyne and Anguish. Let Claudia rejoice with Pascer -- the purest creatures minister to wantoness by unthankfulness. Let Artemas rejoice with Pastinaca who is a fish with a sting. Let Zenas rejoice with Pecten -- The Lord obliterate the laws of man! Let Philemon rejoice with Pelagia -- The laws and judgement are impudence and blindness. Let Apphia rejoice with Pelamis -- The Lord Jesus is man's judgement. Let Demetrius rejoice with Peloris, who is greatest of Shell-Fishes. Let Antipas rejoice with Pentadactylus -- A papist hath no sentiment God bless CHURCHILL. *** FOR I pray the Lord JESUS that cured the LUNATICK to be merciful to all my brethren and sisters in these houses. For they work me with their harping-irons, which is a barbarous instrument, because I am more unguarded than others. 66 For the blessing of God hath been on my epistles, which I have written for the benefit of others. For I bless God that the CHURCH of ENGLAND is one of the SEVEN ev'n the candlestick of the Lord. For the ENGLISH TONGUE shall be the language of the WEST. For I pray Almighty CHRIST to bless the MAGDALEN HOUSE and to forward a National purification. For I have the blessing of God in the three POINTS of manhood, of the pen, of the sword, and of chivalry. For I am inquisitive in the Lord, and defend the philosophy of the scripture against vain deceit. For the nets come down from the eyes of the Lord to fish up men to their salvation. For I have a greater compass both of mirth and melancholy than another. For I bless the Lord JESUS in the innumerables, and for ever and ever. For I am redoubted, and redoubtable in the Lord, as is THOMAS BECKET my father. For I have had the grace to GO BACK, which is my blessing unto prosperity. For I paid for my seat in St PAUL's, when I was six years old, and took possession against the evil day. For I am descended from the steward of the island -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus king of England. For the poor gentleman is the first object of the Lord's charity and he is the most pitied who hath lost the most. For I am in twelve HARDSHIPS, but he that was born of a virgin shall deliver me out of all. For I am safe, as to my head, from the female dancer and her admirers. 67 For I pray for CHICHISTER to give the glory to God, and to keep the adversary at bay. For I am making to the shore day by day, the Lord Jesus take me. For I bless the Lord JESUS upon RAMSGATE PIER -- the Lord forward the building of harbours. For I bless the Lord JESUS for his very seed, which is in my body. For I pray for R and his family, I pray for Mr Becher, and I bean for the Lord JESUS. For I pray to God for Nore, for the Trinity house, for all light-houses, beacons and buoys. For I bless God that I am not in a dungeon, but am allowed the light of the Sun. For I pray God for the PYGMIES against their feathered adversaries, as a deed of charity. For I pray God for all those, who have defiled themselves in matters inconvenient. For I pray God be gracious to CORNELIUS MATTHEWS name and connection. For I am under the same accusation with my Saviour -- -for they said, he is besides himself. For I pray God for the introduction of new creatures into this island. For I pray God for the ostriches of Salisbury Plain, the beavers of the Medway and silver fish of Thames. For Charity is cold in the multitude of possessions, and the rich are covetous of their crumbs. For I pray to be accepted as a dog without offence, which is best of all. For I wish to God and desire towards the most High, which is my policy. 68 For the tides are the life of God in the ocean, and he sends his angel to trouble the great DEEP. For he hath fixed the earth upon arches and pillars, and the flames of hell flow under it. For the grosser the particles the nearer to the sink, and the nearer to purity, the quicker the gravitation. For MATTER is the dust of the Earth, every atom of which is the life. For MOTION is as the quantity of life direct, and that which hath not motion, is resistance. For Resistance is not of GOD, but he -- hath built his works upon it. For the Centripetal and Centrifugal forces are GOD SUSTAINING and DIRECTING. For Elasticity is the temper of matter to recover its place with vehemence. For Attraction is the earning of parts, which have a similitude in the life. For the Life of God is in the Loadstone, and there is a magnet, which pointeth due EAST. For the Glory of God is always in the East, but cannot be seen for the cloud of the crucifixion. For due East is the way to Paradise, which man knoweth not by reason of his fall. For the Longitude is (nevertheless) attainable by steering angularly notwithstanding. For Eternity is a creature and is built upon Eternity ¥ê¥á¥ó¥á¥â¥ï¥ë¥ç ¥å¥g¥é ¥ó¥ç ¥ä¥é¥á¥â¥ï¥ë¥ç . For Fire is a mixed nature of body and spirit, and the body is fed by that which hath not life. For Fire is exasperated by the Adversary, who is Death, unto the detriment of 69 man. For an happy Conjecture is a miraculous cast by the Lord Jesus. For a bad Conjecture is a draught of stud and mud. For there is a Fire which is blandishing, and which is of God direct. For Fire is a substance and distinct, and purifyeth ev'n in hell. For the Shears is the first of the mechanical powers, and to be used on the knees. For if Adam had used this instrument right, he would not have fallen. For the power of the Shears Is direct as the life. For the power of the WEDGE is direct as it's altitude by communication of Almighty God. For the Skrew, Axle and Wheel, Pulleys, the Lever and Inclined Plane are known in the Schools. For the Centre is not known but by the application of the members to matter. For I have shown the Vis Inerti©¡ to be false, and such is all nonsense. For the Centre is the hold of the Spirit upon the matter in hand. For FRICTION is inevitable because the Universe is FULL of God's works. For the PERPETUAL MOTION is in all the works of Almighty GOD. For it is not so in the engines of man, which are made of dead materials, neither indeed can be. For the Moment of bodies, as it is used, is a false term -- bless God ye Speakers on the Fifth of November. For Time and Weight are by their several estimates. For I bless GOD in the discovery of the LONGITUDE direct by the means of 70 GLADWICK. For the motion of the PENDULUM is the longest in that it parries resistance. For the WEDDING GARMENTS of all men are prepared in the SUN against the day of acceptation. For the Wedding Garments of all women are prepared in the MOON against the day of their purification. For CHASTITY is the key of knowledge as in Esdras, Sr Isaac Newton and now, God be praised, in me. For Newton nevertheless is more of error than of the truth, but I am of the WORD of GOD. For WATER, is not of solid constituents, but is dissolved from precious stones above. For the life remains in its dissolvent state, and that in great power. For WATER is condensed by the Lord's FROST, tho' not by the FLORENTINE experiment. For GLADWICK is a substance growing on hills in the East, candied by the sun, and of diverse colours. For it is neither stone nor metal but a new creature, soft to the ax, but hard to the hammer. For it answers sundry uses, but particularly it supplies the place of Glass. For it giveth a benign light without the fragility, malignity or mischief of Glass. For it attracteth all the colours of the GREAT BOW which is fixed in the EAST. For the FOUNTAINS and SPRINGS are the life of the waters working up to God. For they are in SYMPATHY with the waters above the Heavens, which are solid. For the Fountains, springs and rivers are all of them from the sea, whose water is filtrated and purified by the earth. 71 For there is Water above the visible surface in a spiritualizing state, which cannot be seen but by application of a CAPILLARY TUBE. For the ASCENT of VAPOURS is the return of thanksgiving from all humid bodies. For the RAIN WATER kept in a reservoir at any altitude, suppose of a thousand feet, will make a fountain from a spout of ten feet of the same height. For it will ascend in a stream two thirds of the way and afterwards prank itself into ten thousand agreeable forms. For the SEA is a seventh of the Earth -- the spirit of the Lord by Esdras. For MERCURY is affected by the AIR because it is of a similar subtlety. For the rising in the BAROMETER is not effected by pressure but by sympathy. For it cannot be seperated from the creature with which it is intimately and eternally connected. For where it is stinted of air there it will adhere together and stretch on the reverse. For it works by ballancing according to the hold of the spirit. For QUICK-SILVER is spiritual and so is the AIR to all intents and purposes. For the AIR-PUMP weakens and dispirits but cannot wholly exhaust. For SUCKTION is the withdrawing of the life, but life will follow as fast as it can. For there is infinite provision to keep up the life in all the parts of Creation. For the AIR is contaminated by curses and evil language. For poysonous creatures catch some of it and retain it or ere it goes to the adversary. For IRELAND was without these creatures, till of late, because of the simplicity of the people. 72 For the AIR. is purified by prayer which is made aloud and with all our might. For loud prayer is good for weak lungs and for a vitiated throat. For SOUND is propagated in the spirit and in all directions. For the VOICE of a figure compleat in all its parts. For a man speaks HIMSELF from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet. For a LION roars HIMSELF compleat from head to tail. For all these things are seen in the spirit which makes the beauty of prayer. For all whispers and unmusical sounds in general are of the Adversary. For 'I will hiss saith the Lord' is God's denunciation of death. For applause or the clapping of the hands is the natural action of a man on the descent of the glory of God. For EARTH which is an intelligence hath a voice and a propensity to speak in all her parts. For ECHO is the soul of the voice exerting itself in hollow places. For ECHO cannot act but when she can parry the adversary. For ECHO is greatest in Churches and where she can assist in prayer. For a good voice hath its Echo with it and it is attainable by much supplication. For the FOICE is from the body and the spirit -- and is a a body and a spirit. For the prayers of good men are therefore visible to second-sighted persons. For HARPSICHORDS are best strung with gold wire. For HARPS and VIOLS are best strung with Indian weed. For the GERMAN FLUTE is an indirect -- the common flute good, bless the Lord Jesus BENJIMIN HALLET. 73 For the feast of TRUMPETS should be kept up, that being the most direct and acceptable of all instruments. For the TRUMPET of God is a blessed intelligence and so are all the instruments in HEAVEN. For GOD the father Almighty plays upon the HARP of stupendous magnitude and melody. For innumerable Angels fly out at every touch and his tune is a work of creation. For at that time malignity ceases and the devils themselves are at peace. For this time is perceptible to man by a remarkable stillness and serenity of soul. For the ¨¡olian harp is improveable into regularity. For when it is so improved it will be known to be the SHAWM. For it woud be better if the LITURGY were musically performed. For the strings of the SHAWM were upon a cylinder which turned to the wind. For this was spiritual musick altogether, as the wind is a spirit. For there is nothing but it may be played upon in delight. For the flames of fire may lie blown thro musical pipes. For it is so higher up in the vast empyrean. For is so real as that which is spiritual. For an IGNIS FATUUS is either the fool's conceit or a blast from the adversary. For SHELL-FIRE or ELECTRICAL is the quick air when it is caught. For GLASS is worked in the fire till it partakes of its nature. For the electrical fire is easily obtain'd by the working of glass. 74 For all spirits are of fire and the air is a very benign one. For the MAN in VACUO is a flat conceit of preposterous folly. For the breath of our nostrils is an electrical spirit. For an electrical spirit may be exasperated into a malignant fire. For it is good to quicken in paralytic cases being the life applied unto death, For the method of philosophizing is in a posture of Adoration. For the School-Doctrine of Thunder and Lightning is a Diabolical Hypothesis. For it is taking the nitre from the lower regions and directing it against the Infinite of Heights. For THUNDER is the voice of God direct in verse and musick. For LIGHTNING is a glance of the glory of God. For the Brimstone that is found at the times of thunder and lightning is worked up by the Adversary. For the voice is always for infinite good which he strives to impede. For the Devil can work coals into shapes to afflict the minds of those that will not pray. For the coffin and the cradle and the purse are all against a man. For the coffin is for the dead and death came by disobedience. For the cradle is for weakness and the child of man was originally strong from the womb. For the purse is for money and money is dead matter with the stamp of human vanity. For the adversary frequently sends these particular images out of the fire to those whom they concern. 75 For the coffin is for me because I have nothing to do with it. For the cradle is for me because the old Dragon attacked me in it and overcame in Christ. For the purse is for me because I have neither money nor human friends. For LIGHT is propagated at all distances in an instant because it is actuated by the divine conception. For the Satellites of the planet prove nothing in this matter but the glory of Almighty God. For the SHADE is of death and from the adversary. For Solomon said vanity of vanities, vanity of vanities all is vanity. For Jesus says verity of verities, verity of verities all is verity. For Solomon said THOU FOOL in malice from his own vanity. For the Lord reviled not all in hardship and temptation unutterable. For Fire hath this property that it reduces a thing till finally it is not. For all the filth wicked of men shall be done away by fire in Eternity. For the furnace itself shall come up at the last according to Abraham's vision. For the Convex Heaven of shall work about on that great event. For the ANTARTICK POLE is not yet but shall answer in the Consummation. For the devil hath most power in winter, because darkness prevails. For the Longing of Women is the operation of the Devil upon their conceptions. For the marking of their children is from the same cause both of which are to be parried by prayer. For the laws of King James the first against Witchcraft were wise, had it been of man to make laws. 76 For there are witches and wizards even now who are spoken to by their familiars. For the visitation of their familiars is prevented by the Lord's incarnation. For to conceive with intense diligence against one's neighbour is a branch of witchcraft. For to use pollution, exact and cross things and at the same time to think against a man is the crime direct. For prayer with musick is good for persons so exacted upon. For before the NATIVITY is the dead of the winter and after it the quick. For the sin against the HOLY GHOST is INGRATITUDE. For stuff'd guts make no musick; strain them strong and you shall have sweet melody. For the SHADOW is of death, which is the Devil, who can make false and faint images of the works of Almighty God. For every man beareth death about him ever since the transgression of Adam, but in perfect light there is no shadow. For all Wrath is Fire, which the adversary blows upon and exasperates. For SHADOW is a fair Word from God, which is not returnable till the furnace comes up. For the ECLIPSE is of the adversary -- blessed be the name of Jesus for Whisson of Trinity. For the shadow is his and the penumbra is his and his the perplexity of the the phenomenon. For the eclipses happen at times when the light is defective. For the more the light is defective, the more the powers of darkness prevail. 77 For deficiencies happen by the luminaries crossing one another. For the SUN is an intelligence and an angel of the human form. For the MOON is an intelligence and an angel in shape like a woman. For they are together in the spirit every night like man and wife. For Justice is infinitely beneath Mercy in nature and office. For the Devil himself may be just in accusation and punishment. For HELL is without eternity from the presence of Almighty God. For Volcanos and burning mountains are where the adversary hath most power. For the angel GRATITUDE is my wife -- God bring me to her or her to me. For the propagation of light is quick as the divine Conception. For FROST is damp and unwholsome air candied to fall to the best advantage. For I am the Lord's News-Writer -- the scribe-evangelist -- Widow Mitchel, Gun and Grange bless the Lord Jesus. For Adversity above all other is to be deserted of the grace of God. For in the divine Idea this Eternity is compleat and the Word is a making many more. For there is a forlorn hope ev'n for impenitent sinners because the furnace itself must be the crown of Eternity. For my hope is beyond Eternity in the bosom of God my saviour. For by the grace of God I am the Reviver of ADORATION amongst ENGLISH-MEN. For being desert-ed is to have desert in the sight of God and intitles one to the Lord's merit. For things that are not in the sight of men are thro' God of infinite concern. 78 For envious men have exceeding subtlety quippe qui in -- videant. For avaricious men are exceeding subtle like the soul seperated from the body. For their attention is on a sinking object which perishes. For they can go beyond the children of light in matters of their own misery. For Snow is the dew candied and cherishes. For TIMES and SEASONS are the Lord's -- Man is no CHRONOLOGER. For there is a CIRCULATION of the SAP in all vegetables. For SOOT is the dross of Fire. For the CLAPPING of the hands is naught unless it be to the glory of God. For God will descend in visible glory when men begin to applaud him. For all STAGE-Playing is Hypocrisy and the Devil is the master of their revels. For the INNATATION of corpuscles is solved by the Gold-beater's hammer -- God be gracious to Christopher Peacock and to all my God-Children. For the PRECESSION of the Equinoxes is improving nature -- something being gained every where for the glory of God perpetually. For the souls of the departed are embodied in clouds and purged by the Sun. For the LONGITUDE may be discovered by attending the motions of the Sun. Way 2d. For you must consider the Sun as dodging, which he does to parry observation. For he must be taken with an Astrolabe, and considered respecting the point he left. For you must do this upon your knees and that will secure your point. For I bless God that I dwell within the sound of Success, and that it is well with 79 ENGLAND this blessed day. NATIVITY of our LORD N.S. 1759. ~ Christopher Smart,

541:The Candidate This poem was written in , on occasion of the contest between the Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the University of Cambridge, vacant by the death of the Lord Chancellor Hardwicke. The spirit of party ran high in the University, and no means were left untried by either candidate to obtain a majority. The election was fixed for the th of March, when, after much altercation, the votes appearing equal, a scrutiny was demanded; whereupon the Vice-Chancellor adjourned the senate _sine die_. On appeal to the Lord High-Chancellor, he determined in favour of the Earl of Hardwicke, and a mandamus issued accordingly. Enough of Actors--let them play the player, And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare; Garrick abroad, what motives can engage To waste one couplet on a barren stage? Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days, In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise; When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years, Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears; When in return for labour, time, and health, The town had given some little share of wealth, Couldst thou repine at being still a slave? Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave? Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by those Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes? Whom, too refined for honesty and trade, By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made; Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules, Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools; With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime, In such a manner, and at such a time, To quit the stage; but men of real sense, Who neither lightly give, nor take offence, Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace, Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place. Enough of Authors--why, when scribblers fail, Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale? Why must they pity, why contempt express, And why insult a brother in distress? 108 Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brains The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains; Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom, And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb. Let those who without genius write, and write, Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite, The pen laid down, their course of folly run In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone. Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate, That Francis once endeavour'd to translate? Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head, Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? Why may not Langhorne, simple in his lay, Effusion on effusion pour away; With friendship and with fancy trifle here, Or sleep in pastoral at Belvidere? Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne, Secure from any malice but their own. Enough of Critics--let them, if they please, Fond of new pomp, each month pass new decrees; Wide and extensive be their infant state, Their subjects many, and those subjects great, Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed, With fools who write, and greater fools who read. What though they lay the realms of Genius waste, Fetter the fancy and debauch the taste; Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill, Consult not how to cure, but how to kill; Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, They damn those authors whom they never read; Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold, To deal out so much praise for so much gold: Though Scot with Scot, in damned close intrigues, Against the commonwealth of letters leagues; Uncensured let them pilot at the helm, And rule in letters, as they ruled the realm: Ours be the curse, the mean tame coward's curse, (Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse, To do our sense and honour deep despite) To credit what they say, read what they write. Enough of Scotland--let her rest in peace; The cause removed, effects of course should cease; 109 Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown, And proudly swell'd with waters not his own, Burst o'er his banks, and, by Destruction led, O'er our fair England desolation spread, Whilst, riding on his waves, Ambition, plumed In tenfold pride, the port of Bute assumed, Now that the river god, convinced, though late, And yielding, though reluctantly, to Fate, Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides, In tribute to the sea, as usual, glides? Enough of States, and such like trifling things; Enough of kinglings, and enough of kings; Henceforth, secure, let ambush'd statesmen lie, Spread the court web, and catch the patriot fly; Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontroll'd By fear or shame, let Vice, secure and bold, Lord it with all her sons, whilst Virtue's groan Meets with compassion only from the throne. Enough of Patriots--all I ask of man Is only to be honest as he can: Some have deceived, and some may still deceive; 'Tis the fool's curse at random to believe. Would those, who, by opinion placed on high, Stand fair and perfect in their country's eye, Maintain that honour, let me in their ear Hint this essential doctrine--Persevere. Should they (which Heaven forbid) to win the grace Of some proud courtier, or to gain a place, Their king and country sell, with endless shame The avenging Muse shall mark each traitorous name; But if, to Honour true, they scorn to bend, And, proudly honest, hold out to the end, Their grateful country shall their fame record, And I myself descend to praise a lord. Enough of Wilkes--with good and honest men His actions speak much stronger than my pen, And future ages shall his name adore, When he can act and I can write no more. England may prove ungrateful and unjust, But fostering France shall ne'er betray her trust: 'Tis a brave debt which gods on men impose, To pay with praise the merit e'en of foes. 110 When the great warrior of Amilcar's race Made Rome's wide empire tremble to her base, To prove her virtue, though it gall'd her pride, Rome gave that fame which Carthage had denied. Enough of Self--that darling luscious theme, O'er which philosophers in raptures dream; Of which with seeming disregard they write, Then prizing most, when most they seem to slight; Vain proof of folly tinctured strong with pride! What man can from himself, himself divide? For me,(nor dare I lie) my leading aim (Conscience first satisfied) is love of fame; Some little fame derived from some brave few, Who, prizing Honour, prize her votaries too. Let all (nor shall resentment flush my cheek) Who know me well, what they know, freely speak, So those (the greatest curse I meet below) Who know me not, may not pretend to know. Let none of those whom, bless'd with parts above My feeble genius, still I dare to love, Doing more mischief than a thousand foes, Posthumous nonsense to the world expose, And call it mine; for mine though never known, Or which, if mine, I living blush'd to own. Know all the world, no greedy heir shall find, Die when I will, one couplet left behind. Let none of those, whom I despise, though great, Pretending friendship to give malice weight, Publish my life; let no false sneaking peer, (Some such there are) to win the public ear, Hand me to shame with some vile anecdote. Nor soul-gall'd bishop damn me with a note. Let one poor sprig of bay around my head Bloom whilst I live, and point me out when dead; Let it (may Heaven, indulgent, grant that prayer!) Be planted on my grave, nor wither there; And when, on travel bound, some rhyming guest Roams through the churchyard, whilst his dinner's dress'd, Let it hold up this comment to his eyes-'Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies;' Whilst (oh, what joy that pleasing flattery gives!) Reading my works, he cries--'Here Churchill lives.' 111 Enough of Satire--in less harden'd times Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes. I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave, Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave; Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms From her one line, than from a world in arms. When in her faithful and immortal page They saw transmitted down from age to age Recorded villains, and each spotted name Branded with marks of everlasting shame, Succeeding villains sought her as a friend, And, if not really mended, feign'd to mend; But in an age, when actions are allow'd Which strike all honour dead, and crimes avow'd Too terrible to suffer the report, Avow'd and praised by men who stain a court, Propp'd by the arm of Power; when Vice, high born, High-bred, high-station'd, holds rebuke in scorn; When she is lost to every thought of fame, And, to all virtue dead, is dead to shame; When Prudence a much easier task must hold To make a new world, than reform the old, Satire throws by her arrows on the ground, And if she cannot cure, she will not wound. Come, Panegyric--though the Muse disdains, Founded on truth, to prostitute her strains At the base instance of those men, who hold No argument but power, no god but gold, Yet, mindful that from Heaven she drew her birth, She scorns the narrow maxims of this earth; Virtuous herself, brings Virtue forth to view, And loves to praise, where praise is justly due. Come, Panegyric--in a former hour, My soul with pleasure yielding to thy power, Thy shrine I sought, I pray'd--but wanton air, Before it reach'd thy ears, dispersed my prayer; E'en at thy altars whilst I took my stand, The pen of Truth and Honour in my hand, Fate, meditating wrath 'gainst me and mine, Chid my fond zeal, and thwarted my design, Whilst, Hayter brought too quickly to his end, I lost a subject and mankind a friend. 112 Come, Panegyric--bending at thy throne, Thee and thy power my soul is proud to own Be thou my kind protector, thou my guide, And lead me safe through passes yet untried. Broad is the road, nor difficult to find, Which to the house of Satire leads mankind; Narrow and unfrequented are the ways, Scarce found out in an age, which lead to praise. What though no theme I choose of vulgar note, Nor wish to write as brother bards have wrote, So mild, so meek in praising, that they seem Afraid to wake their patrons from a dream; What though a theme I choose, which might demand The nicest touches of a master's hand; Yet, if the inward workings of my soul Deceive me not, I shall attain the goal, And Envy shall behold, in triumph raised, The poet praising, and the patron praised. What patron shall I choose? Shall public voice, Or private knowledge, influence my choice? Shall I prefer the grand retreat of Stowe, Or, seeking patriots, to friend Wildman's go? 'To Wildman's!' cried Discretion, (who had heard, Close standing at my elbow, every word) 'To Wildman's! Art thou mad? Canst thou be sure One moment there to have thy head secure? Are they not all, (let observation tell) All mark'd in characters as black as Hell, In Doomsday book, by ministers set down, Who style their pride the honour of the crown? Make no reply--let Reason stand aloof-Presumptions here must pass as solemn proof. That settled faith, that love which ever springs In the best subjects, for the best of kings, Must not be measured now by what men think, Or say, or do;--by what they eat and drink, Where, and with whom, that question's to be tried, And statesmen are the judges to decide; No juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe; They, facts confess'd, in themselves vest the law. Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks; Blasphemy may be gospel at Almacks.' 113 Peace, good Discretion! peace--thy fears are vain; Ne'er will I herd with Wildman's factious train; Never the vengeance of the great incur, Nor, without might, against the mighty stir. If, from long proof, my temper you distrust, Weigh my profession, to my gown be just; Dost thou one parson know so void of grace To pay his court to patrons out of place? If still you doubt (though scarce a doubt remains) Search through my alter'd heart, and try my reins; There, searching, find, nor deem me now in sport, A convert made by Sandwich to the court. Let madmen follow error to the end, I, of mistakes convinced, and proud to mend, Strive to act better, being better taught, Nor blush to own that change which Reason wrought: For such a change as this, must Justice speak; My heart was honest, but my head was weak. Bigot to no one man, or set of men, Without one selfish view, I drew my pen; My country ask'd, or seem'd to ask, my aid, Obedient to that call, I left off trade; A side I chose, and on that side was strong, Till time hath fairly proved me in the wrong: Convinced, I change, (can any man do more?) And have not greater patriots changed before? Changed, I at once, (can any man do less?) Without a single blush, that change confess; Confess it with a manly kind of pride, And quit the losing for the winning side, Granting, whilst virtuous Sandwich holds the rein, What Bute for ages might have sought in vain. Hail, Sandwich!--nor shall Wilkes resentment show, Hearing the praises of so brave a foe-Hail, Sandwich!--nor, through pride, shalt thou refuse The grateful tribute of so mean a Muse-Sandwich, all hail!--when Bute with foreign hand, Grown wanton with ambition, scourged the land; When Scots, or slaves to Scotsmen, steer'd the helm; When peace, inglorious peace, disgraced the realm, Distrust, and general discontent prevail'd; But when, (he best knows why) his spirits fail'd; 114 When, with a sudden panic struck, he fled, Sneak'd out of power, and hid his recreant head; When, like a Mars, (Fear order'd to retreat) We saw thee nimbly vault into his seat, Into the seat of power, at one bold leap, A perfect connoisseur in statesmanship; When, like another Machiavel, we saw Thy fingers twisting, and untwisting law, Straining, where godlike Reason bade, and where She warranted thy mercy, pleased to spare; Saw thee resolved, and fix'd (come what, come might) To do thy God, thy king, thy country right; All things were changed, suspense remain'd no more, Certainty reign'd where Doubt had reign'd before: All felt thy virtues, and all knew their use, What virtues such as thine must needs produce. Thy foes (for Honour ever meets with foes) Too mean to praise, too fearful to oppose, In sullen silence sit; thy friends (some few, Who, friends to thee, are friends to Honour too) Plaud thy brave bearing, and the Commonweal Expects her safety from thy stubborn zeal. A place amongst the rest the Muses claim, And bring this freewill-offering to thy fame; To prove their virtue, make thy virtues known, And, holding up thy fame, secure their own. From his youth upwards to the present day, When vices, more than years, have mark'd him gray; When riotous Excess, with wasteful hand, Shakes life's frail glass, and hastes each ebbing sand, Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth, Untainted with one deed of real worth, Lothario, holding honour at no price, Folly to folly added, vice to vice, Wrought sin with greediness, and sought for shame With greater zeal than good men seek for fame. Where (Reason left without the least defence) Laughter was mirth, obscenity was sense: Where Impudence made Decency submit; Where noise was humour, and where whim was wit; Where rude, untemper'd license had the merit Of liberty, and lunacy was spirit; 115 Where the best things were ever held the worst, Lothario was, with justice, always first. To whip a top, to knuckle down at taw, To swing upon a gate, to ride a straw, To play at push-pin with dull brother peers, To belch out catches in a porter's ears, To reign the monarch of a midnight cell, To be the gaping chairman's oracle; Whilst, in most blessed union, rogue and whore Clap hands, huzza, and hiccup out, 'Encore;' Whilst gray Authority, who slumbers there In robes of watchman's fur, gives up his chair; With midnight howl to bay the affrighted moon, To walk with torches through the streets at noon; To force plain Nature from her usual way, Each night a vigil, and a blank each day; To match for speed one feather 'gainst another, To make one leg run races with his brother; 'Gainst all the rest to take the northern wind, Bute to ride first, and he to ride behind; To coin newfangled wagers, and to lay 'em, Laying to lose, and losing not to pay 'em; Lothario, on that stock which Nature gives, Without a rival stands, though March yet lives. When Folly, (at that name, in duty bound, Let subject myriads kneel, and kiss the ground, Whilst they who, in the presence, upright stand, Are held as rebels through the loyal land) Queen every where, but most a queen in courts, Sent forth her heralds, and proclaim'd her sports; Bade fool with fool on her behalf engage, And prove her right to reign from age to age, Lothario, great above the common size, With all engaged, and won from all the prize; Her cap he wears, which from his youth he wore, And every day deserves it more and more. Nor in such limits rests his soul confined; Folly may share but can't engross his mind; Vice, bold substantial Vice, puts in her claim, And stamps him perfect in the books of Shame. Observe his follies well, and you would swear Folly had been his first, his only care; 116 Observe his vices, you'll that oath disown, And swear that he was born for vice alone. Is the soft nature of some hapless maid, Fond, easy, full of faith, to be betray'd? Must she, to virtue lost, be lost to fame, And he who wrought her guilt declare her shame? Is some brave friend, who, men but little known, Deems every heart as honest as his own, And, free himself, in others fears no guile, To be ensnared, and ruin'd with a smile? Is Law to be perverted from her course? Is abject fraud to league with brutal force? Is Freedom to be crush'd, and every son Who dares maintain her cause, to be undone? Is base Corruption, creeping through the land, To plan, and work her ruin, underhand, With regular approaches, sure, though slow? Or must she perish by a single blow? Are kings, who trust to servants, and depend In servants (fond, vain thought!) to find a friend, To be abused, and made to draw their breath In darkness thicker than the shades of death? Is God's most holy name to be profaned, His word rejected, and his laws arraign'd, His servants scorn'd, as men who idly dream'd, His service laugh'd at, and his Son blasphemed? Are debauchees in morals to preside? Is Faith to take an Atheist for her guide? Is Science by a blockhead to be led? Are States to totter on a drunkard's head? To answer all these purposes, and more, More black than ever villain plann'd before, Search earth, search hell, the Devil cannot find An agent like Lothario to his mind. Is this nobility, which, sprung from kings, Was meant to swell the power from whence it springs; Is this the glorious produce, this the fruit, Which Nature hoped for from so rich a root? Were there but two, (search all the world around) Were there but two such nobles to be found, The very name would sink into a term Of scorn, and man would rather be a worm 117 Than be a lord: but Nature, full of grace, Nor meaning birth and titles to be base, Made only one, and having made him, swore, In mercy to mankind, to make no more: Nor stopp'd she there, but, like a generous friend, The ills which Error caused, she strove to mend, And having brought Lothario forth to view, To save her credit, brought forth Sandwich too. Gods! with what joy, what honest joy of heart, Blunt as I am, and void of every art, Of every art which great ones in the state Practise on knaves they fear, and fools they hate, To titles with reluctance taught to bend, Nor prone to think that virtues can descend, Do I behold (a sight, alas! more rare Than Honesty could wish) the noble wear His father's honours, when his life makes known They're his by virtue, not by birth alone; When he recalls his father from the grave, And pays with interest back that fame he gave: Cured of her splenetic and sullen fits, To such a peer my willing soul submits, And to such virtue is more proud to yield Than 'gainst ten titled rogues to keep the field. Such, (for that truth e'en Envy shall allow) Such Wyndham was, and such is Sandwich now. O gentle Montague! in blessed hour Didst thou start up, and climb the stairs of power; England of all her fears at once was eased, Nor, 'mongst her many foes, was one displeased: France heard the news, and told it cousin Spain; Spain heard, and told it cousin France again; The Hollander relinquished his design Of adding spice to spice, and mine to mine; Of Indian villanies he thought no more, Content to rob us on our native shore: Awed by thy fame, (which winds with open mouth Shall blow from east to west, from north to south) The western world shall yield us her increase, And her wild sons be soften'd into peace; Rich eastern monarchs shall exhaust their stores, And pour unbounded wealth on Albion's shores; 118 Unbounded wealth, which from those golden scenes, And all acquired by honourable means, Some honourable chief shall hither steer, To pay our debts, and set the nation clear. Nabobs themselves, allured by thy renown, Shall pay due homage to the English crown; Shall freely as their king our king receive-Provided the Directors give them leave. Union at home shall mark each rising year, Nor taxes be complain'd of, though severe; Envy her own destroyer shall become, And Faction with her thousand mouths be dumb: With the meek man thy meekness shall prevail, Nor with the spirited thy spirit fail: Some to thy force of reason shall submit, And some be converts to thy princely wit: Reverence for thee shall still a nation's cries, A grand concurrence crown a grand excise; And unbelievers of the first degree, Who have no faith in God, have faith in thee. When a strange jumble, whimsical and vain, Possess'd the region of each heated brain; When some were fools to censure, some to praise, And all were mad, but mad in different ways; When commonwealthsmen, starting at the shade Which in their own wild fancy had been made, Of tyrants dream'd, who wore a thorny crown, And with state bloodhounds hunted Freedom down; When others, struck with fancies not less vain, Saw mighty kings by their own subjects slain, And, in each friend of Liberty and Law, With horror big, a future Cromwell saw, Thy manly zeal stept forth, bade discord cease, And sung each jarring atom into peace; Liberty, cheer'd by thy all-cheering eye, Shall, waking from her trance, live and not die; And, patronised by thee, Prerogative Shall, striding forth at large, not die, but live; Whilst Privilege, hung betwixt earth and sky, Shall not well know whether to live or die. When on a rock which overhung the flood, And seem'd to totter, Commerce shivering stood; 119 When Credit, building on a sandy shore, Saw the sea swell, and heard the tempest roar, Heard death in every blast, and in each wave Or saw, or fancied that she saw her grave; When Property, transferr'd from hand to band, Weaken'd by change, crawl'd sickly through the land; When mutual confidence was at an end, And man no longer could on man depend; Oppress'd with debts of more than common weight, When all men fear'd a bankruptcy of state; When, certain death to honour, and to trade, A sponge was talk'd of as our only aid; That to be saved we must be more undone, And pay off all our debts, by paying none; Like England's better genius, born to bless, And snatch his sinking country from distress, Didst thou step forth, and, without sail or oar, Pilot the shatter'd vessel safe to shore: Nor shalt thou quit, till, anchor'd firm and fast, She rides secure, and mocks the threatening blast! Born in thy house, and in thy service bred, Nursed in thy arms, and at thy table fed, By thy sage counsels to reflection brought, Yet more by pattern than by precept taught, Economy her needful aid shall join To forward and complete thy grand design, And, warm to save, but yet with spirit warm, Shall her own conduct from thy conduct form. Let friends of prodigals say what they will, Spendthrifts at home, abroad are spendthrifts still. In vain have sly and subtle sophists tried Private from public justice to divide; For credit on each other they rely, They live together, and together die, 'Gainst all experience 'tis a rank offence, High treason in the eye of Common-sense, To think a statesman ever can be known To pay our debts, who will not pay his own: But now, though late, now may we hope to see Our debts discharged, our credit fair and free, Since rigid Honesty (fair fall that hour!) Sits at the helm, and Sandwich is in power. 120 With what delight I view thee, wondrous man, With what delight survey thy sterling plan, That plan which all with wonder must behold, And stamp thy age the only age of Gold. Nor rest thy triumphs here--that Discord fled, And sought with grief the hell where she was bred; That Faction, 'gainst her nature forced to yield, Saw her rude rabble scatter'd o'er the field, Saw her best friends a standing jest become, Her fools turn'd speakers, and her wits struck dumb; That our most bitter foes (so much depends On men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends; That our offended friends (such terror flows From men of name) dare not appear our foes; That Credit, gasping in the jaws of Death, And ready to expire with every breath, Grows stronger from disease; that thou hast saved Thy drooping country; that thy name, engraved On plates of brass, defies the rage of Time; Than plates of brass more firm, that sacred rhyme Embalms thy memory, bids thy glories live, And gives thee what the Muse alone can give:-These heights of Virtue, these rewards of Fame, With thee in common other patriots claim. But, that poor sickly Science, who had laid And droop'd for years beneath Neglect's cold shade, By those who knew her purposely forgot, And made the jest of those who knew her not: Whilst Ignorance in power, and pamper'd pride, 'Clad like a priest, pass'd by on t'other side,' Recover'd from her wretched state, at length Puts on new health, and clothes herself with strength, To thee we owe, and to thy friendly hand Which raised, and gave her to possess the land: This praise, though in a court, and near a throne, This praise is thine, and thine, alas! alone. With what fond rapture did the goddess smile, What blessings did she promise to this isle, What honour to herself, and length of reign, Soon as she heard that thou didst not disdain To be her steward; but what grief, what shame, What rage, what disappointment, shook her frame, 121 When her proud children dared her will dispute, When Youth was insolent, and Age was mute! That young men should be fools, and some wild few, To Wisdom deaf, be deaf to Interest too, Moved not her wonder; but that men, grown gray In search of wisdom; men who own'd the sway Of Reason; men who stubbornly kept down Each rising passion; men who wore the gown; That they should cross her will, that they should dare Against the cause of Interest to declare; That they should be so abject and unwise, Having no fear of loss before their eyes, Nor hopes of gain; scorning the ready means Of being vicars, rectors, canons, deans, With all those honours which on mitres wait, And mark the virtuous favourites of state; That they should dare a Hardwicke to support, And talk, within the hearing of a court, Of that vile beggar, Conscience, who, undone, And starved herself, starves every wretched son; This turn'd her blood to gall, this made her swear No more to throw away her time and care On wayward sons who scorn'd her love, no more To hold her courts on Cam's ungrateful shore. Rather than bear such insults, which disgrace Her royalty of nature, birth, and place, Though Dulness there unrivall'd state doth keep, Would she at Winchester with Burton sleep; Or, to exchange the mortifying scene For something still more dull, and still more mean, Rather than bear such insults, she would fly Far, far beyond the search of English eye, And reign amongst the Scots: to be a queen Is worth ambition, though in Aberdeen. Oh, stay thy flight, fair Science! what though some, Some base-born children, rebels are become? All are not rebels; some are duteous still, Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will; Thy interest is opposed by those alone Who either know not, or oppose their own. Of stubborn virtue, marching to thy aid, Behold in black, the livery of their trade, 122 Marshall'd by Form, and by Discretion led, A grave, grave troop, and Smith is at their head, Black Smith of Trinity; on Christian ground For faith in mysteries none more renown'd. Next, (for the best of causes now and then Must beg assistance from the worst of men) Next (if old story lies not) sprung from Greece, Comes Pandarus, but comes without his niece: Her, wretched maid! committed to his trust, To a rank letcher's coarse and bloated lust The arch, old, hoary hypocrite had sold, And thought himself and her well damn'd for gold. But (to wipe off such traces from the mind, And make us in good humour with mankind) Leading on men, who, in a college bred, No woman knew, but those which made their bed; Who, planted virgins on Cam's virtuous shore, Continued still male virgins at threescore, Comes Sumner, wise, and chaste as chaste can be, With Long, as wise, and not less chaste than he. Are there not friends, too, enter'd in thy cause Who, for thy sake, defying penal laws, Were, to support thy honourable plan, Smuggled from Jersey, and the Isle of Man? Are there not Philomaths of high degree Who, always dumb before, shall speak for thee? Are there not Proctors, faithful to thy will, One of full growth, others in embryo still, Who may, perhaps, in some ten years, or more, Be ascertain'd that two and two make four, Or may a still more happy method find, And, taking one from two, leave none behind? With such a mighty power on foot, to yield Were death to manhood; better in the field To leave our carcases, and die with fame, Than fly, and purchase life on terms of shame. Sackvilles alone anticipate defeat, And ere they dare the battle, sound retreat. But if persuasions ineffectual prove, If arguments are vain, nor prayers can move, Yet in thy bitterness of frantic woe Why talk of Burton? why to Scotland go? 123 Is there not Oxford? she, with open arms, Shall meet thy wish, and yield up all her charms: Shall for thy love her former loves resign, And jilt the banish'd Stuarts to be thine. Bow'd to the yoke, and, soon as she could read, Tutor'd to get by heart the despot's creed, She, of subjection proud, shall knee thy throne, And have no principles but thine alone; She shall thy will implicitly receive, Nor act, nor speak, nor think, without thy leave. Where is the glory of imperial sway If subjects none but just commands obey? Then, and then only, is obedience seen, When by command they dare do all that's mean: Hither, then, wing thy flight, here fix thy stand, Nor fail to bring thy Sandwich in thy hand. Gods! with what joy, (for Fancy now supplies, And lays the future open to my eyes) Gods! with what joy I see the worthies meet, And Brother Litchfield Brother Sandwich greet! Blest be your greetings, blest each dear embrace; Blest to yourselves, and to the human race. Sickening at virtues, which she cannot reach, Which seem her baser nature to impeach, Let Envy, in a whirlwind's bosom hurl'd, Outrageous, search the corners of the world, Ransack the present times, look back to past, Rip up the future, and confess at last, No times, past, present, or to come, could e'er Produce, and bless the world with such a pair. Phillips, the good old Phillips, out of breath, Escaped from Monmouth, and escaped from death, Shall hail his Sandwich with that virtuous zeal, That glorious ardour for the commonweal, Which warm'd his loyal heart and bless'd his tongue, When on his lips the cause of rebels hung; Whilst Womanhood, in habit of a nun, At Medenham lies, by backward monks undone; A nation's reckoning, like an alehouse score, Whilst Paul, the aged, chalks behind a door, Compell'd to hire a foe to cast it up, Dashwood shall pour, from a communion cup, 124 Libations to the goddess without eyes, And hob or nob in cider and excise. From those deep shades, where Vanity, unknown, Doth penance for her pride, and pines alone, Cursed in herself, by her own thoughts undone, Where she sees all, but can be seen by none; Where she, no longer mistress of the schools, Hears praise loud pealing from the mouths of fools, Or hears it at a distance, in despair To join the crowd, and put in for a share, Twisting each thought a thousand different ways, For his new friends new-modelling old praise; Where frugal sense so very fine is spun, It serves twelve hours, though not enough for one, King shall arise, and, bursting from the dead, Shall hurl his piebald Latin at thy head. Burton (whilst awkward affectation hung In quaint and labour'd accents on his tongue, Who 'gainst their will makes junior blockheads speak, Ignorant of both, new Latin and new Greek, Not such as was in Greece and Latium known, But of a modern cut, and all his own; Who threads, like beads, loose thoughts on such a string, They're praise and censure; nothing, every thing; Pantomime thoughts, and style so full of trick, They even make a Merry Andrew sick; Thoughts all so dull, so pliant in their growth, They're verse, they're prose, they're neither, and they're both) Shall (though by nature ever both to praise) Thy curious worth set forth in curious phrase; Obscurely stiff, shall press poor Sense to death, Or in long periods run her out of breath; Shall make a babe, for which, with all his fame, Adam could not have found a proper name, Whilst, beating out his features to a smile, He hugs the bastard brat, and calls it Style. Hush'd be all Nature as the land of Death; Let each stream sleep, and each wind hold his breath; Be the bells muffled, nor one sound of Care, Pressing for audience, wake the slumbering air; Browne comes--behold how cautiously he creeps-How slow he walks, and yet how fast he sleeps-- 125 But to thy praise in sleep he shall agree; He cannot wake, but he shall dream of thee. Physic, her head with opiate poppies crown'd, Her loins by the chaste matron Camphire bound; Physic, obtaining succour from the pen Of her soft son, her gentle Heberden, If there are men who can thy virtue know, Yet spite of virtue treat thee as a foe, Shall, like a scholar, stop their rebel breath, And in each recipe send classic death. So deep in knowledge, that few lines can sound And plumb the bottom of that vast profound, Few grave ones with such gravity can think, Or follow half so fast as he can sink; With nice distinctions glossing o'er the text, Obscure with meaning, and in words perplex'd, With subtleties on subtleties refined, Meant to divide and subdivide the mind, Keeping the forwardness of youth in awe, The scowling Blackstone bears the train of law. Divinity, enrobed in college fur, In her right hand a new Court Calendar, Bound like a book of prayer, thy coming waits With all her pack, to hymn thee in the gates. Loyalty, fix'd on Isis' alter'd shore, A stranger long, but stranger now no more, Shall pitch her tabernacle, and, with eyes Brimful of rapture, view her new allies; Shall, with much pleasure and more wonder, view Men great at court, and great at Oxford too. O sacred Loyalty! accursed be those Who, seeming friends, turn out thy deadliest foes, Who prostitute to kings thy honour'd name, And soothe their passions to betray their fame; Nor praised be those, to whose proud nature clings Contempt of government, and hate of kings, Who, willing to be free, not knowing how, A strange intemperance of zeal avow, And start at Loyalty, as at a word Which without danger Freedom never heard. Vain errors of vain men--wild both extremes, And to the state not wholesome, like the dreams, 126 Children of night, of Indigestion bred, Which, Reason clouded, seize and turn the head; Loyalty without Freedom is a chain Which men of liberal notice can't sustain; And Freedom without Loyalty, a name Which nothing means, or means licentious shame. Thine be the art, my Sandwich, thine the toil, In Oxford's stubborn and untoward soil To rear this plant of union, till at length, Rooted by time, and foster'd into strength, Shooting aloft, all danger it defies, And proudly lifts its branches to the skies; Whilst, Wisdom's happy son but not her slave, Gay with the gay, and with the grave ones grave, Free from the dull impertinence of thought, Beneath that shade, which thy own labours wrought And fashion'd into strength, shalt thou repose, Secure of liberal praise, since Isis flows, True to her Tame, as duty hath decreed, Nor longer, like a harlot, lust for Tweed, And those old wreaths, which Oxford once dared twine To grace a Stuart brow, she plants on thine. ~ Charles Churchill,

542:The Golden Age Long ere the Muse the strenuous chords had swept, And the first lay as yet in silence slept, A Time there was which since has stirred the lyre To notes of wail and accents warm with fire; Moved the soft Mantuan to his silvery strain, And him who sobbed in pentametric pain; To which the World, waxed desolate and old, Fondly reverts, and calls the Age of Gold. Then, without toil, by vale and mountain side, Men found their few and simple wants supplied; Plenty, like dew, dropped subtle from the air, And Earth's fair gifts rose prodigal as prayer. Love, with no charms except its own to lure, Was swiftly answered by a love as pure. No need for wealth; each glittering fruit and flower, Each star, each streamlet, made the maiden's dower. Far in the future lurked maternal throes, And children blossomed painless as the rose. No harrowing question `why,' no torturing `how,' Bent the lithe frame or knit the youthful brow. The growing mind had naught to seek or shun; Like the plump fig it ripened in the sun. From dawn to dark Man's life was steeped in joy, And the gray sire was happy as the boy. Nature with Man yet waged no troublous strife, And Death was almost easier than Life. Safe on its native mountains throve the oak, Nor ever groaned 'neath greed's relentless stroke. No fear of loss, no restlessness for more, Drove the poor mariner from shore to shore. No distant mines, by penury divined, Made him the sport of fickle wave or wind. Rich for secure, he checked each wish to roam, And hugged the safe felicity of home. Those days are long gone by; but who shall say Why, like a dream, passed Saturn's Reign away? Over its rise, its ruin, hangs a veil, 486 And naught remains except a Golden Tale. Whether 'twas sin or hazard that dissolved That happy scheme by kindly Gods evolved; Whether Man fell by lucklessness or pride,Let jarring sects, and not the Muse, decide. But when that cruel Fiat smote the earth, Primeval Joy was poisoned at its birth. In sorrow stole the infant from the womb, The agëd crept in sorrow to the tomb. The ground, so bounteous once, refused to bear More than was wrung by sower, seed, and share. Ofttimes would ruthless winds or torrents raze The ripening fruit of toilsome nights and days. Each one in turn grew jealous of his own, And fenced his patch with ditch and churlish stone. As greed uprose, and greed engendered strife, Contention raged coincident with life. Man against man, maid against maiden turned, And the soft breast with envious passions burned. The loss of one was hailed as others' gain, And pleasure took unnatural birth from pain. Goaded by woe, and through tradition's lore Mindful of all the blissfulness of yore, The Human Race, its sorrows to assuage, Dreamed afar off a second Golden Age; Not in the dim irrevocable Past, But in a Future just as vague and vast. The prophet's lips, the poet's flattering pen, Revelled in forecasts of that golden Then. The days should come when grief would be no more, And Peace and Plenty rule from shore to shore; All men alike enjoy what none did earn, And even more than Saturn's Reign return. As years rolled on, as centuries went by, And still that Promised Time seemed no more nigh, Mankind at length, outwearied with delays, Gave up all hope of those seductive days. Then other prophets, other scribes arose, A nearer, surer Eden to disclose. `O, long-befooled!' they said, `awake, and deem The Past a tale, the Future but a dream. 487 Here, in the living Present, act your part, Straining its vulgar blessings to your heart. Let hand with hand and brain with brain contend, And each one labour to some selfish end. In wealth and riot, luxury and power, Baffle the mockery of the transient hour. If thousands fall, if tens of thousands bleed, Will not a hundred, or a score, succeed? Let those who cannot yield to those who canFate has its piles of victims; why not Man? Better a furious fight where some one wins, Than sluggish life which ends as it begins. Vain was the bard who, whilst the World was new, 'Twixt men and beasts the fond distinction drew, That these confine their downward gaze to earth, Whilst man looks up, enamoured of his birth. Not in the skies, but deep beneath the soil, There will you find your happiness and spoil. Enough for brutes its simple face to know, But godlike man must pierce and delve below. Deep in its bowels seek the shining ore, And at its touch shall Saturn reign once more. For him whose thews are sound, whose vision clear, Whose purpose firm, the Golden Age is here.' Never from cave or tripod, mount or glade, Issued a voice so welcomed, so obeyed. From zone to zone the Golden Gospel flew, And in its train mankind obedient drew. See from their seats the ancient Gods dethroned, Altars upset, and oracles disown'd. The Muses, scared, conceal the smothered lyre; No longer prized, the Graces swift retire; Virtue, a butt for ribalds, seeks her shroud, And even Venus veils herself in cloud. Religion, Ethics, all men erst adored, Hymned on the harp, or fought for with the sword, All lofty scopes, all ends esteemed of old, Dissolve like mist before the rage for gold. The priest for gold makes traffic of his robe; For gold the soldier desolates the globe; The poet shapes for gold his venal lays; 488 Through gold Vice stalks caparisoned with praise. Tempted by gold, the virgin sells her charms, Though no Immortal slips into her arms. Saddled with gold, the adventurer can buy Titles, precedence, place, and dignity. High, middle, low, the young, the ripe, the old, Man, woman, child, live, die, are damned for Gold. Soon as the youthful mind begins to ope, It searches Life's significance and scope; And, fed by generous impulse year by year, Dreams for itself some glorious career. Its shall it be, instructed by the Muse, Truth to abet, and beauty to diffuse; With full-blown sail, and genius at the helm, To steer men's thoughts to a serener realm. Perhaps the ingenuous boy would fain recall Tintoret's canvas, Memmi's fresco'd wall; With godlike pencil purify the mart, And life ennoble with the breath of Art. Maybe he burns, by Plato's failure fired, To scale the heights which every wing have tired, Seize first each part, then comprehend the whole, And solve the eternal problem of the Soul. Be these his aims, or, nobler still, to train His kind to mutiny till Virtue reign, Soon doth he learn to count his lovely schemes A host of bubbles in a world of dreams. Experience whispers early, Have a care! Who with the Muse would live must live on air. The tempting maid is but a poet's lie, `Who gave to song what gold could never buy.' Confront the world, take counsel with the throng; Their verdict what? `The thing's not worth a song.' Are you content you now have learnt your price? Come, sink the Muse, and don't be quite so nice. Start a new Company, and float the shares, Then lunch with Ministers and dine with Mayors. Pimp for a Party, praise a Premier's heart, Head a subscription, and then shine-a Bart. Return your income fifty thousand clearThe devil's in it, or you'll die a peer. 489 Success so great is never done by halves'Tis only virtue, when 'tis greatest, starves. Perhaps his breast, untutored yet to serve, Spurns the base counsel with a proud reserve; For Youth is stubborn, and when Nature draws, In vain a parent's warning, wisdom's saws. Let cravens straight their impotence confess, And sell their birthright for a filthy mess; In flowers see, bee-like, nought but stuff for hives, And for foul lucre prostitute their lives; They have not failed who never once have tried, Or, if they failed, they failed for want of pride. He, he at least his soul will ne'er demean, But 'mong the foul will keep his honour clean. O touching sight, to witness day by day His splendid generous day-dreams fade away! His sire reproaches, and his brothers scoff, His mother doubts, his sisters e'en fall off. The neighbours pity, strangers deem him mad; Girls, smiling, whisper, What a foolish lad! Meanwhile his compeers, started in the race, Are swiftly marching on to power and place. One makes a coup, and weds a wife of rank; Another's junior partner in a bank. A third in sugar with unscriptural hand, Traffics, and builds a lasting house on sand. A fourth, for beer and piety renowned, Owns all the publics in the country round; Its drink adulterates with face demure, But burns with zeal to keep opinion pure; Cares not one jot for bodies drunk or sick, But scans your soul like a new Dominick. The fifth, the patron of a new balloon, Projects a Company to reach the moon; Baits his prospectus with a batch of peers, And vows nought pays like money in the Spheres. Shares in the moon advanced-advancing still. Then comes a crash-stock guaranteed at nil. But sure, the man is ruined? Not at all; He scarce can tumble who has sense to crawl. 490 Your modern Icarus is much too wise On his own pinions to attempt the skiesOn others' soaring follies doth he rise. Long ere the bubble burst his shares were sold; Just at that moment he had need of gold. Singed wings, you know, are but for simple folk; He, with his peers, 'scapes safe from flame and smoke, And buys a borough with the happy stroke. Few are the souls who die for Cato's creed: To fail seems base, when all around succeed. Foiled in his purpose, both by foe and friend, Through noble means to reach a noble end, The baffled boy forswears his cherished dream, And learns to swim, like others, with the stream. Keen to recover precious moments lost, And taught by bitter tasks what Virtue cost, He midst the rush, whilst others rise and fall, Swims on, the most unscrupulous of all. Let others chouse with care, he cheats with pluck, And millions stake their all upon his luck. His daring overawes the small, the great, And whilst he plunders they but peculate. He lures the easy, makes the fat his spoil, Pares the lean wage of proletarian toil; Swindles the widow of her hoarded mite, Drags the poor pensioner once more to fight; Robs age of rest, and youth of prospects fair, Plunges the sanguine bridegroom in despair; Severs the ties made sacred long by home, And sends the son from sire across the foam; Dashes the faith of plighted swain and maid, And helps alone the cynic sexton's spade: Does all that well beseems a Fallen StarIt needs a Lucifer to fall so far! Sometimes will Fortune on the traitor scowl, And e'en with gold not pay a deed so foul. He who was born a glittering child of light, Trenchant as Raphael, as Ithuriel bright, Yet sells his soul a vulgar prize to reap, And for brute guerdons holds his honour cheap, 491 Too often finds that he who, grovelling, flies From unrewarded reverie in the skies, And seeks in venal efforts to employ The gifts God formed for beauty and for joy, Makes but a barren barter of his birth, And Heaven foregoes, without securing earth. See how he sinks! The more he strains to clutch Terrestrial spoil, unworthy of his touch, It seems, for him, to take elusive shapes, And like a shadow from his grasp escapes. As baser wax his aims, more mean his scope, More and still more he sprawls-the sport of Hope. Still as he tries to suffocate his soul, Farther beyond him seems the carnal goal. In vain he turns to catch the favouring gale; Becalmed he lies-he labours but to fail. Poor and despised, he now would fain retrace His erring steps to his first dwelling-place, But finds, alas! baseness hath borne its fruit; Wings long unused have withered at the root. He who in vain has crawled in vain would fly, And rots abandoned both by earth and sky. Meaner his end than that poor tradesman's doom, Who, asked what words of honour on his tomb His friends should place, with cynic touch replied, `Here lies who, born a man, a grocer died!' Whom doth this foe of human virtue spare? Look round! More sweet its victims, the more fair. Its natural slaves, who, spawned from wealth, are born To Traffic's tricks they lack the soul to scorn, Whose lust for lucre is their proper lot, It just as oft impoverishes as not. 'Tis those in whom the Unseen God inspires The restless leaven of divine desires; Who, from the moment that they lisp, betray An alien spirit housed within their clay; Whose fretful youth life's narrow limits chafe, And yearns for worlds more spacious, if less safe; Striving to reach, despite its fleshly thrall, That larger Something which surrounds us all;These, these the souls-and not that baser band- 492 To whom Gold loves to stretch a helping hand; With early smiles their generous aims to bless, And lead them, blind, to ruinous success. When Lelius chanted first his fragrant lays, Men praised, and he was amply paid with praise. Not salons' sycophant, nor Fashion's bard, No glittering heaps did his sweet notes reward. He was content with audience fit, though few, When to his side the cunning demon drew. `Your pen's worth gold; you need but blunt its point; Come, cut the Muse; the times are out of joint. Fame's well enough, but comfort has its laws; You'll make a damned poor supper off applause. Sing, be select, and starve. Prose is the thingThe thing that pays. The Million now is King. Write gossip, scandal, slander-what you will; A well-filled purse awaits a ready quill.' The curst insidious demon has his way, And Grub-street swallows Lelius for aye. Turn from the pen, and for a while survey The wide domains which brush and canvas sway. Enter those realms, and what do we behold? Art, heavenly Art, the slave and pimp of gold! Time was when its poor votaries were too proud To sate the itch of a vain-glorious crowd, Serve the mean aims of narrow personal pelf, And swell the ignoble retinue of Self. Only the State, which merges private ends, Or sacred Church, which lifts them and extends, Might then presume the artist's craft to claim, And paid him, happy, with immortal Fame. Here, Friendship's guest, where fairest Florence lies, A dream in stone, stretched out before mine eyes, I think of all the treasures there enshrined, And what small dole nurtured each master mind; Or led by memory o'er the classic chain Which Umbrian slope divides from Tuscan plain, I all the priceless unbought gems recall That link with heaven Assisi's frescoed wall; Then, borne on wings of weakness, I repair To mine own land, and groan to think that there, 493 Debased by Fashion to a venal trade, Art counts its triumphs by its fortunes made; Spurned by the State, and by the Church unsought, Works but for wealth, and by the base is bought; Stranger to altars, palaces, or domes, Pampers the pomp of ostentatious homes. How changed the days since Duccio's hand of old On Saints and Virgins lavished costly gold; But for himself asked but a few poor crowns, Less than we give to harlequins and clowns. Now do our mercenary tricksters grudge Almost the very canvas that they smudge; Yet scan with greedy eyes the glittering heap That opulent folly holds, for once, so cheap. See, too, how Genius, when its touch was true, On humble walls its lasting fancies drew; Whose modern apes, ridiculously bold, Hang their ephemeral daubs in frames of gold. In vain doth Heaven, while Gold thus rules the earth, With generous instincts sow the soul at birth. Swift in the genial soil the seed takes root, Then seeks the sun with many a venturous shoot. But, ah, how soon the cruel outer air Checks the brave growth and nips its promise fair! Warmed by the glow of Tasso's splendid lay, Or borne by Dante to the gates of Day; Softly seduced by Scott's romantic strain To deem all ends, excepting honour, vain; Or nobly trained by Shelley's burning song To cherish an eternal feud with wrong,The simple girl constructs a future fair, Rears a whole world of castles in the air, And nowhere warned, or deaf to warning, deems That life will clothe and justify her dreams. As year by year the maiden grows apace, And half the woman mantles in her face, With sickening sense, sad eye, and sinking heart, She sees her forecasts one by one depart. Slowly, but, ah, too surely doth she find That poets' tales no longer rule mankind; That Peace is homeless as the hunted hare, 494 And Love far less a shelter than a snare; That godlike Valour meets a demon's doom, Whilst Prudence prospers even from the tomb; That Youth, save schooled in Mammon's miry ways, Groans o'er the lapse of unrequited days; That Beauty, Genius, all are vain and cold, Till foully touched and fertilised by Gold. Soon as the time so dear to mother's vows Draws nigh, to find the maid some fitting spouse, Then most of all she learns what leading part Is played by Gold in dramas of the heart. Chance to young Hylas, beautiful as Dawn, And sweet as fair, she feels her fancy drawn. Are you a nymph? one whispers. Let him pass. He doth but gather daisies in the grass. Where your cool wave, hidden from human eyes, In which to lure and love him till he dies? Bid him rejoin his Hercules, and seize The golden apples of the Hesperides; And then perchance, should none more rich than he Engage your love, you may his Hera be. Alas, poor Hylas! worse than Mysian fate Doth his meandering flowery feet await. If that a Solon, versed in every art Of song and science, touch the maiden's heart, The neighbours softly whisper, Have a care; Can Erudition keep a chaise and pair? Pundits, alas, like fools, must pay their bills, And Knowledge figures sorrily in wills. For single life learning is well enough, But marriage should be made of sterner stuff. Should Cato's fame her pious soul attract, The whole world cries, The woman must be cracked. What! wed with Virtue! Is the girl awake? Sure, she confounds the altar with the stake. Send for the doctor. Try a change of air. Swear Cato drinks. In war and love all's fair. Bring Croesus to the front. At four he's freeThere's no one left to swindle after three. In one brief hour behold him curled and drest, And borne on wings of fashion to the West! 495 What though to regions fondly deemed refined, He brings his City manners, City mind, And cynics titter?-he laughs best who wins,A Greenwhich dinner covers many sins. What! dine with Croesus? Surely. Is a feast One jot the worse because the host's a beast? He's worse than that-a snob-a cad. Agreed; But then his goblets smack of Ganymede? Do some strange freaks his conversation mar? He stops your censure with a prime cigar. A Norway stream, a shooting-lodge in Perth, In practice look uncommonly like worth. The Town to hear some new soprano flocks. You long to go? Well, Croesus has a box. How at this hour are tickets to be got For the Regatta? Croesus has a yacht. Goodwood is here. Your hopes begin to flag. One chance awaits you: Croesus has a drag. You doat on Flower-shows: Croesus has a bone. Be friends with Croesus, and the World's your own. Who could resist seductions such as these? Or what could charm, if Croesus failed to please? Blinded and bribed, the critical are cured, And loud extol whom late they scarce endured. Caressed and courted, Croesus grows the rage, The type and glory of our Golden Age; And Cato, Hylas, Solon, shoved aside, Our heavenly maid is hailed as Croesus' bride. Shade of Lucretius! if thy lyre waxed wild With sacred rage for Clytemnestra's child, And nought could hold thee as thy soul surveyed The cursëd ills Religion can persuade, How would thy verse impetuously shower Sonorous scorn on Gold's atrocious power; Embalm its victims with a touch divine, And damn the monster in one sounding line! Can honeyed forms or stereotyped applause Alter the scope of Heaven's eternal laws? What though with gifts should massive sideboards groan, And every heart be glad except her own, 496 And troops of blooming girls behold with pride, Perchance with envy, this resplendent bride; Though vieing voices hail her Fashion's queen, And even a Bishop's blessing crown the scene, No rites, no rings, no altars, can avail To make a sacred contract of a sale, Stir the far depths of the reluctant mind, Or join the hearts which love hath failed to bind. If soul stands passive whilst the flesh is sold, Is there no foul aroma in the gold? Is the base barter covered by the price, And do huge figures make the nasty nice? The nameless outcast, prowling for her prey, Renews her filthy bargain day by day; Let Croesus give her what he gave his wife, She's virtuous too-at least, she's his for life. Croesus-but hold! Let Charity presume That Croesus' wife but dimly knew her doom. The luckless maid, since knowledge comes too late, In splendour seeks oblivion of her fate; Of every tender pious aim bereft, Hugs in despair the only idol left; In alien worship seeks to be consoled, And builds her hopes of happiness on Gold. Gold rules her steps, determines her desiresMere puppet she, whilst Mammon jerks the wires. Futile to ask if London suits her healthWould you consult her doctor, not her wealth? You soon are answered: Whether ill or well, A house in Town is indispensable. Where shall it be? On gravel or on clay? Wherever tenants have the most to pay. Price is the thing, not soil. If Fashion's camp Be pitched just here, what matter dry or damp? But, health apart, 'tis known that Croesus' wife, If left to choose, prefers a country life. Well, she shall have it when the Parks are brown, And Fashion, wearied, hath dispersed the Town. But whilst the woods are leafy, and the lanes With lush wild-flowers rob life of half its pains; While sweetest scents and softest sounds combine 497 To make existence, did they last, divine; Not for the world must Croesus' wife be missed From fetid streets, foul rooms, and Fashion's list; And only thence to rural refuge flies As, self-exhausted, pleasant Summer dies. Say, shall we marvel, amid scenes like these, With all to dazzle, but with nought to please, If links of simple gold should fail to cleave, And tempters prompt their webs not vainly weave? See, Plutus, first in each ignoble strife, Battered and bored, bethinks him of a wife. The happy tidings, spreading through the West, Fires each maternal mercenary breast. The soaring dames parade their daughters' charms, To lure the hug of Plutus' palsied arms; And as brave Eld for one fair woman fought, For one foul man our world to rage is wrought. At last, opining he might chance do worse, Plutus to proud Olympia flings his purse. Olympia lifts it with triumphant smile, Whilst round her crowds congratulating guile, Escorts her to the altar, decks her brows With orange-buds, then leaves her with her spouse, Who, though his suit by golden showers throve, Can grasp his Danaë with no thews of Jove. O, who shall tell Olympia's tale aright, Each splendid day, each miserable night; Her thirst divine by human draughts but slaked, Her smiling face whilst the heart sorely ached, Or note the edge whence one we loved so well To sweet, seductive, base perdition fell? I cast no stone, but half by rage consoled, I snatch the lyre and curse this fiendish Gold. Though Beauty's fame oft spreads through all the land, Splendour is far more curiously scanned; And they who once upon Olympia threw A passing glance, since she was fair to view, Now gilded pomp and Ostentation's choir Attend her path, of gazing never tire; Suck up her speech, translate her silent eyes, 498 Each movement, look, and posture scrutinise, Stalk all her steps, as matron, friend, and wife, And feed in greedy gossip on her life. Not mine to follow to the noisome den Where woman's frailty stands the gaze of men, And well-coached menials, limed with gold, detail The piteous scenes that pass behind the veil. Enough to know that, thanks to wealth, once more Plutus can woo, e'en richer than before. The tottering cuckold leaves the court consoled; Considerate juries tip his horns with Gold! Sure some malicious demon in the brain It needs must be, drives men reputed sane To spurn the joys adjacent to their feet, In the fond chase of this receding cheat? Say, when the Stoic on his tranquil height, And swinish crowd, sweating in miry fight, In every age a like conclusion reach, And sage and simple one same sermon preachThat whether Heaven hath made one serf or king, Reason alone true happiness can bringCan we but stand astounded as we scan This race untaught, unteachable, called Man? Would you be truly rich, how small the heap Your aims require, the price how passing cheap! A modest house, from urban jars removed, By thrist selected, yet by taste approved; Whose walls are gay with every sweet that blows, Whose windows scented by the blushing rose; Whose chambers few to no fine airs pretend, Yet never are too full to greet a friend; A garden plot, whither unbidden come Bird's idle pipe and bee's laborious hum; Smooth-shaven lawn, whereon in pastime's hours The mallet rings within a belt of flowers; A leafy nook where to enjoy at will Gibbon's rich prose or Shakespeare's wizard quill; A neighbouring copse wherein the stock-doves coo, And a wild stream unchecked sings all day through; Two clean bright stalls, where midday, night, and morn, Two good stout roadsters champ their well-earned corn; 499 A few learned shelves from modern rubbish free, Yet always, Mill, with just a place for Thee; Head ne'er at dawn by clownish bouts obscured, And limbs by temperate exercise inured; A few firm friendships made in early life, Yet doubly fastened by a pleasant wife; A wholesome board, a draught of honest wine;This is true wealth; and this, thank Heaven, is mine! And though you ransacked worlds from shore to shore, From sea to sky, you could not give me more. And if, all these beyond, I still should crave Something impossible this side the grave, Let humbler souls my soaring hopes forgiveAfter my life still in my verse to live. Well would it be if Mammon's feverish rage Did but the vulgar and the base engage; If those alone whose undistinguished name, Haply if fouled, would shed no slur on Fame, Sought in this sordid, despicable strife, To find the good and snatch the crown of life. But in the mire of venal fight embroiled, Have we not seen the noblest scutcheons soiled? Not the proud thought that many a splendid fray, When crowns obeyed the fortunes of the day, To stalwart arms its pregnant issue owed, Whose glorious blood in their own body flowed; Not the remembrance that their sires did share The toils that made this England great and fair; Not their resplendent pedigree, nor all The line of haught fierce faces on the wall, That tells the tale of their ancestral hall, Have yet availed, in days like these, to hold Men, thus seduced, from the coarse race for Gold. Have we not seen the generous beast, whose sires Once bore their fathers into battle's fires, By titled gamblers' mercenary taste His once stout loins to nimble flanks debased, Made for curst gold to sweat through all his pores, The panting pet of blacklegs, lords, and whores? On such a course what dismal woes await, 500 Let the world learn by young Lucullus' fate. Whilst yet the bloom of boyhood matched his cheek, And all his duty was to master Greek. Make a long score, bound o'er the running brook, Cleave the clear wave, Lucullus had a book. No glorious volume was't, whose subtle page The wisdom breathed of many a studious age. No wealth of wit, no Learning's garnered sheaves Lay, like a treasure, lurking in its leaves. But, in their place, crabbed Calculation scrawled Symbols which shocked and figures that appalled. Not for sweet Fancy, nor the simple stake Of generous sports, did he his tasks forsake. Ere sentiment could move, or sense control, Adventurous Greed had swallowed up his soul. If Gold Acrisius' Tower of Brass could flout, How will the playground shut the monster out? Thus by his own base instincts first betrayed, The race of harpies lend their shameful aid, With evil eye his smiling lands behold, And smooth his path to infamy with gold. At length behold him grown to man's estate, Rich, noble, noted, lord of his own fate. Here Duty beckons, Honour there incites, And Love entices to its saving rites. He heeds them not; he joins the madding crowd, King of the base, the vulgar, and the loud; Builds his most precious friendships on a bet, And through the gutter trails his coronet. Vain fool! inflamed by flattery and conceit, He marks no pitfalls yawning at his feet; But, winning, deems the cunning snare his luck, And losing, pays, to plume him on his pluck; Accepts each challenge, doubles every stake, While tipsy plaudits follow in his wake. But what avails, if Fortune quits his side? Curse on the jade, he cries, she always lied! Well, now's an end! . . . A comrade plucks his gown: An end as yet, man! cut the timber down. The luck will turn; you lost for want of skill; Come, play again-you'll win. . . . By G-, I will! 501 Done soon as said. The swift sure axe resounds Through the green stretch of his ancestral grounds. The soaring elm, whose topmost boughs defied The scaling valour of his boyish pride; The umbrageous beech, beneath whose courtly shade The loves that issued in his life were made; The lordly oak, young when his line was young, To which with pride inherited had clung His sires and they from whom his sires were sprung; Behold them now, around the naked hall, One after one in fell succession fall. Lo, the wide woods which centuries had seen By frosts unmoved, mid thunder-fugues serene, By thousand suns, by tens of thousand showers, Fostered and fed, one greedy day devours. And all in vain! Lured by the severed spoil, The foul fierce harpies fasten on the soil. `My lands on luck.' We take you. Clear the course; Twenty to one upon Lucullus' horse! One minute more, and poor Lucullus flies, The beggared heir of all the centuries. Then scoffed, and scourged, and stripped of all his wealth, His last friends leave him-energy and health. Anxiety and fierce Excitement's flame Have scorched his blood and shrivelled up his frame. `Plum to a pony!' hear the cripple call; `Ere six months pass, the grave will end it all.' Lucky at last, he wins his bootless bet, And dies of drink, debauchery, and debt. Gone are the times indeed when savage Might Usurped the throne and claimed the wage of Right. No longer now the tiller of the soil Sees his fair fields the lusty robber's spoil; No timid burgher now grows rich by stealth, Lest some rude noble swoop upon his wealth; The quiet citizen no longer fears A raid upon his money or his ears, That local turmoil or imperial strife Will wreck his home or leave him bare for life. But say, is Force the only fearful foe, 502 Or the keen Sword worst source of human woe? Wielding base weapons Violence disdained, Cunning prevails where once Compulsion reigned. The tyrant's lance, Oppression's piercing shaft, Torment no more, but abdicate to Craft. Could feudal despot swooping on his prey, Could bandit burning for the unequal fray, Could fire, sword, famine, spread more wreck abroad, Than marks the path of Greed allied with Fraud; Or waits on life, where no rude signs portend When the dread bolt of Ruin will descend? See the poor father, who for years has toiled, At one fell stroke of all his store despoiled. His was the pious wish, by daily care And safe degrees to make his hearth more fair; His the ambition-far too meek to roamTo swell the simple luxuries of home; By loving thrift to deck his comely spouse With some poor gem, the summit of her vows; To instruct his boys in every generous art Which trains the man to act a shining part; By culture's aid to see his daughters armed With each fair grace that in their mother charmed; Year after year, as strength and vigour waned, To find his fondest forecasts all attained; And then, since faithful to the final stage, Doff the hard harness from the back of age. But watchful Greed with jealous eye beheld Day after day his little earnings swelled; Studied the tender workings of his mind, Marked the fond aims to which his heart inclined; With specious lips his trusting senses stole, And with false visions fired his prudent soul. Poor wretch! but yesterday in modest state He lived, secure from every bolt of Fate. To-day, he wanders feverish and depressed, As though whole Andes weighed upon his breast. To-morrow, back unto his home he crawls, A beggared man, and at the threshold falls. Now will no more his trustful wife behold The gladsome face returning as of old, 503 And read in sparkling eye and smiling cheek The day's good tidings e'en before he speak; Never again in hastening footsteps guess Some pretty love-gift, token of success. Their blooming boys, for whom parental hope So oft had cast the fairest horoscope, And seen with fond anticipating eyes Each proud successive civic honour rise, Torn from their noble studies, have to crave From base pursuits the pittance of a slave, Pour the soul's wine into the body's sieve, And grand life lose in mean attempts to live. Perchance, at home their humble wants denied, Gaunt Hunger drives them from their mother's side; Leaves her to weep alone o'er what hath been, And places ocean, pitiless, between. The tender girls, their father's pride and joy, Whose dreams a fiend had scrupled to destroy; From childhood's earliest days whose only care Was to be gracious, virtuous, and fair, And who from Heaven could nothing else implore Save to be all their mother was before; Who pictured as their perfect scheme of life A clinging daughter and a helpful wife,At one rude flash behold the world enlarge, And stand, pale victims, trembling on the marge. Little, alas, now boots it where they roam, Since they must leave the tranquil shores of home. Whether, poor slaves, they crawl with aching feet Hour after hour from dreary street to street, Or, as in mockery of home, alas! Beneath the stranger's icy portal pass, And thankless task and miserable wage Their exiled cheerless energies engage, Their youth, their life, is blasted at the core, And Hope's sweet sap will mount their veins no more. Should every door their humble prayers repel, Scorning to buy what Hunger kneels to sell, And they, half thankful that the strangers spurn, To their own roof be driven to return, How strange the scene that meets their wearied gaze! How changed the hearth, the home, of other days! 504 Contracting Care usurps the mother's face, Whose smiles of old spread sunshine through the place. Alone she weeps; but should she chance to hear Her husband's steps, she hides the furtive tear; Follows his movements with an anxious dread, Studies his brow, and scans his restless tread; Assails his woe with every female wile, Prattles of hope, and simulates a smile. He, broken man, wrapt in perpetual gloom, Wanders anon from vacant room to room; Then, creeping back, the image of despair, With a deep sigh he sinks into his chair. He seldom speaks; and when his voice is heard, Peevish its tone, and querulous his word; And vain laments and childish tears attest The lamp of life is dying in his breast. Perhaps his death some timely pittance frees, Secured by prudence in their days of ease; And, O the pity! posthumous relief Stanches love's wounds, and blunts the edge of grief. Unless, indeed-for this too hath been knownAll-grasping Greed hath made that mite its own, Filched from the widow her last hopes of bread, And whom it ruined living, plunders dead! These are thy triumphs, Gold! thy trophies these, To nurture fraud, and rob the world of ease, Faith to befool, young genius to seduce, And blight at once its beauty and its use. Thine is the bait, as loveless hearths avouch, Which drags fresh victims to the venal couch; Thine the foul traps wherewith our ways are rife, That lure them first, then close upon their life; Thine, thine the springes, set in regions fair, Whose unseen nooses strangle whom they snare; The cynic glory thine to lie in wait To make men little who had else been great, Frustrate our plenty, aggravate our dearth, And keep eternal feud 'twixt Heaven and Earth! Lo, where huge London, huger day by day, 505 O'er six fair counties spreads its hideous sway, A tract there lies by Fortune's favours blest, And at Fame's font yclept the happy West. There, as by wizard touch, for miles on miles, Rise squares, streets, crescents of palatial piles. In the brave days when England's trusty voice Made grappling rivals tremble or rejoice; When, foremost shield of Weakness or of Right, She scorned to warn unless resolved to smite; When, few but firm, her stalwart children bore The terror of her Flag from shore to shore, Purged Christ's dear tomb from sacrilege and shame, And made the Moslem quake at Richard's name; Taught the vain Gaul, though gallant, still to kneel, And Spain's proud sons the weight of northern steel;Then were her best in no such splendour nursed As now awaits her basest and her worst. No kingly Harry glittering with renown, No Edward radiant in a peaceful crown, Was housed as now, at turn of Fortune's wrist, Some lucky navvy turned capitalist, Some convict's bastard who a-sudden shines In the bright splendour of Australian mines, Or subtle Greek, who, skilled in Eastern ways, Exposes all Golconda to our gaze. These, as to Pomp's pretentious peaks they rush, Heed not the crowds their sordid conquests crush: Secure in glaring opulence, they scan With placid eyes the miseries of man; Fat units, watch the leanness of the whole, And gag remonstrance with a paltry dole: Mid harrowing want, with conscience unafraid, Die on the golden dirt-heaps they have made. Here Plenty gorges gifts from every zone, There thankful Hunger gnaws its meagre bone; Profusion here melts more than pearls in wine, There craves gaunt Penury some shucks from swine; And whilst rich rogues quaff deep round roaring fires, At Dives' portal Lazarus expires! Betwixt these fierce extremes of wealth and woe, A crowd of strugglers hustles to and fro, 506 Whose one sole aim and only hope in life Are just to wrench subsistence from the strife. To what base shifts these hideous straits compel The straining wretches, let our records tell. Victims of greedy Competition's craft, We drain cheap poison in each sparkling draught, Purchase a lie in every vaunted ware, And swallow filth in the most frugal fare. Building a refuge for our age, we find The crumbling mortar lets in wet and wind; Face the rude waves, by science freed from awe, To sink, poor dupes, on life-belts made of straw! Nor this the worst! When ripened Shame would hide Fruits of that hour when Passion conquered Pride, There are not wanting in this Christian land The breast remorseless and the Thuggish hand, To advertise the dens where Death is sold, And quench the breath of baby-life for gold! Nor man alone, case-hardened man, surveys These shocking contrasts with a careless gaze. Fair melting woman of the tender breast Here finds no room for pity as her guest. Unsexed, she strains to Ostentation's goal, While Splendour's dreams demoralise her soul; Drains, like a goddess, hecatombs of lives, Nor heeds who lags, provided she arrives. See Claribel, by every gift designed Mid anguish keen to be an angel kind, Once plunged in rival factions' golden fight, Turned to a demon in her own despite. Behold, to-morrow in the Royal smile Will bask the birth and wealth of all the Isle. She, long abroad, received the summons late. What's to be done? Nor time nor tide will wait. She turns her wardrobe over, racks her brain; Nothing will do. She wants a dress and train. Drive to the modiste's. Not a finger free. There's only Clara. Clara let it be. But Clara's sick and sorry. Give her gold; Her aches will cease, her sorrows be consoled. 507 It must be done. Sure Lilian there will glow In gorgeous newness decked from top to toe; Shall it be said that Claribel did less? To-morrow, then, in time the train and dress. So Clara drags her weary limbs from bed, O'er the brave finery hangs her throbbing head; Still as her senses swim sews on and on, Till day dies out and twilight pale is gone. Then, by the taper's soft and silent light, Like a pale flower that opens most by night, Her pace she quickens, and the needle moves Subtler and swifter through the gauzy grooves; But as the dawn on guttering sockets gains, Her tired lids drop, and sleep arrests her pains. But sleep how short! She feels her shoulder clutched: `Clara, awake! the train's not even touched! Day strides apace. See, there's the morning sun, And ere again he sinks, 't must all be done.' Again, again, the shooting thread she plies, In silent agony of smothered sighs. She seems to breathe her breath into the gown, To give it life the while she lays hers down. Fast as the task advances set by pride, So fast within her ebbs the vital tide. The daylight goes, and softly comes the moon's, And then poor Clara over the last stitch swoons. Meanwhile, the panting Claribel awaits The precious gown within her golden gates. It comes-it comes. Now who shall shine her down? Not Lilian, surely? No, not the entire Town. She not for worlds had lost this courtly chance; And Clara dies that Claribel may dance! If private worth, thus languishing, expires, Will public Virtue keep alive her fires? The slaves of wealth, in Britain as in Rome, Bring to the Forum vices formed at home. First the community, and then the State, Falls to their fangs, which naught can satiate. Not born nor bred to rule, of culture void, 508 And by no wave of young ambition buoyed, Anxious on heights conspicuous to flaunt Nought but the tawdry trophies they can vaunt, They woo the grasping crowd with golden guile, And spread Corruption's canker through the Isle. You want a seat? Then boldly sate your itch. Be very radical, and very rich. Sell your opinions first to please the pure, Then buy the sordid, and your triumph's sure. Do all, in brief, that honest men abhor, And England hails another Senator. See the vain Tribune who, in lust of power, Bows to the base exactions of the hour, And, fooled by sycophants, stands forth at last A devotee turned sworn iconoclast! Behind him sit dense rows of golden mutes, Deaf to whate'er demonstrates or refutes, Ready to vote, rescind, obey in all The whip demands, as hounds the huntsman's call. They neither know nor reck what helpful deeds In this grave hour their perilled Country needs. They want to see their daughters nobly wed, Their wives at Court, their own names trumpeted, Their private Bills advanced another stage, Their schemes of plunder foisted on the age. Leave them but these, the gamblers come to call, Nor heed an Empire nodding to its fall! When Power is built on props like these, how vain The hope that Law the giddy will restrain! Spoilt by twin sops, servility and gold, The headstrong crowd is then but ill controlled. In vain they now would sway who lately served, And Riot cows Authority unnerved. Better that such base compromise should end, And the dread bolt of Anarchy descend! Goths of the gutter, Vandals of the slum, Thieves and Reformers, come! Barbarians, come! Before your might let rails and rules be hurled, And sweep Civilisation from the world! 509 Nor now, alas, do Commoners alone To private ends the public weal postpone. Those too, whom worth ancestral plants on seats High above where all vulgar Clamour beats, With paltry fear to their clipped ermine cling, And shrink from right, lest right should ruin bring. The Peers stand firm; the Commons disagree. The Peers be-well, it now is close on three. By five, a world of reasons will be found. Throw Jonas over, or the ship's aground. You know the fury of the hand that steers; And what were Britain with no House of Peers? Would Primogeniture its fall survive, Or even Property be kept alive? Let Herbert fume, or frantic Cecil chafe, Better a deal to choose the side that's safe; Bow to the will of Finlen and his hordes, And still thank Heavën for a House of Lords! Thus may the British breast exult to think. That noble names can sell ignoble ink; That ill-got gains, if deftly spent, unlock Birth's choicest circles to the ambitious smock; That Dives foul mounts fine Aristo's stairs, If but Aristo Dives' plunder shares; And half Debrett urbanely flocks to White's, To back the boor who saves them from the kites. His son succeeds him. `Make the son a Peer. Why not? His income's eighty thousand clear. New blood is wanted. Here's the very stuff. Besides, he wields the county vote.' Enough. But hold! there's Cato. `Cato! are you sane? Why, Cato's means but one small hearth sustain. Ennoble Cato, you'll have Peers for life, Or else forbid the man to take a wife. He can't maintain the necessary state, And would you have a poor name legislate? No, Dives' son's the very man we need. What says the Crown?' The Crown! Of course, Agreed. And the young fool, enriched by parent knaves, From Ruin's jaws our Constitution saves! Is there no path of honour for the great, 510 No sound and clean salvation for the State? Must we for ever fly to shifts like this, And trust to Gold to save us from the abyss? Must honours old by new-got wealth be vamped, And Valour's stock by plutocrats be swamped? Back to your lands, base sons of splendid sires! From spendthrift squares back to your native shires! Back, back from Baden, and leave Homburg's shades To dazzling Jews and mercenary jades. Leave London's round of vulgar joys to those Who seek in such from base pursuits repose. Cease to contend with upstart Wealth's parade, To wring your lands to vie with tricks of trade; And, proudly spurning Glitter's transient lies, At least be honest, if you can't be wise! Worship your household gods, and spend at home The solid earnings of the generous loam. Delve, fence, and drain; the dripping waste reclaim; With spreading woodlands multiply your fame. Yours let it be to screen the reverent hind, Who loves your presence, 'gainst the frost and wind; Scorning to count the profit, raise his lot; Lure the shy Graces to his lowly cot; Be, one and all, acknowledged, far and wide, Patriarchs and patterns of the country side. And whether demagogues shall rise or fall, A Cleon mount, or Boänerges bawl, True to yourselves and native duty, thus Save this poor England by being virtuous! And you, Sir, hope of this once famous isle, Round whom its halo plays, its favours smile, Hark to the Muse, which, poised on Candour's wings, Flouts the base crowd, but scorns to flatter kings. Hark, while she tells you, nor her counsel spurn, From giddy Pleasure's gilded toys to turn; That not from minions opulent or coarse Do Princes gain their lustre and their force; That Reverence anchors not in deep carouse, And that a Crown fits only kingly brows! Fired by each bright example, shun the shade, Where Scandal best can ply her noxious trade. 511 Learn from your pious Father how to share With hands, too lonely now, a Kingdom's care. Be by your fair loved Consort's pattern moved, And like your virtuous Mother, stand approved; Do for this England all the Sceptre can, And be at least a stainless gentleman. Be this too much, you well may live to find That firmest Thrones can fail the weak and blind, And, though no Samson, sharing half his fate, Pull down the pillars of a mighty State! Whilst our domestic fortunes thus obey All-searching Gold's demoralising sway, We hug the limits of our puny shore, And Glory knows our once great name no more. First are we still in every bloodless fray, Where piles of gold adventurous prows repay; But when flushed Honour sets the world on fire, We furl our sails and to our coasts retire; And, basely calm whilst outraged nations bleed, Invent new doctrines to excuse our greed. When gallant Denmark, now the spoiler's prey, Flashed her bright blade, and faced the unequal fray, And, all abandoned both by men and gods, Fell, faint with wounds, before accursèd odds,Where, where was England's vindicating sword, Her promised arm, to stay the invading horde; Bid the rude German drop his half-clutched spoil, And scare the robber from ancestral soil? The fair young Dane, beloved by every Grace, And all the Virtues shining in her face, Who, more an angel than a princess deemed, Withal was even sweeter than she seemed, With noisy throats we summoned o'er the foam, And with cheap cheers escorted to her home. But when with streaming eye and throbbing breast She, pious child, her loving fears confessed, And, leagued with Honour's voice and Valour's ire, Prayed us to save her country and her sire, We turned away, and opulently cold, Put back our swords of steel in sheaths of gold! 512 And yet what sandy base doth Gold afford, Though crowned by Law, and fenced round by the Sword, Learn from that Empire which, a scorn for aye, Grew in a night and perished in a day! Helped by a magic name and doubtful hour, See the Adventurer scale the steeps of Power. Upon him groups of desperate gamesters wait, To snatch their profit from a sinking State. Folly, and Fate which Folly still attends, Conspire to shape and expedite their ends. The Hour, the Man are here! No pulse? No breath? Wake, Freedom, wake! In vain! She sleeps like Death. The impious hands, emboldened by her swoon, Choke in the night, and slay her in the noon! Then, when vain crowds with dilatory glaive Rush to avenge the life they would not save, The prompt conspirators with lavish hand Fling their last pieces to a pampered band, Bribe cut-throat blades Vengeance' choked ways to hold, And bar the avenues of rage with gold! Then mark how soon, amid triumphant hymns, The Imperial purple girds the blood-stained limbs. The perjured hands a golden sceptre gain, A crown of gold screens the seared brow of Cain, And golden eagles, erst of simpler ore, Assert the Caesar, and his rod restore. See round his throne Pomp's servile tributes swell, Not Nero knew, e'er Rome to ruin fell, Far from his feet the lust of glitter spread, And the vain herd on Splendour's follies fed! Nor they alone, the shallow, base, and gay, Bend to this Idol with the feet of clay: Statesmen and soldiers kneel with flattering suit, Kings are his guests, e'en queens his cheeks salute; Senates extol him, supple priests caress, And even thou, O Pius, stoop'st to bless! And the World's verdict, ever blind as base, Welcomes the `Second Saviour' of the race! And yet how weak this Empire girt with gold Did prove to save when Battle's torrents rolled, 513 Have we not seen in ruin, rout, and shame, Burnt deep in Gaul's for ever broken fame? What then availed her courts of pomp and pride, What her bright camps with glittering shows allied? What, in that hour, the luxury which passed To soldiers' lips the sybarite repast? Did all her gold suffice, when steel withstood Her stride, to make her rash, vain challenge good? Behold her Chief, in comfort longwhile slung, By War's rough couch and random fare unstrung His vaunted Leaders, who to Power had mown Their path with swords that propped a venal Throne, Brandishing rival blades, his brain confound, While still, but sure, the solid foe press round. See her soft sons, whom arms enervate lead, Spurn the long marches which to victory speed, And, fondly deeming Science served by Wealth Will snatch the fight at distance and by stealth, Smitten with fear at Valour's downright face, And taught swift limbs in Flight's ignoble chase! See one, see all, before the Victor fleet, Then lay their swords, submissive, at his feet! O hapless France! e'en then insurgent ire Had your soiled scutcheon lifted from the mire, Placed the bright helm on Honour's front once more, And laurels reaped more lasting than of yore, Had not rich ease your manhood's marrow stole, And gold emollient softened all your soul. O, what a sight-a sight these eyes beheldHer fair green woods by the invader felled; Her fields and vineyards by the Teuton trod, Those she once smote encamped upon her sod; Her homes, in dread, abandoned to the foe, Or saved from rapine by obsequience low; Her cities ransomed, provinces o'erawed, Her iron strongholds wrenched by force or fraud; Her once proud Paris grovelling in the dust, And-crowning irony, if lesson justThe grasping victor, loth to quit his hold, Coaxed slowly homewards o'er a bridge of gold! 514 Is there no warning, England, here, for thee? Or are Heaven's laws balked by a strip of sea? Are thy foundations, Albion, so approved, Thou canst behold such downfall all unmoved? Have we not marked how this Briarean Gold Doth all our life and energies enfold? And as our practice, so our doctrines tooWe shape new ethics for our vices new; Our sires forswear, our splendid Past defame, And in high places glory in our shame! Hear our loud-tinkling Tribunes all declare Once lavish England hath no blood to spare, No gold to spend; within her watery wall She needs to roll and wallow in it all. Doth towering Might some poor faint Cause oppress, They bid her turn, impartial, from distress; Indulge her tears, but hide her ire from sight, Lest a like doom her angry front invite. And when this craven caution fails to save Her peaceful fortunes from the braggart glaive, They bid her still be moral and be meek, Hug tight her gold, and turn the other cheek. Her very sons, sprung from her mighty loins, We aliens make, to save some paltry coins; With our own hands destroy our Empire old, And stutter, `All is lost, except our gold!' With languid limbs, by comfortable fire, We see our glories, one by one, expire; A Nelson's flag, a Churchill's flashing blade, Debased to menials of rapacious Trade; Lost by a Cardwell what a Wellesley won, And by a Gladstone Chatham's world undone! Pale, gibbering spectres fumbling at the helm, Whilst dark winds howl, and billowy seas o'erwhelm. Yet deem you, England, that you thus will save, Even your wealth from rapine or the grave? Will your one chain of safety always hold, Or `silver streak' for ever guard your gold? If through long slumbrous years the ignoble rust Of selfish ease your erst bright steel encrust, When Storm impends, you vainly will implore The Gods of Ocean to protect your shore. 515 Bribed by the foe, behold Britannia stand At Freedom's portals with a traitress hand, Help the Barbarian to its sacred hold, Then, like Tarpeia, sink oppressed with Gold! Perish the thought! O, rather let me see Conspiring myriads bristling on the sea, Our tranquil coasts bewildered by alarms, And Britain, singly, face a World in arms! What if a treacherous Heaven befriend our foes? Let us go down in glory, as we rose! And if that doom-the best that could betideBe to our Fame by envious Fate denied, Then come, primeval clouds and seasons frore, And wrap in gloom our luckless land once more! Come, every wind of Heaven that rudely blows, Plunge back our Isle in never-ending snows! Rage, Eurus, rage! fierce Boreas, descend! With glacial mists lost Albion befriend! E'en of its name be every trace destroyed, And Dark sit brooding o'er the formless Void! ~ Alfred Austin,

543:Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric Dramatis Personae HUGO, a Norman Baron and a Scholar. ERIC, a friend of Hugo's. THURSTON, | EUSTACE, | RALPH, | Followers of Hugo. HENRY, a Page. LUKE, | HUBERT, | Monks living in a Norman Chapel. BASIL, Abbot of a Convent on the Rhine. CYRIL, a Monk of the same Convent. OSRIC, a Norwegian Adventurer, and formerly a Corsair. RUDOLPH, an Outlawed Count, and the Captain of a Band of Robbers. DAGOBERT, the Captain of some predatory Soldiers called "Free Lances". HAROLD, a Danish Knight. ORION. THORA, AGATHA, ELSPETH, a Nurse of Thora's, URSULA, Abbess of the Convent on the Rhine, | NUNS, etc. | Women. Men-at-arms, Soldiers, and Robbers; Monks, Friars, and Churchmen, Spirits, etc. SCENE — A Castle in Normandy. A Study in a Tower; HUGO seated at a table covered with maps and charts of the heavens, astronomical instruments, books, manuscripts, Enter HENRY, a Page. Hugo: Well, boy, what is it? 27 Henry: The feast is spread. Hugo: Why tarry the guests for me? Let Eric sit at the table's head; Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] What share have I at their festive board? Their mirth I can only mar; To me no pleasure their cups afford, Their songs on my silence jar. With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, And yet with a hopeful heart, I must toil and strain with the planets again When the rays of the sun depart; He who must needs with the topers tope, And the feasters feast in the hall, How can he hope with a matter to cope That is immaterial? Orion: He who his appetite stints and curbs, Shut up in the northern wing, With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, And his draught from the tasteless spring, Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. There are some good things upon earth — Pleasure and power and fair renown, And wisdom of worldly worth! There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, In follies that light the eyes, But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence Is alone by the fool termed wise. Hugo: Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; Perchance, having jeer'd and scoff'd To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; I wot thou hast served me oft. This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; What errors canst thou detect? 28 Orion: Nay, the constellations are misplaced, And the satellites incorrect; Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek An hour of needful rest, The night is young and the planets are weak; See, the sun still reddens the west. Hugo: I fear I shall sleep too long. Orion: If you do It matters not much; the sky Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; Now, list to my lullaby. [Hugo reclines on a couch.] (Sings.) Still the darkling skies are red, Though the day-god's course is run; Heavenly night-lamps overhead Flash and twinkle one by one. Idle dreamer — earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? From the tree of knowledge first, Since his parents pluck'd the fruit, Man, with partial knowledge curs'd, Of the tree still seeks the root; Musty volumes crowd thy shelf — Which of these true knowledge brings? Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Will the stars from heaven descend? Can the earth-worm soar and rise? Can the mortal comprehend Heaven's own hallow'd mysteries? Greed and glory, power and pelf — These are won by clowns and kings; Wherefore weariest thou thyself 29 With thy vain imaginings? Sow and reap, and toil and spin; Eat and drink, and dream and die; Man may strive, yet never win, And I laugh the while and cry — Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, Whatever dreams it has brought him — [Looks at the plans.] If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, He's wiser than one who taught him. Why does he number the Pole-star thus? Or the Pleiades why combine? And what is he doing with Sirius, In the devil's name or in mine? Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, That the sins of his youth are slain, When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back To his old pet sins again. SCENE — The Same. HUGO waking, ORION seated near him. Daybreak. Hugo: Oh, weary spirit! oh, cloudy eyes! Oh, heavy and misty brain! Yon riddle that lies 'twixt earth and skies, Ye seek to explore in vain! See, the east is grey; put those scrolls away, And hide them far from my sight; I will toil and study no more by day, I will watch no longer by night; I have labour'd and long'd, and now I seem No nearer the mystic goal; 30 Orion, I fain would devise some scheme To quiet this restless soul; To distant climes I would fain depart — I would travel by sea or land. Orion: Nay, I warn'd you of this, "Short life, long art", The proverb, though stale, will stand; Full many a sage from youth to age Has toil'd to obtain what you Would master at once. In a pilgrimage, Forsooth, there is nothing new; Though virtue, I ween, in change of scene, And vigour in change of air, Will always be, and has always been, And travel is a tonic rare. Still, the restless, discontented mood For the time alone is eased; It will soon return with hunger renew'd, And appetite unappeased. Nathless I could teach a shorter plan To win that wisdom you crave, That lore that is seldom attain'd by man From the cradle down to the grave. Hugo: Such lore I had rather do without, It hath nothing mystic nor awful In my eye. Nay, I despise and doubt The arts that are term'd unlawful; 'Twixt science and magic the line lies plain, I shall never wittingly pass it; There is now no compact between us twain. Orion: But an understanding tacit. You have prospered much since the day we met; You were then a landless knight; You now have honour and wealth, and yet I never can serve you right. Hugo: Enough; we will start this very day, 31 Thurston, Eric, and I, And the baffled visions will pass away, And the restless fires will die. Orion: Till the fuel expires that feeds those fires They smoulder and live unspent; Give a mortal all that his heart desires, He is less than ever content. SCENE — A Cliff on the Breton Coast, Overhanging the Sea. HUGO. Hugo: Down drops the red sun; through the gloaming They burst — raging waves of the sea, Foaming out their own shame — ever foaming Their leprosy up with fierce glee; Flung back from the stone, snowy fountains Of feathery flakes, scarcely flag Where, shock after shock, the green mountains Explode on the iron-grey crag. The salt spray with ceaseless commotion Leaps round me. I sit on the verge Of the cliff — 'twixt the earth and the ocean — With feet overhanging the surge. In thy grandeur, oh, sea! we acknowledge, In thy fairness, oh, earth! we confess, Hidden truths that are taught in no college, Hidden songs that no parchments express. Were they wise in their own generations, Those sages and sagas of old? They have pass'd; o'er their names and their nations Time's billows have silently roll'd; They have pass'd, leaving little to their children, Save histories of a truth far from strict; Or theories more vague and bewildering, 32 Since three out of four contradict. Lost labour! vain bookworms have sat in The halls of dull pedants who teach Strange tongues, the dead lore of the Latin, The scroll that is god-like and Greek: Have wasted life's springtide in learning Things long ago learnt all in vain; They are slow, very slow, in discerning That book lore and wisdom are twain. Pale shades of a creed that was mythic, By time or by truth overcome, Your Delphian temples and Pythic Are ruins deserted and dumb; Your Muses are hush'd, and your Graces Are bruised and defaced; and your gods, Enshrin'd and enthron'd in high places No longer, are powerless as clods; By forest and streamlet, where glisten'd Fair feet of the Naiads that skimm'd The shallows; where the Oreads listen'd, Rose-lipp'd, amber-hair'd, marble-limb'd, No lithe forms disport in the river, No sweet faces peer through the boughs, Elms and beeches wave silent for ever, Ever silent the bright water flows. (Were they duller or wiser than we are, Those heathens of old? Who shall say? Worse or better? Thy wisdom, O "Thea Glaucopis", was wise in thy day; And the false gods alluring to evil, That sway'd reckless votaries then, Were slain to no purpose; they revel Re-crowned in the hearts of us men.) Dead priests of Osiris and Isis, And Apis! that mystical lore, Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisis Of fever, is studied no more; 33 Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spangles The arch of yon firmament vast Looks calm, like a host of white angels, On dry dust of votaries past. On seas unexplored can the ship shun Sunk rocks? Can man fathom life's links, Past or future, unsolved by Egyptian Or Theban, unspoken by Sphinx? The riddle remains still unravell'd By students consuming night oil. Oh, earth! we have toil'd, we have travail'd, How long shall we travail and toil? How long? The short life that fools reckon So sweet, by how much is it higher Than brute life? — the false gods still beckon, And man, through the dust and the mire, Toils onward, as toils the dull bullock, Unreasoning, brutish, and blind, With Ashtaroth, Mammon, and Moloch In front, and Alecto behind. The wise one of earth, the Chaldean, Serves folly in wisdom's disguise; And the sensual Epicurean, Though grosser, is hardly less wise; 'Twixt the former, half pedant, half pagan, And the latter, half sow and half sloth, We halt, choose Astarte or Dagon, Or sacrifice freely to both. With our reason that seeks to disparage, Brute instinct it fails to subdue; With our false illegitimate courage, Our sophistry, vain and untrue; Our hopes that ascend so and fall so, Our passions, fierce hates and hot loves, We are wise (aye, the snake is wise also) — Wise as serpents, NOT harmless as doves. Some flashes, like faint sparks from heaven, 34 Come rarely with rushing of wings; We are conscious at times we have striven, Though seldom, to grasp better things; These pass, leaving hearts that have falter'd, Good angels with faces estranged, And the skin of the Ethiop unalter'd, And the spots of the leopard unchanged. Oh, earth! pleasant earth! have we hanker'd To gather thy flowers and thy fruits? The roses are wither'd, and canker'd The lilies, and barren the roots Of the fig-tree, the vine, the wild olive, Sharp thorns and sad thistles that yield Fierce harvest — so WE live, and SO live The perishing beasts of the field. And withal we are conscious of evil And good — of the spirit and the clod, Of the power in our hearts of a devil, Of the power in our souls of a God, Whose commandments are graven in no cypher, But clear as His sun — from our youth One at least we have cherished — "An eye for An eye, and a tooth for a tooth." Oh, man! of thy Maker the image; To passion, to pride, or to wealth, Sworn bondsman, from dull youth to dim age, Thy portion the fire or the filth, Dross seeking, dead pleasure's death rattle Thy memories' happiest song, And thy highest hope — scarce a drawn battle With dark desperation. How long? Roar louder! leap higher! ye surf-beds, And sprinkle your foam on the furze; Bring the dreams that brought sleep to our turf-beds, To camps of our long ago years, With the flashing and sparkling of broadswords, 35 With the tossing of banners and spears, With the trampling of hard hoofs on hard swards, With the mingling of trumpets and cheers. The gale has gone down; yet outlasting The gale, raging waves of the sea, Casting up their own foam, ever casting Their leprosy up with wild glee, Still storm; so in rashness and rudeness Man storms through the days of his grace; Yet man cannot fathom God's goodness, Exceeding God's infinite space. And coldly and calmly and purely Grey rock and green hillock lie white In star-shine dream-laden — so surely Night cometh — so cometh the night When we, too, at peace with our neighbour, May sleep where God's hillocks are piled, Thanking HIM for a rest from day's labour, And a sleep like the sleep of a child! SCENE — The Castle in Normandy. THORA working at embroidery, ELSPETH spinning. Thora (sings): We severed in autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder'd one misty morning, Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain, Through the flowers those hills adorning — Thou comest not back again. My heart is heavy and weary With the weight of a weary soul; 36 The mid-day glare grows dreary, And dreary the midnight scroll. The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 'Neath the load of the golden grain; I sigh for a mate more fickle — Thou comest not back again. The warm sun riseth and setteth, The night bringeth moistening dew, But the soul that longeth forgetteth The warmth and the moisture too; In the hot sun rising and setting There is naught save feverish pain; There are tears in the night-dews wetting — Thou comest not back again. Thy voice in mine ear still mingles With the voices of whisp'ring trees; Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles At each kiss of the summer breeze; While dreams of the past are thronging For substance of shades in vain, I am waiting, watching, and longing — Thou comest not back again. Waiting and watching ever, Longing and lingering yet, Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, Winds murmur and waters fret; No answer they bring, no greeting, No speech save that sad refrain, Nor voice, save an echo repeating — He cometh not back again. Elspeth: Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max; With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot. If the husbands vanish'd, and left no tracks, Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot? Thora: How well I remember that dreary ride; 37 How I sigh'd for the lands of ice and snow, In the trackless wastes of the desert wide, With the sun o'erhead and the sand below; 'Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms, How I sigh'd for the forest of sheltering firs, Whose shadows environ'd the Danish farms, Where I sang and sported in childish years. On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimage We stayed at the foot of a sandhill high; Our fever'd thirst we could scarce assuage At the brackish well that was nearly dry, And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set, And we rode all the day through a desert land, And we camp'd where the lake and the river met, On sedge and shingle and shining sand: Enfolded in Hugo's cloak I slept, Or watch'd the stars while I lay awake; And close to our feet the staghound crept, And the horses were grazing beside the lake; Now we own castles and serving men, Lands and revenues. What of that? Hugo the Norman was kinder then, And happier was Thora of Armorat. Elspeth: Nay, I warn'd thee, with Norman sails unfurl'd Above our heads, when we wished thee joy, That men are the same all over the world, They will worship only the newest toy; Yet Hugo is kind and constant too, Though somewhat given to studies of late; Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue, And worse than thine is thy sisters' fate. But a shadow darkens the chamber door. Enter THURSTON. Thurston: 'Tis I, Lady Thora; our lord is near. My horse being fresher, I rode before; Both he and Eric will soon be here. 38 Thora: Good Thurston, give me your hand. You are Most welcome. What has delayed you thus? Thurston: Both by sea and land we have travell'd far, Yet little of note has happened to us — We were wreck'd on the shores of Brittany, Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound; The rocks were steep and the surf ran high, Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown'd. By a swarm of knaves we were next beset, Who took us for corsairs; then released By a Breton count, whose name I forget. Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast. [He goes out.] Elspeth: That man is rude and froward of speech: My ears are good, though my sight grows dim. Thora: Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teach Courtly nor servile manners to him. SCENE — The Castle Hall. THURSTON, RALPH, EUSTACE, and other followers of HUGO, seated at a long table. HAROLD seated apart. Thurston: Who is that stranger, dark and tall, On the wooden settle next to the wall — Mountebank, pilgrim, or wandering bard? Eustace: To define his calling is somewhat hard; Lady Thora has taken him by the hand Because he has come from the Holy Land. 39 Pilgrims and palmers are all the rage With her, since she shared in that pilgrimage With Hugo. The stranger came yesterday, And would have gone on, but she bade him stay. Besides, he sings in the Danish tongue The songs she has heard in her childhood sung. That's all I know of him, good or bad; In my own opinion he's somewhat mad. You must raise your voice if you speak with him, And he answers as though his senses were dim. Thurston (to Harold): Good-morrow, sir stranger. Harold: Good-morrow, friend. Thurston: Where do you come from? and whither wend? Harold: I have travelled of late with the setting sun At my back; and as soon as my task is done I purpose to turn my face to the north — Yet we know not what a day may bring forth. Thurston: Indeed we don't. (To Eustace, aside): Nay, I know him now By that ugly scar that crosses his brow; And the less we say to him the better. Your judgment is right to the very letter — The man is mad. Eustace: But harmless, I think; He eats but little, eschews strong drink, And only speaks when spoken to first. Thurston: Harmless or not, he was once the worst And bitterest foe Lord Hugo had; And yet his story is somewhat sad. 40 Eustace: May I hear it? Thurston: Nay, I never reveal What concerns me not. Our lord may conceal Or divulge at pleasure his own affairs, — Not even his comrade Eric shares His secrets; though Eric thinks him wise, Which is more than I do, for I despise That foolish science he learnt in Rome. He dreams and mopes when he sits at home, And now he's not much better abroad; 'Tis hard to follow so tame a lord. 'Twixt us two, he won't be worth a rush If he will persist in his studies —— Eustace: Hush! Ralph has persuaded our guest to sing. Thurston: I have known the day when his voice would ring Till the rafters echoed. Eustace: 'Tis pleasant still, Though far too feeble this hall to fill. Harold (sings): On the current, where the wide Windings of the river Eddy to the North Sea tide, Shall I in my shallop glide, As I have done at her side? Never! never! never! In the forest, where the firs, Pines, and larches quiver To the northern breeze that stirs, Shall my lips be press'd to hers, As they were in by-gone years? Never! never! never! 41 In the battle on the plain, Where the lance-shafts shiver, And the sword-strokes fall like rain, Shall I bear her scarf again As I have done — not in vain? Never! never! never! In a fairer, brighter land, Where the saints rest ever, Shall I once more see her stand, White, amidst a white-robed band, Harp and palm-branch in her hand? Never! never! never! SCENE — The Same. EUSTACE, THURSTON, and followers of HUGO. HAROLD. Enter, by the hall door, HUGO, ERIC, and THORA. Eustace (and others standing up): Welcome, Lord Hugo! Hugo: Welcome or not, Thanks for your greeting all. Ha, Eustace! what complaints hast thou got? What grievances to recall? Eustace: Count William came with a numerous band, Ere the snows began to fall, And slew a buck on your lordship's land, Within a league of the wall. Hugo: Count William has done to us no more Than we to him. In his vineyard Last summer, or later, maybe, a boar Was slaughter'd by Thurston's whinyard. 42 Thurston: Aye, Hugo! But William kept the buck, I will wager marks a score, Though the tale is new to me; and, worse luck, You made me give back the boar. Harold (advancing): Lord Hugo! Hugo: What! Art thou living yet? I scarcely knew thee, Sir Dane! And 'tis not so very long since we met. Harold: 'Twill be long ere we meet again. (gives a letter) This letter was traced by one now dead In the Holy Land; and I Must wait till his dying request is read, And in his name ask the reply. Thora (aside): Who is that stranger, Hugo? Hugo: By birth He is a countryman of thine, Thora. What writing is this on earth? I can scarce decipher a line. Harold: The pen in the clutch of death works ill. Hugo: Nay, I read now; the letters run More clearly. Harold: Wilt grant the request? Hugo: I will. Harold: Enough! Then my task is done. (He holds out his hand.) Hugo, I go to a far-off land, 43 Wilt thou say, "God speed thee!" now? Hugo: Sir Harold, I cannot take thy hand, Because of my ancient vow. Harold: Farewell, then. Thora: Friend, till the morning wait. On so wild a night as this Thou shalt not go from my husband's gate; The path thou wilt surely miss. Harold: I go. Kind lady, some future day Thy care will requited be. Thora: Speak, Hugo, speak. Hugo: He may go or stay, It matters little to me. [Harold goes out.] Thora: Husband, that man is ill and weak; On foot he goes and alone Through a barren moor in a night-storm bleak. Eric: Now I wonder where he has gone! Hugo: Indeed, I have not the least idea; The man is certainly mad. He wedded my sister, Dorothea, And used her cruelly bad. He was once my firmest and surest friend, And once my deadliest foe; But hate and friendship both find their end — Now I heed not where he may go. 44 SCENE — A Chamber in the Castle. HUGO, THORA, and ERIC. Hugo: That letter that came from Palestine, By the hands of yon wandering Dane, Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine. Thora: Wilt thou travel so soon again? Hugo: I can scarce refuse the dying request Of my comrade, Baldwin, now; His bones are dust. May his soul find rest He once made a foolish vow, That at Englemehr, 'neath the watchful care Of the Abbess, his child should stay, For a season at least. To escort her there I must start at the break of day. Thora: Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare? Hugo: Nay, Clare is dwelling in Spain With her spouse. Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair, I am told; but giddy and vain. Eric: Some musty tales on my memory grow Concerning Count Baldwin's vow; Thou knew'st his daughter? Hugo: Aye, years ago. I should scarcely know her now. 45 It seems, when her father's vow was made, She was taken sorely ill; Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd; He could never his oath fulfil. Eric: If rightly I've heard, 'twas Agatha That fled with some Danish knight — I forget the name. Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; She returned again that night. Thora: For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed. Hugo: That is no affair of mine. My task is over, my word fulfilled, Should I bring her safe to the Rhine. Come, Thora, sing. Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, Nor would I now if I could. Sing thou. Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring No sound save a discord rude. (Sings.) Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, The pine lies low in the dust; And the corn is withered and blighted, Where the fields are red with the rust; Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, Where its petals the violet rears, And the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. The strong in their strength are shaken, The wise in their wisdom fall; And the bloom of beauty is taken — Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, 46 They vanish, their lot fulfilling, Their doom approaches and nears, But the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 'Tis the will of a Great Creator, He is wise, His will must be done, And it cometh sooner or later; And one shall be taken, and one Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, In this vale of sorrows and tears, Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Tell me, mine own one, tell me, The shadows of life and the fears Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, While I can avert thy tears: Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling To realise lonely years? Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Enter HENRY. Henry: My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight, He has come on foot from the chapel; Some stranger perished beside his gate When the dawn began to dapple. SCENE — A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo's Castle. HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD. Luke: When the dawn was breaking, Came a faint sound, waking Hubert and myself; we hurried to the door, Found the stranger lying 47 At the threshold, dying. Somewhere have I seen a face like his before. Hugo: Harold he is hight. Only yester-night From our gates he wander'd, in the driving hail; Well his face I know, Both as friend and foe; Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale. Luke: Few the words he said, Faint the signs he made, Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn'd. This is retribution, Seek for absolution; Answer me — then cast thy sorrows to the wind. Do their voices reach thee, Friends who failed to teach thee, In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong? Charges 'gainst thee cited, Cares all unrequited, Counsels spurned and slighted — do they press and throng?" But he shook his head. "'Tis not so," he said; "They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore. If their counsels good, Rashly I withstood; Having suffered longer, I have suffered more." "Do their curses stun thee? Foes who failed to shun thee, Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career, As the barbed arrow Cleaveth bone and marrow, From those chambers narrow — do they pierce thine ear?" And he made reply, Laughing bitterly, "Did I fear them living — shall I fear them dead? Blood that I have spilt Leaveth little guilt; 48 On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head." "Is there one whom thou May'st have wronged ere now, Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart? By some saint in heaven, Sanctified and shriven, Would'st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?" Not a word he said, But he bowed his head Till his temples rested on the chilly sods And we heard him groan — "Ah! mine own, mine own! If I had thy pardon I might ask for God's." Hubert raised him slowly, Sunrise, faint and holy, Lit the dead face, placid as a child's might be. May the troubled spirit, Through Christ's saving merit, Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee. Hugo: God o'erruleth fate. I had cause for hate; In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong, Joined by priestly vows, He became the spouse Of my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong. And he wrought her woe, Making me his foe; Not alone unfaithful — brutal, too, was he. She had scarce been dead Three months, ere he fled With Count Baldwin's daughter, then betrothed to me. Fortune straight forsook him, Vengeance overtook him; Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment. All his strength was shatter'd, Even his wits were scatter'd, Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went. We are unforgiving 49 While our foes are living; Yet his retribution weigh'd so heavily That I feel remorse, Gazing on his corpse, For my rudeness when he left our gates to die. And his grave shall be 'Neath the chestnut tree, Where he met my sister many years ago; Leave that tress of hair On his bosom there — Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go. SCENE — A Room in the Castle. HUGO and ERIC. Early morning. Hugo: The morn is fair, the weary miles Will shorten 'neath the summer's wiles; Pomona in the orchard smiles, And in the meadow, Flora! And I have roused a chosen band For escort through the troubled land; And shaken Elspeth by the hand, And said farewell to Thora. Comrade and kinsman — for thou art Comrade and kin to me — we part Ere nightfall, if at once we start, We gain the dead Count's castle. The roads are fair, the days are fine, Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine. Forsooth, no friend to me or mine Is that same Abbot Basil; I thought he wronged us by his greed. My father sign'd a foolish deed For lack of gold in time of need, And thus our lands went by us; Yet wrong on our side may have been: As far as my will goes, I ween, 'Tis past, the grudge that lay between 50 Us twain. Men call him pious — And I have prosper'd much since then, And gain'd for one lost acre ten; And even the ancient house and glen Rebought with purchase-money. He, too, is wealthy; he has got By churchly rights a fertile spot, A land of corn and wine, I wot, A land of milk and honey. Now, Eric, change thy plans and ride With us; thou hast no ties, no bride. Eric: Nay, ties I have, and time and tide, Thou knowest, wait for no man; And I go north; God's blessing shuns The dwellings of forgetful sons, That proverb he may read who runs, In Christian lore or Roman. My good old mother she hath heard, For twelve long months, from me no word; At thought of her my heart is stirr'd, And even mine eyes grow moister. Greet Ursula from me; her fame Is known to all. A nobler dame, Since days of Clovis, ne'er became The inmate of a cloister. Our paths diverge, yet we may go Together for a league or so; I, too, will join thy band below When thou thy bugle windest. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: From weaknesses we stand afar, On us unpleasantly they jar; And yet the stoutest-hearted are The gentlest and the kindest. My mother loved me tenderly; Alas! her only son was I. I shudder'd, but my lids were dry, By death made orphan newly. 51 A braver man than me, I swear, Who never comprehended fear, Scarce names his mother, and the tear, Unbidden, springs unruly. SCENE — A Road on the Norman Frontiers. HUGO, AGATHA, ORION, THURSTON, and armed attendants, riding slowly. Agatha: Sir Knight, what makes you so grave and glum? At times I fear you are deaf or dumb, Or both. Hugo: And yet, should I speak the truth, There is little in common 'twixt us, forsooth; You would think me duller, and still more vain, If I uttered the thoughts that fill my brain; Since the matters with which my mind is laden Would scarcely serve to amuse a maiden. Agatha: I am so foolish and you are so wise, 'Tis the meaning your words so ill disguise. Alas! my prospects are sad enough: I had rather listen to speeches rough Than muse and meditate silently On the coming loss of my liberty. Sad hope to me can my future bring, Yet, while I may, I would prattle and sing, Though it only were to try and assuage The dreariness of my pilgrimage. Hugo: Prattle and sing to your heart's content, And none will offer impediment. Agatha (sings): We were playmates in childhood, my sister and I, Whose playtime with childhood is done; 52 Through thickets where briar and bramble grew high, Barefooted I've oft seen her run. I've known her, when mists on the moorland hung white, Bareheaded past nightfall remain; She has followed a landless and penniless knight Through battles and sieges in Spain. But I pulled the flower, and shrank from the thorn, Sought the sunshine, and fled from the mist; My sister was born to face hardship with scorn — I was born to be fondled and kiss'd. Hugo (aside): She has a sweet voice. Orion: And a sweet face, too — Be candid for once, and give her her due. Agatha: Your face grows longer, and still more long, Sir Scholar! how did you like my song? Hugo: I thought it rather a silly one. Agatha: You are far from a pleasant companion. SCENE — An Apartment in a Wayside Inn. HUGO and AGATHA. Evening. Hugo: I will leave you now — we have talked enough, And for one so tenderly reared and nursed This journey is wearisome, perhaps, and rough. Agatha: Will you not finish your story first? 53 Hugo: I repent me that I began it now, 'Tis a dismal tale for a maiden's ears; Your cheek is pale already, your brow Is sad, and your eyes are moist with tears. Agatha: It may be thus, I am lightly vexed, But the tears will lightly come and go; I can cry one moment and laugh the next, Yet I have seen terrors, as well you know. I remember that flight through moss and fern, The moonlit shadows, the hoofs that rolled In fierce pursuit, and the ending stern, And the hawk that left his prey on the wold. Hugo: I have sorrowed since that I left you there: Your friends were close behind on the heath, Though not so close as I thought they were. (Aside.) Now I will not tell her of Harold's death. Agatha: 'Tis true, I was justly punished, and men, As a rule, of pity have little share; Had I died you had cared but little then. Hugo: But little then, yet now I should care More than you think for. Now, good-night. Tears still? Ere I leave you, child, alone, Must I dry your cheeks? Agatha: Nay, I am not quite Such a child but what I can dry my own. [Hugo goes out. Agatha retires.] Orion (singing outside the window of Agatha's chamber): 'Neath the stems with blossoms laden, 'Neath the tendrils curling, I, thy servant, sing, oh, maiden! I, thy slave, oh, darling! 54 Lo! the shaft that slew the red deer, At the elk may fly too. Spare them not! The dead are dead, dear, Let the living die too. Where the wiles of serpent mingle, And the looks of dove lie, Where small hands in strong hands tingle, Loving eyes meet lovely: Where the harder natures soften, And the softer harden — Certes! such things have been often Since we left Eve's garden. Sweeter follies herald sadder Sins — look not too closely; Tongue of asp and tooth of adder Under leaf of rose lie. Warned, advised in vain, abandon Warning and advice too, Let the child lay wilful hand on Den of cockatrice too. I, thy servant, or thy master, One or both — no matter; If the former — firmer, faster, Surer still the latter — Lull thee, soothe thee with my singing, Bid thee sleep, and ponder On my lullabies still ringing Through thy dreamland yonder. SCENE — A Wooded Rising Ground, Near the Rhine. HUGO and AGATHA resting under the trees. THURSTON, EUSTACE, and followers a little apart. ORION. (Noonday.) The Towers of the Convent in the distance. Agatha: I sit on the greensward, and hear the bird sing, 55 'Mid the thickets where scarlet and white blossoms cling; And beyond the sweet uplands all golden with flower, It looms in the distance, the grey convent tower. And the emerald earth and the sapphire-hued sky Keep telling me ever my spring has gone by; Ah! spring premature, they are tolling thy knell, In the wind's soft adieu, in the bird's sweet farewell. Oh! why is the greensward with garlands so gay, That I quail at the sight of my prison-house grey? Oh! why is the bird's note so joyous and clear? The caged bird must pine in a cage doubly drear. Hugo: May the lances of Dagobert harry their house, If they coax or intimidate thee to take vows; May the freebooters pillage their shrines, should they dare Touch with their scissors thy glittering hair. Our short and sweet journey now draws to an end, And homeward my sorrowful way I must wend; Oh, fair one! oh, loved one! I would I were free, To squander my life in the greenwood with thee. Orion (aside): Ho! seeker of knowledge, so grave and so wise, Touch her soft curl again — look again in her eyes; Forget for the nonce musty parchments, and learn How the slow pulse may quicken — the cold blood may burn. Ho! fair, fickle maiden, so blooming and shy! The old love is dead, let the old promise die! Thou dost well, thou dost wise, take the word of Orion, "A living dog always before a dead lion!" Thurston: Ye varlets, I would I knew which of ye burst Our wine-skin — what, ho! must I perish with thirst! Go, Henry, thou hast a glib tongue, go and ask Thy lord to send Ralph to yon inn for a flask. Henry: Nay, Thurston, not so; I decline to disturb 56 Our lord for the present; go thou, or else curb Thy thirst, or drink water, as I do. Thurston: Thou knave Of a page, dost thou wish me the colic to have? Orion (aside): That clown is a thoroughbred Saxon. He thinks With pleasure on naught save hard blows and strong drinks; In hell he will scarce go athirst if once given An inkling of any good liquors in heaven. Hugo: Our Pontiff to manhood at Englemehr grew, The priests there are many, the nuns are but few. I love not the Abbot — 'tis needless to tell My reason; but all of the Abbess speak well. Agatha: Through vineyards and cornfields beneath us, the Rhine Spreads and winds, silver-white, in the merry sunshine; And the air, overcharged with a subtle perfume, Grows faint from the essence of manifold bloom. Hugo: And the tinkling of bells, and the bleating of sheep, And the chaunt from the fields, where the labourers reap The earlier harvest, comes faint on the breeze, That whispers so faintly in hedgerows and trees. Orion: And a waggon wends slow to those turrets and spires, To feed the fat monks and the corpulent friars; It carries the corn, and the oil, and the wine, The honey and milk from the shores of the Rhine. The oxen are weary and spent with their load, They pause, but the driver doth recklessly goad; Up yon steep, flinty rise they have staggered and reeled, Even devils may pity dumb beasts of the field. 57 Agatha (sings): Oh! days and years departed, Vain hopes, vain fears that smarted, I turn to you sad-hearted — I turn to you in tears! Your daily sun shone brightly, Your happy dreams came nightly, Flowers bloomed and birds sang lightly, Through all your hopes and fears! You halted not, nor tarried, Your hopes have all miscarried, And even your fears are buried, Since fear with hope must die. You halted not, but hasted, And flew past, childhood wasted, And girlhood scarcely tasted, Now womanhood is nigh. Yet I forgive your wronging, Dead seasons round me thronging, With yearning and with longing, I call your bitters sweet. Vain longing, and vain yearning, There now is no returning; Oh! beating heart and burning, Forget to burn and beat! Oh! childish suns and showers, Oh! girlish thorns and flowers, Oh! fruitless days and hours, Oh! groundless hopes and fears: The birds still chirp and twitter, And still the sunbeams glitter: Oh! barren years and bitter, Oh! bitter, barren years! SCENE — The Summit of a Burning Mountain. Night. A terrific storm. ORION (undisguised). 58 Orion (sings): From fathomless depths of abysses, Where fires unquenchable burst, From the blackness of darkness, where hisses The brood of the serpent accurs'd; From shrines where the hymns are the weeping And wailing and gnashing of teeth, Where the palm is the pang never sleeping, Where the worm never dying is the wreath; Where all fruits save wickedness wither, Whence naught save despair can be gleaned — Come hither! come hither! come hither! Fall'n angel, fell sprite, and foul fiend. Come hither! the bands are all broken, And loosed in hell's innermost womb, When the spell unpronounceable spoken Divides the unspeakable gloom. Evil Spirits approach. The storm increases. Evil Spirits (singing): We hear thee, we seek thee, on pinions That darken the shades of the shade; Oh! Prince of the Air, with dominions Encompass'd, with powers array'd, With majesty cloth'd as a garment, Begirt with a shadowy shine, Whose feet scorch the hill-tops that are meant As footstools for thee and for thine. Orion (sings): How it swells through each pause of the thunder, And mounts through each lull of the gust, Through the crashing of crags torn asunder, And the hurtling of trees in the dust; With a chorus of loud lamentations, With its dreary and hopeless refrain! 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations, That suffer and shudder in vain. 59 Evil Spirits (singing): 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations; Our song shall chime in with their strain; Lost spirits blend their wild exultations With the sighing of mortals in pain. Orion (sings): With just light enough to see sorrows In this world, and terrors beyond, 'Twixt the day's bitter pangs and the morrow's Dread doubts, to despair and despond, Man lingers through toils unavailing For blessings that baffle his grasp; To his cradle he comes with a wailing, He goes to his grave with a gasp. Evil Spirits (singing): His birth is a weeping and wailing, His death is a groan and a gasp; O'er the seed of the woman prevailing, Thus triumphs the seed of the asp. SCENE — Chamber of a Wayside Inn. HUGO sitting alone. Evening. Hugo: And now the parting is over, The parting should end the pain; And the restless heart may recover, And so may the troubled brain. I am sitting within the chamber Whose windows look on the porch, Where the roses cluster and clamber; We halted here on our march With her to the convent going, And now I go back alone: Ye roses, budding and blowing, Ye heed not though she is flown. 60 I remember the girlish gesture, The sportive and childlike grace, With which she crumpled and pressed your Rose leaves to her rose-hued face. Shall I think on her ways hereafter — On those flashes of mirth and grief, On that April of tears and laughter, On our parting, bitterly brief? I remember the bell at sunrise, That sounded so solemnly, Bidding monk, and prelate, and nun rise; I rose ere the sun was high. Down the long, dark, dismal passage, To the door of her resting-place I went, on a farewell message, I trod with a stealthy pace. There was no one there to see us When she opened her chamber door. "Miserere, mei Deus", Rang faint from the convent choir. I remember the dark and narrow And scantily-furnished room; And the gleam, like a golden arrow — The gleam that lighted the gloom. One couch, one seat, and one table, One window, and only one — It stands in the eastern gable, It faces the rising sun; One ray shot through it, and one light On doorway and threshold played. She stood within in the sunlight, I stood without in the shade. I remember that bright form under The sheen of that slanting ray. I spoke — "For life we must sunder, Let us sunder without delay. Let us sever without preamble, As brother and sister part, For the sake of one pleasant ramble, 61 That will live in at least one heart." Still the choir in my ears rang faintly, In the distance dying away, Sweetly and sadly and saintly, Through arch and corridor grey! And thus we parted for ever, Between the shade and the shine; Not as brother and sister sever — I fondled her hands in mine. Still the choir in my ears rang deaden'd And dull'd, though audible yet; And she redden'd, and paled, and redden'd — Her lashes and lids grew wet. Not as brother severs from sister, My lips clung fast to her lips; She shivered and shrank when I kissed her. On the sunbeam drooped the eclipse. I remember little of the parting With the Abbot, down by the gate, My men were eager for starting; I think he pressed me to wait. From the lands where convent and glebe lie, From manors, and Church's right, Where I fought temptation so feebly, I, too, felt eager for flight. Alas! the parting is over — The parting, but not the pain — Oh! sweet was the purple clover, And sweet was the yellow grain; And sweet were the woody hollows On the summery Rhineward track; But a winter untimely swallows All sweets as I travel back. Yet I feel assured, in some fashion, Ere the hedges are crisp with rime, I shall conquer this senseless passion, 'Twill yield to toil and to time. I will fetter these fancies roaming; Already the sun has dipped; 62 I will trim the lamps in the gloaming, I will finish my manuscript. Through the nightwatch unflagging study Shall banish regrets perforce; As soon as the east is ruddy Our bugle shall sound "To Horse!" SCENE — Another Wayside House, Near the Norman Frontier. HUGO and ORION in a chamber. Evening. Orion: Your eyes are hollow, your step is slow, And your cheek is pallid as though from toil, Watching or fasting, by which I know That you have been burning the midnight oil. Hugo: Aye, three nights running. Orion: 'Twill never do To travel all day, and study all night; Will you join in a gallop through mist and dew, In a flight that may vie with the eagle's flight? Hugo: With all my heart. Shall we saddle "Rollo"? Orion: Nay, leave him undisturb'd in his stall; I have steeds he would hardly care to follow. Hugo: Follow, forsooth! he can lead them all. Orion: Touching his merits we will not quarrel; But let me mount you for once; enough Of work may await your favourite sorrel, And the paths we must traverse to-night are rough. 63 But first let me mix you a beverage, To invigorate your enfeebled frame. [He mixes a draught and hands it to Hugo.] All human ills this draught can assuage. Hugo: It hisses and glows like liquid flame; Say, what quack nostrum is this thou'st brewed? Speak out; I am learned in the chemist's lore. Orion: There is nothing but what will do you good; And the drugs are simples; 'tis hellebore, Nepenthe, upas, and dragon's blood, Absinthe, and mandrake, and mandragore. Hugo: I will drink it, although, by mass and rood, I am just as wise as I was before. SCENE — A Rough, Hilly Country. HUGO and ORION riding at speed on black horses. Mountains in the distance. Night. Hugo: See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes make A fiery track that gleams in our wake; Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots, Our horses fly. Orion: They are useful brutes, Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit'ning The crest and rein of my courser "Lightning"; He pulls to-night, being short of work, And takes his head with a sudden jerk; Still heel and steady hand on the bit, For that is "Tempest" on which you sit. Hugo: 64 'Tis the bravest steed that ever I back'd; Did'st mark how he crossed yon cataract? From hoof to hoof I should like to measure The space he clear'd. Orion: He can clear at leisure A greater distance. Observe the chasm We are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasm As we flew over it? Hugo: Not at all. Orion: Nathless 'twas an ugly place for a fall. Hugo: Let us try a race to yon mountain high, That rears its dusky peak 'gainst the sky. Orion: I won't disparage your horsemanship, But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip, And is hasty and hard to steer at times. We must travel far ere the midnight chimes; We must travel back ere the east is grey. Ho! "Lightning"! "Tempest"! Away! Away! [They ride on faster.] SCENE — A Peak in a Mountainous Country Overhanging a Rocky Pass. HUGO and ORION on black horses. Midnight. Hugo: These steeds are sprung from no common race, Their vigour seems to annihilate space; What hast thou brought me here to see? Orion: No boisterous scene of unhallow'd glee, No sabbat of witches coarse and rude, 65 But a mystic and musical interlude; You have long'd to explore the scrolls of Fate, Dismount, as I do, and listen and wait. [They dismount.] Orion (chanting): Spirits of earth, and air, and sea, Spirits unclean, and spirits untrue, By the symbols three that shall nameless be, One of your masters calls on you. Spirits (chanting in the distance): From the bowels of earth, where gleams the gold; From the air where the powers of darkness hold Their court; from the white sea-foam, Whence the white rose-tinted goddess sprung, Whom poets of every age have sung, Ever we come! we come! Hugo: How close to our ears the thunder peals! How the earth beneath us shudders and reels! A Voice (chanting): Woe to the earth! Where men give death! And women give birth! To the sons of Adam, by Cain or Seth! Plenty and dearth! To the daughters of Eve, who toil and spin, Barren of worth! Let them sigh, and sicken, and suffer sin! Woe to the earth! Hugo: What is yon phantom large and dim That over the mountain seems to swim? Orion: 'Tis the scarlet woman of Babylon! Hugo: Whence does she come? Where has she gone? 66 And who is she? Orion: You would know too much; These are subjects on which I dare not touch; And if I were to try and enlighten you, I should probably fail, and possibly frighten you. You had better ask some learned divine, Whose opinion is p'rhaps worth as much as mine, In his own conceit; and who, besides, Could tell you the brand of the beast she rides. What can you see in the valley yonder? Speak out; I can hear you, for all the thunder. Hugo: I see four shadowy altars rise, They seem to swell and dilate in size; Larger and clearer now they loom, Now fires are lighting them through the gloom. A Voice (chanting): The first a golden-hued fire shows, A blood-red flame on the second glows, The blaze on the third is tinged like the rose, From the fourth a column of black smoke goes. Orion: Can you see all this? Hugo: I see and hear; The lights and hues are vivid and clear. Spirits (sing at the first altar): Hail, Mammon! while man buys and barters, Thy kingdom in this world is sure; Thy prophets thou hast and thy martyrs, Great things in thy name they endure; Thy fetters of gold crush the miser, The usurer bends at thy shrine, And the wealthier nations and the wiser Bow with us at this altar of thine. Spirits (sing at the second altar): 67 Hail, Moloch! whose banner floats blood-red, From pole to equator unfurl'd, Whose laws redly written have stood red, And shall stand while standeth this world; Clad in purple, with thy diadem gory, Thy sceptre the blood-dripping steel, Thy subjects with us give thee glory, With us at thine altar they kneel. Spirits (sing at the third altar): Hail, Sovereign! whose fires are kindled By sparks from the bottomless pit, Has thy worship diminish'd or dwindled? Do the yokes of thy slaves lightly sit? Nay, the men of all climes and all races Are stirr'd by the flames that now stir us; Then (as we do) they fall on their faces, Crying, "Hear us! Oh! Ashtaroth, hear us!" Spirits (all in chorus): The vulture her carrion swallows, Returns to his vomit the dog. In the slough of uncleanliness wallows The he-goat, and revels the hog. Men are wise with their schools and their teachers, Men are just with their creeds and their priests; Yet, in spite of their pedants and preachers, They backslide in footprints of beasts! Hugo: From the smoky altar there seems to come A stifled murmur, a droning hum. Orion: With that we have nothing at all to do, Or, at least, not now, neither I nor you; Though some day or other, possibly We may see it closer, both you and I; Let us visit the nearest altar first, Whence the yellow fires flicker and burst, Like the flames from molten ore that spring; We may stand in the pale of the outer ring, 68 But forbear to trespass within the inner, Lest the sins of the past should find out the sinner. [They approach the first altar, and stand within the outer circle which surrounds it, and near the inner.] Spirits (sing): Beneath us it flashes, The glittering gold, Though it turneth to ashes And dross in the hold; Yet man will endeavour, By fraud or by strife, To grasp it and never To yield it with life. Orion: What can you see? Hugo: Some decrepit shapes, That are neither dwarfs, nor demons, nor apes; In the hollow earth they appear to store And rake together great heaps of ore. Orion: These are the gnomes, coarse sprites and rough; Come on, of these we have seen enough. [They approach second altar and stand as before.] Spirits (singing): Above us it flashes, The glittering steel, Though the red blood splashes Where its victims reel; Yet man will endeavour To grapple the hilt, And to wield the blade ever Till his life be spilt. Orion: What see you now? Hugo: A rocky glen, 69 A horrid jumble of fighting men, And a face that somewhere I've seen before. Orion: Come on; there is naught worth seeing more, Except the altar of Ashtaroth. Hugo: To visit that altar I am loth. Orion: Why so? Hugo: Nay, I cannot fathom why, But I feel no curiosity. Orion: Come on. Stand close to the inner ring, And hear how sweetly these spirits sing. [They approach third altar.] Spirits (sing): Around us it flashes, The cestus of one Born of white foam, that dashes Beneath the white sun; Let the mortal take heart, he Has nothing to dare; She is fair, Queen Astarte, Her subjects are fair! Orion: What see you now, friend? Hugo: Wood and wold, And forms that look like the nymphs of old. There is nothing here worth looking at twice. I have seen enough. Orion: You are far too nice; Nevertheless, you must look again. Those forms will fade. 70 Hugo: They are growing less plain. They vanish. I see a door that seems To open; a ray of sunlight gleams From a window behind; a vision as fair As the flush of dawn is standing there. [He gazes earnestly.] Orion (sings): Higher and hotter the white flames glow, And the adamant may be thaw'd like snow, And the life for a single chance may go, And the soul for a certainty. Oh! vain and shallow philosopher, Dost feel them quicken, dost feel them stir, The thoughts that have stray'd again to HER From whom thou hast sought to fly? Lo! the furnace is heated till sevenfold; Is thy brain still calm? Is thy blood still cold To the curls that wander in ripples of gold, On the shoulders of ivory? Do the large, dark eyes, and the small, red mouth, Consume thine heart with a fiery drouth, Like the fierce sirocco that sweeps from the south, When the deserts are parch'd and dry? Aye, start and shiver and catch thy breath, The sting is certain, the venom is death, And the scales are flashing the fruit beneath, And the fang striketh suddenly. At the core the ashes are bitter and dead, But the rind is fair and the rind is red, It has ever been pluck'd since the serpent said, Thou shalt NOT SURELY die. [Hugo tries to enter the inner ring; Orion holds him back; they struggle.] Hugo: Unhand me, slave! or quail to the rod! Agatha! Speak! in the name of God! 71 [The vision disappears; the altars vanish. Hugo falls insensible.] SCENE — The Wayside House. HUGO waking in his chamber. ORION unseen at first. Morning. Hugo: Vanish, fair and fatal vision! Fleeting shade of fever'd sleep, Chiding one whose indecision Waking substance failed to keep; Picture into life half starting, As in life once seen before, Parting somewhat sadly, parting Slowly at the chamber door. Were my waking senses duller? Have I seen with mental eye Light and shade, and warmth and colour, Plainer than reality? Sunlight that on tangled tresses Every ripple gilds and tips; Balm and bloom, and breath of kisses, Warm on dewy, scarlet lips. Dark eyes veiling half their splendour 'Neath their lashes' darker fringe, Dusky, dreamy, deep and tender, Passing smile and passing tinge; Dimpling fast and flushing faster, Ivory chin and coral cheek, Pearly strings, by alabaster Neck and arms made faint and weak; Drooping, downcast lids enduring Gaze of man unwillingly; Sudden, sidelong gleams alluring, Partly arch and partly shy. 72 Do I bless or curse that beauty? Am I longing, am I loth? Is it passion, is it duty That I strive with, one or both? Round about one fiery centre Wayward thoughts like moths revolve. [He sees Orion.] Ha! Orion, thou didst enter Unperceived. I pray thee solve These two questions: Firstly, tell me, Must I strive for wrong or right? Secondly, what things befell me — Facts, or phantasies — last night? Orion: First, your strife is all a sham, you Know as well as I which wins; Second, waking sins will damn you, Never mind your sleeping sins; Both your questions thus I answer; Listen, ere you seek or shun: I at least am no romancer, What you long for may be won. Turn again and travel Rhineward, Tread once more the flowery path. Hugo: Aye, the flowery path that, sinward Pointing, ends in sin and wrath. Orion: Songs by love-birds lightly caroll'd, Even the just man may allure. Hugo: To his shame; in this wise Harold Sinn'd, his punishment was sure. Orion: Nay, the Dane was worse than you are, Base and pitiless to boot; 73 Doubtless all are bad, yet few are Cruel, false, and dissolute. Hugo: Some sins foreign to our nature Seem; we take no credit when We escape them. Orion: Yet the creature, Sin-created, lives to sin. Hugo: Be it so; come good, come evil, Ride we to the Rhine again! Orion (aside): 'Gainst the logic of the devil Human logic strives in vain. SCENE — A Camp Near the Black Forest. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, DAGOBERT, and followers. ORION disguised as one of the Free-lances. Mid-day. Osric: Now, by axe of Odin, and hammer of Thor, And by all the gods of the Viking's war, I swear we have quitted our homes in vain: We have nothing to look to, glory nor gain. Will our galley return to Norway's shore With heavier gold, or with costlier store? Will our exploits furnish the scald with a song? We have travell'd too far, we have tarried too long. Say, captains all, is there ever a village For miles around that is worth the pillage? Will it pay the costs of my men or yours To harry the homesteads of German boors? Have we cause for pride in our feats of arms When we plunder the peasants or sack the farms? I tell thee, Rudolph of Rothenstein, 74 That were thy soldiers willing as mine, And I sole leader of this array, I would give Prince Otto battle this day. Dost thou call thy followers men of war? Oh, Dagobert! thou whose ancestor On the neck of the Caesar's offspring trod, Who was justly surnamed "The Scourge of God". Yet in flight lies safety. Skirmish and run To forest and fastness, Teuton and Hun, From the banks of the Rhine to the Danube's shore, And back to the banks of the Rhine once more; Retreat from the face of an armed foe, Robbing garden and hen-roost where'er you go. Let the short alliance betwixt us cease, I and my Norsemen will go in peace! I wot it never will suit with us, Such existence, tame and inglorious; I could live no worse, living single-handed, And better with half my men disbanded. Rudolph: Jarl Osric, what would'st thou have me do? 'Gainst Otto's army our men count few; With one chance of victory, fight, say I! But not when defeat is a certainty. If Rudiger joins us with his free-lances, Our chance will be equal to many chances; For Rudiger is both prompt and wary; And his men are gallant though mercenary; But the knave refuses to send a lance Till half the money is paid in advance. Dagobert: May his avarice wither him like a curse! I guess he has heard of our late reverse; But, Rudolph, whether he goes or stays, There is reason in what Jarl Osric says; Of provisions we need a fresh supply, And our butts and flasks are shallow or dry; My men are beginning to grumble sadly, 'Tis no wonder, since they must fare so badly. 75 Rudolph: We have plenty of foragers out, and still We have plenty of hungry mouths to fill; And, moreover, by some means, foul or fair, We must raise money; 'tis little I care, So long as we raise it, whence it comes. Osric: Shall we sit till nightfall biting our thumbs? The shortest plan is ever the best; Has anyone here got aught to suggest? Orion: The cornfields are golden that skirt the Rhine, Fat are the oxen, strong is the wine, In those pleasant pastures, those cellars deep, That o'erflow with the tears that those vineyards weep; Is it silver you stand in need of, or gold? Ingot or coin? There is wealth untold In the ancient convent of Englemehr; That is not so very far from here. The Abbot, esteem'd a holy man, Will hold what he has and grasp what he can; The cream of the soil he loves to skim, Why not levy a contribution on him? Dagobert: The stranger speaks well; not far away That convent lies; and one summer's day Will suffice for a horseman to reach the gate; The garrison soon would capitulate, Since the armed retainers are next to none, And the walls, I wot, may be quickly won. Rudolph: I kept those walls for two months or more, When they feared the riders of Melchior! That was little over three years ago. Their Abbot is thrifty, as well I know; He haggled sorely about the price Of our service. 76 Dagobert: Rudolph, he paid thee twice. Rudolph: Well, what of that? Since then I've tried To borrow from him; now I know he lied When he told me he could not spare the sum I asked. If we to his gates should come, He could spare it though it were doubled; and still, This war with the Church I like it ill. Osric: The creed of our fathers is well-nigh dead, And the creed of the Christian reigns in its stead But the creed of the Christian, too, may die, For your creeds or your churches what care I! If there be plunder at Englemehr, Let us strike our tents and thitherward steer. SCENE — A Farm-house on the Rhine (About a mile from the Convent). HUGO in chamber alone. Enter ERIC. Eric: What, Hugo, still at the Rhine! I thought You were home. You have travell'd by stages short. Hugo (with hesitation): Our homeward march was labour in vain, We had to retrace our steps again; It was here or hereabouts that I lost Some papers of value; at any cost I must find them; and which way lies your course? Eric: I go to recruit Prince Otto's force. I cannot study as you do; I Am wearied with inactivity; So I carry a blade engrim'd with rust (That a hand sloth-slacken'd has, I trust, Not quite forgotten the way to wield), 77 To strike once more on the tented field. Hugo: Fighting is all a mistake, friend Eric, And has been so since the age Homeric, When Greece was shaken and Troy undone, Ten thousand lives for a worthless one. Yet I blame you not; you might well do worse; Better fight and perish than live to curse The day you were born; and such has been The lot of many, and shall, I ween, Be the lot of more. If Thurston chooses He may go with you. The blockhead abuses Me and the life I lead. Enter ORION. Orion: Great news! The Englemehr monks will shake in their shoes; In the soles of their callous feet will shake The barefooted friars. The nuns will quake. Hugo: Wherefore? Orion: The outlaw of Rothenstein Has come with his soldiers to the Rhine, Back'd by those hardy adventurers From the northern forests of pines and firs, And Dagobert's horse. They march as straight As the eagle swoops to the convent gate. Hugo: We must do something to save the place. Orion: They are sure to take it in any case, Unless the sum that they ask is paid. Eric: Some effort on our part must be made. Hugo: 78 'Tis not so much for the monks I care. Eric: Nor I; but the Abbess and nuns are there. Orion: 'Tis not our business; what can we do? They are too many, and we are too few; And yet, I suppose, you will save, if you can, That lady, your ward, or your kinswoman. Hugo: She is no kinswoman of mine; How far is Otto's camp from the Rhine? Orion: Too far for help in such time of need To be brought, though you used your utmost speed. Eric: Nay, that I doubt. Hugo: And how many men Have they? Orion: To your one they could muster ten. Eric: I know Count Rudolph, and terms may be made With him, I fancy; for though his trade Is a rough one now, gainsay it who can, He was once a knight and a gentleman. And Dagobert, the chief of the Huns, Bad as he is, will spare the nuns; Though neither he nor the Count could check Those lawless men, should they storm and sack The convent. Jarl Osric, too, I know; He is rather a formidable foe, And will likely enough be troublesome; But the others, I trust, to terms will come. Hugo: 79 Eric, how many men have you? I can count a score. Eric: I have only two. Hugo: At every hazard we must try to save The nuns. Eric: Count Rudolph shall think we have A force that almost equals his own, If I can confer with him alone. Orion: He is close at hand; by this time he waits The Abbot's reply at the convent gates. Hugo: We had better send him a herald. Eric: Nay, I will go myself. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: Orion, stay! So this is the reed on which I've leaned, These are the hopes thou hast fostered, these The flames thou hast fanned. Oh, lying fiend! Is it thus thou dost keep thy promises? Orion: Strong language, Hugo, and most unjust; You will cry out before you are hurt — You will live to recall your words, I trust. Fear nothing from Osric or Dagobert, These are your friends, if you only knew it, And would take the advice of a friend sincere; Neglect his counsels and you must rue it, For I know by a sign the crisis is near. Accept the terms of these outlaws all, And be thankful that things have fallen out Exactly as you would have had them fall — You may save the one that you care about; 80 Otherwise, how did you hope to gain Access to her — on what pretence? What were the schemes that worried your brain To tempt her there or to lure her thence? You must have bungled, and raised a scandal About your ears, that might well have shamed The rudest Hun, the veriest Vandal, Long or ever the bird was tamed. Hugo: The convent is scarce surrounded yet, We might reach and hold it against their force Till another sun has risen and set; And should I despatch my fleetest horse To Otto —— Orion: For Abbot, or Monk, or Friar, Between ourselves, 'tis little you care If their halls are harried by steel and fire: Their avarice left your heritage bare. Forsake them! Mitres, and cowls, and hoods Will cover vices while earth endures; Through the green and gold of the summer woods Ride out with that pretty bird of yours. If again you fail to improve your chance, Why, then, my friend, I can only say You are duller far than the dullest lance That rides in Dagobert's troop this day. "Faemina semper", frown not thus, The girl was always giddy and wild, Vain, and foolish, and frivolous, Since she fled from her father's halls, a child. I sought to initiate you once In the mystic lore of the old Chaldean; But I found you far too stubborn a dunce, And your tastes are coarser and more plebeian. Yet mark my words, for I read the stars, And trace the future in yonder sky; To the right are wars and rumours of wars, To the left are peace and prosperity. Fear naught. The world shall never detect The cloven hoof, so carefully hid 81 By the scholar so staid and circumspect, So wise for once to do as he's bid. Remember what pangs come year by year For opportunity that has fled; And Thora in ignorance. Hugo: Name not her! I am sorely tempted to strike thee dead! Orion: Nay, I hardly think you will take my life, The angel Michael was once my foe; He had a little the best of our strife, Yet he never could deal so stark a blow. SCENE — A Chamber in the Nuns' Apartments of the Convent. AGATHA and URSULA. Agatha: My sire in my childhood pledged my hand To Hugo — I know not why — They were comrades then, 'neath the Duke's command, In the wars of Lombardy. I thought, ere my summers had turned sixteen, That mine was a grievous case; Save once, for an hour, I had never seen My intended bridegroom's face; And maidens vows of their own will plight. Unknown to my kinsfolk all My love was vowed to a Danish knight, A guest in my father's hall. His foot fell lightest in merry dance, His shaft never missed the deer; He could fly a hawk, he could wield a lance, Our wildest colt he could steer. His deep voice ringing through hall or glen Had never its match in song; And little was known of his past life then, Or of Dorothea's wrong. 82 I loved him — Lady Abbess, I know That my love was foolish now; I was but a child five years ago, And thoughtless as bird on bough. One evening Hugo the Norman came, And, to shorten a weary tale, I fled that night (let me bear the blame) With Harold by down and dale. He had mounted me on a dappled steed, And another of coal-black hue He rode himself; and away at speed We fled through mist and dew. Of miles we had ridden some half a score, We had halted beside a spring, When the breeze to our ears through the still night bore A distant trample and ring; We listen'd one breathing space, and caught The clatter of mounted men, With vigour renewed by their respite short Our horses dash'd through the glen. Another league, and we listen'd in vain; The breeze to our ears came mute; But we heard them again on the spacious plain, Faint tidings of hot pursuit. In the misty light of a moon half hid By the dark or fleecy rack, Our shadows over the moorland slid, Still listening and looking back. So we fled (with a cheering word to say At times as we hurried on), From sounds that at intervals died away, And at intervals came anon. Another league, and my lips grew dumb, And I felt my spirit quailing, For closer those sounds began to come, And the speed of my horse was failing. "The grey is weary and lame to boot," Quoth Harold; "the black is strong, And their steeds are blown with their fierce pursuit, What wonder! our start was long. Now, lady, behind me mount the black, 83 The double load he can bear; We are safe when we reach the forest track, Fresh horses and friends wait there." Then I sat behind him and held his waist, And faster we seemed to go By moss and moor; but for all our haste Came the tramp of the nearing foe. A dyke through the mist before us hover'd, And, quicken'd by voice and heel, The black overleap'd it, stagger'd, recover'd; Still nearer that muffled peal. And louder on sward the hoof-strokes grew, And duller, though not less nigh, On deader sand; and a dark speck drew On my vision suddenly, And a single horseman in fleet career, Like a shadow appear'd to glide To within six lances' lengths of our rear, And there for a space to bide. Quoth Harold, "Speak, has the moon reveal'd His face?" I replied, "Not so! Yet 'tis none of my kinsfolk." Then he wheel'd In the saddle and scanned the foe, And mutter'd, still gazing in our wake, "'Tis he; now I will not fight The brother again, for the sister's sake, While I can escape by flight." "Who, Harold?" I asked; but he never spoke. By the cry of the bittern harsh, And the bull-frog's dull, discordant croak, I guess'd that we near'd the marsh; And the moonbeam flash'd on watery sedge As it broke from a strip of cloud, Ragged and jagged about the edge, And shaped like a dead man's shroud. And flagg'd and falter'd our gallant steed, 'Neath the weight of his double burden, As we splash'd through water and crash'd through reed; Then the soil began to harden, And again we gain'd, or we seem'd to gain, With our foe in the deep morass; But those fleet hoofs thunder'd, and gain'd again, 84 When they trampled the firmer grass, And I cried, and Harold again look'd back, And bade me fasten mine eyes on The forest, that loom'd like a patch of black Standing out from the faint horizon. "Courage, sweetheart! we are saved," he said; "With the moorland our danger ends, And close to the borders of yonder glade They tarry, our trusty friends." Where the mossy uplands rise and dip On the edge of the leafy dell, With a lurch, like the lurch of a sinking ship, The black horse toppled and fell. Unharm'd we lit on the velvet sward, And even as I lit I lay, But Harold uprose, unsheath'd his sword, And toss'd the scabbard away. And spake through his teeth, "Good brother-in-law, Forbearance, at last, is spent; The strife that thy soul hath lusted for Thou shalt have to thy soul's content!" While he spoke, our pursuer past us swept, Ere he rein'd his war-horse proud, To his haunches flung, then to the earth he leapt, And my lover's voice rang loud: "Thrice welcome! Hugo of Normandy, Thou hast come at our time of need, This lady will thank thee, and so will I, For the loan of thy sorrel steed!" And never a word Lord Hugo said, They clos'd 'twixt the wood and the wold, And the white steel flickered over my head In the moonlight calm and cold; 'Mid the feathery grasses crouching low, With face bow'd down to the dust, I heard the clash of each warded blow, The click of each parried thrust, And the shuffling feet that bruis'd the lawn, As they traversed here and there, And the breath through the clench'd teeth heavily drawn When breath there was none to spare; 85 Sharp ringing sword play, dull, trampling heel, Short pause, spent force to regain, Quick muffled footfall, harsh grating steel, Sharp ringing rally again; They seem'd long hours, those moments fleet, As I counted them one by one, Till a dead weight toppled across my feet, And I knew that the strife was done. When I looked up, after a little space, As though from a fearful dream, The moon was flinging on Harold's face A white and a weird-like gleam; And I felt mine ankles moist and warm With the blood that trickled slow From a spot on the doublet beneath his arm, From a ghastly gash on his brow; I heard the tread of the sorrel's hoof As he bore his lord away; They passed me slowly, keeping aloof, Like spectres, misty and grey. I thought Lord Hugo had left me there To die, but it was not so; Yet then for death I had little care, My soul seem'd numb'd by the blow; A faintness follow'd, a sickly swoon, A long and a dreamless sleep, And I woke to the light of a sultry noon In my father's castled keep. And thus, Lady Abbess, it came to pass That my father vow'd his vow; Must his daughter espouse the Church? Alas! Is she better or wiser now? For some are feeble and others strong, And feeble am I and frail. Mother! 'tis not that I love the wrong, 'Tis not that I loathe the veil, But with heart still ready to go astray, If assail'd by a fresh temptation, I could sin again as I sinned that day, For a girl's infatuation. 86 See! Harold, the Dane, thou say'st is dead, Yet I weep NOT BITTERLY; As I fled with the Dane, so I might have fled With Hugo of Normandy. Ursula: My child, I advise no hasty vows, Yet I pray that in life's brief span Thou may'st learn that our Church is a fairer spouse Than fickle and erring man; Though fenced for a time by the Church's pale, When that time expires thou'rt free; And we cannot force thee to take the veil, Nay, we scarce can counsel thee. Enter the ABBOT hastily. Basil (the Abbot): I am sorely stricken with shame and grief, It has come by the self-same sign, A summons brief from the outlaw'd chief, Count Rudolph of Rothenstein. Lady Abbess, ere worse things come to pass, I would speak with thee alone; Alack and alas! for by the rood and mass I fear we are all undone. SCENE — A Farm-house Near the Convent. A Chamber furnished with writing materials. HUGO, ERIC, and THURSTON on one side; on the other OSRIC, RUDOLPH, and DAGOBERT. Osric: We have granted too much, ye ask for more; I am not skill'd in your clerkly lore, I scorn your logic; I had rather die Than live like Hugo of Normandy: I am a Norseman, frank and plain; Ye must read the parchment over again. 87 Eric: Jarl Osric, twice we have read this scroll. Osric: Thou hast read a part. Eric: I have read the whole. Osric: Aye, since I attached my signature! Eric: Before and since! Rudolph: Nay, of this be sure, Thou hast signed; in fairness now let it rest. Osric: I had rather have sign'd upon Hugo's crest; He has argued the question mouth to mouth With the wordy lore of the subtle south; Let him or any one of his band Come and argue the question hand to hand. With the aid of my battle-axe I will show That a score of words are not worth one blow. Thurston: To the devil with thee and thy battle-axe; I would send the pair of ye back in your tracks, With an answer that even to thy boorish brain Would scarce need repetition again. Osric: Thou Saxon slave to a milksop knight, I will give thy body to raven and kite. Thurston: Thou liest; I am a freeborn man, And thy huge carcase — in cubit and span Like the giant's of Gath — 'neath Saxon steel, Shall furnish the kites with a fatter meal. 88 Osric: Now, by Odin! Rudolph: Jarl Osric, curb thy wrath; Our names are sign'd, our words have gone forth. Hugo: I blame thee, Thurston. Thurston: And I, too, blame Myself, since I follow a knight so tame! [Thurston goes out.] Osric: The Saxon hound, he said I lied! Rudolph: I pray thee, good Viking, be pacified. Osric: Why do we grant the terms they ask? To crush them all were an easy task. Dagobert: That know'st thou not; if it come to war, They are stronger, perhaps, than we bargain for. Eric: Jarl Osric, thou may'st recall thy words — Should we meet again. Osric: Should we meet with swords, Thou, too, may'st recall them to thy sorrow. Hugo: Eric! we dally. Sir Count, good-morrow. SCENE — The Guest Chamber of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. 89 Eric: Hugo, their siege we might have tried; This place would be easier fortified Than I thought at first; it is now too late, They have cut off our access to the gate. Hugo: I have weigh'd the chances and counted the cost, And I know by the stars that all is lost If we take up this quarrel. Eric: So let it be! I yield to one who is wiser than me. (Aside.) Nevertheless, I have seen the day When the stars would scarcely have bade us stay. Enter the ABBOT, CYRIL, and other Monks. Hugo: Lord Abbot, we greet thee. Good fathers all, We bring you greeting. Orion (aside): And comfort small. Abbot: God's benediction on you, my sons. Hugo: May He save you, too, from Norsemen and Huns! Since the gates are beleaguer'd and walls begirt By the forces of Osric and Dagobert; 'Tis a heavy price that the knaves demand. Abbot: Were we to mortgage the Church's land We never could raise what they would extort. Orion (aside): The price is too long and the notice too short. Eric: 90 And you know the stern alternative. Abbot: If we die we die, if we live we live; God's will be done; and our trust is sure In Him, though His chast'nings we endure. Two messengers rode from here last night, To Otto they carry news of our plight; On my swiftest horses I saw them go. Orion (aside): Then his swiftest horses are wondrous slow. Eric: One of these is captive and badly hurt; By the reckless riders of Dagobert He was overtaken and well-nigh slain, Not a league from here on the open plain. Abbot: But the other escap'd. Eric: It may be so; We had no word of him, but we know That unless you can keep these walls for a day At least, the Prince is too far away To afford relief. Abbot: Then a hopeless case Is ours, and with death we are face to face. Eric: You have arm'd retainers. Cyril (a Monk): Aye, some half score; And some few of the brethren, less or more, Have in youth the brunt of the battle bided, Yet our armoury is but ill provided. Hugo: We have terms of truce from the robbers in chief, Though the terms are partial, the truce but brief; 91 To Abbess, to nuns, and novices all, And to every woman within your wall, We can offer escort, and they shall ride From hence in safety whate'er betide. Abbot: What escort, Hugo, canst thou afford? Hugo: Some score of riders who call me lord Bide at the farm not a mile from here, Till we rejoin them they will not stir; My page and armourer wait below, And all our movements are watch'd by the foe. Strict stipulation was made, of course, That, except ourselves, neither man nor horse Should enter your gates — they were keen to shun The chance of increasing your garrison. Eric: I hold safe conduct here in my hand, Signed by the chiefs of that lawless band; See Rudolph's name, no disgrace to a clerk, And Dagobert's scrawl, and Osric's mark; Jarl signed sorely against his will, With a scratch like the print of a raven's bill; But the foe have muster'd in sight of the gate. For another hour they will scarcely wait; Bid Abbess and dame prepare with haste. Hugo: Lord Abbot, I tell thee candidly There is no great love between thou and I, As well thou know'st; but, nevertheless, I would we were more, or thy foes were less. Abbot: I will summon the Lady Abbess straight. [The Abbot and Monks go out.] Eric: 'Tis hard to leave these men to their fate, 92 Norsemen and Hun will never relent; Their day of grace upon earth is spent. [Hugo goes out, followed by Orion.] SCENE — The Corridor Outside the Guest Chamber. HUGO pacing up and down. ORION leaning against the wall. Hugo: My day of grace with theirs is past. I might have saved them; 'tis too late — Too late for both. The die is cast, And I resign me to my fate. God's vengeance I await. Orion: The boundary 'twixt right and wrong Is not so easy to discern; And man is weak, and fate is strong, And destiny man's hopes will spurn, Man's schemes will overturn. Hugo: Thou liest, thou fiend! Not unawares The sinner swallows Satan's bait, Nor pits conceal'd nor hidden snares Seeks blindly; wherefore dost thou prate Of destiny and fate? Orion: Who first named fate? But never mind, Let that pass by — to Adam's fall And Adam's curse look back, and find Iniquity the lot of all, And sin original. Hugo: But I have sinn'd, repented, sinn'd, Till seven times that sin may be By seventy multiplied; the wind 93 Is constant when compared with me, And stable is the sea! My hopes are sacrificed, for what? For days of folly, less or more, For years to see those dead hopes rot, Like dead weeds scatter'd on the shore, Beyond the surfs that roar! Orion: The wiles of Eve are swift to smite; Aye, swift to smite and not to spare — Red lips and round limbs sweet and white, Dark eyes and sunny, silken hair, Thy betters may ensnare. Hugo: Not so; the strife 'twixt hell and heaven I felt last night, and well I knew The crisis; but my aid was given To hell. Thou'st known the crisis too, For once thou'st spoken true. Having foretold it, there remains For grace no time, for hope no room; Even now I seem to feel the pains Of hell, that wait beyond the gloom Of my dishonour'd tomb. Thou who hast lived and died to save, Us sinners, Christ of Galilee! Thy great love pardon'd and forgave The dying thief upon the tree, Thou canst not pardon me! Dear Lord! hear Thou my latest prayer, For prayer must die since hope is dead; Thy Father's vengeance let me bear, Nor let my guilt be visited Upon a guiltless head! Ah! God is just! Full sure I am 94 He never did predestinate Our souls to hell. Ourselves we damn — [To Orion, with sudden passion] Serpent! I know thee now, too late; Curse thee! Work out thy hate! Orion: I hate thee not; thy grievous plight Would move my pity, but I bear A curse to which thy curse seems light! Thy wrong is better than my right, My day is darker than thy night; Beside the whitest hope I share How white is thy despair! SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. URSULA, AGATHA, Nuns and Novices. (Hymn of the Nuns): Jehovah! we bless Thee, All works of Thine hand Extol Thee, confess Thee; By sea and by land, By mountain and river, By forest and glen, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! The heathen are raging Against Thee, O Lord! The ungodly are waging Rash war against God! Arise, and deliver Us, sheep of Thy pen, Who praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thou Shepherd of Zion! 95 Thy firstlings didst tear From jaws of the lion, From teeth of the bear; Thy strength to deliver Is strong now as then. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thine arm hath delivered Thy servants of old, Hath scatter'd and shiver'd The spears of the bold, Hath emptied the quiver Of bloodthirsty men. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Nathless shall Thy right hand Those counsels fulfil Most wise in Thy sight, and We bow to Thy will; Thy children quail never For dungeon or den, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Though fierce tribulation Endure for a space, Yet God! our salvation! We gain by Thy grace, At end of life's fever, Bliss passing man's ken; There to praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! SCENE — The Guest Room of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. Enter URSULA, AGATHA, and Nuns. Ursula: 96 Hugo, we reject thine offers, Not that we can buy Safety from the Church's coffers, Neither can we fly. Far too great the price they seek is, Let their lawless throng Come, we wait their coming; weak is Man, but God is strong. Eric: Think again on our proposals: It will be too late When the robbers hold carousals On this side the gate. Ursula: For myself I speak and others Weak and frail as I; We will not desert our brothers In adversity. Hugo (to the Nuns): Does the Abbess thus advance her Will before ye all? A Nun: We will stay. Hugo: Is this thine answer, Agatha? The wall Is a poor protection truly, And the gates are weak, And the Norsemen most unruly. Come, then. A Nun (to Agatha): Sister, speak! Orion (aside to Hugo): Press her! She her fears dissembling, Stands irresolute; She will yield — her limbs are trembling, Though her lips are mute. 97 [A trumpet is heard without.] Eric: Hark! their savage war-horn blowing Chafes at our delay. Hugo: Agatha, we must be going. Come, girl! Agatha (clinging to Ursula): Must I stay? Ursula: Nay, my child, thou shalt not make me Judge; I cannot give Orders to a novice. Agatha: Take me, Hugo! Let me live! Eric (to Nuns): Foolish women! will ye tarry, Spite of all we say? Hugo: Must we use our strength and carry You by force away? Ursula: Bad enough thou art, Sir Norman, Yet thou wilt not do This thing. Shame! — on men make war, man, Not on women few. Eric: Heed her not — her life she barters, Of her free accord, For her faith; and, doubtless, martyrs Have their own reward. Ursula: In the Church's cause thy father 98 Never grudged his blade — Hugo, did he rue it? Orion: Rather! He was poorly paid. Hugo: Abbess, this is not my doing; I have said my say; How can I avert the ruin, Even for a day, Since they count two hundred fairly, While we count a score; And thine own retainers barely Count a dozen more? Agatha (kneeling to Ursula): Ah! forgive me, Lady Abbess, Bless me ere I go; She who under sod and slab is Lying, cold and low, Scarce would turn away in anger From a child so frail; Not dear life, but deadly danger, Makes her daughter quail. Hugo: Eric, will those faces tearful To God's judgment seat Haunt us? Eric: Death is not so fearful. Hugo: No, but life is sweet — Sweet for once, to me, though sinful. Orion (to Hugo): Earth is scant of bliss; Wisest he who takes his skinful When the chance is his. (To Ursula): Lady Abbess! stay and welcome 99 Osric's savage crew; Yet when pains of death and hell come, Thou thy choice may'st rue. Ursula (to Orion): What dost thou 'neath roof-trees sacred? Man or fiend, depart! Orion: Dame, thy tongue is sharp and acrid, Yet I bear the smart. Ursula (advancing and raising up a crucifix): I conjure thee by this symbol Leave us! [Orion goes out hastily.] Hugo: Ha! the knave, He has made an exit nimble; Abbess! thou art brave. Yet once gone, we're past recalling, Let no blame be mine. See, thy sisters' tears are falling Fast, and so are thine. Ursula: Fare you well! The teardrop splashes Vainly on the ice. Ye will sorrow o'er our ashes And your cowardice. Eric: Sorry am I, yet my sorrow Cannot alter fate; Should Prince Otto come to-morrow, He will come too late. Hugo: Nay, old comrade, she hath spoken Words we must not hear; Shall we pause for sign or token — Taunted twice with fear? 100 Yonder, hilt to hilt adjusted, Stand the swords in which we trusted Years ago. Their blades have rusted, So, perchance, have we. Ursula! thy words may shame us, Yet we once were counted famous, Morituri, salutamus, Aut victuri, te! [They go out.] SCENE — The Outskirts of Rudolph's Camp. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, and DAGOBERT. HUGO. Rudolph: Lord Hugo! thy speech is madness; Thou hast tax'd our patience too far; We offer'd thee peace — with gladness, We gladly accept thy war. Dagobert: And the clemency we extended To thee and thine we recall; And the treaty 'twixt us is ended — We are ready to storm the wall. Osric: Now tear yon parchment to tatters; Thou shalt make no further use Of our safeguard; the wind that scatters The scroll shall scatter the truce. Hugo: Jarl Osric, to save the spilling Of blood, and the waste of life, I am willing, if thou art willing, With thee to decide this strife; Let thy comrades draw their force back; I defy thee to single fight, I will meet thee on foot or horseback, And God shall defend the right. 101 Rudolph: No single combat shall settle This strife; thou art overbold — Thou hast put us all on our mettle, Now the game in our hands we hold. Dagobert: Our lances round thee have hover'd, Have seen where thy fellows bide; Thy weakness we have discover'd, Thy nakedness we have spied. Osric: And hearken, knight, to my story — When sack'd are the convent shrines, When the convent thresholds are gory, And quaff'd are the convent wines: When our beasts with pillage are laden, And the clouds of our black smoke rise From yon tower, one fair-haired maiden Is singled as Osric's prize. I will fit her with chain and collar Of red gold, studded with pearls; With bracelet of gold, Sir Scholar, The queen of my captive girls. Hugo (savagely): May the Most High God of battles The Lord and Ruler of fights, Who breaketh the shield that rattles, Who snappeth the sword that smites, In whose hands are footmen and horsemen, At whose breath they conquer or flee, Never show me His mercy, Norseman! If I show mercy to thee. Osric: What, ho! art thou drunk, Sir Norman? Has the wine made thy pale cheek red? Now, I swear by Odin and Thor, man, Already I count thee dead. 102 Rudolph: I crave thy pardon for baulking The flood of thine eloquence, But thou canst not scare us with talking, I therefore pray thee go hence. Osric: Though I may not take up thy gauntlet, Should we meet where the steel strikes fire, 'Twixt thy casque and thy charger's frontlet The choice will perplex thy squire. Hugo: When the Norman rowels are goading, When glitters the Norman glaive, Thou shalt call upon Thor and Odin: They shall not hear thee nor save. "Should we meet!" Aye, the chance may fall so, In the furious battle drive, So may God deal with me — more, also! If we separate, both alive! SCENE — The Court-yard of the Old Farm. EUSTACE and other followers of HUGO and ERIC lounging about. Enter THURSTON hastily, with swords under his arm. Thurston: Now saddle your horses and girth them tight, And see that your weapons are sharp and bright. Come, lads, get ready as fast as you can. Eustace: Why, what's this bustle about, old man? Thurston: Well, it seems Lord Hugo has changed his mind, As the weathercock veers with the shifting wind; He has gone in person to Osric's camp, 103 To tell him to pack up his tents and tramp! But I guess he won't. Eustace: Then I hope he will, They are plenty to eat us, as well as to kill. Ralph: And I hope he won't — I begin to feel A longing to moisten my thirsty steel. [They begin to saddle and make preparations for a skirmish.] Thurston: I've a couple of blades to look to here. In their scabbards I scarcely could make them stir At first, but I'll sharpen them both ere long. A Man-at-arms: Hurrah for a skirmish! Who'll give us a song? Thurston (sings, cleaning and sharpening): Hurrah! for the sword! I hold one here, And I scour at the rust and say, 'Tis the umpire this, and the arbiter, That settles in the fairest way; For it stays false tongues and it cools hot blood, And it lowers the proud one's crest; And the law of the land is sometimes good, But the law of the sword is best. In all disputes 'tis the shortest plan, The surest and best appeal; — What else can decide between man and man? (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of Hugo, our lord! 'Tis a trusty friend and a true; It has held its own on a grassy sward, When its blade shone bright and blue, Though it never has stricken in anger hard, 104 And has scarcely been cleansed from rust, Since the day when it broke through Harold's guard With our favourite cut and thrust; Yet Osric's crown will look somewhat red, And his brain will be apt to reel, Should the trenchant blade come down on his head — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of our ally bold, It has done good service to him; It has held its own on an open wold, When its edge was in keener trim. It may baffle the plots of the wisest skull, It may slacken the strongest limb, Make the brains full of forethought void and null, And the eyes full of far-sight dim; And the hasty hands are content to wait, And the knees are compelled to kneel, Where it falls with the weight of a downstroke straight — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword — I've one of my own; And I think I may safely say, Give my enemy his, let us stand alone, And our quarrel shall end one way; One way or the other — it matters not much, So the question be fairly tried. Oh! peacemaker good, bringing peace with a touch, Thy clients will be satisfied. As a judge, thou dost judge — as a witness, attest, And thou settest thy hand and seal, And the winner is blest, and the loser at rest — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! [Hugo and Eric enter during the last verse 105 of the song.] Hugo: Boot and saddle, old friend, Their defiance they send; Time is short — make an end Of thy song. Let the sword in this fight Strike as hard for the right As it once struck for might Leagued with wrong. Ha! Rollo, thou champest Thy bridle and stampest, For the rush of the tempest Dost long? Ho! the kites will grow fatter On the corpses we scatter, In the paths where we shatter Their throng. Where Osric, the craven, Hath reared the black raven 'Gainst monks that are shaven And cowl'd: Where the Teuton and Hun sit, In the track of our onset, Will the wolves, ere the sunset, Have howl'd. Retribution is good, They have revell'd in blood, Like the wolves of the wood They have prowl'd. Birds of prey they have been, And of carrion unclean, And their own nests (I ween) They have foul'd. Eric: Two messengers since Yestermorn have gone hence, 106 And ere long will the Prince Bring relief. Shall we pause? — they are ten To our one, but their men Are ill-arm'd, and scarce ken Their own chief; And for this we give thanks: Their disorderly ranks, If assail'd in the flanks, Will as lief Run as fight — loons and lords. Hugo: Mount your steeds! draw your swords! Take your places! My words Shall be brief: Ride round by the valley, Through pass and gorge sally — The linden trees rally Beneath. Then, Eric and Thurston, Their ranks while we burst on, Try which will be first on The heath. (Aside) Look again, mother mine, Through the happy starshine, For my sins dost thou pine? With my breath, See! thy pangs are all done, For the life of thy son: Thou shalt never feel one For his death. [They all go out but Hugo, who lingers to tighten his girths. Orion appears suddenly in the gateway.] Orion: Stay, friend! I keep guard on Thy soul's gates; hold hard on Thy horse. Hope of pardon 107 Hath fled! Bethink once, I crave thee, Can recklessness save thee? Hell sooner will have thee Instead. Hugo: Back! My soul, tempest-toss'd, Hath her Rubicon cross'd, She shall fly — saved or lost! Void of dread! Sharper pang than the steel, Thou, oh, serpent! shalt feel, Should I set the bruised heel On thy head. [He rides out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent Tower Overlooking the Gate. URSULA at the window. AGATHA and Nuns crouching or kneeling in a corner. Ursula: See, Ellinor! Agatha! Anna! While yet for the ladders they wait, Jarl Osric hath rear'd the black banner Within a few yards of the gate; It faces our window, the raven, The badge of the cruel sea-kings, That has carried to harbour and haven Destruction and death on its wings. Beneath us they throng, the fierce Norsemen, The pikemen of Rudolph behind Are mustered, and Dagobert's horsemen With faces to rearward inclined; Come last, on their coursers broad-chested, Rough-coated, short-pastern'd and strong, Their casques with white plumes thickly crested, Their lances barb-headed and long: They come through the shades of the linden, Fleet riders and war-horses hot: 108 The Normans, our friends — we have sinn'd in Our selfishness, sisters, I wot — They come to add slaughter to slaughter, Their handful can ne'er stem the tide Of our foes, and our fate were but shorter Without them. How fiercely they ride! And "Hugo of Normandy!" "Hugo!" "A rescue! a rescue!" rings loud, And right on the many the few go! A sway and a swerve of the crowd! A springing and sparkling of sword-blades! A crashing and 'countering of steeds! And the white feathers fly 'neath their broad blades Like foam-flakes! the spear-shafts like reeds! A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Alas! I have striven To pray, but the lips move in vain When the heart with such terror is riven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: As leaves fall by wintry gusts scatter'd, As fall by the sickle ripe ears, As the pines by the whirlwind fall shatter'd, As shatter'd by bolt fall the firs — To the right hand they fall, to the left hand They yield! They go down! they give back! And their ranks are divided and cleft, and Dispers'd and destroy'd in the track! Where, stirrup to stirrup, and bridle To bridle, down-trampling the slain! Our friends, wielding swords never idle, Hew bloody and desperate lane Through pikemen, so crowded together They scarce for their pikes can find room, Led by Hugo's gilt crest, the tall feather Of Thurston, and Eric's black plume! A Nun (to Agatha): 109 Pray, sister! Agatha: First pray thou that heaven Will lift this dull weight from my brain, That crushes like crime unforgiven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: Close under the gates men are fighting On foot where the raven is rear'd! 'Neath that sword-stroke, through helm and skull smiting, Jarl Osric falls, cloven to the beard! And Hugo, the hilt firmly grasping, His heel on the throat of his foe, Wrenches back. I can hear the dull rasping, The steel through the bone grating low! And the raven rocks! Thurston has landed Two strokes, well directed and hard, On the standard pole, wielding, two-handed, A blade crimson'd up to the guard. Like the mast cut in two by the lightning, The black banner topples and falls! Bewildering! back-scattering! affright'ning! It clears a wide space next the walls. A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Does the sinner unshriven, With naught beyond this life to gain, Pray for mercy on earth or in heaven? Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: The gates are flung open, and straightway, By Ambrose and Cyril led on, Our own men rush out through the gateway; One charge, and the entrance is won! No! our foes block the gate and endeavour To force their way in! Oath and yell, Shout and war-cry wax wilder than ever! Those children of Odin fight well; 110 And my ears are confused by the crashing, The jarring, the discord, the din; And mine eyes are perplex'd by the flashing Of fierce lights that ceaselessly spin; So when thunder to thunder is calling, Quick flash follows flash in the shade, So leaping and flashing and falling, Blade flashes and follows on blade! While the sward, newly plough'd, freshly painted, Grows purple with blood of the slain, And slippery! Has Agatha fainted? Agatha: Not so, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: No more from the window; in the old years I have look'd upon strife. Now I go To the court-yard to rally our soldiers As I may — face to face with the foe. [She goes out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent. THURSTON seated near a small fire. Enter EUSTACE. Eustace: We have come through this skirmish with hardly a scratch. Thurston: And without us, I fancy, they have a full batch Of sick men to look to. Those robbers accurs'd Will soon put our soundest on terms with our worst. Nathless I'd have bartered, with never a frown, Ten years for those seconds when Osric went down. Where's Ethelwolf? Eustace: Dying. 111 Thurston: And Reginald? Eustace: Dead. And Ralph is disabled, and Rudolph is sped. He may last till midnight — not longer. Nor Tyrrel, Nor Brian will ever see sunrise. Thurston: That Cyril, The monk, is a very respectable fighter. Eustace: Not bad for a monk. Yet our loss had been lighter Had he and his fellows thrown open the gate A little more quickly. And now, spite of fate, With thirty picked soldiers their siege we might weather, But the Abbess is worth all the rest put together. [Enter Ursula.] Thurston: Here she comes. Ursula: Can I speak with your lord? Eustace: 'Tis too late, He was dead when we carried him in at the gate. Thurston: Nay, he spoke after that, for I heard him myself; But he won't speak again, he must lie on his shelf. Ursula: Alas! is he dead, then? Thurston: As dead as St. Paul. And what then? to-morrow we, too, one and all, Die, to fatten these ravenous carrion birds. I knelt down by Hugo and heard his last words: "How heavy the night hangs — how wild the waves dash; Say a mass for my soul — and give Rollo a mash." Ursula: 112 Nay, Thurston, thou jestest. Thurston: Ask Eric. I swear We listened and caught every syllable clear. Eustace: Why, his horse was slain, too. Thurston: 'Neath the linden trees grey, Ere the onset, young Henry rode Rollo away; He will hasten the Prince, and they may reach your gate To-morrow — though to-morrow for us is too late. Hugo rode the boy's mare, and she's dead — if you like — Disembowel'd by the thrust of a freebooter's pike. Eustace: Neither Henry nor Rollo we ever shall see. Ursula: But we may hold the walls till to-morrow. Thurston: Not we. In an hour or less, having rallied their force, They'll storm your old building — and take it, of course, Since of us, who alone in war's science are skill'd, One-third are disabled, and two-thirds are kill'd. Ursula: Art thou hurt? Thurston: At present I feel well enough, But your water is brackish, unwholesome and rough; Bring a flask of your wine, dame, for Eustace and I, Let us gaily give battle and merrily die. [Enter Eric, with arm in sling.] Eric: Thou art safe, Lady Abbess! The convent is safe! To be robbed of their prey how the ravens will chafe! The vanguard of Otto is looming in sight! At the sheen of their spears, see! thy foemen take flight, Their foremost are scarce half a mile from the wall. 113 Thurston: Bring the wine, lest those Germans should swallow it all. SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. Dirge of the Monks: Earth to earth, and dust to dust, Ashes unto ashes go. Judge not. He who judgeth just, Judgeth merciful also. Earthly penitence hath fled, Earthly sin hath ceased to be; Pile the sods on heart and head, Miserere Domine! Hominum et angelorum, Domine! precamur te Ut immemor sis malorum — Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Will the fruits of life brought forth, Pride and greed, and wrath and lust, Profit in the day of wrath, When the dust returns to dust? Evil flower and thorny fruit Load the wild and worthless tree. Lo! the axe is at the root, Miserere Domine! Spes, fidesque, caritasque, Frustra fatigant per se, Frustra virtus, forsque, fasque, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Fair without and foul within, When the honey'd husks are reft From the bitter sweets of sin, 114 Bitterness alone is left; Yet the wayward soul hath striven Mostly hell's ally to be, In the strife 'twixt hell and heaven, Miserere Domine! Heu! heu! herba latet anguis — Caro herba — carni vae — Solum purgat, Christi sanguis, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Pray that in the doubtful fight Man may win through sore distress, By His goodness infinite, And His mercy fathomless. Pray for one more of the weary, Head bow'd down and bended knee, Swell the requiem, Miserere! Miserere Domine! Bonum, malum, qui fecisti Mali imploramus te, Salve fratrem, causa Christi, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) [End of Ashtaroth.] ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,